Page 52 of Calder Country

“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.

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