Two tall figures stood in the shadows off to one side of the dance floor. One of them was Britta. The other was her father, Lars. Kristin studied them with furtive glances. Big Lars, with his hulking frame and craggy features, kept a fierce eagle eye on Gerda as she danced and flirted. His expression said clearly that if he had his way, girls would be locked up at home until suitable husbands showed up to claim them.
Tall, like her father, Britta towered over average-sized men. But there was a grace about her slender figure that Kristin had noticed and admired. Her strong features, freckled by the sun, failed to meet the day’s standard of dainty, porcelain beauty. But her blue eyes lit her face with kindness. Now in her mid-twenties, she’d already been dismissed as an old-maid schoolmarm. But she deserved better, Kristin thought. She deserved a man’s love and a family of her own.
Now she stood well back from the dance floor, as if to avoid the humiliation of not being asked to dance. Her face, in this unguarded moment, wore a wistful expression. Was she here to keep watch on her popular sister—or maybe to control her volatile father? It was hard to believe that she would choose to be here for herself.
The catchy foxtrot tune had ended. There was the usual shuffling of partners, a buzz of conversation. Then a hush fell as a tall figure strode across the floor—long legs clad in jeans, trail-worn boots, a holstered pistol—the only one allowed here—slung from his belt, and a leather vest emblazoned with a star-shaped badge. It was the new sheriff, Jake Calhoun, and he was walking straight toward Britta.
He was a handsome man with dark hair and chiseled features that hinted of his ancestry—Cherokee, perhaps, or Spanish, or even Creole. When he faced Britta, he was tall enough to look straight into her eyes.
She looked surprised, then seemed to recover. “Am I under arrest?” she asked.
A smile tugged at his thin mouth. He held out his hand. “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Anderson?” he asked.
She looked skeptical for an instant, as if she thought he might be joking; but then she gave him her hand and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. The musicians glanced at one another, then took up a slower blues beat.
He took her in his arms, leaving the proper nine inches of space between them. Britta wasn’t an expert dancer, but she must’ve practiced, perhaps with her sisters, because she was able to follow his lead. They made a stunning couple, elegant in their height and grace. For the first few beats they were alone on the floor. Then other couples moved in around them.
Kristin had been watching them when she noticed a subtle stirring on the far side of the floor. Heads turned as Mason stepped into view.
Tastefully dressed in twill pants, a matching vest, and a raw silk shirt, he surveyed the dancers like a sheikh making a selection from his harem. Gerda had already seen him come in. She was looking past her cowboy partner, wriggling her fingers to catch Mason’s eye.
The dance ended. A radiant Britta was returned to her father’s side. Gerda, breathless with anticipation, stood in plain sight as Mason took his time, eyeing other girls, playing her, making her wait.
Damn his arrogance! Kristin thought.
At last he turned and, with a smile, walked toward her with his hand extended. Visibly wilting with relief, she took it and let him lead her onto the dance floor. The band broke into a newly popular jazz tune.
Clasping Gerda’s waist, Mason drew her close, arching her back over his arm in a scandalously daring series of steps and moves. The crowd on the dance floor drew back to watch. Was this the way they danced in glamorous places like New Orleans, San Francisco, and Hollywood?
Startled, Gerda was rigid at first, but she soon adapted, letting Mason be the star while she played the manipulated doll. The crowd was cheering them on when a roar of incoherent rage erupted from the sidelines.
White-faced with fury, Lars charged onto the dance floor.
“No, no, Papa!” Britta pleaded, clinging to the back of his shirt. But she was no more than a trailing feather as he pulled her along behind him. The crowd parted as he headed straight for Mason and Gerda and yanked them apart.
Gerda screamed as his huge fist slammed Mason in the side of the jaw and sent him reeling. “You are the devil!” Lars bellowed. “You ruined one of my daughters! Now you ruin this one! I will kill you!”
Staggering from the first blow, Mason was vulnerable. Gerda flew to him, trying to protect him. Lars flung her aside and waded in for another punch that struck him full in the face. Mason doubled over, clutching his nose. Blood seeped between his fingers as Lars raised his fist for another crushing blow.
“Stop it right there, Mr. Anderson.” The sheriff had drawn his pistol. His voice was cold. “Don’t make me shoot you to save this man’s life.”
“You would shoot me for defending my family honor?” Lars had dropped his hands. He stared at the sheriff, a bewildered expression on his face.
The sheriff holstered his gun. A pair of handcuffs seemed to appear from nowhere. “Lars Anderson, I’m arresting you for your assault on Mr. Dollarhide. Put your hands behind your back.”
Meekly now, Lars complied.
“No! Don’t arrest him!” Britta sprang to her father’s side, facing the man who’d held her so gently on the dance floor. “He doesn’t understand. Let me take him home.”
The cuffs clicked into place, painfully tight around Lars’s massive wrists. “I’m sorry, but he’s broken the law,” the sheriff said. “Now please step aside, Miss Anderson.”
Britta shot him an angry look, then hurried to comfort her sister, who’d broken into heart-wrenching sobs. As Lars was led away, Kristin pushed through the crowd to aid her brother. He was on his feet, still clutching his broken and bleeding nose. Someone passed her a clean, white handkerchief. She gave it to Mason to soak up the blood.
“We’ve got to get you to my surgery,” she said. “I came on foot. How did you get here?”
“My auto’s out by the street,” he muttered. “I don’t know if I can drive. Can you?”
“I can. Come on.” She took his arm. “Tell me where to find it.”
Unsteady and hurting, he leaned on her for support as they walked back toward the street. Behind them, the band had started up again. In the faint glow cast by the electric lights, she glimpsed Britta shepherding Gerda toward their buggy. By now their father would be behind bars. Poor, humiliated man. Someone needed to speak up on his behalf.
“That old bastard damn near killed me,” Mason said as he climbed into the passenger seat of his auto.
“With good cause, I’d say.” Kristin took the key from him, set it in the ignition, and got out to crank the starter. They spoke little until she had him propped on her operating table and was washing the blood from his face and hands. His expensive vest and trousers were hopelessly bloodstained. His silk shirt was soaked down the front.
“So help me, sis, except for a few kisses, I never touched that old man’s daughter. Oh, I know that I crossed the line with Hanna. And look what she’s got now—a rich husband and a right fine boy. You could almost say I did her a favor. But that was in the past. I know better now.”
Kristin used a speculum to guide the crooked nose back into shape. Mason cursed as he felt the painful pressure begin.