CHAPTER SEVEN
R UBY WAITED AT THE AIRSTRIP UNTIL MIDDAY, ANXIETY POOLING cold in the hollows of her heart. With no sign of her father, she finally agreed to be driven back to the boardinghouse in Miles City.
“Get a good meal and some rest,” Colucci said as he escorted her to the car and helped her into the back seat. “If your dad shows up, or if we learn anything, we’ll call you.”
He gave her shoulders a comforting squeeze—something he would never have done if her father were there. Ruby suppressed a shudder as he released her.
“Please let me take a plane and look for him,” she pleaded, not for the first time. “He could be hurt or stranded somewhere.”
Colucci shook his head. “I’ve already told you no. With one pilot missing, we can’t risk you, too. All we can do is wait.”
“And if the worst has happened—if he doesn’t come back?”
“Then you’ll be more important to us than ever. We’ll need you. Don’t even think about quitting.” He closed the door and signaled the driver to leave.
Ruby sank back into the seat, closed her eyes, and tried to focus her thoughts. Art was a skilled pilot. But flying a strange route in the early dawn hours, with an illegal cargo for an unknown client, was full of risk.
Tragedies happened. She’d learned to accept that when her husband came home from the war. Losing her father would be unthinkable. But that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen—and whether it happened or not, Colucci had made it clear that she wouldn’t be allowed to leave.
The boardinghouse had no lunch service, but the kitchen was open. Ruby considered making herself a cheese sandwich but realized that she was too anxious to eat. There was only one telephone. A candlestick style with the receiver cord mounted on the top, it stood on a low table at the foot of the stairs. Her father had the number. So did Colucci. When the house was quiet, as it was now with most of the tenants at work, she should be able to hear the phone ring from anywhere.
Her small room was at the top of the stairs, with her father’s room next door. She pressed her ear to the wall, tapping on the plaster and listening for a response, as if by some miracle he might have made it back to town. But that was only wishful thinking. No one was there.
She was exhausted, but to lie down on the bed would be to risk falling asleep and missing a phone call. Stripping off her flight clothes, she splashed herself clean in the basin, brushed out her hair, and dressed in a simple white sailor blouse and gray twill skirt. She’d taken off her boots and was putting on her sturdy, high-topped shoes when, from downstairs, came the sound of the ringing telephone.
Stumbling over her untied shoelaces, Ruby dashed down the stairs and seized the earpiece from its cradle. Would it be good news or heartbreak? Either way, she had to know.
“Hello?” Struggling to catch her breath, she spoke into the mouthpiece.
“Miss Weaver?” She didn’t recognize the man’s voice.
“It’s Mrs. Weaver.” Her heart was pounding.
“Mrs. Weaver, this is Agent Hoover with the Bureau of Investigation. We have your father, Arthur Murchison, in custody.”
“My father?” Her pulse slammed. “Is he . . . all right?”
“He’s not injured, if that’s what you’re asking. But he’s being detained for a violation of the Volstead Act. When a U.S. Marshal arrives, he’ll be formally arrested.”
Ruby’s throat tightened, leaving her speechless for the moment. Her father was alive—blessed news. But he was in serious trouble. The Volstead Act, passed by Congress in 1919, lent teeth to the Eighteenth Amendment, which had put Prohibition in place. Barring some miracle, Art could be going to prison for several years. By the time his sentence was served, he would be an old man.
“Mrs. Weaver, are you there? Talk to me.” The agent’s voice was sharp, his speech rapid, firing words like bullets from a machine gun. His manner grated on Ruby’s raw nerves. For all she knew, he was about to have her arrested, too. She might be wise to catch the next train out of town. But she couldn’t desert her father when he needed her.
“I’m here,” she said. “I want to see my father.”
“That can be arranged. But only if you cooperate. You and I need to talk.”
“Talk where?” Was this some kind of trap? “How do I know I can trust you?” Ruby asked.
“You don’t have a choice. Go out the back door of the boardinghouse. There’ll be an automobile waiting for you. Do you understand?”
“As you say, what choice do I have?” She was liking the agent less and less. “It may take me a few minutes, but I’ll be there.”
