CHAPTER TWO
T HE TAXI DRIVER LET M ASON OFF AT THE FRONT GATE . M ASON HAD paid in advance for the ride, but he gave the man a fair tip, as a gentleman would do.
The stately brick house, its broad porch sheltered by the overhanging roof, appeared unchanged. But the front yard was weedy and overgrown. Mason’s mother had always taken pride in her home’s outward appearance. For as long as he could remember, she’d paid a gardener to keep the place mowed, weeded, and trimmed.
Apprehension growing, he opened the gate and started up the walk. The place was quiet except for the piping of a quail and the whisper of leaves in the wind.
As Mason mounted the porch, a savage barking from inside the front door reached his ears. His mother’s two huge mastiffs had been her constant companions. The dogs would be old now if they’d even survived this long. What Mason was hearing sounded more like one animal than two. But he knew better than to open the door and walk in.
Raising his hand, he rapped the brass knocker.
“Who’s there?” His mother’s voice came from the direction of the parlor. At least she sounded the way he remembered.
“It’s me, Mother. It’s Mason. I’ve come home.” He shouted the words over the barking.
At a sharp, spoken command, the barking ceased. “Come in,” his mother’s voice said.
Mason opened the door and stepped into the entry. The house looked clean enough, but there was a shabbiness about the place. The rugs, the furniture, even the wallpaper looked worn, dusty, and faded. Or maybe he was just looking with fresh eyes.
His mother was seated in the high-backed, brocade-covered chair that Mason had always thought of as her throne. The massive hound that crouched protectively at her side was one of the pair he remembered—the other beast must’ve passed on. This one was showing the white of age around its muzzle and cataract-blurred eyes, but when it growled, pulling back its lips, its yellowed canines appeared as sharp as ever.
Amelia Hollister Dollarhide was thinner than he remembered. The red hair of her younger days had turned silver. Aside from that, she had changed surprisingly little. Dressed in an outdated green voile gown that matched the shade of her striking eyes, she looked fit and healthy. She wasn’t that old, barely over sixty, Mason reminded himself. But something wasn’t right. What had possessed her to close the bank account?
“So you’re back.” There was no hint of welcome in her voice.
“Yes.” Mason paused in the middle of the room, still wary of the dog. “Didn’t you get my telegram?”
She shrugged. “I might have. But I figured that if you really wanted to come home, you’d find a way to get here on your own.”
“You don’t sound happy to see me.” He said it teasingly, hoping to get a rise out of her. But her expression didn’t change.
“Why should I be happy to see you?” she snapped. “I raised you to grow up and help me run the ranch. But then you got that wretched girl pregnant and had to leave. When you finally came home, and the girl was safely married to your brother, I had hopes you might stay. But no, you had to fool around with the law and get yourself arrested. Having you as a son never did me a lick of good. I’m tempted to sic my dog on you and run you off the ranch.”
Not a good beginning, Mason reflected. Winning her over could take time—time he didn’t have.
“I went to the bank in Miles City this morning, Mother,” he said. “They told me you’d cashed out the ranch account and closed it.”
“I did. The money’s safer with me. You can’t trust anybody these days, especially bankers. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all a bunch of crooks.”
“Where’s the money?” Mason asked, keeping his voice gentle. “What did you do with it?”
Her laugh was humorless. “You think I’d tell you—a man who just got out of prison? I don’t trust you any more than I trust those bankers. You’d help yourself to the money and burn through it like a hot knife through butter.”
“I’m your son. Your own flesh and blood.” He took a step toward her. The dog growled and edged forward. Mason halted. “I’m your heir, your only family. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”
His mother silenced the dog with a touch. “So far, Mason, you’ve been worse than no family at all. For as long as I’ve been your mother, I’ve never known you to think of anything but yourself—your own pleasure, your own convenience, your own gain. When you went to prison, I was tempted to change my will and send you packing when you came home. But in the hope that you’ve learned your lesson, I’m willing to give you one last chance.”
“What do I have to do?” Mason was grinding his teeth with impatience, but he knew better than to show it.
