Page 6 of Calder Country

Startled by the soft but firm voice behind him, Mason turned to face Britta Anderson, the town’s longtime schoolteacher. A plain, big-boned spinster with wheaten hair and cornflower eyes, she was also the sister of Blake’s wife—and a woman whose family history gave her every justifiable reason to detest him.

“Hello, Britta. It’s nice to see you.” He spoke in a mocking tone, knowing he was probably the last person she wanted to see today. Mason had abandoned her pregnant older sister and then, unwittingly, contributed to the ruin and death of the younger one. A related incident had led to her father dropping dead on his doorstep.

“When did you get back?” she asked.

“Just today. I’ll be helping my mother run the ranch. I was hoping to see Blake’s family. Do you know if they’ll be here?”

“I doubt that they’ll take the time. But I’ll let them know you’re back in town.”

“Not that I’m expecting any dinner invitations. How are they—the family?”

“They’re fine. Hannah has a new baby girl. Our mother passed away a few months after you left. It’s safe to say that she died of a broken heart.”

Her meaning wasn’t lost on Mason. Inga Anderson had suffered the loss of her two sons, her husband, and her youngest daughter. But none of those deaths had been Mason’s fault. He couldn’t help it if pretty Gerda had gotten pregnant by her boyfriend and tried to hang the blame on him. Or that the girl’s father had assumed the worst, come after him with a shotgun, and died of a stroke brought on by his own rage.

Mason chose not to argue the point. “What about Joseph?” he asked. “How is he?”

“Joseph is growing up. He’s got big dreams, but Blake is grooming him to run the ranch and the sawmill.” She paused, her stern blue eyes gazing directly into his. “Leave Joseph alone, Mason. The last time you were here, you almost ruined his life. He doesn’t need your meddling. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” Mason said. “But if Joseph wants to talk to me, I won’t turn him away.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Britta gave him an angry look before walking off to greet someone else. Mason didn’t blame her for resenting him. But he couldn’t change the past. He could only seize the future and make it his. If his plan worked, he would have all the wealth and respect he’d ever wanted.

He scanned the crowd one more time, but failed to see his family or anyone who might welcome him. That shouldn’t be surprising. He hadn’t exactly left a lot of friends behind when he’d gone to prison. And as he reminded himself, for the past five years, life had moved on without him.

The two people who’d arrived in the plane were working their way through the crowd, collecting money and rubber stamping the hands of those who paid. For the price, the pair couldn’t be making much of a profit. By the time they paid for fuel and other expenses, there wouldn’t be much left over.

A man was moving toward him with a tin box for collecting payments. He had a wiry build, dressed in khakis, with a white, fringed scarf flung rakishly around his neck. He appeared to be nearing sixty, his face long jawed and narrow, with a neat moustache. His graying hair was plastered to his head, as if by a helmet he might have worn earlier.

Occasionally he stopped to make change, but most people had the required coins. They clinked into the box like donations in a church collection plate.

A smaller figure, in a loose-fitting khaki jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a webbed belt, followed at his elbow with a rubber stamp and an inkpad, stamping the image of a miniature biplane in blue on the back of each payer’s hand. A floppy newsboy cap shadowed the features below. A lad, Mason assumed. Maybe the man’s son or grandson.

The pair approached Webb Calder. The owner of the Triple C dropped his quarter in the box and had his hand stamped. Moments later, the man with the tin box approached Mason. With a smile, Mason took a dollar bill out of his wallet and laid it in the box. “Keep the change,” he said loudly enough for Webb and those around him to hear. The gesture was a small one, purely for show. But Mason liked the way it made him feel.

“Your hand, sir.” The feminine voice startled him. Mason found himself looking down at a stunning face below the cap’s raised brim. Coffee-colored eyes crowned by dark, unplucked brows gazed up at him. Even at first look Mason sensed a secret sorrow in their depths. Her features were balanced by full lips, chapped by the wind to a deep rose. A curl of auburn hair had escaped the cap to tumble down her cheek. For a moment he was mesmerized. Good Lord, how could he have believed this beauty was a boy?

“I need your hand for the stamp, sir.” She spoke with a note of impatience. Mason complied, palm down. She used her left hand to apply the blue stamp. His heart sank as he noticed the thin gold band on her ring finger. Married. That older man collecting the money must be her husband. As she walked away, Mason muttered a curse. Life wasn’t fair—that beauty was wed to an old man. A woman like that should be dressed in silks and lace. And she deserved to be thrilled in bed—as Mason could imagine thrilling her.

He remembered how, years before, Webb Calder had fallen for a young immigrant woman, married to a man who was old enough to be her father. Ignoring all common sense, Webb had pursued the woman and ended up getting shot by the jealous husband—a wound that had nearly killed him. Eventually the husband had died. Webb had married the widow, who gave birth to a son before dying herself in a shooting gone wrong. Webb had never remarried.

Lesson learned. This woman was off-limits, Mason admonished himself. But a little harmless flirting would not be crossing the line. Those luscious lips might not be his for kissing, but he wouldn’t mind coaxing them into a smile.

The air show was about to start. The woman, her cap replaced by a leather helmet and goggles, stood at the front of the plane. The man climbed into the rear cockpit.

“Switch off!” the woman called.

“Switch off!” he shouted.

The woman gave the wooden propeller a couple of turns, then braced her feet. “Contact!”

“Contact.”

Showing a strength that surprised Mason, she swung the propeller hard. There was a sputter from the engine, a puff of acrid smoke, then a churning sound as the engine caught and the prop became a blur of motion. The woman scrambled onto the wing and into the front cockpit. Head lowered, she took an instant to fasten her seat belt before the plane taxied out to the end of the field, a safe distance from the crowd.

Mason had come to the air show with the idea of seeing who else might be there. He hadn’t expected to be interested in the airplane—he’d seen others over the years, some of them flying low over the prison. But as the little Jenny’s engine revved for takeoff and headed down the makeshift runway, he felt his heart creeping into his throat. The craft was so fragile looking, like a child’s toy made of paper and matchsticks. A sudden wind gust could send it crashing to the ground.

He almost forgot to breathe as the plane droned down the field. At the last possible second, the wings caught the air. The craft lifted off the ground, carrying the woman with the haunting face into the sky.

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