A Calder at Heart

Book 3: Calder Brand

by Janet Dailey

Genres: American Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

1919, Blue Moon, Montana. With the Great War over and the country on the brink of Prohibition, the small town is about to undergo another seismic shift.
But as with any big change, there’s bound to be blood. This time, the fate of Blue Moon’s most powerful families hangs in the balance …
Battle-scarred and emotionally ravaged by the loss of his wife and children to Spanish flu, former US Army Major Logan Hunter heads to Blue Moon to salvage whatever peace he can near the only family he has left. Not only does the Calder clan embrace him, but patriarch Webb Calder helps
Logan secure a prime piece of ranching property. Yet settling into his new home is fraught with challenges, especially since Logan’s land borders the rival Dollarhide spread, stoking the battle between the families anew and pitting Logan against an adversary who stirs him like no other …
From her first encounter with Logan Hunter, Dr. Kristin Dollarhide feels an instant connection to the sorrow in his beautiful eyes. As a former military MD, Kristin is no stranger to the devastating effects the war has left on hearts and minds—including her own. Despite her instinct to steer clear, Kristin
is powerfully drawn to the handsome widower. Until the raging conflict takes a tragic turn, threatening all hope for their future …
The epic tale of the settling of the American West comes to vivid life in this inspiring saga of love, hope and endurance.

Release date: February 21, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Dismounting from the dun mare that had carried her here, Kristin dropped the reins and looped the riding crop around her wrist. The long grass swished against her boots as she walked toward the grave of the boy who’d been her first love. Her lips whispered his name.

“Alvar.”

The wildflowers she’d stopped to pick along the way were wilting in her hand. But they were all she had. Kneeling, she laid the sad little bouquet at the foot of the headstone. Alvar Anderson had been shot in a senseless fight between ranchers and immigrant farmers two days before Kristin had been due to leave Blue Moon for travel and school. They’d said goodbye the night of his death. But she’d been unable to stay for his funeral.

In the ten years that had passed, there’d been other men in Kristin’s life, most of them killed in the Great War. But Alvar would always own a piece of her heart—his memory the last remaining part of her that was pure and good.

Maybe here, on the Montana land where she’d grown up, that memory would help her find peace.

Her gaze took in the broad sweep of the prairie, rising to wooded foothills and then to peaks that towered above the tree line. The wheat fields she remembered were gone, the immigrant homesteaders driven away by drought, locusts, harsh winter blizzards, and finally the Great War in Europe that had taken so many of their young men.

One of those young men had been Axel Anderson, Alvar’s younger brother, who would never come home again.

In the near distance, she could see the remains of the Anderson homestead—the foundation of the pillaged house, a few fence posts, the toppled privy. Everything else had been stripped for building materials made scarce by the war.

A white butterfly settled on Alvar’s headstone, rested a moment, then fluttered away. Kristin’s gaze followed it as it dipped and danced over the tiny yellow flowers that dotted the grassland.

They had been so young, she and Alvar. Her one regret was that they hadn’t made love. Instead, her first time had been a groping encounter with a fellow medical student she barely knew, in the rumble seat of his Model T.

But why think of that now?

She was about to get up and leave when a shadow fell over her, like a cloud passing across the morning sun. Turning, she gave a startled gasp. Silhouetted against the glare, a tall, rough-looking man in trail-worn clothes stood a few paces behind her. He had come up so silently that she’d been completely unaware of him.

The rifle she’d brought along for safety was on the horse. All she had was her riding crop. If the big man wanted to overcome her, the flexible leather rod with its flat tip wouldn’t be much help. Worse, she could see that he was armed. But he made no move to draw the pistol that rested in a holster on his hip.

Scrambling to her feet, she faced him, the sun in her eyes and the crop in her hand. “Not a step closer, mister,” she said. “Not unless you want a whipping.”

“Take it easy, miss.” He tipped his weathered hat. His speech—easy-paced, with a hint of a drawl—was pure Texan. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I was about to speak when you turned around.”

