CHAPTER THIRTEEN
D R . K RISTIN D OLLARHIDE H UNTER ARRIVED THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES later in the Ford Model TT truck that served as a makeshift ambulance. She had driven at breakneck speed over the washboard road from her ranch. The vehicle was coated with dust.
By then, most of the crowd had moved off. The dance band was still playing. There were couples on the floor, but a pall had fallen over the celebration.
Britta and Joseph had managed to stanch Jake’s wounds, but he’d already lost a dangerous amount of blood. From every indication, the bullets were still buried in his flesh. He drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering incoherent words and phrases.
“Get him to my surgery. Now,” the doctor ordered, referring to her office at the far end of town. There was a stretcher in the back of the truck. Joseph found someone to help ease the wounded sheriff onto it and lift him into the truck bed. Britta could have ridden in the cab with the doctor. Instead, she climbed into the back to huddle beside the stretcher, gripping Jake’s hand.
“Hold on, Jake,” she murmured, hoping he could hear her. “I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
Joseph sat across from her, helping to balance the stretcher for the ride. While waiting for the doctor, he’d told Britta what he’d done and what had happened. “This is all my fault,” he said again. “If he dies, I’ll never forgive myself.”
The doctor’s office was in a remodeled home with the surgery room in back. Laid out on the operating table, his bloodied clothes cut away, the sheriff was sedated with ether while the doctor probed for the two bullets.
Gloved and masked, Britta had been pressed into assisting. Away from the office, she and Kristin were longtime friends. But this was a life-or-death situation. Kristin the doctor was giving orders to be obeyed without question.
This was no time for emotion. But every time Britta glanced at Jake’s pale face, she felt a wrenching tug at her heart. Why hadn’t she summoned her courage, faced the gossip, and gone to the dance with him?
What if she’d been so afraid of public opinion that she’d missed her last chance to tell Jake she loved him?
The sterilized forceps probed deep, then deeper. The bullet from the shoulder wound had come to rest beneath his collarbone. By a near miracle, it had missed vital organs and blood vessels. With some careful maneuvering, it was out.
But the lower wound was another story. Britta watched the perspiration bead on her friend’s forehead as she probed the wound, following the trail of the bullet. As a former military doctor, she’d treated soldiers during the Great War. She was acquainted with all kinds of gunshot wounds. Now Britta could see that she was worried. Jake was in the best possible hands, but the signs didn’t look good.
Britta found Jake’s hand and gripped it hard as the probe went deeper. A shudder passed through his body as the doctor found the bullet, worked it free with the forceps, and brought it out. With a long exhalation, she dropped the slug into a metal dish. Britta sponged her perspiring forehead with a pad of gauze.
“What now?” Britta ventured to ask.
“All we can do is clean him up, dress his wounds, and hope for the best.”
“Will he be all right?” Britta spoke through the tightness in her throat.
“The bullet didn’t penetrate the abdominal cavity. But as nearly as I could tell, it nicked the hip joint and struck the spine. We won’t know how much damage it did until he wakes up.”
Britta went cold. “Are you saying he might be paralyzed?”
“Don’t borrow trouble,” the doctor said. “All we can do is wait and hope.”
* * *
Sick with worry and remorse, Joseph was waiting in the front room when his aunt Kristin walked in. She’d removed her mask and gloves but still wore her blood-spattered surgical gown.
He rose from the armchair to meet her. “Will the sheriff be all right?” he asked.
She looked exhausted after nearly two hours in surgery. “He’ll probably live, if that’s what you mean. But one bullet did a lot of damage. We won’t know the full extent until he wakes up. We’ve moved him into the bedroom. Britta is with him now.”
Joseph’s eyes burned from dust and weeping. “Is there anything I can do?”
“You’ve already done quite enough.” Her gaze was stern. “Britta told me about the girl and the money. How could you have been so irresponsible, Joseph?”
“I . . . thought I was doing the right thing,” he replied, feeling more wretched than he could ever remember in his life. “She told me—”
“Never mind,” Kristin said. “Britta called your mother after we arrived here and told her what happened. She said she’d tell your father. He’ll be walking in that door any minute. You can tell him your side of the story, and he can decide what to do with you. I’m going to get cleaned up and check on my patient.” She turned and walked out of the room.
Joseph sank back into the chair and buried his face in his hands. It wasn’t his fault that Lucy’s secret beau had shot the sheriff, was it? If Annabeth hadn’t warned him, the couple would have made a clean getaway. No one would have been shot. But who was he kidding? Annabeth had done what any responsible person would do. He had no one to blame for this mess but himself.