He ended the call with a click. Back in her room, Ruby tied her shoes, pinned up her hair, and collected her cash and other small belongings in her handbag. Head high, she left the room, marched downstairs and through the kitchen to the back door.
The black car, a newer model with an enclosed cab, waited in the shadows next to the trash bins. The driver flashed an official-looking ID and opened the door without a word. His young face was expressionless, his manner almost military, except for the spotless gray suit he wore. Ruby sat erect on the edge of the back seat, her hands clasping her purse. Her father was alive—that was what mattered most. But what else was going to happen? They could both end up in prison, even dead.
The rear windows of the vehicle were covered; but the ride wasn’t a long one. The feel of the road and the faint sounds from outside told Ruby they were still in town.
The auto made a right-hand turn into a dark space and stopped. Ruby heard the rumble of a heavy overhead door sliding into place. Seconds later, the driver came around the car to open her door.
She stepped out into what appeared to be a garage or a small warehouse. Peering into the near darkness, she saw several vehicles as well as piled wooden crates—some of them bearing the maple leaf symbol of Canada. Were they seized contraband? Ruby was given no chance to ask.
The only light came from a dim bulb hanging above a closed door. The driver beckoned Ruby toward the door and opened it for her to pass into the kitchen beyond.
The room was simply furnished and spotlessly clean, with a new electric refrigerator—a motor mounted atop an icebox—standing against one wall. Three men in suits sat drinking coffee at a table covered with a red-checked oilcloth.
Young and clean-cut, the three remained seated as Ruby entered. Her eyes were drawn to the man at the head of the table. He was slight of build, with a head of dark, wiry hair and riveting eyes. As soon as he spoke, Ruby recognized the voice of Agent Hoover, the man who’d telephoned her.
“Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Weaver. Take that empty chair. We have some questions to ask you.”
“I’ll stand,” Ruby said. “And there’s no need to thank me. I’m only here because you said you have my father. Let me see him. If he’s all right, I’ll tell you anything you want to know. If you’ve lied to me, or if he’s been harmed—”
“Watch your tongue, Mrs. Weaver.” Another man at the table interrupted her. “You obviously don’t know who you’re talking to. Agent Hoover here has just been appointed director of the Bureau of Investigation. He’s a very important man, and I can assure you he doesn’t lie.”
“Thank you, Agent Hargrave,” Hoover said. “Now please stop wasting my time and sit down, Mrs. Weaver.”
“Not until you tell me where my father is.”
Hoover’s annoyance showed in his scowl. “Your father is in our custody. He is safe and well. But if you don’t cooperate, I can promise you’ll never see him again.”
“Then tell me what you want from me.”
“Sit down and listen.” He indicated the empty chair at the foot of the table. One of the men stood and pulled it out for her. Knees quivering, Ruby allowed herself to be seated.
“I’m a busy man.” Hoover machine-gunned his words. “But I’ve taken the time for a visit because Montana has become a hotbed of the smuggling trade, and it’s my job to stop it. It’s come to my attention that airplanes are being used here and elsewhere to transport and deliver illegal alcohol. Your father was arrested while making such a delivery. The maximum prison sentence for such an offense is ten years at hard labor.”
“Please—” Ruby broke, all defiance gone. “My father is a good man. And he’s no longer young. Ten years would kill him.”
“Just listen, Mrs. Weaver. Your father is willing to cooperate and tell us what he knows, which may get his sentence reduced. But his usefulness to us is limited because he can’t go back to flying for the mob. If we were to release him, the thugs he was working for would suspect him of colluding with us. Even if they let him live, they would never trust him again. And we wouldn’t be able to trust him either. That’s where you come in.”
Hoover took a cigarette out of a silver case, lit it with an engraved lighter, and exhaled a spiraling column of smoke. “You strike me as fairly intelligent for a woman, Mrs. Weaver. Have you guessed where this discussion is going?”
Ruby took a chance. “You’re looking for an informant.”
“That’s right. Your father can give us names, but that’s not enough. We can’t arrest people without evidence. And even then, that wouldn’t stop the smuggling. What we need is to know when a shipment comes in and also when and where deliveries are to be made. If we can stop enough transactions ahead of time and catch people in the act—not only the smugglers but their buyers—we can cut off profits and shut down the whole network.”
