Page 68 of Calder Country

“We’ll see about that in the morning when I put you to work.” Mason’s mother glanced back toward the kitchen, where the butler had gone. “Sidney, I’ll take my tea now,” she said.

“Coming up, ma’am.” The old man spoke from the next room.

Keeping a wary eye on the dog, Ruby stood and carried her tray to the kitchen. She’d hoped for a warmer welcome here. But at least she could be grateful for a safe refuge.

How long would that refuge last? With danger afoot, anything could go wrong. Her best and only hope was to be here when Mason came home.

* * *

Jake sat in his wheelchair, on the back porch of the house he still thought of as Britta’s. The night breeze was chilly, the moon a silver crescent above the mountains. Across the back lot, he saw the light go out in the rooms above the jail. His heart lightened. Britta would soon be here to share supper with him and his daughter.

Two weeks had passed since the shooting at the dance. Jake’s gunshot wounds had nearly healed, and he was gaining enough upper body strength to pull himself into and out of the chair. He’d even figured out how to bathe himself with a bucket and a sponge. But so far, there’d been no improvement in his legs. They were as useless as ever.

It was Marissa who’d solved the problem of his living quarters. After he’d explained to her why they couldn’t live over the jail and why social custom dictated that he couldn’t move in with Britta, the little girl had suggested, “Why don’t we trade places? Britta could live upstairs in our old place, and we could live in her house by the school.”

Britta had agreed, and it was done. It was a practical arrangement, although not a fair one. The prisoners in the jail, most of them drunk on illegal moonshine, tended to be unruly—snoring, arguing, and cussing—especially at night when Jake left them alone. The noise found its way upstairs, as did some of the odors. Although Britta never complained, Jake was eaten with guilt over the discomfort and inconvenience the new arrangement caused her. This was only temporary, he vowed. But his options were limited, including the one he refused to consider—marrying the woman who had done so much for him. The woman he still loved.

The city council had hired a young cowboy as a deputy to do the leg work and drive him where he needed to go. Jake spent most of his days in the office, babysitting the jail prisoners, reviewing case files, filling out paperwork, and dealing with visitors. He hated being tied to a desk, but at least he had a job—although that was likely to change with the November election.

Now, in the moonlight, he could see Britta’s graceful silhouette coming down the path toward him. The yearning that rose in him was like silent torture. He wanted her—and he knew that she was willing to be his. But the miracle he’d hoped for had yet to happen.

“Come on in.” He greeted her warmly, but the tension—the unspoken longing between them—was always there. Tonight, he’d ordered a dinner of roast beef, vegetables, and sourdough bread from the restaurant. It was warming in the oven. Marissa had set the table with the dishes Britta had left in the kitchen. The little girl already knew how to arrange the plates, glasses, napkins, and cutlery for each place setting. It was one of the lessons Britta had taught her.

Now Marissa came bounding outside, her golden curls flying as she ran to meet the visitor. Britta often shared meals with Jake and his daughter. The third-rate kitchen in the rooms above the jail was barely suitable for making coffee and toast. Sometimes Britta cooked for them at her former home. But it was easy enough for Jake to call in a delivery order to the restaurant.

The three of them were becoming a family. Jake could see how attached his motherless child was becoming to Britta. Britta sensed it, too. Jake could tell that she was concerned.

Clasping Britta’s hand, Marissa pulled her into the kitchen. Jake followed through the door that she held open. “How nicely you’ve set the table, Marissa,” Britta said. “Everything looks perfect.”

“I wanted to have flowers on the table,” Marissa said. “But the flowers are all gone.”

“It’s too cold for flowers now,” Britta said. “There’ll be more in the spring. Until then we can pretend. What kind of pretend flowers would you have on the table?”

“Roses! Red ones, like the ones at my grandma’s house.”

“And I would have wildflowers because they make the land so pretty in the spring,” Britta said.

“What kind of pretend flowers would you have, Daddy?” Marissa asked.

Jake hesitated, thinking, then smiled. “I don’t need to pretend,” he said. “I have two beautiful flowers right here, and I’m about to have supper with them.”

Britta raised an eyebrow as she transferred the food from the oven to the table. “What a charmer you are, Jake Calhoun. Sit down, Marissa. Let’s eat.”

Marissa slipped into her seat, made higher by two thick books. After the little girl took her turn at blessing the meal, she waited while Britta filled her plate.

“I can pretend about something better than flowers,” she announced. “I can pretend that you two are married. And Britta can be my real mom. And we can all live together.”

Jake saw the shock that passed across Britta’s face, followed by a flush of color. How could he explain their situation to a child so young? Heaven help him, he didn’t know where to begin.

Marissa looked from Jake to Britta, as if puzzled by their reactions. “Is that all right—to pretend?”

“It’s . . . fine, honey,” Britta said. “As long as you know that you’re just pretending.”

“But—” the little girl began.

“That’s enough, Marissa,” Jake said. “Eat your supper. We’ll talk later.”

The meal continued with some awkwardness. When it was finished, Britta began cleaning up while Jake helped his daughter get ready for bed and tucked her in.

---