What was he going to say to his father?
As if the thought had summoned Blake Dollarhide, Joseph heard the roar of a large truck engine outside. Since his father had lent him the Model T for tonight, Blake had commandeered one of the new delivery trucks from the sawmill to get here.
The engine went silent. Joseph heard the slamming of a metal door and the heavy tread of footsteps coming up the walk to the front stoop. The door opened without a knock.
Blake, dressed in dusty work clothes, stepped through the door and closed it behind him. His expression was rigid, his eyes like the flash of sheet lightning before a storm—contained fury, deadly but distant, hinting at the full storm that was due to break any moment.
The look on his father’s face—a look Joseph had never seen before—struck terror into his heart. He stood, trembling before his father’s cold anger.
“How is the sheriff?” Blake’s tone was flat, without emotion.
“Aunt Kristin says he’s going to live. We’ll know more when he wakes up.” Joseph forced himself to meet Blake’s chilling gaze. “Did they catch the man who shot him . . . and the girl?”
“Not that I’ve heard. I telephoned Webb and told him what had happened. He said he’d deal with Merriweather, whatever that means. As for Webb trying to molest the girl, I told him about it. He swore to God it wasn’t true. I may not like the man, but I believe him. A few years ago, he courted your aunt Kristin. She said he never laid an ungentlemanly hand on her.” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “That leaves your part in all this, Joseph.”
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
“It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” Blake’s expression darkened as his anger pushed to the surface. “Most of the time, I manage to forget that you’re not really my son. But some things can’t be changed. You’ve got Mason’s blood in you, and Amelia’s. I’ve tried to raise you right, but that blood is part of who you are—a part that I can’t just wish away.”
Joseph felt as if he’d been kicked in the stomach. Of all the things Blake could say to him, this had to be the cruelest.
“When you got involved with Mason before, and he ended up going to prison, I hoped you’d learned your lesson. But you just robbed our family of two hundred dollars, gave it to a girl to run away, and got an innocent man shot. I’ve got half a mind to wash my hands of you and dump you on your real father’s doorstep. He could teach you the bootlegging business—you know he’s doing it again, don’t you? What do you think those airplanes flying over the house are all about? Hell, if you want to fly, he could probably have you trained. Just say the word, boy. I’ll drop you off on the way home.”
Tears welled in Joseph’s eyes and flowed down his cheeks. He’d expected to be shouted at, maybe even slapped, and sentenced to punishment. But what Blake had just said to him was ten times worse than that. He felt shame, humiliation, and stark, cold fear. He began to sob.
“I really am sorry, Dad. I only wanted to help Lucy. I didn’t mean for anybody to get hurt. And I planned to earn the money and pay it back. I’ve made such an awful mess of things. Please . . .” he begged. “Please let me make it up to you.”
Blake shook his head. A long sigh rose from deep in his body. “Anything I do for you now, I do because of your mother and sisters,” he said. “I may never fully trust you again, Joseph. But I’m willing to give you a job in the sawmill. You’ll have room and board at home and the salary that I pay my least skilled workers. The money you earn will go to pay back what you stole. When that debt is wiped out, then we’ll talk. And there’ll be no mention of flying while you’re under my roof. Agreed?”
Joseph hated the sawmill—the deafening noise, the dust, and the dangerous, backbreaking work. But knowing Blake, this was the best offer he was going to get. He could go to Mason and have a very different life, probably on the wrong side of the law. Was that what he wanted? What about his mother and sisters? What about his future?
He stared down at his boots, then cleared his throat. “Agreed,” he mumbled.
“How’s that again?”
“Agreed,” Joseph said.
Blake nodded. “Then I hope you’ll show me the man you can become. Break your word, and we’re done. Understood?”
“Understood.” Joseph had known that Blake wouldn’t let him off easy. Working full-time in the sawmill would be hell, but it was no worse than he deserved. What hurt even more was that he’d let himself be taken in by Lucy’s lies. His actions hadn’t only been wrong—they’d been stupid. It would be a long time before he forgave himself, and even longer before he trusted a pretty woman.
Kristin came back into the room. She’d discarded her blood-spattered surgical gown and washed her hands and face. She strode to her brother. They shared a quick embrace. “I’m sorry about all this,” she said.
“It’s being taken care of,” Blake replied. “How’s the sheriff?”
“Still asleep, but he’s not out of the woods. All we can do is hope.”
