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“But he promised to wait for me!” Kristin exclaimed.
“I know. But he said he was tired of waiting. He was like a madman, Kristin. If he doesn’t come to his senses, he could end up committing murder.”
“But Mason’s innocent. The baby couldn’t have been his. Gerda was too far along—four months, at least. And the sheriff concluded that her death was likely an accident.”
Britta shook her head, weeping. “I tried to stop him, but you know Papa. He’s like a charging bull. I couldn’t go after him because I had no way to catch up, and I couldn’t leave Mama.”
“I’ll take my auto,” Kristin said. “I only hope I can stop him—or that he’ll stop himself.”
Kristin kept her Model T gassed and in good running order. It started on the first try. She sprang into the driver’s seat, opened the throttle, and shot down Main Street, headed south.
How far ahead of her was Lars? Did he mean to frighten Mason with the gun or shoot him? Even at a distance, a twelve-gauge shotgun was a deadly weapon. Up close, she didn’t want to think about what it would do to her brother’s body. Mason might have a gun, as well. If he were to fire first . . .
She gunned the engine to its top speed of forty-five miles an hour. On the rough dirt road, pocked with dried puddles, the Model T bucked over the uneven surface, airborne one second, crashing down the next with axle-breaking force. Fearing a wreck, Kristin forced herself to slow down. She had little hope of catching up with Lars as it was. With a disabled vehicle, she wouldn’t get there at all. Too late, she realized that she should have taken time to saddle a horse. All she could do was keep driving and pray that nobody else would die tonight.
* * *
After a near-sleepless night, Mason had fallen into a doze.
A pounding on the front door jarred him awake. He sat up and took a moment to get his bearings. It was probably the sheriff, coming to tell him that Gerda had been found. The news was probably bad. Good news could wait till morning.
Hoping not to wake his mother, he swung out of bed and threw on his robe, which he’d flung over the bedpost. The pounding continued as he hurried downstairs. He kept a loaded pistol in the nightstand drawer but opening the door to the sheriff with a gun in his hand might not be such a good idea.
“Hold your horses—I’m coming,” he muttered, sliding back the bolt, pressing the latch, and opening the door. “Sheriff, what’s the—”
The words died in his throat. Framed in the doorway was the hulking form of Lars Anderson. His face was florid with rage. His big hands held a heavy-duty shotgun with the barrel almost touching Mason’s chest.
“Say your prayers, Mason Dollarhide.” He was breathing hard. “My girl’s dead, and you killed her!”
“I don’t understand,” Mason stammered. “I didn’t—”
“Shut up!” Lars rumbled. “She miscarried your baby and bled to death, alone in that field. It’s all your fault. Ruining Hanna wasn’t enough. You had to come back for Gerda. I’m here to see that you never ruin another innocent girl again.”
He lowered the barrel a few inches, making it clear to Mason where he was aiming. Not that it made any difference. Anyplace the blast hit him, he’d be dead. Mason knew he couldn’t dodge fast enough to get away. His best chance of living was to beg for his life.
“The baby wasn’t mine,” he insisted, pleading. “Gerda knew that. She lied to everybody. I never touched her. Please, for the love of God!”
“God doesn’t love liars like you. You’re going straight to hell!”
“You’ll hang for this, Lars. Think of your family.”
“God will forgive me. So will . . . they.” Lars’s face had gone beet red. His eyes bulged as he thumbed back the hammer. His index finger fumbled for the trigger—and froze.
As Mason stared, the big man’s body went rigid, as if he’d received an electric shock. The gun fell from his hands as he toppled sideways and crashed onto the porch.
“Mason? What’s happening?” Amelia emerged from the hallway. Her voice startled Mason to action. He shoved the shotgun to one side, making sure the hammer was released.
“Mason!” She came into the room wearing her frayed green silk robe. Her hair was frowsy, her eyes smeared with the kohl liner she wore by day. “I heard voices. It sounded like—oh!”
She caught sight of Lars’s body through the open door. “Is he dead?” she asked in a tone she might’ve used to inquire about the weather.
“I was just about to check.” Mason knelt beside the man’s inert form. He could feel his own heart, still galloping, as he lifted one heavy hand to check the wrist for a pulse. He’d been certain he was going to die. Even now, it was hard to believe he was still alive.
He pressed a ropey vein, feeling for a pulse. Was he doing it right? He couldn’t feel anything. Lars’s eyes were open, staring at nothing. One side of his face drooped, the mouth sagging.
Mason was about to answer his mother’s question when an automobile, its engine roaring, pulled up to the gate and stopped with a screech of brakes. Kristin sprang out and came racing up the walk.
“Mason, what happened?” Mounting the porch, she stared at the body in horror.