“A likely story.” Kristin kept her grip on the riding crop. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? Why did you sneak up behind me like that?”

“I wasn’t sneaking, miss. But I was at a loss for words. I didn’t expect to see a woman out here alone. I was as surprised as you were.” He moved to one side, changing the angle of the sunlight. She could see his face now—features that could have been chiseled from granite. His short beard, peppered with gray like his hair, failed to hide the jagged scar that ran from his left temple to the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes had a haunted look—the kind of look Kristin had seen on far too many veterans who’d survived the war—as this man likely had.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. The horrors of combat had a way of twisting men’s minds. Some, even those who’d come safely home, still saw the enemy everywhere. Driven by fear and delusion, this powerful stranger could hurt her, even kill her.

Kristin looked past him to the rangy buckskin horse that he’d left near her mare. She knew horses. That one showed quality breeding. Her danger senses prickled. Where would the stranger, who had the look of a vagabond, get a horse like that unless he’d stolen it—maybe even killed for it?

Fear crawled up her spine like a snake’s cold belly. But she knew better than to let him see how nervous she was.

“This is private property. What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I might ask you the same question.”

“But I asked first. What’s your business on this land?”

His mouth tightened. He nodded and spoke. “Actually, I was looking for a family. I have a map, showing the way to their place, but I must’ve read it wrong because there’s nothing out here. I was about to ask you for help when you saw me and got the wrong impression—not that I blame you.”

She exhaled, less afraid now but still keeping her guard up. “Most of the people who used to live out here have moved away. What was the family’s name?”

“Anderson. I’m looking for the Lars Anderson homestead.”

“You’ve found it.” Kristin lowered the riding crop, relieved in spite of herself. “Their house stood right over there. You can see the foundation.”

“So you know the family?”

“The eldest Anderson daughter married my brother.”

“Then you must know where they’ve gone. I need to find them. It’s important.”

“They live in town now. Mr. Anderson homesteaded this land and farmed it for years. He wanted to leave it to his two sons. But he lost heart after both of them died—one of them years ago. He’s buried right there.” She nodded toward the grave. “The other one died in the war. He’s buried in France.”

“That would be Corporal Axel Anderson, right? He’s the reason I’m here.” Reaching into an inner pocket of his vest, he drew out a creased, stained envelope. “My name is Logan Hunter—Major Logan Hunter, not that it makes much difference these days. I was Corporal Anderson’s commanding officer. He wrote this letter before he died in the Argonne Forest. I promised to get it to his family. See—he didn’t have an address, so he drew this map on the back.”

The man’s story rang true, especially with the letter as evidence. As Kristin’s gaze took in the sealed envelope, something tugged at her emotions. The young boy she remembered had been so bright and full of promise. Axel’s death must have broken his father’s heart.

“I apologize for threatening to whip you, Major,” she said. “I’m Dr. Kristin Dollarhide. I was stationed in France and posted to a stateside veterans’ hospital after the war. I’ve just come home myself. If you want, I could give that letter to my sister-in-law for her family. It would save you the trouble of finding Axel’s parents.”

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.

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.”

“Dad, can I be excused?” Chase had waited for a pause in the conversation. “Buck and me are going down to the cattle tank to hunt frogs.”

“All right. Just be back before your bedtime. Don’t make me come out looking for you.”

The boy hurried away, leaving his father to continue where he’d left off. “Yes, the land. As I said, for the past couple of years I’ve been buying up everything that borders the Triple C. It’s not for cattle—those damned wheat farmers plowed up all the good grass. It’s mostly for protection, to put a safe distance between this ranch and anybody who fancies our being neighbors. That means, among other things, protecting our water and our fences.” Webb dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “But I have another reason for wanting the Anderson parcel. I can show you better than tell you. Come on into the study.”

Getting up from the table, Logan followed his host down the hall. The Calder study was the heart of the Triple C Ranch, and it was suitably impressive—from the ornate walnut desk and leather seating to the fireplace, which was crowned by a mounted pair of massive horns from Captain, the longhorn steer that had led herds of Calder cattle along the trail from Texas to Montana.

