CHAPTER TWELVE
C OLUCCI WAS BACK AFTER HIS SON’S CHRISTENING . S O FAR, THERE’D been no mention of Ruby’s telephone call. Hopefully, the hotel maid had missed overhearing. But Colucci could be holding back, playing her like a cat with a mouse. That would be like him.
The strain was beginning to tell on Ruby. A rare glimpse in the mirror showed bloodshot eyes framed by shadows in a tense, tired face. She was grateful for the work that kept everyone busy at the farm and saved her from facing Colucci alone. A new shipment had appeared by camouflaged truck from its mysterious secret source. There would be no rest until every crate had been delivered and every cent of the money collected and turned in.
The two pilots were the busiest of all. Ruby and Mack would be living on coffee and sandwiches for most of the week, working on the planes, loading cargo, and catching a few hours of sleep when they could. Most of the flying was done in the hours before dawn, when there was barely enough light to see the landing strips. It was dangerous work for tired eyes and overtaxed brains. Having a third pilot would ease the workload. But there’d been no mention of bringing on more help.
Colucci had made out the roster. Ruby had been assigned to the Jenny—possibly a sign of Colucci’s displeasure. In the morning Mack would be taking a turn at the DH-4 and making the delivery to Mason at the Hollister Ranch. That was just as well, Ruby told herself. She and Mason were poison for each other. If she never saw him again, it would be safer for her and for him.
In the hour before dawn, Ruby and Mack finished their coffee, made a final inspection of their loaded planes, and prepared for takeoff. Ruby’s destination was familiar, a long but easy flight. Mack had practiced takeoffs and landings in the DH-4, but this would be his first delivery. Ruby could sense his excitement as he climbed into the newer plane to take off ahead of her.
Ruby gave him a wave. “Enjoy the flight!” she called.
He grinned, settled into the cockpit, and with a hand from the ground crew, started the engine. Ruby watched him taxi onto the runway and glide into the air. Then she pulled down her goggles and prepared to make her own flight in the Jenny.
* * *
The dawn air was chilly. Mason had lit a small fire to signal the plane and take the edge off the cold. Would Ruby be making the delivery? He remembered their last time together and that blistering kiss. It had been a mistake, giving in to the temptation of that lovely, sensual mouth. He knew better than to let it happen again. But how could he be sorry? How could any man regret the way he’d felt as he held her in his arms?
As he thrust his hands into his vest to warm them, his fingers touched the belt buckle in his pocket—the one he’d found in the ashes after burning out the cave. He’d almost forgotten it was there.
After scanning the sky and finding it empty, he took the buckle out of his pocket and studied it in the flickering light of the fire. He’d puzzled over it before, but the mystery remained.
The date of the rodeo suggested that the wearer was no longer young. But it was the initials, R.T., that struck a hidden chord. Why couldn’t he remember?
Mason’s thoughts were interrupted by the drone of an approaching plane. Even at a distance, he recognized the sound of the Rolls-Royce engine. The plane was the De Havilland. His pulse quickened. He dropped the buckle into his pocket, lit a stick of kindling from the fire he’d made, and used it to ignite the miniature blazes he’d laid along the runway.
He could see the plane now, a speck against the fading dawn sky, growing larger by the second. It was coming in low—too low, as if carrying too much weight in the front cargo bay. Worry tightened a knot in Mason’s stomach. By now, Ruby would be experienced with the plane. She would know what she was doing. Still, he’d seen enough landings to recognize a steep descent. He didn’t like what he saw.
His throat jerked tight, cutting off a cry as the plane swooped in low and fast. It met the earth at a sharp angle and plowed nose first into the runway, raising a cloud of dust as it crumpled like a paper toy.
Ruby! She was the only thing on his mind as he raced down the runway, plunging toward the wreck. But as he reached the plane, he could tell that the pilot, slumped over the controls, wasn’t a woman. It was the young man who’d delivered cargo here before.