“You’re not stupid. You can figure it out for yourself.” She took in his appearance, her upper lip curling with distaste. “The first thing you can do is change out of that godawful suit. Your old clothes are still in your room. They’ll do you for now. You’re lucky I didn’t burn them or give them to the first bum that came to the kitchen door.”
Picking up a small silver bell from a side table, she gave it an extra loud shake. The man who shuffled in from the kitchen was dressed in a black suit. His thin, white hair hung in strings to his shoulders. His body was stooped and gnarled like the trunk of an ancient tree that had survived more seasons than a man could count.
“Madam?” His sonorous voice was the same. Mason had assumed that his mother’s aging butler would’ve long since gone to meet his maker—not that he’d given much thought to the old man.
“Sidney, bring me a glass of claret.”
“Yes, madam.” He vanished into the kitchen. Wine was illegal, as was any other alcoholic drink, but Mason was aware that his mother kept a store of her favorites in the cellar. He knew better than to think she might invite him to share.
She glared at her son. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve changed your clothes. And don’t expect me to tell you what to do. You’re a man. Use your eyes and ears—and your head if you’ve acquired any common sense in the past five years.”
“And the money?” Mason couldn’t resist asking. “When will you give me access?”
She shook her head. “Not until I can trust you to act responsibly.”
“And how long will that be?”
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Days. Weeks. Maybe never. Meanwhile, the money is safe. I’ll pay you a salary for managing the ranch, but only if you do your job.”
I’m not your employee, Mother. I’m your son! When you’re gone, this ranch will be mine!
He wanted to shout the words at her, but that would only steel her resolve to control him. For now, he would pretend to go along with her plan. But he couldn’t get back into the bootlegging business without seed money up front.
His bedroom was much as he’d left it, his clothes and boots in the closet, his socks and underthings in the bureau drawers. Mason liked dressing well. In his first sojourn away from the ranch, he’d spent money on expensive clothes—shirts of linen and silk, leather jackets and vests, trousers of fine wool gabardine, and custom-made boots—the kind of things that didn’t go out of style. Even his work clothes were of exceptional quality. Dressed, he could pass for a wealthy rancher—even if, for now, his mother controlled his every dollar. That would soon change, he vowed. It would have to.
After enjoying his first real bath in five years, he shaved, dressed, and combed his hair. Groomed and dressed in his own clothes, he’d expected to look much as he had before his arrest. But as he stood before the full-length mirror, it was a stranger he saw looking back at him—his hair showing strands of early gray, his intense green eyes framed by leathery creases. There was a hardness about his mouth—a mouth that had all but forgotten how to smile—and a determined set to his jaw. His nose, broken in a prison brawl and never properly set, gave him the look of a street tough. His clothes hung on his lean, sinewy body in a way he’d never noticed before.
His discarded clothes and shoes, courtesy of the Montana Corrections System, lay in a heap on the floor. The smell that rose from them recalled the five-year nightmare of prison—the kitchen slop that passed as food, the steaming bleach scent of the laundry, the toilets, the stench of sweating bodies. Mason shuddered. He would roll everything into a tight bundle, take it downstairs, stuff it into the trash bin, and forget it. He wanted nothing to remind him of that time. The scars on his body would be enough.
As he lifted the vest, a folded sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. It was the leaflet that had been dropped from the airplane. Mason unfolded it and reread the announcement about the air show.
Maybe he should go.
The more he thought about the idea, the more it made sense. Sooner or later, he would have to face his old acquaintances in Blue Moon. Putting it off would only make things harder. He’d been seen driving through town. Word would already be spreading that Mason Dollarhide was back.
So, why not show up dressed like a gentleman and standing tall? True, he’d been in prison, but not for harming anyone in Blue Moon. His crime had been a violation of federal law—a law that many people hated and believed to be unfair. Now that he had paid the price with five years of his freedom, with a few months’ probation for good behavior, he owed no one an apology.
Refolding the paper, he slipped it into the hip pocket of his trousers. It was early yet. He’d have time to look over the ranch before leaving for town. Among other things, he needed to know how many cattle and horses were on the place, what condition they were in, and who was taking care of them. The sooner he stepped into running the ranch and took a firm hand, the better his chances of accessing the money he needed.
