Betting on Hope (8 page)

This was a career booster.

A shot in the arm.

Who was she kidding—obviously it was a career saver, or at least a shot at saving her column. She’d had no idea the paper was thinking of dropping her column. She had a loyal and diverse audience, but when they’d talked, Amanda had reiterated what Helen Davenport had said. She had to increase her audience. Newspapers were all fighting for their lives, and their world had turned just as cutthroat as the television industry.

So, even Amanda was rooting for this to all work out. Her ratings were great but every opportunity was a boost that helped her maintain that status.

Maggie had taken that to heart and tried to be positive while giving the continual negative thoughts a swift kick to the curb.

The ranch was impressive—
like the cowboy
.

She kicked
that
thought to the curb even harder. But Tru Monahan was hard to forget. Hard not to think about. He was also the reason she was now not only on television looking like an idiot but also a YouTube sensation. It was awful—
and good for readership.

Driving between the massive black pipe entrance of the Four of Hearts Ranch, its name wrought in large letters of metal above her, she focused on the details of the sign. The ranch’s brand bracketed the name—a large number four with a narrow heart connected to the straight side of the number.

She’d learned through her research that Tru’s grandmother had actually been the designer of the brand.

It was . . .
pretty
. She thought that said something nice about Tru’s grandfather that he would let the slightly feminine logo stand. He must have cared for and valued his wife. That gesture spoke volumes to Maggie.

She wondered what it would feel like to have a man, a husband, who valued and cared for her. Maggie craved a loving husband and a house full of kids, but knew that the odds were against her ever having either.

Her family background, the emotional fears, and the subconscious scars she carried all too clearly made that seem like a hopeless dream. Though Maggie refused to let it define her. Her column was about holding out hope that one day those like herself, who were seeking true love and devotion would find it. “Gotta Have Hope” embodied the spirit of hope and believing that true love existed. That there was someone out there for everyone. Maggie just had no trust where men were concerned—she hoped she could open her heart up to the right man when he came along.

Her thoughts flew straight back to the moment in that interview when she’d felt . . . a connection between her and Tru, and she pushed that out of the way again. He was not that man.

Parking in front of the house, she pushed her door open—not giving herself time to even think about not getting out. She stepped out onto the red gravel. Her jogging shoes were much more suited to country life than the notorious red heels.
Those
were in her closet in Houston and would stay there, indefinitely.

She headed toward the front door. She could see a barn out behind the house and past that was a smaller house—a rambling single story of cedar and brick. The main house was white with a large front porch and a solid black door with a heavy brass knocker. The mournful cry of a dog echoed from inside. The wails grew more intense as she crossed the porch and knocked, turning into a frantic mixture of barks and very loud howls. What was going on? This was more than a hysterical pet announcing someone was at the door.

Maggie knocked again, harder. A crash sounded inside. Maggie stiffened. Okay, something was seriously wrong.

She was still trying to figure out what to do when she heard shuffling on the other side of the door and then it swung open and Maggie came face to face with a wide-eyed, lanky older man, in his early- to mid seventies. She hadn’t known what she was expecting but this was not it.

His angular face, thin and weathered, appeared very much the face of a cowboy. The resemblance to Tru was unmistakable, though this man’s dark brown hair was peppered with gray. Was this his grandfather? Was this “Pops” as Tru had called him affectionately? Not only did he resemble Tru, he was almost six feet tall and it was easy to see that he’d probably carried himself with the same straight-backed posture.

The dog, wherever it was, wailed louder and the older man’s eyes grew wider. There was a blankness—a confusion—in their depths heightened by his frantic, panicked expression.

When the dog let out another endless yowl, the man waved his hands for her to come inside. “Help my baby,” he said. “Help.”

Feeling frantic and scrambled herself, Maggie didn’t hesitate. “Is it your dog?” she asked, hurrying behind him as he led the way down a wide entrance hall, then cut left down a narrower hall.

“My puppy.”