Even as he unfastened the seat belt and lifted the inert body to drag it out of the cockpit, Mason knew that the fellow was dead. Above the rim of his shattered goggles, his crushed forehead, embedded with glass from the windscreen, gave mute evidence of what had happened. Mason cursed as he hefted the slight weight. The pilot was small, not much more than a boy. He was somebody’s son, perhaps somebody’s brother, friend, or sweetheart as well. Mason had liked him. He had been friendly and cheerful, even at that godawful hour of the morning. He had never offered his name.
Tragedies happened in life, especially in a dirty business like this one. But the young pilot’s death had been so wrong. Such a waste.
The fuel line was leaking. He could smell the fumes. If the engine was hot enough, it could touch off another explosion. But if Mason wanted to keep doing business with Leo Colucci, he would have to try to salvage the cargo.
After laying the pilot’s body at a safe distance from the wreck and covering it with a spare tarp, he ran back to the plane and climbed into the cockpit. Unloading cargo with a single pair of hands was awkward. The crates had to be lowered from the front cockpit onto the wings, and from there to the ground. The whole time, Mason could smell the gasoline fumes. The fuselage and wings of the DH-4 were fashioned of wood, with cloth glued over the surface. Once ignited, the plane would become a torch.
As he worked, Mason swore a string of the vilest curses he could imagine. He cursed Colucci. He cursed the business and the twist of fate that had killed the young pilot. He cursed the cargo—the contraband liquor that was worth more than human lives. Last of all, he cursed himself for ever thinking that bootlegging was an easy shortcut to riches, and the fact that he was in too deep to walk away.
By the time Mason had unloaded the crates, a breeze had come up, cooling the engine and blowing the gasoline fumes away from the wrecked plane. With that danger passed, he lugged the cargo into the depths of the cave and moved the dead pilot under the shelter of the entrance. After wrapping the body in the tarp to protect it from scavengers, he mounted up and rode back to the house. It was time to phone Colucci and give him the bad news.
* * *
Ruby returned from her flight to find Colucci waiting for her alone in the kitchen. Handing her a cup of hot, black coffee, he told her about Mack’s death. The news brought a surge of tears. She’d allowed herself to feel a sisterly affection for the young pilot. Here at the farmhouse, he’d been the closest thing she had to a friend. She would miss him.
“Damned lousy timing,” Colucci muttered. “Dollarhide saved the cargo, but the plane’s a total loss. I told him to burn it and bury the body someplace where it won’t be found.”
“What about Mack’s people?” Still standing, Ruby sipped her coffee. “I know that he had a sweetheart. He probably had a family as well. Shouldn’t someone be notified?”
“That’s not my problem, or yours,” Colucci growled. “When you sign on for this business, you don’t have people anymore. Sooner or later, if they don’t hear from him, the boy’s family—if he has any—will figure out what must’ve happened.”
Ruby knew better than to point out that what he said wasn’t true of Colucci. He had a family. But she knew better. She would mourn her young friend privately. But the immediate concern was, with most of the current shipment left to deliver, there was only one plane—the Jenny—and she was the only pilot.
“I can’t do it all,” she said. “You’re going to have to find a second plane and pilot.”
“Capone’s going to be sore about that,” Colucci said. “He pulled strings to get us that De Havilland. I can probably find another pilot, and there are Jennies on the market. But that will take time. For the next few days, you’ll be flying double shifts. That’s the only way we can keep to our delivery schedule.”
“Can’t you change the schedule? If I’m too exhausted to keep a clear head in the air, you could end up with no plane and no pilot.”
Colucci’s gaze darkened. “Drink more coffee if you have to. The schedule is set, and you’ll do as you’re told.”
“What if it’s too much? What if I say no?”
The flat of Colucci’s hand struck the side of her head, setting off explosions in her brain. Flashes of light seemed to pass in front of her eyes. The cup she’d been holding shattered on the floor.
