Chapter 14
MAGGIE
I'm driving back from Rosie's when I see her.
It's dark and the road between town and the sanctuary is unlit. My headlights catch something on the shoulder, a figure walking fast, head down. A woman alone, on foot. Which is unusual out here as nobody walks this road at night.
I slow down and when the headlights sweep across her, I realize it's Sloane.
My foot hovers over the accelerator. I could drive past. She's not my responsibility outside of working hours.
But it's dark and there are trucks on this road that take the bends too fast and don't expect to find a pedestrian in a black dress in the middle of nowhere.
And driving past a woman walking alone in the dark is not something I can do, even if that woman crashed into my barn.
I pull over and lean across to open the passenger window.
"Sloane."
She stops, turns and I see she's crying.
"Get in," I say.
She hesitates. She looks at me, then at the road ahead, clearly deciding whether she'd rather keep walking in the dark or accept a ride from a woman who's spent the last week making her shovel pig manure.
"Thank you," she finally says. She gets in, pulls the door shut and sits with her hands in her lap.
"Are you okay?" I ask, pulling back onto the road. "What happened?"
She shakes her head, pressing her lips together.
"Sloane. What happened?"
"I can't —" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat and tries again.
"I can't go anywhere. I can't go to the diner without someone taking photos.
I can't go to a bar without being recognized and mocked.
I can't get on the bus without people filming me.
Everywhere I go in this town, people either hate me or think I'm a joke and I just —" She stops and presses her fingers against her eyes.
"I just wanted to sit somewhere and have a drink and be left alone. That's all I wanted."
"Where were you?"
"The Watering Hole."
Of course. Where else would she go for a drink?
I glance at her. The Watering Hole on a Thursday night is mostly regulars — farmers, ranch hands, a few guys from the construction crew working on the highway extension.
They're not bad people but they're loud and they drink and think they're funnier than they are.
"What did they do?" I ask.
"What everyone does. Pointed. Filmed. Called me Princess Pigpen. Made oinking noises. And this guy tried to chat me up, wouldn't leave me alone." She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That's not okay. This is a small town and people should know better. I'll talk to them." The motel sign appears in the headlights — DUSTY ROSE MOTEL, the letters glowing a faded pink.
"You don't have to do that."
"I do. You're doing your time. You're showing up. You're doing the work. People don't get to make that harder for you just because they think it's funny."
She turns and looks at me and her face is a mess — the mascara, the blotchy skin, the red eyes. "You look nice," she says. "Have you been to a party?"
"A date," I say.
"Oh… A good date?"
I park the truck and turn off the engine. "Second date. But I don't think it's going anywhere. No chemistry. It happens." I shrug. "Slim pickings around here so I tend to give people a real chance. But you either feel something or you don't."
"Was he at least good-looking?"
"She," I say.
Sloane blinks and I watch the information travel across her face — surprise first, then recalibration.
"Oh," she says. "I didn't — I wouldn't have guessed."
"Most people don't." I lean back against the seat. "Which makes it even harder to meet someone, if you know what I mean. The dating pool out here for a straight woman is a puddle. For a gay woman it's a damp patch on the sidewalk."
Sloane sniffs. "I can only imagine."
"She's nice," I say. "A dentist. Good job. Pretty. But for the second date in a row, she spent half the time asking about you."
"About me?"
"Yeah. Apparently the only thing interesting about me is my association with you."
Sloane stares at me. "You're kidding."
"I'm not."
"I'm sorry. That's awful."
"It's not your fault." I pause. "Well. The Princess Pigpen thing is your fault. But the bad date isn't." I nod toward the motel. "How is it in there? I've driven past it a thousand times but I've never actually been inside."
Sloane lets out a long sigh. "The fridge is incredibly noisy and the shower has two settings — lukewarm and cold. The carpet is sticky. The pillow is so flat I've started folding it in half. And there's a water stain on the ceiling shaped like Florida."
"Right," I say. "I get the idea."
She picks up her purse. "But I'll cope. Could be worse." She opens the door and steps out, then ducks her head back in. "Thanks for the lift, Maggie. I appreciate it."
She closes the door and walks across the parking lot toward her room, her sneakers scuffing on the concrete.
I sit in the truck for a moment. She looks defeated and I'm actually feeling sorry for her.
I'll have to defend Sloane Archer to people I've known my entire life.
A week ago I wanted her to suffer. And now I'm about to tell off the regulars at The Watering Hole for making her cry. I'm not sure how that happened.
Part of me wonders if she'll last the full two months.
A night like this on top of everything else would be enough to make most people call their lawyer and beg to be reassigned somewhere else.
Somewhere without photographers and oinking and men.
I realize, with some irritation, that I hope she stays.
Not because I like her but because she's finally starting to get faster with the pitchfork.