Page 51 of Calder Country

“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.”

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