* * *
An hour later, he was on his way back to town. His old car, a high-end Model T, had been kept in running condition, probably to transport his mother on her errands. Mason had seen newer and nicer autos in Miles City today, and not just Fords. There were Chryslers, Oldsmobiles, and Buicks; and he’d seen ads for luxury Cadillacs and Packards that would be a dream to own. But getting a fancy car would have to wait until he could afford it. Meanwhile, he had his work cut out for him.
What he’d seen of the ranch had dismayed and worried him. Most of the cattle had been sold off last year. With no stock to breed, there’d be nothing to ship to market this fall. Even the horses, the best ones, were mostly gone. What had his mother been thinking? Surely she couldn’t have been that desperate for money. Mason could only conclude that she was ill, not in her body but in her mind.
For now, he would put his gloomy thoughts aside and try to enjoy the air show. In a town like Blue Moon, where exciting events were rare, the chance to see a plane close up and maybe even ride in one would draw a crowd. Would Blake’s family be there? Would Joseph be with them?
In prison, after Joseph had rejected him, Mason had told himself that he didn’t care about his son. But now, the prospect of seeing the boy triggered a surge of hope. Maybe Joseph’s youthful anger had mellowed. Maybe they could talk and become friends. He might even offer Joseph the ticket for a free plane ride.
Blake wouldn’t like that. Neither would Blake’s wife, Hannah. The innocent girl Mason had impregnated twenty years ago—the girl Blake had married after Mason skipped town—had matured into a lovely, confident woman. And for his unselfish act, Blake was reaping the rewards of a beautiful family—a rich dynasty for any man.
Neither Blake nor his wife had any use for Mason. If they happened to be at the air show today, and if he were to approach them, they would probably turn their backs.
But others would welcome him. His half-sister, Kristin, a doctor, would never turn her back on him. And his boyhood chums, the ones who’d stayed in Blue Moon, would greet him with open arms. With luck, he might even meet a woman—preferably a widow, who knew the score and wouldn’t mind his company on a lonely night. She wouldn’t even have to be pretty as long as she was willing. Otherwise, his only recourse would be to visit one of the “nieces” at Jake’s Place. His need of a woman was becoming an itch that demanded to be scratched.
The printed announcement hadn’t specified where the air show would be staged. But the open field east of town, once used to park heavy grain wagons and stable the giant draft horses that pulled them, was the logical choice. Now used for ball games, horse races, community picnics, and other functions, the field was spacious enough for a small plane to land and take off, with no nearby trees, fences, or grazing animals to worry about.
In Blue Moon, people were moving toward the field, some walking, some in autos and buggies, and others, mostly boys, on bicycles. It was early yet. Mason took his time driving down Main Street. His eyes scanned the passing crowd for people he might remember. There were surprisingly few. A man in overalls gave him a grin and a wave. He looked vaguely familiar, but Mason couldn’t recall his name.
As he parked the Model T with other vehicles along the near side of the field, he could see the plane sitting in the open. The Curtiss Jenny models had been mass-produced for use in the Great War, mostly for pilot training. After the fighting ended in late 1918, the surplus planes had been sold at bargain prices to the public. The sturdy, lightweight Jennies, as they were called, were bought by the hundreds, many of them by pilots who’d returned from the war, who used them to make a living, flying from town to town, putting on shows and selling rides. The practice was known as barnstorming.
Glancing down the row of parked vehicles, Mason spotted a shiny, new dark green Buick, a car that had big money written all over it. Only one member of the community would drive a car like that—Webb Calder, who ruled the Triple C Ranch like a feudal lord.
Webb, who towered over most of his neighbors, was easy to spot among the gathering crowd. Now in early middle age, he still moved with a cowboy’s easy grace, his body built for the saddle. His taciturn presence commanded respect. Webb Calder was the man that other men wanted to be. But, as Mason reminded himself, Webb had done nothing to earn his wealth and power. His most telling accomplishment was having been born a Calder.
But it wasn’t Webb that Mason had come to see.