“I’d like to be here when he wakes up,” Joseph said. “I need to tell him I’m sorry. I can drive the car home from the parking lot at the dance. Is that all right, Dad?” He glanced from Kristin to Blake.
Blake frowned and shook his head. “It’s getting late. The workday starts early tomorrow. You’ll leave now, with me. We’ll pick up the car and you can drive it home.”
“What about the sheriff?” Joseph asked.
“You can come back and see him later. But I’m not turning you loose again tonight. You’ve done enough damage. Come on, let’s go.”
Joseph knew better than to argue. Feeling like a whipped mutt, he followed Blake out the door to the truck. His well-deserved punishment had already started.
He imagined Lucy in the car flying through the night with her secret lover. Joseph hadn’t recognized the man, except that he’d been dressed in a dark suit, like a traveling salesman or a gambler. The fact that he’d carried a pistol and hadn’t hesitated to use it on a lawman didn’t speak well of him.
Joseph could only hope that the pair would be arrested soon. If the sheriff in Miles City had been alerted, he would have his deputies watching the train station. But what if no one had called him? The man who should have made such a call—Sheriff Jake Calhoun—was lying wounded and helpless.
After the shooting, a few citizens had given chase in their autos. But the fugitives had a head start. They were also clever and dangerous. The pursuit would be little more than a gesture. Lucy and her gun-toting companion were ahead of the pack. They could already be safely on their way to freedom.
* * *
Britta sat on a straight-backed chair watching Jake’s sleeping face in the lamplight. His vital signs were good, his heartbeat steady, his breathing regular. So far, he’d shown no sign of infection. But he was weak from blood loss. Kristin had told her he needed rest, and that she shouldn’t worry if he slept for a while. So she sat and hoped and prayed.
Life had given her a second chance with the man she loved. But she’d been too proud and too insecure to take it. Was she too late? Could she summon her courage and take flight, as she had when she’d climbed into the plane?
As the front room clock struck two, Kristin walked into the room. Leaning over Jake she laid a hand on his forehead, listened to his breathing, and checked his pulse. “Everything’s stable,” she said. “You look all in, Britta. Why don’t you get some rest? Or you can help yourself to the coffee I just brewed in the kitchen. I can sit with him for a while.”
“I’ll be fine, and I need to be here.” Britta smoothed a lock of hair back from Jake’s pale forehead. “He asked me to go to the dance. I said no. I didn’t want to be talked about, even laughed at. Maybe if I’d been there, Jake wouldn’t have been shot.”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. I’ve never loved anyone else. But look at me—a big, awkward, homely old maid. Jake could do so much better.”
“Jake would’ve married you before if you hadn’t pushed him away,” Kristin said. “When your father and sister died, all he wanted was to comfort you. You wouldn’t let him. But he still sees the beauty in you, Britta, even if you refuse to see it yourself. Don’t be a fool this time. Let him love you.”
As she spoke, Jake began to stir. He groaned softly. His eyelids twitched, fluttered, and opened. For the first few seconds, his eyes shifted in confusion. Then his gaze focused on Britta’s face. “What . . . happened?” he muttered. “Where am I?”
“You’re at the doctor’s.” Leaning over him, Britta squeezed his hand. “You were shot at the dance. Do you remember?”
He frowned. “Yeah . . . the bastard had a gun, he was getting into his car with a girl. I heard shots and went down. Hurt like hell . . .” He strained to sit up, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. “Let me up. I’ve got a job to do.”
“Lie down. You’re not going anywhere.” Kristin eased him back onto the pillow. “I managed to dig two bullets out of you, but you’ve lost a lot of blood, and you’re still weak. You’re lucky to be alive.”
His gaze shifted to Britta. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“She’s been here all night,” Kristin said. “She hasn’t left your side.”
“I’m sorry, Jake.” Britta pressed her lips to the back of his hand. “If I’d been with you at the dance, the timing might have been different.”
“You couldn’t have known. Nobody could. You might have been shot, too.” His hand tightened around hers. “I care about you, Britta. And when I get out of this bed, I intend to do something about it.”
She gave him a smile, her heart singing. “If that’s a promise, I’ll hold you to it.”
He raised his head slightly. “I smell fresh coffee coming from somewhere. As long as I’m awake, I could use a cup. And I’m ready to sit up and drink it.” He pushed partway to a sitting position and started to turn.
His expression froze.
“What is it?” Kristen had started for the kitchen. She turned around.
“It’s my legs.” Jake’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I can’t move them. I can’t even feel them.”
