Dear Maggie. Brenda Novak
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to be a fruitcake, she wouldn’t answer him again. If he bothered her, she’d change her e-mail address. It wasn’t as if he knew where she lived. After two years in Sacramento without any romantic interludes, she was ready to expand her horizons, and e-mail seemed the perfect forum.
Dear Mntnbiker:
I’d be happy to get to know you, although I’m not sure I’m ready for anything more than friendship.
Big lie there, but she definitely didn’t want to sound desperate.
Tell me a little about yourself, who you are, where you live, what you do.
You might remember that I’m a single mom. I have one little boy who’s three and a half. I’m 5’5”, 115 lbs, have red hair, freckles and green eyes. And if that doesn’t scare you off, maybe this will: I work nights as a cop reporter and am currently following a murder. At any given point, my life is filled with the details of abuse, rape and other forms of violence. But in the meantime I try to be an average “girl.” I’m a bit of a health nut, but when I’m splurging, I like to eat coffee ice cream and chocolate-covered strawberries (not necessarily together <G>). I also like lying on a warm beach and reading romance novels, probably because what I deal with at work is so harrowing. I like happily-ever-afters. I hate to wait for anything and can’t cook a can of soup or sew on a button, but I can change my own oil and mow my own yard.
Now that you probably know more about me than you ever wanted to, it’s your turn:)
She signed it simply Maggie, hit the Send button, and went onto the Internet, where she quickly forgot about Mntnbiker as she scanned the major newspapers throughout the country, beginning with the New York Times. Some of the crime stories were horrible enough to curl her toes, particularly those that involved child molestation or abuse, and it wasn’t long before she decided to give up. The violence was making her heartsick, and without the coroner’s report, she knew so little about the condition of Sarah Ritter’s body that it was difficult to draw any connection between her murder and any others. She was wasting her time, just as she’d thought.
Yawning, she decided to get up early and head to Lowell Atkinson’s house with a big bag of donuts and several freshly roasted coffees. A horse came more willingly to a handful of sugar, right? The same might hold true for Lowell.
She climbed into bed but couldn’t get to sleep. The murders she’d read about had her spooked. The shadow of the trees outside fell across her carpet, their knotty, intertwining branches sometimes taking on the shape of a man, and she wondered if someone could remove her air conditioner and crawl through the hole it left behind. Then again, they wouldn’t even have to go to that much trouble. Because of the heat, there were several windows open in other parts of the house, even a few of the ones without bars, just so she could get a breeze going through.
For a few moments, Maggie held her breath, thinking she heard something rustling, the creak of a footfall in the living room….
It’s nothing, she told herself. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, resisting the urge to duck her head beneath it, too, and turned her thoughts to other things.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how she chose to look at it—Nick Sorenson came readily to mind. She tried to imagine what it would feel like to kiss a man like him, someone so completely opposite to Tim, someone who was all fire and no ice. But memories of Rock Tillman kept intruding on her fantasy. The way they’d gotten to know each other that one summer, the hope and attraction she’d felt from the start, and the way he’d treated her once school started—like she had the plague.
So she pretended to be outgoing Darla and quickly forgot all about Rock. Then she had no more problems imagining Nick’s kiss—or anything else.
CHAPTER THREE
BINGO! SHE’D TAKEN the bait. Nick smiled at Maggie’s message, finding the personal touches more interesting than he should have. She loved chocolate-covered strawberries and coffee ice cream and sandy beaches. Those preferences, taken together with the fact that she couldn’t cook or sew, meant they had a lot in common. Fortunately, he was damn good at ordering out. And he could certainly do worse than hooking up with a woman who knew how to change her own oil.
Hooking up with Maggie? Who was he kidding? She thought he was someone he wasn’t. Ethically speaking, he couldn’t touch her. And he was heading back to Ogden as soon as he caught his killer, anyway.
“Forget about touching her,” he growled at himself. Rambo, who’d been sleeping curled up at Nick’s feet, raised his head off his paws and cocked his ears. Nick absently patted the dog’s head as he tried to think of a response that would draw Maggie into friendship. He needed to get to know her and her habits.
He needed to do his job.
He read her message again. What could he write that would make him look like a soft, sensitive guy? Women loved men who were in touch with their feminine side, didn’t they?
Maybe. Only, as a cop, he didn’t see himself as having much of a feminine side, and somehow it was important to him that Maggie like him for himself. Maybe it was the challenge of overcoming her initial rejection. Maybe it was something more. But he decided to be as honest as his cover would allow. He told her what he truly liked, what he hated and what he dreamed about. Then he sent the message. She might have turned him down when he’d asked her out before, but he was hoping “John” would be able to slip beneath her defenses.
“MOMMY, I’M AWAKE!”
Maggie squinted at the round face leaning over hers and groaned. “Zach, it’s not even light yet.”
“Can I watch cartoons-s-s?” he added.
Maggie smiled at his lisp, longing for the day Zach would be able to work the television without her assistance. Then she thought of how fast he was growing up and regretted the fleeting wish. At three years old, he was at the perfect stage—out of diapers, cribs, and high chairs, but still cuddly and generous with his hugs.
Dragging herself out of bed, she hauled him into her arms for a big kiss, then deposited him on the couch in front of Disney’s Ducktales while she started the coffeemaker and put a frozen waffle in the toaster. It was actually later than she’d realized; when she opened the blinds, she saw that the sun was already up. She needed to get showered so she could begin her siege of Atkinson’s house.
“Hungry?” she asked Zach.
He didn’t answer. He was already engrossed in his cartoons, so she prepared his waffle with peanut butter the way he liked and brought it to him on a tray.
“I’m going to have a shower, okay, buddy?”
“Okay.” Silence, then, “Mommy?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll be right here,” he said, digging in to his waffle.
Maggie ruffled his hair, then hurried to her bedroom, but before she turned on the shower and stripped off her nightgown, she checked her e-mail to see if Mntnbiker had written back.
Sure enough, there was a message from him, right at the top of the list.
Dear Maggie—
You sound beautiful, and sweet.
Beautiful? How did he get beautiful out of what she’d sent him? Or sweet? This guy was either an eternal optimist or extremely lonely, but despite that, the flattery felt good.
As for me, I like mountain biking, sailing, sand volleyball and legal thrillers. I hate spinach, regardless of its food value, clueless drivers and people who try to convince the rest of the world that men and women have to be the same to be equal. I like our differences.
I grew up in a large Catholic family of three sisters and two brothers, a stay-at-home mom and a father who was manager of a large copper mine in Utah before he retired about four years ago. My