At first Hanna had blamed herself and the searing confession she’d given him after he’d caught her coming home in the night. But no, the change in Alvar had come about later, after the two days he’d spent in the Dollarhide home. Perhaps seeing how privileged people lived had given him a clear view of his own family’s poor circumstances—and sharpened his longing for a life beyond his reach. Whatever the reason, Hanna could sense the restlessness in him, and she was worried.
He’d taken his seat on the bench with the other men and boys. As she placed a pan of fried potatoes on the table, Hanna leaned close to him. “How’s your leg?” she asked, making an excuse to speak to him.
“It’s fine. No need to fuss over me, Hanna.” He looked up at her. “You look tired. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Like you.” She turned away and headed back toward the makeshift kitchen.
“Hanna!” A girl in the group of friends called to her. “We’ve been talking about the harvest festival. We’re all planning to go. Will you be there, too?”
“Maybe. I might be busy.” Hanna hurried on her way. She’d avoided thinking about the harvest celebration in town. Ordinarily she would have been excited to go with her family, show off her new dress, and twirl around the dance floor. But after what had happened with Mason, how could she show up and act as if nothing had changed?
Would Mason be there? If he were to speak to her, or ask her to dance, how would she respond? How could she even bear to look at him? But how would she feel if he ignored her? Would it be a relief, or would it be the crowning humiliation?
“Hanna!” It was her mother’s voice. “Stop daydreaming and get this bread on the table!”
Shoving thoughts of Mason to the back of her mind, she murmured an apology and rushed to do her work.
* * *
Blake had ridden into Blue Moon to deposit the funds from last week’s lumber sales into the business bank account. He’d also set aside some idle time to take the pulse of the town, walk around, get a drink, maybe hear a few rumors. As a businessman who needed to plan ahead, he’d found that it paid to know what folks were thinking.
He’d already noticed that there were few people on the street today. The reason was no mystery. The drylanders were harvesting their wheat. The threshing machine—so noisy that it could be heard even in town—was spewing out chaff, most of it as straw, which would be hauled away and put to use. But the finer particles rose in windblown clouds of yellow dust that spread over the landscape, irritating to the eyes, throats, and nostrils of man and beast alike.
Blake took refuge in the saloon. As he expected, the place was full of cowboys, and nobody was in a good mood. They were grumbling about the dust, the noise, and the drylanders in general. Squeezing into a vacant spot at the bar, he ordered a beer, paid, and stepped back to make room for other customers. The tables were all taken. He was drinking on his feet when he heard his name called.
“Blake Dollarhide. Come take a seat.”
He turned. The speaker was Webb Calder. He was sitting at a small corner table with an empty chair tucked under the opposite side.
“Thanks. Don’t mind if I do.” Masking his surprise, Blake pulled out the chair and sat down. Webb, looking hot and dusty, was partway through a glass of whiskey. Blake sipped his beer and waited for the other man to start the conversation.
“My dad said you came to see him,” Webb said.
“That’s right. I wanted some help tracking down the bastards who dynamited that house and killed the little girl, before the drylanders caught up with them and started a war.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“Pretty much the same as you told me when I asked for your help.”
“And look how it all turned out. Nothing happened. The raiders are scattered to the four winds, and the honyockers are reaping their damned wheat.” Webb was almost gloating. “So what did you learn from this, Blake?”
“Just this. The next time I need help seeing justice done, I won’t bother asking a Calder.”
Webb chuckled. “Mark my word, those sodbusters won’t last the winter. Come spring, the ones who haven’t starved or frozen will be pulling up stakes and selling out—not that their land will be good for much now that they’ve plowed up all the grass.” His gaze narrowed. “Rumor has it you’ve hired one of them at the sawmill.”
“That’s right. He’s a good worker. I could use another dozen like him.”
Webb leaned closer across the table and lowered his voice. “Me, I don’t give a damn who works for you. But there are folks who don’t like your hiring honyockers—the idea being that if they can get jobs around here, they’ll be more likely to stay.”
“I can’t see that it’s anyone else’s business,” Blake said. “As long as they can do the work, I’ll hire whomever I please.”
“Blast it, man, this is for your own good. There’s talk that you’ve gone over to their side.”
“Thanks for the warning, but I’m not on anybody’s side.” Blake had heard enough. “As long as I’m here, do you mind if I change the subject? There’s something I want to ask you.”
Webb shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“It’s about Ruth.”
“You want to know if she’s my girl?”
“Yes. Do you have plans? Or is she free to see somebody else, like me?”
“Ruth is a great girl. And I know what my mother expects. But for me, marrying Ruth would feel like marrying my sister. So no, we don’t have plans. And yes, she’s free. So do your damnedest. Take her off my hands and make her happy. I’ll dance at your wedding.”
With that, Webb tossed down the rest of his whiskey, rose to his feet, and walked out of the saloon.
Taking his time, Blake finished his beer and did the same at a more measured pace. By the time he stepped out into the yellow haze, Webb was nowhere in sight. Mounting his horse, Blake headed south, out of town.
If Webb hadn’t been sitting right in front of him, Blake probably wouldn’t have bothered to ask about Ruth. Anybody with eyes could guess where things stood between them. She was waiting patiently for Webb to come around. And he was burning with lust for another woman.
But maybe she was getting tired of waiting. Maybe her friendliness in the store was a signal that things were about to change.
Was he, himself, in love with her? He could be, Blake thought, if he were to let it happen. She was pretty and smart and gentle. What more could a man want in a woman?
Over the last few weeks he’d harbored a sense that change was coming—he’d assumed that any change would be for the worse, but what if he was wrong? Maybe the upcoming harvest festival would be a turning point, the beginning of something good.
Whatever was coming, all he could do was brace for it and be ready.
* * *
The wheat harvest was done—the threshing crew was gone with their machines, the sacks filled, hauled, and weighed at the grain office in Blue Moon. The long-awaited money had been paid to the farmers who’d opened accounts in the bank to keep their riches safe.
When Lars came home and showed his family the bank receipt, his wife gasped. “So much money, Lars! Now we can build a real house, with a floor and glass windows.”