“And how do I fit into this? My employers don’t tell me anything I don’t need to know.”
“You keep your eyes and ears open. Make friends with people who can tell you what’s coming. Flirt if you have to—I imagine you know how. We’ll arrange a way for you to pass us your information.”
“And now for the big question,” Ruby said. “If I do my job, what happens to my father?”
Hoover took a long drag on his cigarette and tapped the ash into a porcelain teacup. “You tell her, Hargrave. I’ve said enough.”
“You understand, we can’t just turn him loose,” the agent said. “We’ll arrange to fake his death—probably burn his plane with an unclaimed body from the police morgue. Then we’ll keep him in custody until your work is finished.”
“Exactly what do you mean by custody?” Ruby asked.
“Minimum security in the state prison at Deer Lodge. His own room. Decent food. Access to books and writing materials.”
“And no hard labor—absolutely.”
“Absolutely.”
“And if I keep my end of the bargain, all charges against him will be dropped and you’ll send us somewhere safe. Can you guarantee that with a contract, in writing?”
Hargrave glanced at his boss.
“All right,” Hoover said. “But we’ll have to define the conditions—for example, what would constitute default on your part. And if we give you a document, you’ll have to keep it somewhere safe. You can’t risk having it found. If you back out of the agreement, Mr. Murchison will be formally charged, go to trial, and serve his sentence. Agreed?”
Ruby sighed, knowing she’d crossed a line, and there could be no going back. “Agreed—but only after I’ve seen my father and made sure he’s all right.”
“Fine. He’s in the back room. I’ll have Agent Jensen bring him out.” Hoover nodded to the blond man, who rose and vanished down the hallway.
“How did my father get caught?” she asked as they waited.
“His client was turned in by a neighbor,” Hargrave said. “The client gave us the pilot and the delivery window. We had agents waiting when the plane landed.”
And of course my father gave you my name. The words remained unspoken.
Now she could hear muffled footsteps coming back down the hall. Ruby had hoped to see her father alone, but she knew better than to ask. She’d be lucky to exchange a few words with him.
A moment later, he was ushered into the room, looking like a child who’d misbehaved and been punished at school. His hair and clothes were rumpled, his cheek bruised. His wrists were secured in front by steel handcuffs.
Poor, proud, naive man. All he’d wanted was a chance to make a better life for the two of them. He should have weighed the risks. He should have known something like this would happen. But it was her fault, too. She should have held firm against this adventure. Now it was too late. They were both trapped.
His gaze met hers. The look of desperation in his eyes broke her heart.
“I’m sorry, Ruby,” he said. “You know I meant for this to turn out well.”
Leaving her seat, she pushed past the agent to embrace him. He felt frail in her arms, older somehow. “I know you did,” she said. “I’ll be here for you. You can count on that.”
He shook his head. “Don’t waste your life being here for me. Find a good man to take care of you. Have a family while you can. Live the life I want for you.”
Tears sprang to Ruby’s eyes. She choked on her reply as the agent pulled her father away from her and marched him back down the hall.
She turned toward the table where Hoover sat watching her. “Satisfied?” he asked.
Gulping back the emotion she knew that she mustn’t show, Ruby nodded. “Tell me what to do,” she said.
A week later
Mason had sold his first shipment of Canadian whiskey. Following phoned directions from Colucci, he had met his buyer on a back road after midnight, transferred the crates from Mason’s horse trailer to the hollowed-out interior of the man’s 1921 Dodge Roadster, and pocketed the cash payment. As a precaution, both men had been wearing hats and been masked with bandannas over the lower parts of their faces. All Mason had seen of his customer was his pale blue eyes and a heavy gold ring in the shape of an eagle.
Hopefully, the sale would be repeated soon, as well as others; but he’d been told that next time the meeting arrangements would be different. That was Colucci’s formula for not getting caught—don’t follow a predictable pattern.
Mason had already ordered his next shipment and put aside most of his profits to pay for it. At this rate, getting rich would take time, and Mason wasn’t a patient man. He wanted bigger shipments and more customers. Colucci, who kept a tight rein on distribution and sales, was starting him out small. Maybe if he called the prison and asked, Julius Taviani would steer more business his way.