As her vision cleared, she saw Colucci glaring down at her, his face a florid mask of rage.
“I let you tell me no just once, Ruby.” His voice grated between clenched teeth. “With me, one no is all you get!”
His hand caught her wrist. Whipping her around, he dragged her out of the kitchen and into the hall toward the bedroom he used when he stayed at the farm. Ruby twisted and struggled, kicking and scratching. But his grip was like iron, and any pain she inflicted only heightened his rage. They were alone in the house. If she screamed, no one would hear—or even dare to come to her rescue.
“You need me, Colucci!” she gasped as he kicked open the bedroom door. “I’m the only pilot you’ve got. If I’m not fit to fly, you’ll be in a bad way! You’ll have nobody to deliver the goods!”
He paused, panting like a winded bull. Had she reached him? Or was he beyond any kind of control?
As if in answer to a silent prayer, came the one sound that could stop him—the urgent ringing of the telephone.
The phone was in the kitchen, and no one was there to answer it. With a muttered snarl, he flung Ruby aside and stalked back up the hallway to answer it.
Ruby could hear his voice now. She could tell from his submissive tone that he was talking with someone important, maybe Capone. If she stayed, she might learn something she could pass on to Agent Hargrave. But Ruby had had enough. She got her feet under her, left the house by the front door, and rushed around to the hangar where the ground crew was loading the Jenny for the next delivery. Picking up a crate, she pitched in to help.
For now, she would work the double shift without complaint. Keeping busy would be the best way to avoid Colucci. When she was on the ground, she would make every effort to keep from being alone with him. He had a temper, but he also knew that he depended on her as a pilot. She’d be walking a tightrope—but hadn’t she been doing that all along?
* * *
The harvest celebration had become a time-honored tradition in Blue Moon. The day was given over to a children’s parade in the morning, picnicking and games in the afternoon, and in the evening, the most anticipated event of all—the Harvest Dance, held outdoors on a raised wooden platform, overhung with electric lights.
When Jake had invited her to go as his date, Britta had turned him down. Hadn’t they created enough gossip? The boys in her class hadn’t stopped giggling behind their hands. They’d even made up a song about her, which they sang at recess. When she went shopping, she could swear that the women in the store were giving her slit-eyed looks. Her job depended on her being respectable. Any day now, she expected to be called to account, maybe even fired.
Jake had been visibly disappointed, but he hadn’t asked her again. Maybe he would come to his senses and ask one of the pretty young women who turned their heads as he passed.
Now, with the moon rising over the peaks, she sat in her rocker on the back porch, listening to the first notes of music that came from the dance less than a block away. She’d heard about the new dances in the city—dances with names like Turkey Trot and Black Bottom. But tonight, the old-time band was playing traditional music—waltzes, polkas, foxtrots, and two-steps.
One of the few magical moments of her life had happened on a night, five years ago, when she’d come to the dance to keep an eye on her younger sister. No one had noticed her until the tall sheriff had walked up and asked her to dance. They’d drifted around the floor, moving in perfect harmony, as if they’d been made to dance together. Then the music had ended. She’d seen more of Jake, but tragedy had struck, pulling her away from him. When she’d emerged from her grief, he was gone.
Jake had passed through his own dark place. Now he was ready to move on and find a new mother for his little girl. But Britta was older now and still smarting from the old hurts. Jake would be better off starting fresh, with someone younger. Besides, Britta told herself, there were worse fates than being an old maid.
A shadow moved under the eaves of the porch. Jake stepped into the moonlight, his Colt Peacemaker holstered at his hip.
Britta gasped, then recovered. “Why aren’t you at the dance, Jake? Where’s Marissa?”
“Marissa is spending the night with her grandmother,” he said. “As for the dance, it’s my job to be there in case of any trouble. I’m on the way now. But before I go . . .” He cleared his throat. “There’s only one girl I want to dance with, and she’s right here.” He stood before her with a slight bow. “May I have this dance with you, Miss Anderson?”
