Changes of Heart (11 page)

Maggie jerked forward, sitting up straight on the couch. In her half dream, Danny’s facial features had been as clear and sharp as they were in real life, but Rich’s were somehow clouded, indistinct, like the face of a stranger seen from far away.

Maggie was as drenched as she’d have been if she were caught outside during a torrential downpour. She was overheated, frustrated, angry, and very tired—and she still had a hundred or more bales of hay to lift, flip, inspect, and restack. She wore a long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and leather gloves, but bits of chaff stuck to her face and in her hair, her nose was so full of hay sediment and dust she could barely breathe through it, and her throat felt as if she’d been swallowing handfuls of broken glass.

The temperature outside the barn was a steady, airless, all-encompassing ninety-seven degrees. Inside the barn it felt like three times that. Indian summer had the entire state of Montana gasping like fish on a riverbank. Maggie hefted a seventy-five-pound bale from the wall of hay in front of her and dropped it at her feet. Even through her almost-plugged nose, the pungent, swamplike stench of mold assaulted her.

Save twenty-five cents a bale
, she chided herself.
Buy from a new guy—a young farmer getting his operation started. Great
timothy hay—great price
. She grunted as she hauled the bale to the access door in the middle of the second story of the barn and tossed it out into space. It thudded dully when it slammed into the fifty or so bales that’d already been tossed out. One of the strands of baling twine snapped, and a small explosion of grayish dust and bits of stems and plant heads rose into the air.

The dust and the smell told the whole story. The hay had been baled when it was wet, and the process of fermentation had started, rendering the bale not only unfit for feeding horses but also dangerous to their health. Respiratory and intestinal diseases could—and very frequently did—result from feeding what farmers and ranchers called “dusty” hay.

You imbecile—save a crummy quarter a bale
...

The scene from two days ago replayed in Maggie’s mind, the entire conversation etched with acid in her mind.

“I bought from you in good faith,” she’d told Troy Hildebrand and his live-in girlfriend, Flower. “Some of the hay is no good. I need you to get it out of my barn immediately.”

Troy pulled some stalks from the bale in the bed of Maggie’s truck and sniffed it. “Maybe a couple of bales is dusty. That don’t mean it’s bad hay. Anyway, how do we know you’re not runnin’ a scam here—tryin’ to dump your dusty hay on us, sayin’ it was the stuff we delivered?”

Maggie struggled to keep her voice level. “Let’s go in your barn. I’ll show you some dusty bales.”

“All sold out—and we haven’t gotten complaints from no one else,” Flower said. “Just you.”

“Who did you sell to? Someone local? Let’s check the hay you supplied to them, then.”

Flower’s smile was as diseased as the hay she and her lover sold. “Sorry. A distributor for circuses, carnivals, rodeos—stuff like that—bought all we had. Our barn is empty.”

“So is the place where you keep your ethics,” Maggie had snarled. It had felt very good to say that—and it had accomplished nothing.

The anger that welled in Maggie as she replayed the scene in her mind sent bursts of adrenaline to her weary muscles. In another hour, the moldy hay was gone from her barn, and the good hay was restacked, with plenty of room between the bales to allow the air to circulate more freely. She stiffly eased down the wooden ladder to the main floor, stood there for a moment, and then shook herself like a dog emerging from water. A gritty cloud arose from her, and a paltry few bits of hay dislodged, but the rest clung to her sweaty face, back, chest, and hair as if it were glued there. One more chore—and then the longest, soapiest shower in the world.

A dozen twenty-five pound sacks of agricultural lime rested just inside the barn, where the farm delivery service had dropped them a few days ago. The white powder—used in small amounts to freshen the floors of her stalls—was more economical when purchased in hundred-pound sacks, but those were awkward and difficult for her to lift. The larger sacks were plastic and waterproof, while the smaller
ones were paper. Rich had always ordered the bigger ones and stacked them on the shelves with ease.

Maggie opened the door to a series of three shelves where various medications, hoof dressing, and miscellaneous horse supplements, vitamins, and so forth were stored. The top shelf was empty—a perfect place for the bags of lime. She picked up a sack in both hands, lifted it over her head, and guided it to the top shelf. The bottom of the bag swung open, much like a small trap door, with a wet, tearing sound. Twenty-five pounds of pristine, sparkling white lime cascaded down onto her head, shoulders, and body. Coughing, gasping, and flailing her arms wildly, Maggie stumbled out of the barn, her eyes clenched shut. The toe of her boot stubbed against a half bale of hay, and she tumbled forward into the mass of dusty and broken bales she’d tossed down from the second story.

“Maybe this isn’t a good time,” a male voice called out to her. “I could come back later.”

Maggie dragged off her gloves, wet her thumbs in her mouth, and cleared her eyes as well as she could. Through powder, grit, and hay chaff, she focused on the man. He was about six feet tall, trim, with longish sandy-brown hair. His eyes, Maggie saw even through her obscured vision, were blue, but their actual shade was difficult to discern through her tears.

“I’m Ian Lane,” he said. “Hey, having a horse farm is really glamorous, isn’t it?”

Maggie sat stunned in the hay for a long moment. Then the entire ludicrous situation caught up to her. It was a
laugh-or-cry moment, and her sense of humor made the decision for her. Her laughter came in dry, raspy bursts from her parched throat, putting tiny puffs of lime into the air in front of her. The minister laughed too, and the sound was open and warm and sympathetic.

Maggie struggled to her feet, assisted by Reverend Lane’s hand taking hers and easing her up. “Reverend,” she croaked, “I...”

“It’s Ian, Ms. Locke. I still look behind me to see who they’re talking to when people call me Reverend.”

