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Mason sat up, touching the dressing gingerly. “So how much do I owe you for this,Doctor?”
“Not a cent, if you’ll do me a favor.”
“Name it. Anything for my baby sister.”
“Just this. The one thing Lars Anderson prizes most is the honor of his family. Years ago, what you did to Hanna cast shame on them. He’s never forgotten. And seeing you with Gerda, he lost control. I want you to go to the jail tomorrow and tell the sheriff that you won’t be pressing charges.”
“What?” he stared at her, his face beginning to swell from the punch to his jaw.
“You heard me, Mason. Keeping that good man in jail and forcing him to stand trial would only cause more pain to his family. As for you—forgiving him would be a step toward paying down your own debt.”
“My debt to the devil?” His roguish smile was lopsided.
“If you want to put it that way.” She gathered up the soiled cloths, her instruments, and the remnants of the dressing she’d applied to his nose. “Will you be all right driving home? I have a cot for patients who need to stay. I could make you a bed.”
“I’ll be fine. In fact, I’ll enjoy giving my mother a good scare when I walk in tonight—if she doesn’t sic her dogs on me.”
“And tomorrow you’ll go to the jail? The sheriff won’t know why Lars hit you. It might help to tell him.”
“I’ll go. It should give me a few points on the plus side of the heavenly ledger.” Battered and bloodied, but still cocky, he made his way out the door and down the sidewalk to his auto.
Standing on the porch, Kristin watched him drive away. Could she believe him about Gerda? Mason had been known to lie in the past. But she wanted to trust her brother—just as she wanted to believe he would show up at the jail tomorrow to drop the charges against Lars. Still, she would follow through to make sure it happened.
As she turned to go inside, another thought struck her—one that froze her where she stood. It was something Mason had mentioned in passing, a phrase that had barely registered when he’d said it. Now it hit her like a bomb.
. . . look what she’s got now—a rich husband and a right fine boy.
A right fine boy.
Why would he say that about Joseph unless the two of them had met?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BYMIDMORNING THE FOLLOWINGMONDAY, LARS WAS BACK AT WORKon the barn. By then, Logan had heard about his arrest from Pete, who’d been at the dance. Wisely, Logan chose not to mention anything to the big Swede. Lars’s pride had suffered enough.
And Logan had more pressing concerns. The steer missing from his herd hadn’t shown up. The animal could have escaped the pasture, become lost or injured, and maybe fallen prey to coyotes. Or, as Webb had warned him, it might have been stolen. The fence was sound, which meant the steer had most likely been herded out the gate.
Acting on Webb’s advice, he decided to pay a discreet visit to the O’Rourke Ranch. Angus was working on the far side of the barn with Lars and Pete. He wouldn’t see where Logan was going when he rode out the back way and took the trail that wound into the foothills.
The day was already warm, the sky a cloudless blaze of blue. Yellow grass swished against the legs of his horse. Two vultures circled overhead, riding the updrafts on outstretched wings. Here and there, Logan began to see cattle wearing O’Rourke’s shamrock brand. They looked poor, as Webb had described them, probably because the grass on this part of the range tended to be thin and scraggly.
Logan didn’t see his missing steer among them, but he did take note of how easy it would be to over-brand a Triple C with a shamrock. When he got his own brand—one more item on his long mental list—he would be sure to design one that couldn’t be easily changed.
In the distance, he could see O’Rourke’s house, a low-slung clapboard structure that leaned a few degrees to the west. A ramshackle barn stood behind it. Laundry flapped from a wash line. Someone, probably Angus’s wife, was hanging up more pieces. She waved, a sign that he’d been spotted. Nothing to do now but ride up and introduce himself.
As he approached, a small girl who’d been standing beside her broke away and raced toward the house, probably something she’d been taught to do when a stranger approached. But the woman seemed friendly enough. She was delicately built, with black hair and gray eyes. She’d probably been a beauty once, but poverty and hard work had worn all the softness from her face and body. The unhealthy flush in her otherwise pale cheeks suggested that she might not live to see her daughter grow up. Maybe he should suggest that she pay a visit to Kristin. But that would be intrusive, and there were some things, like consumption, that even a doctor couldn’t cure.
He dismounted and walked toward her. “Mary O’Rourke.” She held out her hand. “And I know who you are. Thank you for giving my husband some work, Mr. Hunter. Even though we’ve got land and cattle, cash in these times can be hard to come by.”
Logan shook her work-roughened hand. “No need to thank me. Your husband’s a good worker. I’m happy to have his help.”
Looking past her, Logan could see an open shed where a large, white-wrapped object hung from a rafter by a hook. He recognized it at once. It was a skinned and dressed beef carcass, wrapped in cheesecloth to keep away the flies.
Was that his missing steer? He’d bet money on it. Why would Angus slaughter one of his own animals when he needed every one of them to sell in the fall?
But Logan had no proof. The hide had probably been buried or burned to conceal the evidence. And without positive proof, no man with a heart, not even Webb, could take away this family’s father, husband, and provider.
“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Hunter?” the woman asked.