The music was a slow foxtrot, not so different from the one Britta remembered. With a smile, she rose and floated into his arms. The magic returned as he held her, dancing her around the porch, the moonlight soft upon them. But the spell was brief. As the music ended, he stepped back. “I have to go,” he said. “You can still come with me, Britta.”
She shook her head. “I look a fright—my hair, my dress. And I’m still worried about the gossip. You go ahead. You and Marissa will be welcome for Sunday dinner tomorrow.”
“We’ll see about that.” His manner had chilled. “Enjoy your evening.”
He was gone then, as silently as he’d come. Britta settled back into the chair. She could still hear the music—a livelier tune this time. But the peace of the evening had fled with the man she loved.
She gazed up at the cold moon, wondering. Had she just made the biggest mistake of her life?
* * *
Joseph stood at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes scanning the crowd. Electric lights strung from wires lit the floor and the parking lot on the near side. Dressed in their best, dancers twirled, stomped, and paraded to the music. His parents hadn’t come to the dance. Neither had his aunt Kristin and her husband or the Calders, but there were plenty of farm families, ranchers, and cowboys enjoying themselves. He spotted Annabeth with her new beau. She looked pretty, in a tiny-waisted sky-blue dress with patent leather shoes on her feet. Joseph felt a wave of relief that he hadn’t gotten her pregnant and ruined both their lives.
But the one person he’d come to meet was nowhere in sight. Where was Lucy? Had she changed her mind about running away to Texas? Had her father learned about her plans and prevented her from leaving the house?
Looking across the floor, he could see Sheriff Calhoun keeping watch over the crowd. Maybe, Joseph thought, he could go to the sheriff, tell him about Nigel’s plan to cheat Webb Calder, and have the man arrested. But it was too soon for such a desperate measure—and it still might not save Lucy from Webb’s clutches. He would give her more time.
His hand touched the bundle in his vest pocket—two hundred dollars in bills wrapped in a red bandanna. Unable to come up with a better plan, Joseph had done the unthinkable. He had taken the money from the cash box in his father’s desk. He had never stolen anything in his life—but since he planned to pay the money back somehow, it was more like a loan. Besides, it was for a good cause. How could he leave an innocent girl like Lucy at the mercy of a lecherous old man like Webb Calder?
But where was she? His eyes searched the crowd. He couldn’t see Annabeth any longer. Her boyfriend was alone, waiting on the sidelines. Maybe she’d gone to the privy that was set up behind the hardware store.
Autos, buggies, and wagons crowded the street and the lot surrounding the dance. Lucy would need a way to get here, Joseph reminded himself. She’d mentioned that Chase might bring her, but he wasn’t here. Maybe he’d dropped her off and gone to meet his girl.
She would also need a ride to Miles City to catch the midnight train. Joseph had offered to drive her in his father’s Model T, which he’d borrowed for the dance. But she’d pointed out the risk of his father finding out and telling Webb where she’d gone. Joseph would already be giving her the money. He’d be in enough trouble when Blake checked the cash box. She’d assured him she could find another way. Once she had the money, she could find a cab or pay somebody to drive her.
He was wondering how long he dared wait when he felt a light touch at his elbow. He turned around to see Lucy smiling up at him.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming,” he said. “How did you get here?”
“I found a way,” she said. “Have you got the money?”
“Right here.” He touched his vest. Her eyes gleamed as she held out her hand.
“One more thing,” he said. “I don’t know how soon we’ll be together again. I’d like one dance with my girl.”
“All . . . right.” She seemed hesitant but moved into his arms as the music started. They glided around the floor, but Lucy was rigid and anxious in his arms. Partway through the dance, he stopped and led her to a shadowed corner. “I can see that you need to go, Lucy,” he said, handing her the money. “Good luck. Write to me. I’ll come for you when I can.”