* * *
Mason stood on the landing strip, watching the kerosene-doused remains of the De Havilland plane go up in flames. The wooden shell and the wings would be ashes in no time. The metal parts of the plane would be buried or scattered after the ashes cooled.
Mason stepped back from the heat and thrust his hands into his pockets. The smoke from the burning plane stung his eyes. This was not the way he’d imagined the bootlegging business.
The body of the young pilot had been wrapped in a tarp and buried in the scrub, in a spot where coyotes, deer, and maybe a few rabbits and birds would be the only visitors. The boy, as Mason had come to think of him, would have no service and no marker, not even a crude wooden cross to mark his resting place. His loved ones, assuming he had any, would never know what had become of him.
Mason had delivered the contraband liquor he’d salvaged from the wrecked plane. He’d had customers waiting, although Webb Calder’s English friend hadn’t been one of them. Maybe he and Webb had had a falling-out.
He had buried the body right after talking to Colucci. But he’d left the burning of the plane until the whiskey was sold. Mason’s customers were already clamoring for more. But, as far as he knew, Colucci was down to one plane and one pilot—and where did that leave Ruby? Surely she couldn’t be expected to carry out the deliveries by herself.
Mason was worried about his supply. But he was even more worried about Ruby. Why hadn’t she made the last delivery? Was she all right? Had she crashed her plane, maybe been arrested? Or had she finally come to her senses, left Colucci, and fled to safety?
For a moment he imagined her coming to him for protection—imagined taking her in his arms, prepared to fight off all threats. But that wasn’t going to happen. He’d be better off addressing his dwindling supply line.
He no longer trusted Leo Colucci, if he ever had. It was time he went over Colucci’s head to the real boss in charge of the operation—Julius Taviani, the puppet master.
Mason didn’t know all the old man’s secrets. But he was aware that Taviani had enough of the prison staff in his pocket to get him whatever he needed. Telephone calls in and out at any hour were no problem. Bundles of cash or cigarettes—common currency in the prison—were freely smuggled past the guards. Drugs, knives, and even guns could be had for the right favors. Mason knew all this because he’d often acted as an intermediary, passing on messages and goods. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but being Taviani’s right-hand man had enabled him to survive prison conditions and taught him some valuable lessons.
They had parted on good terms. Taviani had even set him up for business with Colucci. But now that he needed a favor, Mason would have to watch his words with the old man. The puppet master hadn’t survived this long by trusting people, not even his friends. And he had never revealed the secret source of his Canadian whiskey supply.
Mason knew better than to ask him for that secret. But if he was to grow his business, he needed an alternative to Colucci—maybe even a direct supply. Julius Taviani had the power to give him that.
The plane was already consumed by fire. The engine parts and the metal exhaust pipe were hanging loose from the glowing fuselage. Blinking away tears from the smoke, Mason gazed at the empty sky. In an hour the sun would be up. There wasn’t much chance of a plane arriving, but he would stay here until daylight. After that, he would go back to the house, catch up on the ranch work, and kill time until tonight, when the most cooperative prison guards were on duty. That would be the best time to call Taviani.
His thoughts returned to Ruby. Was she still with Colucci? Was she flying? Was she safe? But he had no way to contact her, no way to protect her if she was in danger. He ached to see her; but if he broke his connection with Colucci, there’d be nothing he could do. Odds were that he would never hold her in his arms again.
Restless, he slipped the brass buckle out of his pocket and turned it over in his hands. The metal was cold against his skin, the rodeo design on the front and the initials on the back still haunting him. The memory was just out of reach. Was it something he’d blocked because he wanted to forget?
Then, in a flash, the image came back to him.
He’d been a young boy—nine or ten—walking past his mother’s bedroom after an early-morning visit to the toilet. As he passed her door, it had opened, and a man had stepped out. A tall man, a man he knew well. Mason had kept his eyes lowered, as if pretending not to see him. His gaze had remained fixed on the man’s belt buckle.
The same buckle he held in his hand.
The body in the cave, the body he’d burned, was Ralph Thompson, his mother’s foreman—and her lover.
Questions remained—how had Thompson died, and how did his body come to be in the cave? Asking his mother would only stir up painful memories. But one other person might be able to tell him the story.
Later that day, while his mother was napping, Mason joined Sidney in the kitchen. When shown the buckle and asked about the body, the old man sighed.
“You’d remember Ralph, of course. He was here for a long time. Then he got into trouble. He was caught taking money from the local banker to harass immigrant farmers. After he skipped town, we also discovered that he’d been skimming cash from the ranch. So, good riddance.