The crowd, kept at a distance from the plane by a staked rope, was growing. Mason scanned the newcomers, hoping to spot a familiar, boyish face. But there was no sign of Blake’s family. With a ranch and a sawmill to manage, Mason’s half-brother probably wouldn’t spare the time for an outing. Blake had kept his nose to the grindstone all his life. He was probably raising Joseph the same way. Pity. Young manhood should be a time for fun and adventure.
Another man, even taller than Webb, moved past Mason, balancing a small, golden-haired girl on his shoulder. Mason turned aside to avoid being recognized. Sheriff Jake Calhoun had been the one to arrest and jail him five years ago. The man had treated him decently, but the memory of that time evoked nothing but humiliation.
The glint of a silver star on his vest confirmed that Jake Calhoun was still sheriff. But the tiny girl on his shoulder, dressed in a rumpled pinafore, with her hair in a lopsided braid—that had to be an interesting story.
“Mason?”
Startled by the soft but firm voice behind him, Mason turned to face Britta Anderson, the town’s longtime schoolteacher. A plain, big-boned spinster with wheaten hair and cornflower eyes, she was also the sister of Blake’s wife—and a woman whose family history gave her every justifiable reason to detest him.
“Hello, Britta. It’s nice to see you.” He spoke in a mocking tone, knowing he was probably the last person she wanted to see today. Mason had abandoned her pregnant older sister and then, unwittingly, contributed to the ruin and death of the younger one. A related incident had led to her father dropping dead on his doorstep.
“When did you get back?” she asked.
“Just today. I’ll be helping my mother run the ranch. I was hoping to see Blake’s family. Do you know if they’ll be here?”
“I doubt that they’ll take the time. But I’ll let them know you’re back in town.”
“Not that I’m expecting any dinner invitations. How are they—the family?”
“They’re fine. Hannah has a new baby girl. Our mother passed away a few months after you left. It’s safe to say that she died of a broken heart.”
Her meaning wasn’t lost on Mason. Inga Anderson had suffered the loss of her two sons, her husband, and her youngest daughter. But none of those deaths had been Mason’s fault. He couldn’t help it if pretty Gerda had gotten pregnant by her boyfriend and tried to hang the blame on him. Or that the girl’s father had assumed the worst, come after him with a shotgun, and died of a stroke brought on by his own rage.
Mason chose not to argue the point. “What about Joseph?” he asked. “How is he?”
“Joseph is growing up. He’s got big dreams, but Blake is grooming him to run the ranch and the sawmill.” She paused, her stern blue eyes gazing directly into his. “Leave Joseph alone, Mason. The last time you were here, you almost ruined his life. He doesn’t need your meddling. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Mason said. “But if Joseph wants to talk to me, I won’t turn him away.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Britta gave him an angry look before walking off to greet someone else. Mason didn’t blame her for resenting him. But he couldn’t change the past. He could only seize the future and make it his. If his plan worked, he would have all the wealth and respect he’d ever wanted.
He scanned the crowd one more time, but failed to see his family or anyone who might welcome him. That shouldn’t be surprising. He hadn’t exactly left a lot of friends behind when he’d gone to prison. And as he reminded himself, for the past five years, life had moved on without him.
The two people who’d arrived in the plane were working their way through the crowd, collecting money and rubber stamping the hands of those who paid. For the price, the pair couldn’t be making much of a profit. By the time they paid for fuel and other expenses, there wouldn’t be much left over.
A man was moving toward him with a tin box for collecting payments. He had a wiry build, dressed in khakis, with a white, fringed scarf flung rakishly around his neck. He appeared to be nearing sixty, his face long jawed and narrow, with a neat moustache. His graying hair was plastered to his head, as if by a helmet he might have worn earlier.
Occasionally he stopped to make change, but most people had the required coins. They clinked into the box like donations in a church collection plate.
A smaller figure, in a loose-fitting khaki jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a webbed belt, followed at his elbow with a rubber stamp and an inkpad, stamping the image of a miniature biplane in blue on the back of each payer’s hand. A floppy newsboy cap shadowed the features below. A lad, Mason assumed. Maybe the man’s son or grandson.
