Page 4 of Calder Country

Apprehension growing, he opened the gate and started up the walk. The place was quiet except for the piping of a quail and the whisper of leaves in the wind.

As Mason mounted the porch, a savage barking from inside the front door reached his ears. His mother’s two huge mastiffs had been her constant companions. The dogs would be old now if they’d even survived this long. What Mason was hearing sounded more like one animal than two. But he knew better than to open the door and walk in.

Raising his hand, he rapped the brass knocker.

“Who’s there?” His mother’s voice came from the direction of the parlor. At least she sounded the way he remembered.

“It’s me, Mother. It’s Mason. I’ve come home.” He shouted the words over the barking.

At a sharp, spoken command, the barking ceased. “Come in,” his mother’s voice said.

Mason opened the door and stepped into the entry. The house looked clean enough, but there was a shabbiness about the place. The rugs, the furniture, even the wallpaper looked worn, dusty, and faded. Or maybe he was just looking with fresh eyes.

His mother was seated in the high-backed, brocade-covered chair that Mason had always thought of as her throne. The massive hound that crouched protectively at her side was one of the pair he remembered—the other beast must’ve passed on. This one was showing the white of age around its muzzle and cataract-blurred eyes, but when it growled, pulling back its lips, its yellowed canines appeared as sharp as ever.

Amelia Hollister Dollarhide was thinner than he remembered. The red hair of her younger days had turned silver. Aside from that, she had changed surprisingly little. Dressed in an outdated green voile gown that matched the shade of her striking eyes, she looked fit and healthy. She wasn’t that old, barely over sixty, Mason reminded himself. But something wasn’t right. What had possessed her to close the bank account?

“So you’re back.” There was no hint of welcome in her voice.

“Yes.” Mason paused in the middle of the room, still wary of the dog. “Didn’t you get my telegram?”

She shrugged. “I might have. But I figured that if you really wanted to come home, you’d find a way to get here on your own.”

“You don’t sound happy to see me.” He said it teasingly, hoping to get a rise out of her. But her expression didn’t change.

“Why should I be happy to see you?” she snapped. “I raised you to grow up and help me run the ranch. But then you got that wretched girl pregnant and had to leave. When you finally came home, and the girl was safely married to your brother, I had hopes you might stay. But no, you had to fool around with the law and get yourself arrested. Having you as a son never did me a lick of good. I’m tempted to sic my dog on you and run you off the ranch.”

Not a good beginning, Mason reflected. Winning her over could take time—time he didn’t have.

“I went to the bank in Miles City this morning, Mother,” he said. “They told me you’d cashed out the ranch account and closed it.”

“I did. The money’s safer with me. You can’t trust anybody these days, especially bankers. As far as I’m concerned, they’re all a bunch of crooks.”

“Where’s the money?” Mason asked, keeping his voice gentle. “What did you do with it?”

Her laugh was humorless. “You think I’d tell you—a man who just got out of prison? I don’t trust you any more than I trust those bankers. You’d help yourself to the money and burn through it like a hot knife through butter.”

“I’m your son. Your own flesh and blood.” He took a step toward her. The dog growled and edged forward. Mason halted. “I’m your heir, your only family. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?”

His mother silenced the dog with a touch. “So far, Mason, you’ve been worse than no family at all. For as long as I’ve been your mother, I’ve never known you to think of anything but yourself—your own pleasure, your own convenience, your own gain. When you went to prison, I was tempted to change my will and send you packing when you came home. But in the hope that you’ve learned your lesson, I’m willing to give you one last chance.”

“What do I have to do?” Mason was grinding his teeth with impatience, but he knew better than to show it.

“You’re not stupid. You can figure it out for yourself.” She took in his appearance, her upper lip curling with distaste. “The first thing you can do is change out of that godawful suit. Your old clothes are still in your room. They’ll do you for now. You’re lucky I didn’t burn them or give them to the first bum that came to the kitchen door.”

Picking up a small silver bell from a side table, she gave it an extra loud shake. The man who shuffled in from the kitchen was dressed in a black suit. His thin, white hair hung in strings to his shoulders. His body was stooped and gnarled like the trunk of an ancient tree that had survived more seasons than a man could count.

“Madam?” His sonorous voice was the same. Mason had assumed that his mother’s aging butler would’ve long since gone to meet his maker—not that he’d given much thought to the old man.

“Sidney, bring me a glass of claret.”

“Yes, madam.” He vanished into the kitchen. Wine was illegal, as was any other alcoholic drink, but Mason was aware that his mother kept a store of her favorites in the cellar. He knew better than to think she might invite him to share.

She glared at her son. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to see you again until you’ve changed your clothes. And don’t expect me to tell you what to do. You’re a man. Use your eyes and ears—and your head if you’ve acquired any common sense in the past five years.”

“And the money?” Mason couldn’t resist asking. “When will you give me access?”

She shook her head. “Not until I can trust you to act responsibly.”

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