Above the mantel a giant, framed map displayed the full expanse of the ranch. The acreage was even more vast than Logan had imagined. “Pretty impressive,” he said.

Webb picked up a billiard cue that served as a pointer. “Let me show you why I’m so keen on buying the Anderson property.”

He ran the tip of the cue along a dark line that defined the eastern border of the Triple C. “I’ve bought almost all the properties along here for cents on the dollar—but I haven’t bothered with this ranch in the foothills.” He tapped a section at the top of the map. “It’s owned by a scum of the earth Irishman named Angus O’Rourke. He lives up there in a shack with a wife and two scraggly kids. I don’t trust the bounder, but as long as he doesn’t steal from me, I leave him alone.

“Now here—” Webb tapped the cue point lower on the map. “This is the Lars Anderson property. The original homestead didn’t touch my ranch. But when Anderson’s neighbor to the west moved away, Lars bought it to expand his own acreage. Now that big stubborn Swede is my next-door neighbor. And even if he needed to sell, he’d starve before he’d do business with a Calder.”

“I suppose I should ask why,” Logan said.

“It’s because his daughter’s married to that hell-damned water-stealing Blake Dollarhide.”

The connection clicked in Logan’s mind. He remembered the beautiful, dark-haired woman who’d claimed to have no use for the Calders. Kristin Dollarhide. Doctor Kristin Dollarhide.

“I met one of the Dollarhides this morning,” Logan said. “Prickly as a blackberry bush. She pulled a gun and accused me of stealing your horse. When I mentioned that I was related to the Calders, I could feel the chill from ten feet away. She must’ve been Blake Dollarhide’s sister.”

Webb frowned. “That’s all we need around here, one more Dollarhide. I heard that she was back, and that she’s a doctor now. If I get sick, remind me not to go to her. She’d be liable to slice open a vein and let me bleed out.”

“So tell me more about the Anderson property.” Logan steered the subject back on track. “Why are you so interested in it?”

“It comes down to one thing—water,” Webb said. “When the drylanders, including the Andersons, settled here, they dug wells. But the water was too alkaline to be of any use. They ended up having to haul water from town for drinking and washing. The farmer who owned the parcel behind the Andersons’ was a latecomer. He didn’t bother with a well because he’d seen that it would be a waste of time. Now here’s where the story gets interesting.”

Again Webb pointed to the map. “Last year, I needed a well dug near the eastern boundary of my ranch, so I called in a team of experts. They put down a borehole and brought up good, clean water. While they were here, I asked them to do an analysis of the land around the new well. They dug more boreholes and tested rock samples. It turned out there’s an aquifer—that’s a layer of water-bearing rock—that lies under my land and extends partway into that second Anderson parcel. If anybody had bothered to dig a well close to the property line, they’d have found usable water.”

“I see,” Logan said. “So if you owned that land, would you dig more wells?”

“No. But a well on that property could pull water from the one on my land. What I want is to keep any more wells from being dug. I need all the water from that aquifer on my ranch.”

“Does Lars Anderson know about the aquifer?”

“No. But he could sell the land to somebody smart enough to figure out that it’s there—somebody like his son-in-law, Blake Dollarhide, who’d put down a well and maybe poison it just to spite me.”

“I get the picture.” Logan did, and he didn’t much like it. “But while we’re on the subject of land, I’d like to know more about that ranch property you picked for me to buy.”

“That can wait till tomorrow. When it’s light, we can ride out and see the place. You’ll like it, I promise. If not, you can choose something else. But for now, I’d like you to think about a favor you could do for me.”

“Name it,” Logan said. “I certainly owe you a favor for your help and hospitality.”

“Just this. Lars Anderson would never sell that parcel to me. But as a man he trusts—his son’s commander who was kind enough to bring him the boy’s last letter—I’ll bet you could sweet-talk Lars into selling the land to you.”