Meanwhile, he owed himself a small celebration.
Blue Moon’s only restaurant, known as Jake’s, was not what you’d call high-class. But Jake was a first-rate cook. The food was as good as any you could get in Miles City for double the price. There was also a back room for pool and card games; and the “nieces” Jake employed as waitresses were known to entertain paying guests in their rooms upstairs.
Mason had been so busy improving the cave and airstrip and managing the ranch that he hadn’t spent much time in town. His mother, who almost never left the house, had her groceries delivered, so there wasn’t much excuse for errand running. What he’d needed in the way of tools, hardware, and other supplies, he’d bought in Miles City to avoid suspicion from the locals.
But forget all that. Tonight he was driving into Blue Moon for a steak dinner. Maybe he’d get into a poker game if there was one going on or shoot a few rounds of pool. As for Jake’s girls—he would pass for now. He’d slaked his lust on his last visit to Miles City. The lady had been accomplished, and the encounter had gone all right, but it had been purely physical, leaving him vaguely dissatisfied. Whatever was missing, he wasn’t going to find it upstairs at Jake’s—not even if he tried to picture the haunting face of that beautiful pilot.
As he left the house, he said a dutiful good night to his mother. Amelia seemed indifferent to his comings and goings. Most nights, toward her early bedtime, Sidney would bring her a cup of tea. She would drink it, totter off to bed, and sleep deeply, with her dog lying next to her on the rug, until well after sunup. Mason could guess what might be in the tea, but he didn’t really want to know.
It was in his best interest to keep his mother calm and contented. Now that he’d streamlined the ranch management, keeping stock numbers down and leaving the physical work to two longtime hired cowboys, that was easy enough. As for the money he’d found and replaced in the bank, Amelia had never appeared to notice it was gone. The two of them had settled into a truce of sorts. For now, at least, it didn’t make sense to upset the apple cart.
As he drove into town, he looked forward to putting his cares behind him, enjoying a hearty meal, and maybe a relaxing game of cards. On a Saturday night like this one, Jake’s became the social hub of Blue Moon. Maybe he would run into old friends, or even meet an attractive woman who knew the score.
Jake’s was bustling tonight. Autos, buggies, and even a few saddled horses waited outside the roadhouse, the line extending down the street for nearly a block. Mason saw a battered Model T pull out of a parking spot. He gave the driver room to get clear, then swung into the place next to a classy-looking Dodge Touring Car. Good timing.
He was hoping that his luck would hold, but when he stepped through the door of the restaurant, he saw that all the tables were full. But someone was bound to leave soon. He shouldn’t have long to wait.
He gave his name to the tired-looking waitress, then found a quiet corner to wait. From where he stood, he could see the entire dining room, which had booths around the outside and movable tables in the center. Servers were bustling back and forth between the customers and the kitchen.
Webb Calder sat at a corner booth with two men. One was Webb’s longtime foreman, Nate Moore. The other man, a blonde who sat with his back toward Mason, was unfamiliar.
Webb had a son slightly older than Joseph. Chase—that was his name. The lad hadn’t come to dinner with his father. Maybe he had a girl somewhere. He was old enough to be sowing some wild oats. So was Joseph—and even as Mason thought about his son, he spotted the boy, sitting with his parents at a table across the room.
Over the years, he’d caught occasional glimpses of Hannah—enough to make him aware that she’d matured into a ripe, golden-haired beauty. But he hadn’t spoken to her since the moonlight rendezvous twenty years ago when he’d taken her innocence and left her with his child. He knew better than to speak with her now.
Blake, Mason’s half-brother and childhood playmate, was close to a decade older than his wife. His age showed in the gray at his temples and the weathered creases that framed his eyes. A rugged man—a good man who’d lived a life of hard work and family responsibility. That was more than Mason could say for himself.
