He slipped the letter back into his vest. “That’s a mighty kind offer, but I’d rather deliver it in person. Corporal Anderson was a brave young man who died a hero’s death. I’d like his folks to hear that from me.”
“I understand. Lars Anderson works as a carpenter these days. Blue Moon is a small town. Anyone who lives there can tell you where to find him.”
“Thank you, miss—or should I say Doctor?”
“Doctor will do. I’ve certainly earned the title.”
“Then please allow a gentleman to see you back to your horse. No woman, not even a doctor, should be alone out here. It isn’t safe.”
“This woman killed two German soldiers who were trying to rape one of her nurses. I have a rifle on my horse. If trouble comes along, I know how to use it.”
“And I’ve no doubt you’re deadly with that riding crop, as well.” His mouth twitched in the barest hint of a smile. “But if you’ll allow me the pleasure . . .” He offered his arm. With a sigh of resignation, she accepted. Laying a light hand on his sleeve, she felt rock-hard muscle through the thin fabric.
“Will you be setting up a practice here?” He walked with a limp, favoring his right leg. The horses weren’t far off, but he took his time.
“I hope so,” she said. “The town needs a doctor, and I need to support myself. I’ve no intention of living off my brother.”
“Well, then, maybe our paths will cross again.” He stood by while she mounted the mare, then swung onto the tall buckskin, mounting easily despite his impaired leg.
Only then did Kristin notice something that jerked her back to full alert. The buckskin horse was wearing a distinctive brand—the well-known Triple C, for Calder Cattle Company, the biggest ranch in the state of Montana.
Acting on reflex, she whipped the rifle out of its scabbard, slid back the bolt, and aimed the muzzle at his chest. “Hands up high, mister!” she snapped. “Reach for that pistol and you’re a dead man. We don’t take kindly to horse thieves around here.”
He raised hands. His face wore a thunderous scowl. “I don’t know what you’re thinking, Doctor, but nobody calls me a horse thief and gets away with it.”
Kristin steadied her grip on the rifle. “Now throw down your weapon and ease out of that saddle. While you’re doing it, you can explain why you’re riding a horse with the Calder brand on it.”
He made no move to drop the pistol or to dismount. “My mother was Benteen Calder’s cousin. With my family dead of the Spanish flu back in Texas, Webb Calder is the only blood kin I have left. I wrote him, and he invited me to come here and settle. Webb lent me this horse, so you can put that damned rifle away. I don’t like guns pointing at me. They make me nervous.”
Kristin held the weapon steady. “Your being a Calder doesn’t count for much with me or my family. And what about that letter you showed me? It strikes me as almost too much of a coincidence, your showing up here to deliver it when you’re in league with the greediest land-grabbers in Montana. What’s your real game, Major Hunter, or whoever you are?”
His expression darkened. “Only a woman could get away with calling me a liar,” he growled. “A man would’ve been dragged off his horse and beaten to a bloody pulp. Now put that rifle away before I decide to take it from you. Every word I’ve spoken is God’s truth, and that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
Wheeling his mount, he rode away at an easy trot, as if daring her to shoot him in the back. She wouldn’t do it, of course. That would be murder.
Shoving the gun back in its scabbard, Kristin watched his tall figure vanish in the direction of town. Had she unmasked a criminal or insulted an honorable man? Either way, Kristin sensed that she’d made an enemy—maybe a dangerous one.
The Great War had ended with an armistice last November. But after talking to Blake, her brother, Kristin already understood that she’d come home to a different kind of war—a war between families—the Dollarhides and the Calders.
CHAPTER TWO
IN THE WHITE-PILLARED CALDER MANSION KNOWN AS THE HOMESTEAD, the dining room table was big enough for a banquet. But tonight, there were just three places set at the end nearest the kitchen. Webb Calder, a vigorous man in his forties, sat at the head of the table. Chase, his eleven-year-old son, sat on his right. Logan Hunter, freshly bathed and shaved, sat on his left.
For distant relatives whose common bloodline had thinned over generations, the two men looked remarkably alike. They had the same broad-shouldered build, similar rugged facial features, thick brows, and dark hair. Webb’s hair was more silver than black. Logan, a decade younger, was just beginning to gray. Apart from their eye color—Webb’s blue, Logan’s brown—and the scar that slashed the side of the latter’s face like a lightning bolt, the resemblance was striking.
Young Chase, a miniature version of his father, was dipping chunks of bread in his beef stew, ignoring the conversation that passed between the two men.
Logan knew that the boy had lost his mother shortly after he was born. She’d been shot in one of the senseless range wars that flamed like tinder on the Montana prairie. Now, according to Webb, yet another war appeared to be smoldering.
Logan, who’d seen far too much violence, wanted no part of it. But now it appeared that he might not have a choice.
“So, were you able to find the Andersons and give them the letter?” Webb buttered a second slice of bread.
“I did,” Logan said. “I’ve lost track of how many such letters I’ve delivered in the past few months, some of them on my way here. This was the last one.”
“And you delivered them all in person?”
“As many as I could. For the ones that had to be mailed, I wrote my own accompanying letters. It was the least I could do.”
“But the Andersons—what did you think of them?”
“Good people. Strong. But there were tears when I gave them their son’s letter. Why do you ask?”
“Because most of the drylanders who quit farming, even the few who stayed around Blue Moon, have sold their land for pennies on the dollar. I’ve bought almost every parcel that butted onto my own property. But the Andersons are holding out. I just wondered if they’d shown any signs of wanting to sell—like maybe needing money.”
“We didn’t talk about that. But why would you want their land? You’ve already got the biggest spread in Montana.”
Webb sighed. “Cousin, you’ve got a lot to learn. Land isn’t just a place to plant crops or run cows. It’s water rights, access rights, maybe even mineral rights—you should know about that part. You got a bundle of cash for the mineral rights on that old family ranch of yours when drillers found oil under the property. Hell, you could’ve stayed and become one of those Texas millionaires.”
“Not me,” Logan said. “I’ve seen what oil drilling does to the land. It turns dirty and ugly, with no life on it—reminds me too much of the battlefields I left behind in France. With my family gone, I figured I might as well take the money and clear out. But we were talking about the Anderson parcel and why you want it.”