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Joseph switched off the flashlight. “Yes, sir. Follow me and my friend.”
The sky was cloudy, but the moon shed enough light for what was needed. The boys rode a few yards ahead and the truck followed, swaying over the deep wagon ruts and grinding the axles against the high center. Joseph could imagine the driver cursing as he alternately gunned and slowed the engine. He would be in a foul mood when they arrived at the Hollister Ranch.
When the truck lurched hard to one side or the other, Joseph could hear the sound of clinking, sliding bottles. If any were broken, there could be trouble. But that wasn’t his worry or Cully’s, he reminded himself. They were only doing their jobs.
* * *
Sometime after midnight, Logan was awakened by what sounded like a racing engine—loud but muffled by distance, as if coming from the wagon road. Still muzzy from sleep, he raised his head. His first thought was that the road, rutted by wagon wheels, and carved even deeper by rain and snow, was no place for a heavy motor vehicle. Then, as he sat up and swung his legs off the bed, it came to him that anyone driving along that road in the middle of the night was probably up to no good.
Bootleggers. Wasn’t that what the new sheriff had told him when he’d stopped by the ranch a few days ago? Rumor had it that a well-connected gang was smuggling liquor over the Canadian border and hauling it south to a ranch, from which the cases could be sold to distributors at a premium price. Could that be what he was hearing?
Picking up the loaded .44 that he kept within reach of the bed, he walked outside and stood on the porch, listening. By now the sound of the engine was fading. After a few minutes, he could barely hear it moving off in the direction of the sawmill and the Dollarhide Ranch.
Could Blake Dollarhide be involved in smuggling? That didn’t sound like Blake. But Logan couldn’t rule it out—any more than he could rule out an innocent explanation for what he’d heard—like a late-night delivery of equipment for the sawmill. Maybe his imagination was working overtime. In any case, when he went to town, he’d report what he’d heard to the sheriff. If nothing was done, he’d deal with the problem himself. He was a peace-loving man, but he drew the line at smugglers cutting across his property.
* * *
The truck had made it to the Hollister Ranch almost an hour later than expected. By the time the driver backed up to the barn, Mason was in a lather. “What the hell happened?” he demanded as the driver climbed down from the cab. “I was imagining you behind bars and the law coming after me next!”
“That road ain’t fit for a herd of buffalo, that’s what happened,” the driver said. “We met right on time. But I couldn’t drive more’n five miles an hour without gettin’ stuck or bustin’ an axle.”
Joseph and Cully had started unloading when Mason called Joseph over. “We can’t let this happen again. Is there a better way for the next shipment to get here?”
“Not for anything as big as a truck,” Joseph said. “But the going would’ve been easier if he’d driven alongside the road, through the grass and brush, instead of in the wagon track.”
“So why in hell’s name didn’t you tell him that?”
“I’m sorry, sir. We should have told him. But he didn’t ask.”
Mason scowled. “Next time, for God’s sake, say something. Now get back to work. You too.” He pointed to the driver. “We’ve got to get this truck unloaded and out of town before first light. Move it!”
He picked up a box and almost threw it onto the stack. Joseph felt small and stupid. He’d never wanted to make Mason angry. He would do better next time, he vowed. Whatever he had to do, he would make his father proud of him.
The major’s lower leg was damaged beyond repair, the bone shattered, the flesh shredded by shrapnel. Even if she could dig out every scrap of metal, there was so little muscle left that the leg and foot would be useless. Or gangrene would set in and do even more damage. With sirens wailing and shells bursting outside the tent, she made her decision. “I’m sorry. The leg’s got to come off. I’ll do my best to save the knee joint, but I can’t promise.”
“No! You’re not taking my leg.” She’d heard the protest before, more times than she could count. This time the voice was calmer and more resolute, but her answer was the same.
“If I don’t take it off, you’ll die.” She nodded to the nurse who stood by with the ether mask. The tray with the scalpel, bone saw, and antiseptic solution waited behind her.
“I said no! I’ll die first!”
“It’s my job not to let you,” she said. “As the property of the U.S. Government, it’s not your choice anymore.”
“To hell with the government!”
“You’ll be put to sleep. When you wake up, it’ll be over. Nurse, go ahead.”
But the nurse had stepped away. The mask, connected to a valved canister by tubing, lay next to the table. She would have to administer the anesthetic herself.
So far, she’d avoided looking at the officer’s face. Seeing it in her mind would only make things harder when the time came to start cutting. But as she turned with the mask, she met his gaze. She gasped.
It was Logan.
Kristin’s eyes jerked open. She was shaking beneath the quilt that covered her bed. The dream had been shockingly real. She could almost hear the echo of exploding shells and smell the odors of disinfectant and soiled bandages. The last time she’d had such a disturbing dream had been in Webb’s house. Logan had been lying next to her on the bed. In her half sleep, she’d been aware of his arm pulling her close, calming her and making her feel safe. But tonight there was no one to hold her.
The craving for a glass of whiskey to blur the awful images was like acid in her gut. Since the war, she’d learned to depend on alcohol to dull the dreams and the awful memories. If she were to marry Webb, she could have all the liquor she wanted. She could drown her demons anytime she chose. All she needed to do was say yes to him.
And what then?