The pair approached Webb Calder. The owner of the Triple C dropped his quarter in the box and had his hand stamped. Moments later, the man with the tin box approached Mason. With a smile, Mason took a dollar bill out of his wallet and laid it in the box. “Keep the change,” he said loudly enough for Webb and those around him to hear. The gesture was a small one, purely for show. But Mason liked the way it made him feel.
“Your hand, sir.” The feminine voice startled him. Mason found himself looking down at a stunning face below the cap’s raised brim. Coffee-colored eyes crowned by dark, unplucked brows gazed up at him. Even at first look Mason sensed a secret sorrow in their depths. Her features were balanced by full lips, chapped by the wind to a deep rose. A curl of auburn hair had escaped the cap to tumble down her cheek. For a moment he was mesmerized. Good Lord, how could he have believed this beauty was a boy?
“I need your hand for the stamp, sir.” She spoke with a note of impatience. Mason complied, palm down. She used her left hand to apply the blue stamp. His heart sank as he noticed the thin gold band on her ring finger. Married. That older man collecting the money must be her husband. As she walked away, Mason muttered a curse. Life wasn’t fair—that beauty was wed to an old man. A woman like that should be dressed in silks and lace. And she deserved to be thrilled in bed—as Mason could imagine thrilling her.
He remembered how, years before, Webb Calder had fallen for a young immigrant woman, married to a man who was old enough to be her father. Ignoring all common sense, Webb had pursued the woman and ended up getting shot by the jealous husband—a wound that had nearly killed him. Eventually the husband had died. Webb had married the widow, who gave birth to a son before dying herself in a shooting gone wrong. Webb had never remarried.
Lesson learned. This woman was off-limits, Mason admonished himself. But a little harmless flirting would not be crossing the line. Those luscious lips might not be his for kissing, but he wouldn’t mind coaxing them into a smile.
The air show was about to start. The woman, her cap replaced by a leather helmet and goggles, stood at the front of the plane. The man climbed into the rear cockpit.
“Switch off!” the woman called.
“Switch off!” he shouted.
The woman gave the wooden propeller a couple of turns, then braced her feet. “Contact!”
“Contact.”
Showing a strength that surprised Mason, she swung the propeller hard. There was a sputter from the engine, a puff of acrid smoke, then a churning sound as the engine caught and the prop became a blur of motion. The woman scrambled onto the wing and into the front cockpit. Head lowered, she took an instant to fasten her seat belt before the plane taxied out to the end of the field, a safe distance from the crowd.
Mason had come to the air show with the idea of seeing who else might be there. He hadn’t expected to be interested in the airplane—he’d seen others over the years, some of them flying low over the prison. But as the little Jenny’s engine revved for takeoff and headed down the makeshift runway, he felt his heart creeping into his throat. The craft was so fragile looking, like a child’s toy made of paper and matchsticks. A sudden wind gust could send it crashing to the ground.
He almost forgot to breathe as the plane droned down the field. At the last possible second, the wings caught the air. The craft lifted off the ground, carrying the woman with the haunting face into the sky.
Mason watched the plane do loops and barrel rolls. These were standard fare for most air shows, but he had to admire the skill and courage involved in the stunts. It took a special kind of bravery—or perhaps madness—to put on such a display. The pilot could have flown in the war, although he looked too old to have been in combat.
And too old to be married to that stunning woman. She was no young filly, but she couldn’t be much over thirty. Maybe she was his daughter—but the ring on her finger didn’t lie. The beauty was taken.
The plane circled and raised its nose, climbing until it was little more than a dot against the blue. Mason could guess what was coming next—a parachute jump. Was that why the woman had gone up in the plane? Was she going to be the jumper?
What was the old man thinking? Mason muttered a curse. So help him, if the Fates were to give him a woman like that one, he would never risk her anywhere near a plane. He would keep her in a mansion, dress her like a queen, and make love to her every night.
He savored the fantasy for a moment, letting it dissolve slowly, like the sweet taste of brandy on his tongue. Someday he would have the mansion, the wealth, and a woman made for treasuring—not the woman he’d just met, but one equally beautiful and meant only for him.
He would have it all—any way he could get it.