She slipped the bills inside her dress and returned the bandanna. “Thank you, Joseph,” she said. “You’ve saved me. I’ll never forget you.”
She kissed his cheek and slipped away, vanishing into the crowd. Joseph gazed after her, puzzled by her abrupt manner and her words, I’ll never forget you .
Just then, Annabeth pushed through the crowd. Out of breath, she seized Joseph’s arm and pulled him aside. “That girl you were dancing with, Joseph, did you give her anything?” she demanded.
“I did. Why should you care?”
“I was coming back from the privy when I passed a parked car. That girl—she was in it with a man. I saw them kissing and heard her say something like, ‘Wait for me here. I’ll be back as soon as he gives me the money.’ ”
Joseph stared at her, speechless as the truth sank home. Lucy had taken him for two hundred dollars of his family’s money to run away with an unknown man. Her story about Webb had probably been a lie. But he hadn’t taken time to think. He’d been besotted enough to believe her.
Annabeth shook his shoulder. “Maybe you can still stop them. Hurry. I’ll get the sheriff.”
Shaking off his shock, Joseph cleared a way through the crowd and raced out to the parking lot. He wasn’t sure where to look for Lucy until he saw an older Model T with Lucy inside. A strange man in a suit was frantically working the crank in an effort to start the engine.
“Stop!” Joseph shouted. The man cranked harder. The engine coughed, coughed again, and caught with a roar. The man sprinted around the car for the driver’s seat.
Sheriff Calhoun had come out to the parking lot, following Annabeth. “Hands up,” he shouted, drawing his Colt. “Back away from the car.”
The next part happened so fast that Joseph was helpless to stop it. The stranger pulled a pistol out of his coat and fired two shots at the sheriff. As Jake Calhoun dropped to the ground, the man vaulted into the car and gunned the engine. Tires spitting gravel, the Model T sped away, down the main street, headed out of town.
The sound of shots and Annabeth’s scream brought people pouring out of the dance. Someone bent over the fallen sheriff. Joseph heard a shout.
“He’s hit bad! Somebody get to a phone and call the doctor!”
* * *
Britta heard the shots. In the next instant, she was off the porch, running. She’d heard enough gunfire in her life to recognize the sound of a big gun like Jake’s Colt Peacemaker. The shots she’d heard were from a smaller-caliber weapon—which meant that Jake could have been their target.
As she took the shortcut through the block, she could hear autos tearing along Main Street, as if in hot pursuit. But she couldn’t concern herself with that now. She plunged ahead.
The dance had been set up less than a block from the school. Britta reached it in minutes. The overhanging lights cast shadows over the crowd in the parking lot. She fought her way to where a knot of people surrounded a figure on the ground. Even before she saw him, Britta knew it would be Jake.
He lay in the dust, where he’d fallen on his back. His eyes were open, his face a grayish white. The sight of him tore at her heart. If she’d gone with him tonight, events might have transpired differently. But this was no time for emotion, only action.
“I’m here, Jake,” she said.
His lips moved, but no words emerged. He was probably in shock. A lanky figure was crouched over him, struggling with a couple of handkerchiefs to stanch the wounds in his shoulder and hip. It was Joseph.
People were standing around him, some watching, some offering advice. Heedless of modesty, Britta pulled off her muslin petticoat, ripped it in two, and dropped down beside Joseph. He turned his head to look at her. His face was streaked with tears. “This is my fault, Aunt Britta,” he said.
“That doesn’t matter now. Where’s the doctor?”
“She’s not here. Somebody went to telephone her. I’m afraid to move him until she comes. It could make the bleeding worse.”
“She could be a while.” Britta thrust a piece of the torn petticoat at him. “Here, bunch this up and press it hard on that hip wound. All we can do is try to stop the bleeding and get him stabilized. Have somebody bring a blanket to keep him warm—and some water.”
Jake was losing blood. Too much blood. With a silent prayer, Britta focused her strength on applying pressure to the wound. All that mattered now was saving him.