Page 49 of Calder Country

She kissed his cheek and slipped away, vanishing into the crowd. Joseph gazed after her, puzzled by her abrupt manner and her words, I’ll never forget you.

Just then, Annabeth pushed through the crowd. Out of breath, she seized Joseph’s arm and pulled him aside. “That girl you were dancing with, Joseph, did you give her anything?” she demanded.

“I did. Why should you care?”

“I was coming back from the privy when I passed a parked car. That girl—she was in it with a man. I saw them kissing and heard her say something like, ‘Wait for me here. I’ll be back as soon as he gives me the money.’ ”

Joseph stared at her, speechless as the truth sank home. Lucy had taken him for two hundred dollars of his family’s money to run away with an unknown man. Her story about Webb had probably been a lie. But he hadn’t taken time to think. He’d been besotted enough to believe her.

Annabeth shook his shoulder. “Maybe you can still stop them. Hurry. I’ll get the sheriff.”

Shaking off his shock, Joseph cleared a way through the crowd and raced out to the parking lot. He wasn’t sure where to look for Lucy until he saw an older Model T with Lucy inside. A strange man in a suit was frantically working the crank in an effort to start the engine.

“Stop!” Joseph shouted. The man cranked harder. The engine coughed, coughed again, and caught with a roar. The man sprinted around the car for the driver’s seat.

Sheriff Calhoun had come out to the parking lot, following Annabeth. “Hands up,” he shouted, drawing his Colt. “Back away from the car.”

The next part happened so fast that Joseph was helpless to stop it. The stranger pulled a pistol out of his coat and fired two shots at the sheriff. As Jake Calhoun dropped to the ground, the man vaulted into the car and gunned the engine. Tires spitting gravel, the Model T sped away, down the main street, headed out of town.

The sound of shots and Annabeth’s scream brought people pouring out of the dance. Someone bent over the fallen sheriff. Joseph heard a shout.

“He’s hit bad! Somebody get to a phone and call the doctor!”

* * *

Britta heard the shots. In the next instant, she was off the porch, running. She’d heard enough gunfire in her life to recognize the sound of a big gun like Jake’s Colt Peacemaker. The shots she’d heard were from a smaller-caliber weapon—which meant that Jake could have been their target.

As she took the shortcut through the block, she could hear autos tearing along Main Street, as if in hot pursuit. But she couldn’t concern herself with that now. She plunged ahead.

The dance had been set up less than a block from the school. Britta reached it in minutes. The overhanging lights cast shadows over the crowd in the parking lot. She fought her way to where a knot of people surrounded a figure on the ground. Even before she saw him, Britta knew it would be Jake.

He lay in the dust, where he’d fallen on his back. His eyes were open, his face a grayish white. The sight of him tore at her heart. If she’d gone with him tonight, events might have transpired differently. But this was no time for emotion, only action.

“I’m here, Jake,” she said.

His lips moved, but no words emerged. He was probably in shock. A lanky figure was crouched over him, struggling with a couple of handkerchiefs to stanch the wounds in his shoulder and hip. It was Joseph.

People were standing around him, some watching, some offering advice. Heedless of modesty, Britta pulled off her muslin petticoat, ripped it in two, and dropped down beside Joseph. He turned his head to look at her. His face was streaked with tears. “This is my fault, Aunt Britta,” he said.

“That doesn’t matter now. Where’s the doctor?”

“She’s not here. Somebody went to telephone her. I’m afraid to move him until she comes. It could make the bleeding worse.”

“She could be a while.” Britta thrust a piece of the torn petticoat at him. “Here, bunch this up and press it hard on that hip wound. All we can do is try to stop the bleeding and get him stabilized. Have somebody bring a blanket to keep him warm—and some water.”

Jake was losing blood. Too much blood. With a silent prayer, Britta focused her strength on applying pressure to the wound. All that mattered now was saving him.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

DR. KRISTIN DOLLARHIDE HUNTER ARRIVED THIRTY-FIVE MINUTES later in the Ford Model TT truck that served as a makeshift ambulance. She had driven at breakneck speed over the washboard road from her ranch. The vehicle was coated with dust.

By then, most of the crowd had moved off. The dance band was still playing. There were couples on the floor, but a pall had fallen over the celebration.

Britta and Joseph had managed to stanch Jake’s wounds, but he’d already lost a dangerous amount of blood. From every indication, the bullets were still buried in his flesh. He drifted in and out of consciousness, muttering incoherent words and phrases.

“Get him to my surgery. Now,” the doctor ordered, referring to her office at the far end of town. There was a stretcher in the back of the truck. Joseph found someone to help ease the wounded sheriff onto it and lift him into the truck bed. Britta could have ridden in the cab with the doctor. Instead, she climbed into the back to huddle beside the stretcher, gripping Jake’s hand.

“Hold on, Jake,” she murmured, hoping he could hear her. “I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

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