CHAPTER FIFTEEN
O UTSIDE, THE SNOW WAS STILL FALLING . R UBY AND M ASON HAD dressed and remade the bed. It was time to prepare for whatever was to happen next.
They had stolen a few precious moments in each other’s arms. But there was no more time to spare. They needed to act decisively. But now it appeared they’d reached a stalemate.
Mason had tried once more to talk Ruby into leaving on the midnight train. But Ruby had been adamant. She would not go without her father.
Standing at the window, Mason listened as Ruby made the phone call to the government agents. Earlier, she’d explained why she never made calls from her own room, but the reason no longer mattered. She’d be safer here, with him, behind a locked door.
While she told her story to the agents, Mason checked his .38 Smith & Wesson, making sure it was loaded and ready. He wasn’t expecting to need it, but Taviani’s goons could be anywhere. So could Colucci’s, even in the storm. And Mason didn’t trust the so-called government agents Ruby was counting on to keep her safe. Anything could happen.
Ruby hung up the receiver, set the phone on the nightstand, and turned to face him. “I spoke with Agent Hargrave,” she said. “He and Agent Jensen are coming right over. They’re close by. It shouldn’t take them long to get here.”
“Did you tell them you had company?”
“No. If you leave now, they won’t have to know you’ve been here.” She raised a hand to his chest, as if trying to push him toward the door. “Go on, Mason. Don’t worry about me now. I’ll be fine.”
He stood his ground. “I’m not leaving you, Ruby. Not until I know what they’re planning to do.”
“Just go. Please,” she pleaded.
“I’m not leaving you.” He weighed the plan that had come to him—a desperate plan that involved playing the one ace he possessed. It could be his only chance of saving them both.
She sighed. “Then at least stay out of sight. Wait in the bathroom or the closet when they come. If I don’t need you, they won’t have to see you.”
“All right.” It was a sensible option. “But I’ll want to hear what’s going on. And you should have a password to use if you need my help. Choose something I’ll recognize.”
“I understand.” She was silent for a moment, thinking. “De Havilland,” she said. “After that beautiful plane that crashed. I know how to use a password, but I don’t expect to need it.”
“I hope you’re right.” Ruby was too confident and too trusting, Mason thought. To cover their own reputations, the federal agents might be capable of throwing her to the wolves.
With uncertainty looming, only one thing was sure. He loved her as he’d never loved a woman before in his life. He would keep her safe at any cost.
* * *
Tension-laden minutes crawled past, marked by the ticking wall clock. It was eleven-fifteen when Ruby heard a bold rap on the door. She glanced at Mason. He slipped into the closet, leaving the door slightly ajar. If only she could have convinced him to leave. As it was, she was more worried for him than for herself. She’d come up with the password to satisfy him, but she couldn’t imagine using it.
The rap on the door became more insistent. “Mrs. Weaver, are you in there?” Hargrave’s voice had an irritating, metallic quality.
“Yes, I hear you. I’m coming.” Ruby, now dressed in a skirt, a woolen sweater, and boots, crossed the room to open the door. Her heart was pounding but she willed herself not to hurry.
The two agents strode into the room, brushing snow off their coats and shaking it from their fedoras. Hargrave was tall with a hawkish face and a scarecrow-like body. Jensen, apple-cheeked and blond, looked like a schoolboy next to him.
“Have a seat,” she said. “There’s only one chair and the dresser bench, but—”
“We’ll stand,” Hargrave said. “So you say you’ve been found out, Mrs. Weaver. How did it happen?”
“My father. He told someone in prison.”
“And how do you know this?” Hargrave demanded. “Who told you?”
Ruby groped for an answer. Why hadn’t she thought this through? “It doesn’t matter how I know. I meet people in this business. One of them heard it through the grapevine and cared enough to let me know. Now I need your help.”
“So why are you here? Why not just leave town?” Hargrave’s tone was sarcastic, his expression cold.
“You know I can’t leave my father in prison. Please, I’ve done everything you asked me to do. You promised to get him out of there and send us somewhere safe.”
Hargrave’s expression could have been chiseled in stone. “Things have changed, Mrs. Weaver. The warden called us this morning. Your father was found dead in the prison library. His neck was broken.”
