If only Logan were here. He knew the Andersons well. They liked and respected him. He was compassionate and skilled when it came to delivering the worst news. And his love would lend her the strength she needed.
The yearning she felt was so powerful that it brought tears to her eyes. But Logan was out of reach. She would have to support the Andersons as best she could, perhaps just by being there.
* * *
Mason drove the auto through the gate of the Hollister Ranch and parked it under an open shed. Shutting off the engine, he laid his forehead against the steering wheel as he struggled to collect his wits before he faced his mother.
Driving home, he’d passed the turnoff to the bog road. The deputies had arrived. He could see flashlights moving in the dark, searching every inch of land on both sides of the dike. If Gerda was there, alive or not, they would find her. He could imagine what Amelia Hollister Dollarhide would have to say about that.
Tell her nothing. For now, that would be the simplest way to handle things. Then he wouldn’t have to listen to her rail on and on about the folly of getting mixed up with low-class immigrant girls.
The irony was that, for all the times he’d had his fun with women and gotten away clean, he should be tripped up when he was innocent. Even with Hanna, things had turned out all right. Joseph was a boy to be proud of, even though Mason knew he could have no claim on him.
But this time he’d been so careful. The business of shipping illegal liquor was so lucrative, and so risky, that he couldn’t afford any kind of slip-up. But it had happened anyway—and with a big shipment expected by the end of the week. For all he knew, he could be in jail by then.
Even if Gerda were to turn up alive, she’d be clamoring for him to marry her. With her father and the whole town behind her, he might not have a choice. Either way, he was in serious trouble.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE ANDERSON HOME WAS AN EASY DISTANCE FROM KRISTIN’S place. Walking under the stars, with a dry wind blowing her hair, she scoured her mind for a gentle way to tell a worried family that their precious youngest daughter was missing and possibly dead.
Should she tell them that the sheriff’s team was searching the bog for her—would that be helpful or distressing? And what about her pregnancy? Her mother and sister were aware of it, but as far as Kristin knew, no one had told Lars. Better to leave it that way. And any mention of Mason was out of the question. But what should she say if they were to ask?
The Andersons tended to retire early, but tonight the lights in the house were on. They would be waiting for Gerda to come home, already fearing the worst.
She tapped on the front door. It was flung open by Britta, who returned her gaze with knowing eyes. After an instant’s hesitation the two embraced.
“Something’s happened to Gerda, hasn’t it?” Britta whispered the words in Kristin’s ear. “If you know anything, you can tell me. But I want to protect my parents for as long as I can.”
“I’ll tell you everything when we get a moment alone,” Kristin said. “Then you can decide what to pass on.” All the way here, Kristin had worried over what to say. But Britta had just taken the decision on herself.
Inga and Lars sat at the kitchen table. The mother of the family looked tiny next to her husband, as if grief and worry had shrunk her body. Kristin knew Inga Anderson to be a strong woman. But after the loss of her sons, how much more grief could she stand?
Lars was a caged lion—shifting, restless, as if it were all he could do to keep from bolting out of the house and tearing the town apart to find his daughter. “If she’s run off with that Mason Dollarhide, I’m going to kill him,” he said.
Ignoring her husband, Inga rose from her chair. “How kind of you to come, Kristin. Can I make you some tea?”
Kristin would have declined, but the poor woman probably needed something to do. “Thank you, that would be lovely,” she said.
“We’re probably worried for nothing,” Inga chatted as she measured the tea and boiled the water. “You know Gerda. Any minute now, she’ll come waltzing in the door saying she lost track of the time. We’ll scold her, she’ll toss her pretty head, and that will be the end of it.”
Her words would almost have sounded convincing if it hadn’t been for the break in her voice and the tear trickling down her cheek.
Britta touched Kristin’s shoulder. “While the tea’s brewing, let me show you the fabric for the dress I’m planning to make.”
Kristin followed her down the hall to her room. Closing the door behind them, Britta turned to her. “Tell me everything,” she said.
In as few words as possible, Kristin told her all she knew. “Mason swears he didn’t touch her. He’s my brother, and I want to believe him, but we won’t know any more until she’s found.”
“So, there’s still a chance they could find her alive?”
“That’s why the sheriff refused to wait until morning. She could be hurt, trapped, or just scared and hiding. Time could make all the difference.”
Britta shuddered. “Hope is such a cruel thing, isn’t it?”
“Come on, let’s go back and join your parents,” Kristin said. “What you tell them will be up to you. I promise not to say a word.”
Time crawled past, each tick of the wall clock weighted with despair. Kristin encouraged the others to get some sleep. But her words were wasted. No one could close an eye. Lars got up and went out to check the horses. The three women might have used the time to discuss what was happening. But they were drained of words, and there were too many secrets among them. All they could do was gaze at each other across the table or make feeble attempts at small talk. All of them were thinking of the beautiful, foolish young girl with the willful heart. Would they ever see her again or hear the sound of her careless laughter?
Lars returned. Britta looked at him and shook her head. He settled back onto his chair, muttering something in his native Swedish. It sounded like a prayer.
It was after two o’clock in the morning when the knock came. Kristin rushed to the door. Sheriff Calhoun, muddy and haggard, stood on the threshold. “We found her.” His voice was hoarse with exhaustion. “I’m sorry.”
The three Andersons rushed into the parlor. Lars was white with shock. Inga, half fainting, leaned on Britta for support.
“Where did you find her?” Kristin asked. “Can you tell us what happened? Was it an accident?”
The sheriff sighed. “No, not an accident. We found her lying in the field. Evidently, she’d had a miscarriage and couldn’t stop the bleeding afterward. We’ll need you to do an examination, Doctor, to determine whether there was any foul play involved. But it appears that she died from blood loss.”
A sound like the cry of a wounded animal rose from Inga. Her legs sagged beneath her. Britta caught her and laid her on the couch before she could fall to the floor.
Lars had gone rigid with shock. “You say my girl had a miscarriage? She was with child?” he demanded.
“I’m afraid that much is true,” the sheriff said.
“Then it was the baby that killed her!” Color flooded Lars’s face as his emotions swung from shock to rage. “That devil, Mason Dollarhide! I’m going to kill him!”