They entered a room dominated by a gigantic wooden bed. The headboard was made of carved logs and the footboard was nearly as massive. It took up the entire room. The thin man eased to his knees, obviously stiff with age and probably abuse from years of cowboy’n. Not waiting to follow, Maggie plopped down onto the floor. The terrified sounds were so loud now that they were in the room it was a wonder the bed wasn’t hovering.

Yanking up the bedspread, Maggie found herself staring at—not a puppy, but the fattest Basset Hound she’d ever seen.

Why, the dog was wedged between the bed and the floor as if the bed had been dropped on top of it. How had it squeezed in there?

“Baby,” the frail man said, now that he’d finally managed to get to the floor.

The term sounded so heartfelt that it tugged at Maggie’s gut. His gaze reached out to her, pleading. Something wasn’t right with this picture. To look at the man you would think he was fine, but his reactions were not right. Could this be dementia? Not that she had much contact with it. Whatever it was, the man needed help.

“It’s okay,” she urged, patting his arm. “I’ll get you your baby.”

The dog was now really wailing and yelping like she was poking it with a prod or something. It sounded like it was in agony. The man looked as if he were about to cry. Maggie didn’t think twice. She dropped to her belly and scooted under the bed.

She sneezed three times in a row from the dust, causing the dog to scream more—just what she needed. She wedged herself under the bed to get to it. She grunted—not sure who was going to get her out and even more uncertain how she was going to get the plump Bassett Hound free. How had he gotten under here? Crawled under with the hindquarter of a buffalo and then eaten it? Or eaten a whole one?

“Hey, pooch, calm down,” she urged, her rump scraping the bed frame as she moved deeper into the shadowy depths. The dog’s eyes, white saucers of terror, glared at her.

She sneezed again and the pooch wailed louder. Now almost even with the animal, Maggie inched a little farther under, a tight squeeze for her hips.

“Come on.” She reached out to the dog—not her smartest move. Second only to her crawling under the bed. The moment her fingers got close enough, the pooch hauled off and took a bite out of her.

“Ouch!” Maggie jerked sideways, she was so shocked. She was bleeding. The dog growled and suddenly she feared it might be able to come after her now that she was stuck.

Stuck—Maggie grunted and tried to budge, but when she twisted sideways she wedged her shoulders more tightly between the bed and the floor.

“Come on,” she gasped, wriggling, trying to budge. There was no use. Her shoulders hurt.

“Maggie?”

The familiar drawl sent a shot of warmth spreading through her. Hope flared and a fiery adrenaline hit every nerve ending in a euphoric rush.

Gripping her bleeding hand, she cocked her head so that she could see Tru. He stared at her from where he’d crouched down beside her feet. He placed his hand on her ankles and she forgot to breathe.

“Looks like you’re having problems,” he said, as if she was having trouble tying her shoelace instead of being wedged under the bed like a pig in a blanket.

“Hi.” It was the only thing that popped into her brain. It wasn’t lost to her that for the second time they’d met, she was in a crazy fix.

“What are you doing?” he asked, that oh-so-amazing grin on his face.

Only then did she realize the dog had stopped its incessant noise. She was getting past the wave of heat that had hit her—adjusting to his touch and the throbbing of her hand was responsible for that. “Um, I crawled under here to help this, this ungrateful mutt because your grandfather was upset. And it bit me. And now I’m stuck.”

She glanced at her hand. She was holding it tightly to her chest. Blood oozed from the throbbing doggy-teeth-shaped wound in the flesh of the meaty part of her hand below her thumb.

“Solomon
bit
you?” Tru banged his head on the underside of the bed as he tried to see her hand better.

“Yes, and I’m stuck,” she said, grumpily.

“Hang on,” he snapped, then stood.

All she could see were his scuffed cowboy boots and jeans so faded they looked as soft as silk. He moved to the end of the bed where she couldn’t see him any longer. She was left looking at the now-docile mutt.

“If I lift, can you get out?”

“I think so.” The cramped quarters suddenly seemed to squeeze tighter and Maggie’s heart raced. She sneezed again and instantly the dog began wailing.

“Okay,” Tru called over the noise. “Ready?”

“Oh, boy, am I.” It was all she could do not to start wailing right along with the pooch.

