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“Is something wrong, Lars?” Logan had come out to help unload the wagon.
The older man’s only answer was a sigh.
“Is there anything I can do?”
Lars shook his head. “Nothing that won’t get you arrested. Yesterday I saw a man I hoped would never show his face in Blue Moon again. He passed me on Main Street, in his fancy automobile. If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot him.”
“Knowing you to be a fair man, you must have had a good reason.”
“I had every reason. Years ago, the man dishonored my daughter. When I demanded that he do the right thing and give her baby his name, he left town. Now he’s back, and probably up to no good.”
“Who is this man?” Logan picked up a keg of nails and handed it to Pete, to take to the barn site.
“Mason Dollarhide.” Lars spoke the name like a curse. “My daughter was lucky. His half-brother, Blake, agreed to marry her. They have a fine family now. But that bastard Mason—my Hanna was as innocent as a flower. He didn’t care. He ruined her, not because of love, but just because he could.”
Logan remembered something Webb had claimed—that Blake Dollarhide had gotten Lars’s daughter pregnant and was forced to marry her. But this was the real story. Blake had done the decent thing, saved the girl’s honor, and claimed his brother’s child. And, so it appeared, all had ended well.
Not that any of this was his business, Logan reminded himself. But he couldn’t leave it without saying more.
“I know you didn’t ask for my advice, Lars, but I’m going to offer it anyway. Forget the man. What he did is in the past. All the hate and anger in the world can’t change that. It will only eat away at your heart.”
Lars sighed again. “Wise advice, I know. I tell myself that my Hanna is happy. She married a good man. She gave me a fine grandson. I should put away my anger. But yesterday when I saw Mason Dollarhide, I remembered how he treated her—using her and throwing her away, like something of no worth. Like a . . . a whore! He didn’t have to pay the consequences for what he did. And he didn’t care!”
“But he did pay, Lars. Or at least he will. He lost a good woman and all claim to his son. Someday he’ll look back and regret that.”
“But it’s not enough!” Lars’s huge hands clenched into fists. Then he shrugged and turned away. “Come on, let’s get to work.”
The job of raising the barn’s framed walls from the ground, where they’d been assembled, was strenuous and risky. Back in Texas, where Logan had grown up, whole neighborhoods or communities would come together to lift and brace the walls, then celebrate afterward with a feast hosted by the barn’s owner. But in this country of isolated ranches, other ways had to be found.
Lars, who might have been a brilliant engineer in a different life, had devised the method of using pulleys and a team of horses to haul each assembled section upright. But before it could be lifted, the long ends of the vertical studs had to be precisely placed so they would drop into slots at the edge of the floor. Once raised, temporary braces would be nailed into place to hold the wall until it could be joined with the next section.
Lars drove the team of Belgians—massive horses with golden hides and creamy manes—while Logan and the two apprentices balanced the load and made sure it settled into the right place. The morning was cool, but by the time the first section was braced solidly into place, the men were sweating.
With something to stand against, the other sections went up more easily. Still, the work was grueling. By the time the final section was ready to be raised into position, it was early afternoon.
The apprentices were tired and hungry, and Logan was gritting his teeth against the pain in both his leg and his shoulder. But just one more piece remained to be lifted into place. Then the job would be done for the day.
With the pulleys rigged to the last section, Lars nudged the horses to a steady walk, raising the frame to fit in the single opening. Everything was going well—too well, Logan was to reflect later. Was the disaster that happened next a twist of fate or just a careless moment gone wrong?
The section was in position and sliding into place when a shriek of pain shattered the air. Ezra had reached around the side of the frame to steady it while it was being lowered. Before he could pull back, the structure had dropped, pinning his arm.
“Pull it forward, Lars!” Logan shouted as he raced to help the young man. “Break it loose any way you can!”
Lars slapped the reins on the horses’ backs. The team plunged forward, pulling the frame out of line, giving Logan just enough room to pull Ezra free.
The young apprentice collapsed in Logan’s arms, groaning with pain. Beneath his shirtsleeve, the upper arm was bent at an awkward angle—broken too badly to be set and splinted here.
Logan helped Ezra to the house, lowered him to the porch steps, and used one of his own clean shirts to fashion a sling. He had nothing, not even whiskey, for the pain. The ride to town in the Model T would be jarring and take time. Cutting across the grassland on horseback would be even rougher but a good deal faster.
“Do you think you can ride, Ezra?” he asked.
The young man’s face was white with shock and pain, but he nodded.
Logan saddled and bridled Sky, the buckskin gelding he’d bought from Webb. After a moment’s thought, he boosted Ezra onto the saddle, then mounted behind the cantle with his long legs forward in the stirrups and his arms reaching around the young man’s body to hold the reins. The position was awkward, and not easy on the horse, but it would be the safest and least punishing way for Ezra to ride.
“Ready?”
Ezra nodded, using his good right arm to cradle the injured left one.
