Page 69 of Calder Country

“You said we’d talk.” She gazed up at him from her pillow.

“Tomorrow,” he said. “It’s late. It’s time you were asleep.”

“I want to talk now,” she said. “Why can’t you and Britta get married? I can tell you love each other. Why don’t you ask her?”

He sighed. “Because I want her to be happy. How can she be happy with a man who can’t walk?”

“That’s silly, Daddy. You’re still you. I still love you. So does Britta.”

He kissed her forehead and backed away from her bed. “That’s enough talk for now. Go to sleep.”

He left the room. She didn’t understand, he told himself. Or maybe he didn’t. He envied his daughter’s innocent wisdom. If only things were that simple.

He found Britta in the kitchen, drying the last of the dishes. She gave him a questioning look.

“She’s not giving up on the idea,” he said. “I suppose she will, in time.”

Britta hung the damp towel over the back of a chair and reached for her shawl. “I should go,” she said.

“No, stay, please,” he said, his chair blocking her path out the back door. “Come sit with me in the parlor. We can’t leave things like this.”

He ushered her into the parlor, a cozy room with a cushioned settee, an armchair, an overfilled bookshelf, and a miniature potbellied stove. He’d kindled a fire earlier. Flames glowed behind the mica panes in the door.

She took a place on the settee. He turned his wheelchair to face her.

“Do you have something to say to me, Jake?” He could read the apprehension in her lovely azure eyes. For as long as he’d known her, Britta had seemed unaware of her beauty. She was vulnerable, unable to believe that a man could love her—that he loved her.

“I just wanted to apologize.” Fumbling his way word by word, he stumbled on. “This living arrangement is working for me, but not for you. Those quarters above the jail aren’t fit for a lady. With winter coming on, the noise and the smell are going to get worse. You mustn’t stay there.”

She flashed him a startled look. Then swiftly composed herself. “I suppose I could find a room to rent somewhere. But it isn’t such a hardship living over the jail. I’ve enjoyed doing for you and Marissa. This is the first I’ve felt useful since I lost my family. I never realized how much I’ve missed having someone to care for. Jake, I’ve needed this—”

She broke off, staring down at her hands. “I’m sorry. I do understand that Marissa is becoming too attached, and you want to—”

“Stop talking, Britta.” He seized her hands. Suddenly he knew what had to be said—what he’d wanted to say all along. “Listen to me. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future. I don’t know how much of a recovery I’ll make—but does anybody know what life is going to throw at them? I only know that I love you. I need you. And Marissa needs us both. If you’ll have me, and if you think we can be a family, I’m asking you to marry me.”

“Oh!” Tears welled in her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. “You big, proud fool, of course I’ll marry you!”

Gripping her hands, he pulled her onto his lap. She came willingly, her soft curves melting into him, her mouth meeting his in a long, passionate kiss. He felt her close to him, her breasts full and warm, her hips fitting the curve of his body.

There was more than one way to love a woman and make her heart sing. He would learn them all, Jake vowed. But he would never stop hoping.

* * *

Mason surveyed the exercise yard. The morning was cold, the prisoners moving briskly to keep warm. They circulated, exhaling puffs of vapor that hung over them like a fog bank. Watching them was like scanning a herd of zebras in a shifting kaleidoscope of black and white.

Julius Taviani had ordered him to find a man named Harvey McGill, whose family owed money on the outside. Mason’s job, for now, was to remind McGill what would happen if they didn’t pay up.

He hated being Taviani’s errand boy, and he hated Taviani. Worse, he was having a hard time finding any solid evidence against the old man—evidence that Taviani had ordered the murder of Art Murchison or any of the other prisoners who’d been found dead and quietly buried in a weedy plot behind the prison.

As Taviani’s man, he had more freedom than most of the prisoners. But that didn’t mean he could waltz into the records office and start going through the files. Even the library, where Art had worked and died, was a problem to access alone. So far, it had been either attended or locked.

Mason was getting impatient—and worried. If he didn’t deliver on his promise to nail Taviani, the federal agents were capable of leaving him here to rot.

As he eyed the crowd, searching for McGill’s thatch of white-blond hair, Piston appeared beside him. The husky man gave Mason a nod and a smile that was almost childlike. When Taviani wasn’t around, Piston’s gentle nature came through. But with the old man, he was like a fighting dog, trained to attack, even kill—one more reason for Mason to hate Julius Taviani.

Mason fished in his pocket and found the biscuit he’d saved from breakfast. Piston never got enough food to satisfy the needs of his body. He was always hungry. Mason passed him the biscuit.

“Thanks.” The big man downed it in a couple of bites. Piston wasn’t much of a talker, so it wasn’t easy to know what was on his mind. Mason had formed a cautious friendship with him. He felt genuinely sorry for the childlike giant. Piston didn’t belong here. He belonged in an institution where there were no people like Taviani to take advantage of his trust. But what could be done with a man who’d killed, likely more than once?

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