The bed lifted and blessed relief washed over her. She didn’t hesitate—oh, no, she did not—the instant she could move, she belly-crawled out of there almost faster than the fat, floppy-eared hound.

With a backward glare, the beast let out another long yowl, as if warning her it would like to bite her again. Maggie gave it an I-just-dare-you glare and it ducked around the edge of the door and out of sight.

Blessed silence remained.

“Baby,” the bewildered man called and shuffled after the dog.

Tru stooped beside her and before she could stop him he’d taken her hand in his—just like in the interview. Instant heat spread from his touch, licking through her like a wildfire.

She frowned. If it hadn’t been for him taking her hand during the interview, they wouldn’t be in this fix.

“Let me look at that,” he said, seeming not to notice that she wasn’t exactly thrilled that he was touching her.

Maggie tried to ignore the way his touch affected her. His eyes narrowed—as if he felt the jolt too. And at that thought Maggie’s heart tripped over itself. She looked away. She had forgotten exactly what it felt like to look into those intense golden eyes.

“Come on, let’s get you in the kitchen and clean this up.” He helped her to her feet then led her down the hall and into the kitchen.

She fought the urge to pull away. This reaction to him was not going to help her situation.

He took her over to the sink and turned on the water, testing it for warmth before thrusting her wound beneath.

Her breath caught the instant the warm water hit the wound. She winced and bit her lip.

“Sorry.” Tru looked down at her, so close she could see the gilded specks in his irises that caught the light from the window like stardust. “This is bad, Maggie. I’m really sorry about Solomon. He’s old and not the best-behaved dog. But he’s crazy about my Pops and Pops is crazy about him. He senses when Pop is having a bad day and it just makes him act weird.”

“I shouldn’t have climbed under there,” she said, finally, glad her voice sounded almost normal. “I should have been more careful. It wasn’t like I didn’t know he was in distress.”

“It was probably pretty intense. My Pops is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.” Bone-deep sadness filled Tru’s eyes. He looked away and focused on her hand.

She felt for him.

Tru pulled her arm from the water and reached into the drawer at his knee and pulled out a blue dish towel. Gently he toweled off the water, then wrapped her arm.

“We need to take you to the clinic and have Bertha look at this. Have you had your tetanus shot?”

Pops wandered in and looked over Tru’s shoulder at her like a little boy checking out something cool.

“Yes, I have.” It hurt like the dickens, but she didn’t want to put anyone out or make Pops feel bad, though the doctor really sounded like a good idea. “I’m fine, I’ll just wrap it in gauze.”

“Nope, you’re going to the clinic. Come with me.” He led the way through the house to the front door with Pops trailing. “Pops, stay here, Bo will be here in a minute.” Tru’s heart was heavy with the knowledge that his Pops was getting worse and they might be to the point that he would no longer be able to stay by himself, even though he and his brothers lived so close. Closing the door, he pulled his phone from its holster and punched a speed-dial number.

“Bo,” he said. “We’ve had a little accident at Pops’s. Solomon took a bite out of Maggie, and Pops needs you up here. He was a little upset. I’m taking Maggie to see Bertha.” He nodded at something Bo on the other end of the conversation said. “Yeah, he’s calm now, but I don’t know for how long. And put Solomon behind the doggie gate until we figure out what to do about this. We can’t have him biting people.”

He ended the call and slid the phone back into its case and led the way to his truck. He opened the door then slipped his hand beneath her elbow to help her inside. She was glad of it. Her arm was throbbing now.

She hadn’t wanted to come here. Had forced herself to pack her things into her car and head toward Wishing Springs and this . . .

This was not the start of this ridiculous venture that she’d expected.

But like everything else about this deal, it was out of her control.

Maggie didn’t do out-of-control very well.

6

Tru drove toward town. He hadn’t wanted Maggie here, but he certainly didn’t wish her any ill will. Finding her stuck beneath the massive bed he’d built in high school shop class had been a shocker.

“This is all so messed up.” Maggie slouched in her passenger seat beside him, pain etched on her pretty features. “If this is a sign of what’s to come, then we’re in more trouble than I thought.”