“No!” Ruby’s knees buckled. She staggered, struggling to breathe as her body contracted like a fist. Behind her, a door opened. Mason’s strong arms caught her, holding her upright until she could get her breath. Together they faced the two agents.
“We know who you are, Mr. Dollarhide,” Hargrave said. “Thanks to Mrs. Weaver here, we have a record of the times you’ve received contraband goods in violation of the Volstead Act.”
“You’re also in violation of parole.” Agent Jensen had drawn a pistol. He spoke for the first time. “That means we can take you into custody, call the U.S. Marshals, and have you escorted back to Deer Lodge without a hearing. So I suggest you surrender your weapon.”
Having no choice short of violence, Mason lifted his gun out of its holster and passed it, grip first, to Hargrave.
“No!” Ruby fought her way back from the shock of her father’s death. “This man saved my life when my plane crashed. He came to warn me that I’d been discovered and someone wanted me dead. I would have left on the train tonight, but because of my father—” The words ended in a stifled sob as her new reality sank deeper.
“Save your story, Mrs. Weaver,” Hargrave said. “Now that you’re of no use to us, we have other plans for you. Director Hoover is getting impatient to see some faces behind bars. We have proof that you were delivering contraband liquor before we ever contacted you. After we take you into custody, the Marshals Service will be escorting you to jail, pending trial.”
Horror-struck, Ruby stared at the agent. “But you promised to help me! You even signed a paper. Your boss was there. He was a witness. Call and ask him.”
“Mr. Hoover is a busy man. I doubt he’d even remember. But even if we made you a promise, it would have been conditional on your finishing your assignment. As things stand, we can’t protect you.”
Her temper flared. “Of all the underhanded—”
Mason’s hand, tightening on her arm, silenced her words. “Be still, Ruby,” he whispered from behind her. “Sit down and let me handle this.”
Giving in, she let him lower her to the edge of the bed where she sat rigid and quivering, her hands clenched in her lap. How could Mason help her when he was in even more trouble than she?
He faced the agents, his presence powerful and calm. “Hear me out,” he said. “I have a proposal for you.”
“We’re all ears.” Hargrave’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Ruby could almost read the agent’s thoughts. What could this man offer them that they couldn’t simply take?
“I’ve read about your boss,” Mason said. “I get the impression he’s not a patient man. He expects—and demands—results.”
The two agents exchanged furtive glances. Jensen gave a slight nod.
“I know you need to make yourselves look good and keep your boss happy. But what’s Mr. Hoover going to say when he finds out you’ve jailed a young woman, a war widow, whose only intention was to help her father—a woman you forced to spy for you? When the public gets wind of this—and they will—the bureau is going to look like a bunch of cowards and fools. Keep her safe, put her on that train, and I’ll offer you a prize that will make Hoover bust his buttons.”
Ruby understood what Mason was offering—his own freedom in exchange for her safety. She imagined him walking into prison, knowing the awful conditions that awaited him. And there was nothing she could do. Only his hand on her shoulder kept her from crying out.
“We’ve already got you dead to rights, Dollarhide,” Hargrave said. “I’m still thinking about the woman. But you’re not going to talk your way out of this.”
“True,” Mason said. “But I’m just a small-time bootlegger. What if I told you I could give you the man who runs this whole operation?”
“If you’re talking about Leo Colucci, we can pick up that goon any day of the week. We’re just hoping he’ll lead us to the man we call the Big Fish.”
“Then you’d better pick him up fast. The man who wants Ruby dead is planning to off Colucci, too. He thinks Colucci might be holding out on him.”
“And you know this how?” Hargrave was suddenly alert, like a bloodhound catching the scent.
“He told me over the phone the last time I called him at the prison,” Mason said. “That was how I knew he wanted Ruby killed. I’m sure he had her father killed, too. Not that he ever dirties his own hands. He’s got enough people in his pocket to run that prison like he owns it.” Mason’s gaze bored into the agent’s. “I know because I was one of them.”
“So who is this person, and how do we get him?” Hargrave demanded. “I take it we’re going to need your help.”