Mason stood in plain view of their table, but the three were paying no attention to him. They appeared to be arguing. Their words were lost in the babble of conversation that filled the room. But even from a distance, Mason could sense the tension between them. He knew one possible cause for it—Joseph’s hope for a different future than the one his parents had planned for him. Britta had told him how much the boy wanted to fly—and Mason had witnessed that burning desire for himself. But what about duty to family? What about safety and security? One small mistake, and Joseph could end his promising young life in a plane crash.
Mason’s musings, and the discussion at the Dollarhide table, were both interrupted when Webb Calder and his two companions stood and pushed in their chairs. Webb paused to lay several bills on the table. Then, with the two men following, he led the way out of the dining room.
They didn’t appear to notice Mason, although they passed near to him on their way out. Mason couldn’t help noticing how they walked—like lords, confident of their power and their places at the top of the social order. Webb led the way, head high, people moving out of his way. Nate Moore followed his lifelong boss. Mason caught a clear view of the third man—a stranger with a well-groomed moustache and striking, pale eyes.
When the man reached up to brush a fly from his ear, Mason noticed the heavy gold ring on his right-hand middle finger—a ring in the shape of an eagle with outspread wings.
Mason’s reflexes went cold as he remembered the Dodge Touring Car next to where he’d parked outside. There could be no mistake—this was the man who’d bought his first shipment of Canadian whiskey. And he appeared to be working with Webb Calder.
Blake had turned in his chair and was glaring, not at the Calder party but at his brother. As Mason stood his ground, Blake rose and wove his way through the crowded tables. Reaching Mason, he muttered one word.
“Outside.”
Mason followed him out through the door, onto the boardwalk. He’d known that a confrontation between the two brothers was bound to happen. This wasn’t the time or place he’d have chosen, but it was what it was—and he had as much right to be here as Blake did.
As they stepped into the shadows, Blake turned on him. “I was hoping you wouldn’t have the nerve to come back here.”
“This is my home, Blake. My ranch is here. My mother is here. And I’ve paid my debt to society. This is where I belong. So you might as well get used to the idea.”
“I figured you’d say something like that. So there’s just one thing I’ve got to tell you. Leave my family alone—especially my son, and don’t think for a minute that he’ll ever be yours. Five years ago, you almost got him arrested, or worse. You were making him into a criminal—and you didn’t even care.”
“Would you believe me if I said I was sorry? Of all the things I did, and paid for, exposing those boys to danger is the one I regret most.”
“Regret wouldn’t matter if you’d gotten them killed.” His eyes burned into Mason’s. “I’m only going to say this once. If you try to speak with my son or put any of your wild ideas into his head, so help me, I’ll have you tarred and feathered. And the whole town, even the Calders, will help me run you out on a rail. Do you understand?”
The anger that surged in Mason was the kind that would have sent his fists slamming into his opponent if he’d been in prison. But this was his brother, and his family was nearby. Mason held himself in check—for Joseph and Hannah, if for no other reason.
“I’m not a fool, Blake,” he said. “I don’t want trouble. I only came into town to get dinner. But thanks to you, I’ve lost my appetite. So go back in and join your family. I’ll treat myself when I can enjoy my meal in peace.”
With that, he turned away and walked out to his car. The Dodge Touring Car was gone. Mason had glimpsed it driving off, following Webb’s Packard out of town on the road to the Triple C. Questions sprang to mind. Was Mason’s customer using the Calder ranch as a secret base for distributing bootleg whiskey—or was Webb himself involved? Maybe Webb’s own supply was dwindling; or maybe the Triple C was running low on cash.
Dismissing the questions, he started the car, swung it around in the dusty street, and headed back to the ranch. As long as his customers kept buying and paying, what happened to the liquor after it left his hands was none of his business, Mason reminded himself.
Neither was the means by which it was delivered to him—although his wish to see Ruby again had deepened into a craving. There were plenty of beautiful women in the world. She was one of them. But the skill in her calloused hands and the sorrow in the depths of those dark eyes had stirred him in an unexpected way. As for the courage required to take her life in her hands, piloting a craft of wood, wire, cloth, and glue, propelled by a temperamental engine, into the far reaches of the sky, that simply astounded him. He knew almost nothing about her except that she was widowed, brave, and subtly sensual. He burned to know more.
Even if it meant finding out that she was Colucci’s woman.
