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Webb’s gaze hardened. “Here’s how it works,” he said. “Either you’re with us or against us. You may have Calder blood, but unless you’re a Calder at heart, you’re no kin of mine!”
* * *
Joseph had looked more troubled than sick when he’d left the dinner table. Either way, Kristin was worried about him. She gave him some time until the house was quiet. Then, wearing her nightgown and robe, she tiptoed down the hall to his room and tapped on the door.
“Joseph?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
There was no answer. He was probably sleeping, but she needed to make sure he was all right. As quietly as she could, she opened the door. The room was dark, but she could make out the shape of him, lying in the bed.
“I’m fine, Aunt Kristin.” His voice startled her. “I’m not sick and I’m not crying. So you can go.”
Kristin hesitated, warned by the strain in his young voice. “Just let me check your temperature,” she said. “I promised your mother I’d do that.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Let’s make sure.” She leaned over the bed and laid a hand on his forehead. His skin was cool. “No fever,” she said. “But I can tell something’s not right. Do you want to talk about it?”
When he didn’t answer, she lowered herself to the chair beside his bed. After a long, tense moment of waiting, he sighed and spoke. “After school today, Buck and Cully and me snuck through the fence to the Hollister pond. We didn’t mean any harm by it. Just having fun, catching a few fish.”
“And was it fun?”
“At first. Then this old lady showed up on a horse with two big dogs. Cully and Buck got away. But I didn’t have time. All I could do was stand there and hope she wouldn’t sic the dogs on me.” He stirred, shifting restlessly. “When she looked at me, I saw her eyes. They were green like mine. I could tell she was my grandmother.”
“I haven’t seen her since she was younger, but I’m guessing you were right. Did she know who you were?”
“She asked me my name. When I told her, she called me ‘a little bastard.’ ” His voice wavered, breaking. “Nobody ever called me ‘a bastard’ before. But I know what it means. I guess that’s what I am.”
He was close to tears now. Kristin fought the urge to take him in her arms and rock him like the child he was. Pity was the last thing he needed. “You are whatever you choose to be, Joseph. Don’t let that evil old woman choose for you. She’s nothing. What she says doesn’t matter. Do you understand?”
He nodded.
“You’re a Dollarhide, and one day, if you make the right choices, you’ll be the head of this family. Remember that when you’re tempted to call yourself by the wrong name. All right?”
“All right,” he whispered. “Thanks, Aunt Kristin. I can go to sleep now.”
“Good.” She brushed her fingertips across his curly hair. “Sleep tight. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She walked out of the room and closed the door behind her. At this stage of her life, it seemed unlikely that she would ever have children of her own. But young Joseph was giving her a glimpse of what it might be like to feel love for a child.
She’d known other children in the war. Their images rose in her memory now as she walked downstairs, found the brandy in the cabinet, and poured some into a glass. Ragged children with haunted eyes, huddled in the ruins of burned-out buildings. Children with injuries, dying, beyond her help. Children she’d forced herself not to love.
One boy—still a child at fourteen—had lied about his age to get into the army. Kristin had held him in her arms as he died, singing him a lullaby, fighting surges of love.
She had held love back for so long that she’d forgotten how it felt.
The glass was empty. After pouring herself another two fingers of brandy, she replaced the bottle and carried the glass upstairs to her room. Blake would probably notice how much was missing. But what did it matter? She was an adult. And maybe if she drank a little more, the dreams wouldn’t come tonight.
* * *
The next day was Saturday. Kristin saddled her mare and set out for town alongside the buggy, which Hanna was driving with her two daughters. Joseph had stayed behind to help his father and the hired hands get ready for spring roundup.
Blake owned a Model T, which he used for trips to Miles City and beyond. But Hanna still preferred the one-horse buggy to the mechanics of fiddling with the engine and cranking the starter. Horses didn’t break down in the middle of the road, she liked to say.
The trip to town was a treat for the little girls. They giggled and sang all the way. Kristin might have joined them in the buggy, but she’d wanted the freedom to go off on her own and check out possible quarters for her medical practice.
The town of Blue Moon had changed in the years of her absence. The land boom was over, the wheat fields gone to yellow grass and dry weeds. The railroad platform had vanished, the unused rails buried in dust. The bank, once owned by Blake’s former friend Doyle Petit, was gone. Doyle was gone, too, dead by his own hand as his crooked schemes collapsed around him like a house of cards.
At least a few businesses were thriving. The general store Kristin remembered had burned, along with several other buildings along Main Street. Its replacement featured a gas station, grocery store, and post office. The hardware store now included a dry goods section. The saloon, since the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment in January, had become a roadhouse where meals were served, with pool tables in the back. Several black Model T Fords mingled with the buggies, wagons, and horse traffic on Main Street.
