Page 32 of Calder Country

No one had asked him what he was doing. The ranch’s two hired hands had long since learned to do their jobs and mind their own business. As for Mason’s mother, she seemed to be retreating into her own world, caring less and less for what happened around her. She probably needed to see a doctor. Maybe he could ask Sidney to take care of it.

Holding his breath, he listened for the thrum of an engine. But all he heard was the sigh of the breeze and the piping call of a bird. Where was that plane?

The cash for the transaction was in a fat manila envelope, stuffed into the inner pocket of his vest. As he checked to make sure it was in place, his fingers brushed the brass buckle that had survived the cave fire.

Restless, he took it out and polished it on his sleeve. He’d almost forgotten about the buckle—though he would never forget the body he’d found. But the evidence could be important if the man’s family showed up, or if he turned out to be wanted by the law.

Switching on his flashlight, he studied the buckle. It could be a rodeo trophy, an old one. Shining the light closer, he read the worn inscription—Preston, Idaho, 1896. Could there be a name? He turned the buckle over. No name. But a pair of initials were etched into the metal: R.T.

Something stirred in Mason’s memory—a long-buried hunch that swiftly fled as a distant sound reached his ears—the approaching drone of an airplane engine. His springing hopes told him that the pilot might be Ruby.

Dropping the buckle back into his pocket, he hurried to light the bonfires.

He was touching a match to the last one when he realized something.

The sky was silent. The engine had stopped.

* * *

As the propeller slowed, Ruby checked the gauges, opened the throttle, and tried again and again to restart the engine. Nothing. The Jenny was dead in the air and losing altitude.

She would have to glide to a landing. She’d done it once before, but that had been in broad daylight, onto a field she’d known to be safe. And she hadn’t been loaded down as she was now, with all the heavy cargo that the plane could hold.

Why did it have to happen now, on the last flight in this damned plane before the newly arrived De Havilland could be prepared for loading?

The only sound was the wind rushing past her ears. But now, ahead and far below, she spotted the bonfires along the landing strip. She could just make them out, like a string of luminous beads in the dark distance. Using the rudder bar, she steered a course toward them.

Mason Dollarhide had laid the line of fires to guide her in. But even with the lights to mark the way, the landing would be tricky. She could overshoot the runway or come in too sharp and land nose first. The plane’s heavy cargo could take it down faster than expected. Minutes from now, given the slightest miscalculation, she could crash and die.

Ruby willed her nerves to freeze. With her feet controlling the rudder, she eased the stick back to raise the Jenny’s nose a few degrees to slow the descent. Would it be enough? Was the plane’s angle too sharp?

But there was no time to wonder. She’d done all she could. Bracing for the worst, she steered for the line of bonfires.

* * *

Heart in his throat, Mason scanned the sky for the plane. He couldn’t see it, couldn’t hear it, but he knew it was up there in the silent dark. And the pilot had to be Ruby.

Had she seen the fires? Would she be able to follow them? He could do nothing to help her. He could only trust skill, courage, and luck to get her safely on the ground.

Suddenly, as the sky paled, he spotted her. The plane was in line with the landing strip, but she was coming in too fast, with no way to stop.

He felt the wind on his face as she shot past him, a few feet above his head. With the plane in the grip of gravity and inertia, she was going to overshoot the landing strip and plow through the prickly scrub at the far end. If that didn’t stop the plane, the momentum would be enough to tear off its wheels and rip out its belly.

Heart bursting, Mason raced down the landing strip. Far ahead of him, the plane had crashed to earth. In the early dawn light, he could see it moving forward, tearing through the brush like a runaway locomotive.

By the time he reached the plane, his lungs were burning.

Through the settling dust, he made out Ruby, in her helmet and goggles, slumped in the rear cockpit. She didn’t appear to be moving.

The plane was tilted at a sharp angle. Mason clambered up a slanting wing to reach her. Wooden crates stamped with the familiar maple leaf were piled in the front cockpit, partly covered by a canvas tarp. They would have to wait.

Reaching Ruby, he pulled off her goggles. Her eyes were closed, but when he touched her throat to unfasten the leather helmet, he felt a pulse. At least she was alive. But as he peeled off the helmet, he saw the swollen bruise above her left temple. From beneath the plane came a faint dripping sound. If gasoline was trickling out of the line onto the hot engine, the plane could catch fire and go up like a torch. He had to get her out of the cockpit.

“Ruby.” He brushed her cheek with a fingertip. “Can you hear me?”

She shuddered. Then, to Mason’s relief, her eyes opened. “The plane—”

“The plane’s in one piece but it’s leaking fuel.” Even as he spoke, Mason could smell the gasoline vapors.

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