Page 38 of Calder Strong (The Calder Brand #5)

S ILAS ’ S CLOSE ENCOUNTER ON THE ROAD HAD LEFT HIM SHAKEN . He’d begun to dread the nighttime runs, with the constant fear of headlights appearing in his rearview mirror. Only the lure of money—and the reward of his trysts with Lola—kept him climbing behind the wheel of the truck every few nights.

Still, the urge to take the cash from its hiding place in the potato cellar and leave Montana for a new life was a burning hunger in his gut.

To find a new place that was warm like California or Mexico, to take a new name, live high, and have all the women he wanted—that dream was the only thing that made his miserable life worth living.

How much money would be enough? Silas asked himself that question as he drove toward the O’Rourke place, where the loaded truck would be waiting.

The loan he’d taken on the farm, which he never planned to repay, had almost doubled what he’d put aside from the moonshine runs.

He wasn’t rich, but he had enough to get him where he wanted to go, especially if he didn’t take Annabeth and the brats along.

Tonight’s run should pay decently. After that, he would arrange for one more.

Once it was scheduled, he planned to take his money out of the hiding place, pick up that last run of moonshine, and hit the road.

When he didn’t show up, his partners and his wife would assume he’d been hijacked and killed.

No one would bother to look for the vehicle or his body.

There were a few details left to work out, but the plan was a good one. Once it was carried out, he’d be free.

As he drove through the broken gate, Silas could tell that something was wrong. The first thing he noticed was that the truck, which should have been loaded and waiting, was gone.

His pulse lurched into a gallop as he pulled into the shadow of the trees, parked, and climbed out of the car. The smart course of action would have been to leave at once. But he needed to know what was going on.

Heart in his throat, he crept up the hill.

The way was dark, with no lantern light from the cave to guide him.

He could hear nothing but the familiar sounds of night.

But he could smell the smoky aroma of the fire and the fruity stench of fermenting mash.

As he climbed, he steeled himself for what he would find.

Seeing no sign of movement, Silas stepped into the clearing.

In the scant light from the waning moon and the glowing coals of the fire, he could make out the debris scattered on the ground—broken glass, crushed copper vessels and copper tubing, and shattered wooden crates.

There was more of the same in the mouth of the cave.

The still had been totally and wantonly destroyed.

Had the feds made a move on the place? Busting up a still was something they would do. But where were Buck and Culley? Had they been arrested and taken away?

Silas heard an agonized groan from the underbrush a few yards up the slope. He followed the sound.

Concealed by a clump of sage, Culley lay with his legs curled against his belly. His face was a mass of bloodied bruises. His nose was partly flattened, and his purpled eyes were swollen almost shut. One arm lay at a jutting angle.

Silas leaned over his partner. “Who did this, Culley?” he demanded. “Was it the feds?”

Culley moved his head to indicate no. So it had been the mob, probably the same ones who’d shot Silas earlier and stolen his cargo.

Culley’s lips moved. His words emerged as a hoarse whisper. “Get me to the house.”

“Can you walk?”

“Don’t know.”

Silas worked his arms under Culley’s body.

Culley was a small man, but so broken that getting him upright was like lifting a sack of loose kindling.

He bit back cries of pain. The breath whistled through his teeth as Silas supported him down the hill to the dilapidated house, inside through the back door, and onto the rumpled bed.

The stained china pitcher on the kitchen sink had likely seen better days.

Silas filled it with water and gave him a drink.

Then, using two straight kindling sticks and a ragged shirt he found, Silas set the broken arm and fashioned a splint.

White with pain beneath his bruises, the tough little man endured Silas’s none too gentle doctoring.

Some probing revealed two broken ribs, which Silas wrapped before he sponged the blood from Culley’s face.

Except for some ugly bruises, his legs appeared sound.

But he could have internal injuries—like a punctured lung or a ruptured spleen.

Silas knew of a man who’d been kicked by a horse and died from something like that.

There was still a chance Culley wouldn’t survive.

Culley drank a little more water. His breathing had eased. He appeared to be more comfortable. Silas pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down.

“Can you tell me what happened, Culley?” he asked.