“I’ll tell you his name after I see Ruby get on that train,” Mason said. “When I know she’s safe, I’ll be willing to go back on the inside for you. But I want a written guarantee of full pardon for both of us, mailed to my half-sister, whose name I’ll give you. Agreed?”
“Only on condition that you deliver him. But all right, the woman can go.”
“Get your things. We don’t have much time.” Mason passed her a handful of large bills. Ruby’s lips parted, but Mason shook his head, cautioning her not to speak.
Ruby’s clothes and meager possessions fit easily in her small duffel. She would leave Colucci’s gift box under the bed for anyone who wanted the glittery garments inside.
The train station was nearby. They would be walking through the snow—Ruby, Mason, and the two armed agents. Ruby huddled in her thin coat as Mason leaned close and whispered a few last words.
“Don’t try to write or call. We want the old man to think you’re dead. If you need anything, contact my sister, Dr. Kristin Dollarhide Hunter, in Blue Moon.”
“Mason—” Love and fear for him were tearing her apart.
“Hush. There’s nothing to say. Just be safe.”
Agent Jensen bought her ticket at the window. By then the train’s headlamp was visible through the snow. The whistle quivered on the air. As the Northern Pacific engine, trailing its passenger cars, pulled up to the platform, Mason swept her into his arms for a last urgent kiss. Breaking away, he thrust her toward the open car where a conductor waited to take her ticket and help her aboard.
Clutching her purse and duffel, Ruby stumbled to her second-class seat. Her tear-blurred eyes strained to see the platform through the snow-covered window, but the train was already moving. The whistle shrieked as the engine picked up speed and raced into the snowy night.
* * *
Britta stomped the snow off her boots before stepping inside the doctor’s reception area. She found Jake in the spare wheelchair the doctor had given him. He was practicing maneuvers in the middle of the room, turning, backing, moving around and behind the furniture. The doctor’s office was closed today, but Jake was still here. His wounds were healing, but he was unable to leave for his second-floor quarters above the sheriff’s office.
He’d insisted that Kristin go home to her family and leave him to manage on his own for the weekend. Britta had offered to check on him and bring his meals. The arrangement was a worry, but Jake was a proud, stubborn man, determined to deal with his disability on his own.
“Hello, Britta.” His face was drawn, his unshaven beard shadowing his jaw. Pain had deepened the creases around his eyes. He greeted her with a smile, but as she set the covered basket on the kitchen table, she could sense the frustration raging inside him. The simplest tasks, like getting out of bed, dressing, and relieving himself, had become almost insurmountable challenges. He wanted his strong body back. He wanted his useful life.
“I know you like my chicken and dumplings,” she said, trying to be cheerful but not too cheerful. “There’s apple pie for dessert. And I thought you might like some coffee. I brought you a thermos. It should still be hot.” She chatted as she set the table for dinner, removing the chair on the nearest side so he could wheel into place. “After you’ve eaten, I’ll check your wounds. I promised the doctor I’d do that.”
“You’re too good to me, Britta.” He took his place at the table and spread the napkin on his lap. Britta filled his plate and poured him some coffee. What would he say if she brought up the idea that had come to her? Would he be outraged, even angry?
“How’s Marissa?” he asked. “Did you see her today?”
“Yes, I saw her this morning.” Britta took her place across from him, knowing he would want her to share the meal. “She’s fine, but she misses you. She wants to see you.”
“Does she understand what’s happened?”
“I explained as best I could,” Britta said. “I even drew her a picture. I can imagine how difficult this is for you. But you’re her father. She needs you.”
He took a bite of chicken as if forcing himself to eat, then put down his fork. “All right. Bring her the next time you come, then,” he said. “But how can I answer her when she says she wants to go home? We can’t go back to our old place—I could never make it up the stairs. Cora’s mother has been good to take Marissa, but she’s getting old. She isn’t strong, and her little house has only one bedroom. I could never live there, and I can’t stay here much longer.” Desperation broke his voice. “What kind of father can’t even provide a home for his child?”
His words had left Britta with an opening. She summoned her courage.