After dinner was over and the children were getting ready for bed, Kristin walked out onto the broad covered porch of the Dollarhide family home. With her hand on the log railing, she watched the risen moon cast cloud shadows over the landscape below. The fields and pastures were dark, but here and there, dots of light glimmered like distant stars. To the north, the town of Blue Moon glowed like a faint beacon in the night.

Joe Dollarhide, her father, had built this sprawling log house on the crest of a high bluff to command a view of the prairie with its meadows, pastures, and farms. Kristin had always loved this place. But some things had changed in her absence. Joe was gone now, and his wife, Sarah, with him. Both had been lost in the past year to the ravages of Spanish flu, which Sarah had brought home after going out to deliver a baby.

Kristin mourned her parents, whose deaths had left a hole in her heart. But at least her brother and his young family had been spared. Blake, his wife, Hanna, and their three children were all in good health. And Blake now helmed a family empire that included land, horses, cattle, and a lumber mill.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Blake came out to stand beside her. “Are you cold?” he asked. “I can bring you a shawl.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s good to be home. But I’d forgotten how quiet it is here. After the war and the chaos of the hospital, the stillness seems almost unreal.”

“You’ll get used to it. Maybe the peace and quiet will help you forget what you’ve seen and heard for the past two years.”

The words were well meant. But Kristin would never forget the horror and the misery, shells exploding in the trenches, shattered limbs that had to be sawed off, men dying in her arms. And the gas attacks—men screaming when they couldn’t get their masks on or hadn’t been issued any.

“Was it hard being a woman doctor among all those men?”

“I was a doctor. Under those conditions, my being a woman didn’t matter. And there were nurses with me—the bravest young women I ever knew. They had no protection. When the shells hit a hospital tent or an ambulance, they died along with the men.”

Blake took a long, deep breath. He stood silent for a moment, as if trying to imagine the unimaginable. “Will you be all right?” he asked.

“In time. I’ll have to be, won’t I?” She forced a smile, then leaned forward, resting her forearms on the rail. “I rode into town today and checked on possible places to set up my practice. I’ll make a final choice in the next few days. Then, as soon as that crate of supplies I ordered arrives in Miles City on the train, I’ll be open for business.”

“So soon? Are you sure you’re ready?”

“To treat fevers and sprains and deliver babies? I’m more than ready.” She sighed, inhaling the fresh, clean mountain air and the smell of awakening grass. “I rode out to the old Anderson place to visit Alvar’s grave. The family was gone, of course—Hanna told me they’d moved into town. But a man showed up while I was there. A stranger. He struck me as someone you’ll want to watch.”

She told him about meeting Logan Hunter at Alvar’s grave, the letter and his story of being Axel Anderson’s commanding officer, and the revelation that he was a blood relative of Webb Calder.

“Did you believe him?” Blake asked.

“I saw no reason not to. He looks enough like Webb to be related. And he got angry when I implied that he might be lying. He said he was looking to buy some property and even joked that we might become neighbors. I hope that doesn’t mean trouble.”

“What it means, I think, is that Webb Calder has brought in reinforcements. With most of the drylanders gone and so many people lost in the war and to the flu, there’ll be plenty of land to choose from. If I know Webb, he’ll encourage this relative of his to settle someplace that will give him an advantage over me.” Blake fell silent, as if he might know more than he was telling her.

“When do you plan to start up the lumber mill again?” she asked.

“As soon as my order for the first wagonload of logs comes in. With veterans returning home, starting new families, there’ll be a need for new homes and businesses. And I shouldn’t have any trouble hiring a crew. Robertson, my best sawyer, said he’d welcome the work. He can train the rest.”

The lumber mill had been idle for two years, with no logs available because the lumberjacks in the Northwest were off fighting. Now everything was about to change. During the war, the chief source of income for the Dollarhides had been selling horses and beef cattle to the army. Now, with the lumber mill starting up again, they were poised to take advantage of the building boom that was bound to come. Blake had planned well. The Dollarhide fortune was in capable hands.

“You have a beautiful family,” Kristin said, changing the subject. “Your little girls are as pretty as their mother, and so smart. And Joseph—he’. . .