Maggie swallowed hard, trying to clear her mouth and generate enough saliva to say something coherent.

Ian began tapping his loafer on the cement impatiently. “Well, look—let’s get to the real reason I’m here. Do you have your purse with you? I’m taking up a collection to install a hot tub and sound system in the home the church provided for me. The suggested donation is—”

“Stop,” Maggie begged, the laughter actually painful as it erupted from her parched throat.

Ian smiled. “My extensive training in psychology indicates to me that this may not be the perfect time for a home visit.” His grin was broad and innocent and full of fun. “How about tomorrow at about 2:00?”

Maggie, still choking, nodded her head and motioned the reverend to go away—immediately. He too nodded, turned, and began walking to his car. Before he slid into the driver’s seat, he waved cheerfully. All Maggie could do was laugh harder and continue motioning him away.

As soon as the reverend’s little red Ford left the driveway,
Maggie bolted toward her house. The thought occurred to her that she hadn’t laughed with such pure abandon and mindless pleasure in almost a year.

The following day was blessedly cool. A quick and spectacularly vivid thunderstorm had cleansed the air and washed away the grit and dust that the off-season heat had left behind. Maggie’s pastures seemed almost impossibly fresh and green, and the white paint of the fences and deep red of the barn looked like it had been applied the night before. The air was pure and wonderful to breathe, and the
clink
of a steel horseshoe against a stone rang out like a bell. The thudding of Dakota and Turnip’s hooves on the soil as Danny and Tessa loped across a far pasture echoed back to Maggie in a precise percussive rhythm.

Maggie was in the kitchen brewing fresh coffee when Reverend Ian Lane’s Ford Aspire parked next to Danny’s GMC. There weren’t many compact vehicles in the Coldwater area, and Maggie inspected the car as Ian shut down the engine. It was slightly larger than a VW bug, and the sun glinted on its polished, fire-engine red paint. The car reminded Maggie of an enraged lawn mole for some reason—perhaps because the front end of it appeared to be lower than the rear, like a crouched and menacing varmint. Maggie stifled a laugh. She walked outside to greet Reverend Lane, striding to him and extending her hand when they were close.

“I see you’re admiring my car,” he said. “I could see you laughing right through the kitchen window.”

“I wasn’t...”

“Sure, it’s weird looking,” he said, pride obvious in his voice. “But it’s almost impossible to get parts for it too. And,” he added, “it’s under-powered.” He took Maggie’s hand in his own. His grip was warm and dry and strong without being crushing. There was no agricultural lime in Maggie’s eyes, and no hay dust, so she inspected her visitor.

Reverend Lane had a great smile—almost a toothpaste-ad smile—and his eyes were a crisp, intelligent blue. His hair, somewhat shaggy and not at all ministerlike, was a nondescript sandy brown. His face and bare arms were lightly tanned, and he was wearing the same pants he’d had on the day before and a polo shirt. Maggie noticed he was wearing penny loafers without socks. She released his hand and glanced again at the minister’s car.

Ian caught the quick flick of her eyes. “I could’ve had a new Rolls-Royce like Sarah Morrison’s,” he said. “But I prefer a smaller, more distinctive luxury vehicle.”

“You know Sarah and Tessa?” Maggie managed to choke out with her laugh.

“Sure. And I know Danny Pulver too. That’s his gas-guzzler there, isn’t it?”

“Yep. Danny and Tessa are out trail riding. C’mon—let’s go inside and have some coffee.”

Ian sat at the kitchen table as Maggie poured coffee. “Where’d all that hay go? From yesterday, I mean?”

Maggie sat across from the minister. “I paid the boy down the road ten dollars to haul it to the dump.”

The silence in the sun-bathed kitchen wasn’t uncomfortable as they enjoyed their coffee.

Ian spoke again first. “Ellie asked—demanded, actually—that I stop by, Ms. Locke. I talked with her a couple of days ago.”

“Please—it’s Maggie. How’s Ellie doing?”

“She misses everyone. She sounded good. She said you’ve written to her.”

“Yeah. I guess my letters don’t say much, but I want her to know I’m thinking of her.”

Ian set his cup on the table. He looked into Maggie’s eyes, and his spark of humor was gone. “As you know, it’d be inappropriate for me to offer much in terms of counseling, Maggie, at least not on a regular basis. But I want you to know that we have some common ground.”

“Oh?”

“I was married for almost six years. My wife and I lived in Chicago, and I had a small church in a tough area. Maria, my wife, ran an abused women’s shelter. A guy whose wife and little boy were in the shelter shot and killed her when she wouldn’t let him in.”

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, her voice a whisper. “Then you know what it’s like.”

“Yeah.” There was a silence. “Maria died almost four years ago, and I still can’t really believe it. I find myself thinking it’s a nightmare—that I’ll wake up. But, of course, I don’t.” Ian’s voice had gone flat, as if the emotion behind the words
was more than his voice could handle. “I found one of her grocery lists stuck in a book the other day—Maria made lists for just about everything—and it tore my heart out. It was like the first day all over again, when the police came to my door to tell me what happened.”

“Sometimes I wonder how much a person can take without flying apart from the grief,” Maggie said quietly.

Ian met Maggie’s eyes. “A lot. A great, vast, encompassing whole lot. Life is a gift. The Lord never promised any of us permanent happiness on earth. But—and here’s the saving grace—he will give us the strength we need to keep on going if we ask him. I know this is true, because it’s what I’ve done daily since Maria died.”

Again the kitchen fell silent, and, to Maggie, the sound of the ticking wall clock seemed louder than it ever had before.