“You could move in with me, Jake,” she said. “My place has no stairs, and it has an extra bedroom. You could have Marissa with you. When I’m not teaching, I could be there to cook and look after things. It wouldn’t have to be forever, just until you’re better able to manage and make other arrangements.”
She had run out of words. In the dead silence that followed, she forced herself to meet his startled gaze. Seconds crawled by as she waited for him to respond.
At last he spoke. “What are you thinking, Britta? You’ve always been concerned about gossip. What would people say if I were to move in with you, even with my daughter?”
“Hang what people say! My place would serve your needs.”
“But what about your job? Your house belongs to the school board. You could be fired and have to move.”
“They’d have to find a new teacher first. And how many teachers would be desperate enough to come to Blue Moon?” As she spoke, Britta felt an exhilarating sense of freedom, not so different from the way she’d felt stepping into the airplane. Let people talk. Let them judge her. The only thing that really mattered was Jake.
“I’m sorry, but you must be out of your mind,” he said.
“Think about it. For the foreseeable future, you’re going to need a place to stay, with room for your daughter and someone to help you. And if—no, when—you’re well enough to go back to work, you’ll be close to your office and the jail.”
Pain flickered across his face. Had she said too much? Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned his job. But it was too late to take back the words.
“Be still and listen to me, Britta,” he said. “This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to say. I would never move in with you unless we could marry. But that can’t happen now.
“Before the shooting, I was planning to ask you. I dreamed of the future we could have together. But now, that’s become impossible. I would never burden you with the person I’ve become—the constant work, the dressing and bathing, all the ugly, intimate details involved in caring for someone like me. I don’t know if I’d be able to provide for you. I don’t know if I’d be able to satisfy you as a husband or give you children.”
His gaze held hers across the table. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “You’re a wonderful woman, Britta. You deserve so much better than anything I could offer you. That’s why my answer—my final answer—is no.”
Britta held back tears. “That’s your pride talking,” she said. “Pride won’t give you a place to heal or provide a home for your little girl.”
“It’s not pride,” he said. “It’s love.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “But if you don’t understand, I can’t force you.” She pushed out her chair and stood. “Finish your dinner. I need some air, but I’ll be back to clean up the kitchen and check your wounds. I won’t bring this up again.”
Turning away, she walked out of the kitchen. Her heart was aching, but she wasn’t about to let Jake see her cry. She had her own pride.
Picking up her thick merino shawl, which she’d tossed over a chair, she crossed the front room, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch. The air was biting cold. She pulled the shawl tighter around her body.
Sunset stained the deepening sky with streaks of crimson, a sign that the early storm had moved on and the warm fall weather would return. But Britta’s own storm still raged inside her. Jake needed help, and she was more than willing to give it, along with her love. Why couldn’t he understand that?
She would gladly spend the rest of their lives serving as his helpmate and raising his little girl. As for the rest—at twenty-nine she was still a virgin. Even being kissed by Jake was a thrill. As long as there was love between them—and already a child—wouldn’t that be enough?
But she knew better than to present that argument to Jake. He was in no frame of mind to listen.
The sun had gone down. Britta had begun to shiver beneath her shawl. It was time to go in and do whatever Jake would allow her to do.
In the kitchen, he had cleared the table and set the dishes on the counter next to the sink. There were two plates, water glasses, and a few utensils. Britta washed, dried, and stacked them for the next meal.
The light was on in the room where Jake slept. Coming down the hall, she could hear the sound of bumping and struggling. The door was partway closed. Hesitating, she called out to alert him that she was nearby. He was a private man, and she had to respect that. But he would have to accept being helped.
She heard another thump and a muffled curse. “All right, come in,” he muttered.
She walked into the room and found him in his chair, trying to reach the empty enameled chamber pot where it lay upended on the floor. To get it, he would have to lean over far enough to risk falling out of the wheelchair.
“I’ve got it.” Britta picked it up.
He sighed. “Give it to me and step out of the room.”
Britta did as he’d asked. Moments later she returned, took the pot from him, and emptied it in the bathroom. Returning, she placed it on a side chair, within easy reach. Jake was fumbling to fasten his trousers. He paused to gaze up at her.