* * *
With the trail lit by a midnight moon, Joseph rode his horse down the side of the bluff. He’d discovered the shortcut a few weeks ago. The way was narrow, steep in spots, but shorter than the main switchback road and less visible from the house. For a young man sneaking out to see a girl, that was important.
His parents didn’t know he had a girl. But then, there were a lot of things they didn’t know, especially about this girl.
Annabeth Coleman’s family lived on a small farm beyond the border of the Dollarhide property. Her father raised a few scrawny cows and sold the milk for enough to feed and shelter his five ragged children. Her mother’s reputation was the subject of whispers in town, but that wasn’t Annabeth’s fault. She couldn’t help having been born into a poor family—any more than she could help her stunning blue eyes, her mane of honey gold hair, or her voluptuous sixteen-year-old figure.
She was waiting by the pasture gate when Joseph rode up, her thin nightgown blowing around her bare legs. Joseph’s pulse skipped at the sight of her. As she ran to him, he bent down to catch her hand and pull her up behind him on the horse’s bare back. She sprang into place, her arms gripping his waist, her knees spooning against his thighs.
“Let’s go before we get caught,” she said.
He nudged the gelding to a lope. Her clasp tightened around him as they flew across the fields. Joseph could feel her breasts against his back. The awareness that she was naked under her nightgown triggered a familiar tightness beneath his trousers.
Earlier that summer, he’d come across her bathing at a wide place in the creek, her clothes laid out on the bank. He’d spent guilt-ridden minutes watching her from behind the screen of willows, transfixed by the beauty of her ivory breasts, the nipples shrunk to beads by the cold water. As his body sprang to readiness, she’d looked directly at him and laughed. It appeared she’d been aware of him all along.
That first encounter had been little more than a tease, with her ordering him to turn his back while she dressed. But from there, things had progressed according to Mother Nature’s plan. Now, all he could think of was having her again.
After reining to a stop on Dollarhide land, he lowered Annabeth to the ground. Dismounting, he ground-staked the horse and followed her through a thicket of willows toward the sound of a gurgling spring. She was barefoot, her steps heedless of rocks and brambles. Summers without shoes had left her feet as tough as leather. As she slipped through the willows, he lost sight of her for a moment. When he emerged into the clearing, she was lying on the grass in a pool of moonlight, her wispy nightgown barely covering her body.
Laughing, she held out her arms to him. “Come here, Joseph,” she said.
He fumbled with his belt and trousers, letting them fall over his boots. She opened her legs to welcome him in. Wild with teenage lust, they bucked and thrust in the moonlit grass, breathing in ecstatic gasps.
But Joseph was no fool. As he felt his climax surging, he prepared to do what he’d always done before—stop moving and pull out. This time she prevented him. Her legs locked around his hips, holding him inside her. “No!” she moaned.
Too late, he lost control.
Muttering, he rolled off onto his back. “Blast it, Annabeth, what did you go and do that for? We’re not ready to deal with having a baby.”
She snuggled against his side. “I’d be all right with it. We could get married and live on your ranch. Think of the great life we could have there. We could help out around the place and raise our family. Then, when your folks passed on, you’d be in charge of it all—the ranch and the mill.”
He sighed. “What if I don’t want to be in charge? What if I want a different life?”
“Like what?” She sat up and pulled down her nightgown.
“I want to be a pilot. I want to fly airplanes.”
She snorted. “That’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard! Where would we get money? And what would I do if you crashed? I’d have to go back to my family.”
Joseph groped for a reply that would satisfy her. He’d fancied himself in love with Annabeth. But he’d never thought of her in terms of marriage. They were too young for that kind of responsibility—especially if a baby was involved.
Joseph’s own father had run out on a girl he’d gotten pregnant. Blake had stepped in, married Hannah, claimed her son, and saved them from a future of poverty and shame. But a happy ending like theirs wasn’t going to happen a second time. If Annabeth was pregnant, Joseph knew he would have no choice except to take responsibility—even if it meant the end of his dream.
For now, there was nothing to do but wait.
Standing, he pulled up his trousers, fastened his belt, and reached down to give Annabeth a hand up. “Come on,” he said. “It’s time to get you home.”