Kathleen Eagle - In Care of Sam Beaudry

“What’s the—”

Hilda’s voice gave Maggie a jolt.

“Sorry.” Hilda joined her at the nurse’s station, her gaze tagging after Maggie’s lead. Through the window several feet away they watched Sam take a seat in the bedside chair with Star in his lap. He said something to her as he reached for the tissue box, and she nodded.

“Oh,” Hilda whispered, and then, barely audibly, “Oh, Sam.”

Maggie swallowed convulsively against a rising tide of tiny stingers.

Hilda touched Maggie’s shoulder and leaned closer, as though she had a secret. “Lila said to tell you Jimmy wants to go home with her. I’m taking Star home with me as soon as she’ll let me. That leaves you and Sam.”

“For?”

“Coffee, maybe?”

“Hilda.” Maggie warned her friend with a look. “He’s not going to tell me anything he hasn’t told you.”

“Good.” Hilda patted Maggie’s shoulder. “Maybe you don’t tell each other anything. Maybe you just look at each other and breathe easy over a cup of coffee.”

What could it hurt?

“I’ll ask.”

She’d have to swallow some pride—first throat prickles, then pride—but given the circumstances, given the sweet moment between the big man and the little girl and the fact that Maggie had claimed a piece of it, maybe she could trade away a little pride. Give him one more chance. Forget that she’d invited Sam over for supper a couple of weeks ago, and he’d cancelled. Emergency, he’d said. Hell, Maggie’s middle name was Emergency. The next move should have been his.

Not that she was making a move, but if she had any thought that there were moves to be made, the events of the day should have convinced her otherwise. Words like issues, history and baggage came to mind. Stuff she didn’t need. She had no trouble handling herself pro-fessionally, and she was determined to start living the rest of her life with wits about her at all times. She’d almost decided she might be ready for an uncomplicated relationship with an uncomplicated man, and she’d been thinking about Sam Beaudry. A lot.

And now this.

So she asked, and he said sure —well, he’d nodded, anyway—and here they sat across from each other in Doherty’s Café staring into their ceramic mugs as though the shape of a coffee oil slick might foretell the future. Maggie was determined to let the first word be Sam’s. He could give her that much. She didn’t care what the word was. Maybe he needed a friend or a confidante. Maybe he wanted her professional opinion.

Maybe he was watching some kind of reflection of the clock that was affixed to the wall behind him.

Okay, so she cared. She was a nurse, for heaven’s sake.

“I think she’s holding her own, Sam.”

He glanced up. “Will they transfer her to Billings?”

“If there’s something that can be done for her there that can’t be done here, they’ll consider moving her. But in her condition, it’s a risky trip.”

“Why?”

“As I said, she’s holding her own. But she’s frankly pretty frail. Most of her major organs are at risk of failing.”

“Is it all from drugs?” he asked, and she glanced away. “What, you can’t give out that kind of information?”

She offered an awkward smile. “I’m supposed to ask if you’re a family member, and then I’m supposed to refer you to the doctor.”

“What do you consider a family member?” He cast a searching glance at the ceiling before drilling her with a dark-eyed stare. “How about the son of the woman she says is her daughter’s grandmother?”

“I…guess that works.” Montana was different from Connecticut. Fewer people with more space between them added up to more slack. Indian country was definitely different, especially when it came to defining a family member, and most especially when children were involved. “We don’t have all the test results. She has pneumonia. Probably hepatitis. She’s on medication for diabetes. That’s just for starters.”

“Damn.” He stared into his coffee for a moment. Then he drilled her again with those dark, straight-shooter eyes. “You think her daughter looks like me?”

Who but a man would ask such a self-centered question?

Who but a man would have to?

“She’s a beautiful child.”

“Yeah, I don’t see it, either.” He glanced away. “What did my mother tell you?”

“That she’s never heard of Merilee Brown. That you used to tell her everything, but now you don’t.”

“I’d tell her if I had a kid.” He bobbed a shoulder. “That I knew about.”

“These things happen?”

“Not to me.” He toyed with his spoon on the table. “We lived together for a while. I was crazy about her. I don’t remember why.”

“When you’re crazy, nobody expects you to know why.”

“Good point.” Which he chalked up on an air board with the spoon. “I remember why I left.”

“Being crazy wasn’t working for you?”

He rewarded her cleverness with half a smile. “I would’ve danced to whatever tune she called, but I didn’t have it in me. Couldn’t learn the steps.”

“Daddy don’t rock ‘n’ roll?”

“I never took you for a smart-ass, Maggie.” But he gave her the other half of the smile. “I could do that number. And I would.”

She pressed her lips together, holding back on any remarks about Mama not dancing with him—maybe not even breathing much longer.

“Go ahead, say it.”

She feigned innocence. “What?”

“Something like, ‘Easy for you to say that now, Jack. How many years after you hit the road?’”

She laughed, less for the humor than for the surprise of it, coming from Sam. And the accuracy. “I won’t tell you what I was thinking. Your guess is so much better.” But close.

“I’m not much of a dancer, but I do a little mind reading sometimes.”

“I see that.” She sipped her coffee. “What’s your next move?”

“I’m workin’ on fortune-telling.”

“I mean, being the law in these parts, what do you do now? You’ve got a comatose mother and a child who’s—”

“Staying with her grandmother.”

“We have a social worker.”

“I know the drill, Maggie. I guarantee you I’m the only one in Bear Root, probably the only one in the whole state of Montana with any connection to Merilee Brown.”

“Star’s staying with her grandmother,” Maggie echoed. Which means…

“While I sharpen up my detective skills. They haven’t gotten much use lately.”

“If I can help…” If she had a mirror in her purse, she could show him a clue. Maybe that was what he was searching his pockets for.

“We could be in serious trouble,” he muttered as he gave up on his pants in favor of his shirt.

“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“No, I appreciate the offer.” He smiled as he unbut-toned the flap on his left pocket—the one without the badge. “I thought I’d lost my billfold. They could’ve had the sheriff washing dishes here.” He wagged a slim leather wallet. “Talk about crazy, huh?”

“Not me. Far be it for a smart-ass to talk about crazy.”

“If I ask for help, it’s the smart part I’ll be lookin’ for.” He winked at her, a surprise that gave her butterflies. “I knew exactly what you were thinking.”

Sam’s apartment on the second floor of the old county building was hot, and not in a good way. There was no controlling the heat, no matter what the season.

He was never far away from his job, but he didn’t mind. It was the way he’d lived most of his life. He’d grown up on the second floor of Allgood’s Emporium. He’d billeted in camps, bunked in barracks, surfed a few couches, and he had to admit the sheriff’s apartment wasn’t half-bad as cramped, hot, on-site quarters went. He could always find some work to do when he couldn’t sleep. He liked to keep close watch on any guests he was keeping in the four-cell county jail, which was right next door in the new courthouse building.