Culley drew a painful breath. “Buck and me was loadin’ the truck when they just showed up. They tried to make me tell them where my money was. I wouldn’t, so they beat me. I crawled away while they was bustin’ up the still or I’d most likely be dead.”

“What happened to Buck?”

“I guess he lit out. You know Buck. He never had much stomach for a fight.” He released a long breath. “Will you stay with me a while, Silas?”

“Sure.” Silas was itching to leave, but Culley had mentioned something about money. His share from the moonshine would be equal to Silas’s. If Culley were to die and that money could be found, it would double what Silas had put away. The least he could do was keep watch for a while.

“There’s some laudanum in the cabinet over the sink,” Culley said. “It’s been there since before my ma passed, so it might not be any good. But maybe you could find it for me.”

Silas found the small brown glass bottle at the back of a cluttered shelf. There was a finger of liquid in the bottom. He tipped it to Culley’s mouth, giving him all of it.

“Thanks …” Culley closed his eyes. His breathing was shallow, his sleep broken by restless muttering. Would he rally or die? Silas thought of the money. He sat down again to wait.

An hour passed, then another. Culley was still sleeping, but his breathing was deeper and more regular.

He’d stopped thrash ing and appeared to be resting peacefully.

Maybe he wasn’t going to die after all. Silas got up and did some casual looking.

The money wasn’t in the cupboard or under the bed.

Maybe it was hidden in the mattress. But he couldn’t look there without waking Culley up.

Frustrated, he sat down to think. Silas had never killed a man. But when he thought of the money, he was tempted. All he would have to do was press a pillow over Culley’s face for a minute or two. Then he’d be free to search the house, take the money, and leave.

Culley groaned in his sleep. It was now or never. Silas rose to his feet, flexed his hands, and took a deep breath, working up his courage.

“Hey, is anybody here?” A familiar voice called from the kitchen door.

Silas felt the breath leave his chest as Buck walked into the room. Culley opened his eyes. “Damn you, Buck, where’d you run off to?”

“There was nothing I could do, partner,” Buck said. “But I’m here now. Just glad you’re alive.”

“I found him up the slope, half dead, no thanks to you,” Silas said. “The still’s nothing but trash, and the truck’s gone. I’d say we’re out of business for now. As long as you’re here, maybe you can play nursemaid for a while. I need to get home to my family.”

“Sure, Silas,” Buck said. “Honest, there was nothing we could’ve done. Those bastards showed up out of nowhere, like they had a map. There were four of them. They had guns and sledgehammers.”

Silas remembered the recent night when he’d been followed. The thugs could have marked the road he’d taken to get away. But he wasn’t about to mention that.

“I’m going,” he said, and walked out the door to his car. It was a shame about the money, but at least Buck hadn’t caught him putting Culley out of his misery.

All the way home, he thought about the stacks of bills he’d stashed in the potato cellar.

He’d lost track of the amount he’d stuffed into the gunny sack.

He could plan his getaway better if he knew exactly how much cash was there.

It was still dark out. His family would be fast asleep.

Counting the money shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.

As he approached the house, he turned off the headlights, then parked on the far side of the barnyard so Annabeth wouldn’t know he’d come home.

The potato cellar, dug in a wide trench and covered by a hill of earth supported by boards, was about twenty yards from the house.

The heavy wooden door, installed at an angle over the entrance, had to be lifted on the open side and laid back on its hinges.

After a glance toward the house to make sure no one was up, he turned on the flashlight he kept in the car, unlatched the door, and hefted it open.

The cellar was less than a third full, and the potatoes that remained were beginning to sprout.

They would need to be thrown out before the next harvest—which wasn’t his worry anymore.

The empty sacks were piled four feet high in the back of the cellar. Kneeling, Silas worked the one with the money out from the bottom of the pile, untied the knotted top, and spread the bills on the dirt floor. He wouldn’t need an exact count, just a rough idea of how much there was.

After sorting the bills into hundreds, twenties, tens, and a few smaller dominations, he began a quick count.

As the numbers grew, Silas began to sweat.

With the loan on the farm thrown in, he had almost $60,000—not a fortune, but more money than he’d ever dreamed of having in his life.

It would be more than enough to get him off to a new start.