“We thought we’d seen the last of him. Then a few years ago, after you went to Deer Lodge, he showed up again. He claimed your mother owed him money, which was a lie. When she told him to leave, the man became violent. He was shaking her when I came up from behind and struck him on the head with a cast-iron skillet. I was younger then, and I guess I didn’t know my own strength. He went down and never woke up. Your mother didn’t want any trouble with the police, so we hitched up a wagon, hauled his body to the cave, and left it there. You know the rest. I hope you won’t mention this to your mother.”
“No need,” Mason said. “And I’ll get rid of the buckle. I never want to see it again.”
* * *
Ruby had delivered the last of the current shipment that morning. Now exhausted, she huddled on the porch steps, drinking coffee while she waited for her ride back to the Olive Hotel in Miles City. All she wanted to do was sleep around the clock.
Heavy footsteps crossed the porch behind her. She shrank inside herself. She’d been avoiding Colucci for the past several days. But she should have known he wouldn’t let her go without showing her who was boss.
He lowered himself to the step beside her. He smelled of the ham-and-garlic sandwich he’d recently eaten. “I just got off the phone with one of Capone’s lieutenants,” he said. “He’s going to find us a new plane.”
“So Capone’s passed us down the line to one of his helpers,” she said. “How about a new pilot? I can’t take another week of making all the deliveries. I’ll burn out and crash. Is that what you want?”
“You know what I want, baby.” He laid an arm around her shoulders. “Play ball with me, and you won’t have to fly at all.”
A shudder passed through her body. Shaking his arm loose, she stood. “If I wanted to play ball, as you say, it wouldn’t be with a man who hit me. I’ll fly your planes. But what’s between us is strictly business.” She stepped away from him as her driver appeared from around the house in the Model T. “Speaking of business, I believe I’ve earned a raise,” she said.
Colucci chuckled as the car pulled up to the porch. “You want a raise, sweetheart, you know what you’ll have to do to earn it.”
Safe in the back seat of the Model T with its silent driver, Ruby took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Being around Colucci was becoming unbearable. If it weren’t for her father, she would have left by now. But she was trapped by the commitment she’d made to keep Art safe.
When she got back to the hotel, she would be obligated to phone Agent Hargrave. She could tell him about Colucci’s advances and plead for relief. But she knew that Hargrave wouldn’t care. He would tell her it was all in the line of duty. He might even remind her that going to bed with her boss could give her access to useful information.
The only time she’d felt something besides fear, anger, and frustration was when Mason Dollarhide had taken her in his arms and melted her with his kiss. Under different conditions, she could almost have fallen in love with him. He was strong, masculine, and tender. But he was also an ex-convict and an active bootlegger, no better in his way than Leo Colucci. She would be smart to forget about that kiss—and to forget she’d ever met the man.
Still, the urge to see him was there, especially when lying awake at night, yearning to give herself to his lovemaking—to feel like a woman again.
The car was coming into Miles City. As it passed the hotel, rounded the corner, and swung into the alley, Ruby forced herself to look ahead to a few hours of well-earned rest. She owed herself that much. Maybe tomorrow, with a clear head, she could think of a way to gain some control over her situation.
* * *
Joseph had been at the sawmill since first light, loading boards on trolleys and sweeping up what appeared to be mountains of sawdust. It was still early in the day when his father showed up and beckoned him away from the billowing dust and the scream of the huge blade as it sliced lengthwise through a log.
They walked to an open area by the gate, far enough from the noise to be heard without shouting. Joseph pulled off his leather gloves. He welcomed the break, but with some trepidation. He could sense the tension in Blake. Was he in trouble for something else?
They stopped next to the Model T, which was parked inside the gate. “Have you heard how the sheriff is doing?” Joseph asked, breaking the awkward silence.
“I got a telephone call from Kristin this morning. He’s going to live. But you need to see him. As you said, you want to tell him you’re sorry. You’re about to learn the real meaning of that word. Get in the car.”
They drove down to the main road and headed into town. Only then did Blake tell his son what had happened. “One of the bullets damaged his spine, Joseph,” he said. “The sheriff’s legs are paralyzed. Time will tell whether the condition is permanent.”
“Oh, God . . .” Joseph doubled over in the seat, feeling sick. The money loss was serious enough. But this—the consequence of his actions—was unthinkable.
Blake slowed the car. “Are you all right? Do I need to stop?”
Joseph fought to control his churning stomach. He shook his head, forcing himself to sit up. “I’m not all right,” he said. “But I know what I’ve done, and I need to face up to it.”
Blake gave him a brusque nod and kept driving.