“See what you’d be in for if I accepted your offer? Can you imagine a lifetime of this, and worse?”
“You’ll get stronger and more able to do things,” Britta said. “It will just take time. Talk to the doctor. She worked in a veterans’ hospital after the war. She’ll be able to give you some suggestions and maybe order some devices to make things easier.”
“You know I was in the war,” Jake said. “I came home from France without a damned scratch. I used to look at those poor bastards in wheelchairs and think how lucky I was. And now this. Maybe I had it coming.”
“Nobody has it coming, Jake. But at least, the man who shot you is dead.”
“Yes. I know. Too bad he didn’t have a better aim.”
“I’m going to assume you didn’t really mean that,” Britta said. “Leave your trousers undone. I’ll need to check your wounds and change the dressing.”
“Don’t bother. I’m fine.”
“And we want you to stay that way. Those wounds could still become infected.”
“You sound like my mother, God rest her soul.” He watched her get the gauze, tape, and salve out of the wall cabinet and carry it to the nightstand.
“You’ve never told me about your family, Jake.” She unbuttoned the top of his flannel shirt and slipped it off his shoulder. The blood-soaked clothes he’d worn the night of the shooting had been thrown away, but Britta had brought more clothing from his quarters above the jail.
“I’ve not much family left,” he said. “My folks were Kansas farmers, fine stock. They died in the Spanish Flu epidemic while I was in the army. Two sisters married and moved away—I don’t even know where. By the time I came home, the bank had taken what was left of the farm. I had an army buddy from Blue Moon. We got separated, but after the war I decided to look him up. He never made it home, but the town needed a sheriff, so I took the job and stayed.”
“Tell me his name. Maybe I know him.” She lifted the dressing off his shoulder wound. Healthy pink flesh was closing around the bullet hole.
He told her the name. It wasn’t one she recognized. But talking like this seemed to make the delicate process of tending his wounds easier.
“I lost a brother in the war.” She picked up the tin of salve and tried to twist off the lid, but it was screwed on tight. “Axel—but you already knew that.” She twisted the lid harder. It was stuck.
“Here, let me do that.” He took the tin from her and gave the lid a turn. The lid popped loose. He handed it back to her.
“At least I’m still good for something,” he said.
As Britta dabbed the salve around the wound, her patience snapped. “You’re still good for a lot of things, Jake Calhoun,” she scolded. “You’ve got a brain, eyes, ears, and two good hands. That’s more than some people. The sooner you stop feeling sorry for yourself, the sooner you can move on with your life.”
He was silent for a long moment. “I was a sharpshooter in the army. That’s what got me hired as sheriff. But who wants a sheriff who can’t ride, drive a car, or even walk?”
“You could hire deputies for that. They could do the legwork and drive you when you needed to go somewhere.” Britta applied a fresh dressing to the shoulder wound and pulled his shirt back into place.
“That won’t be my call,” he said. “I’ll be up for reelection in November. I was planning to run, but nobody’s going to vote for a sheriff who can’t do his job. I should probably withdraw now and give others a chance to campaign.”
“Why close that door so soon? I know people respect you. Let them decide on election day. You might be surprised.”
“Or humiliated.”
“Oh, hush! Hold still.” Bending close, she pulled away the tops of his trousers and drawers, needing to reach the dressing on the crest of his hip. She had never touched him—or any man—in such an intimate place. Her senses tingled as she leaned close to loosen the dressing over his wound. His hair brushed against her cheek. His skin smelled of sweat and disinfectant—the mixture strangely erotic as it seeped through her senses. His uncovered skin was pale and satiny, his lower body sculpted with muscle. A line of crisp, dark hair traced a narrow path down his belly that vanished under the edge of his open trousers.
The house was chilly, but Britta felt strangely warm. As she uncovered the dressing, the words he’d spoken earlier came back to her.
I don’t know if I’d be able to satisfy you as a husband or give you children.
Britta had spent her early years on a farm. She knew the facts of life. But knowing and experiencing were two different things. Now, looking down at his body, imagining what her eyes couldn’t quite see, she understood the real reason why Jake had refused to marry her. And she had no answers.