Wyoming Heather (2 page)

Chapter 3

The barn was in worse shape than Whip had realized in last night’s brief glance. Good thing he hadn’t taken the time to really look it over. He would have been awake all night wondering how in the hell he was going to get things in shape before the herd of cattle arrived. He’d left them, along with a couple hands, corralled on the outskirts of Cheyenne and rode ahead, eager to see what was left of his old dream. He figured it would take a little over a week for them to reach his spread. He’d left orders to move the cattle slow, preserving every ounce of fat on their rangy bodies. They’d need that and more before winter.

He turned his head toward the small knoll at the back of the cabin. It was the last place he wanted to look. A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw, the only evidence of the effort this cost him. The knoll was bare save for a clump of dead grass waving in the slight breeze, a clump of grass, and a small, wooden cross.

His hand was gripping the cross before he was aware he’d covered the distance and climbed the knoll. It was tilted and loose in the dry dirt. Unthinkingly, he pulled it toward him, then bent down and packed dirt around the base. Tamping it in place with the toe of his boot he shook his head, attempting to shake free of the past.

Nothing good would come of thinking about the slight woman with yellow hair resting in the homemade coffin below his feet. Still, he knew that wouldn’t stop the memories. These were memories that had haunted him for five years. Memories that had made him shut the cabin door and ride away without a backward glance.

Five years. Not all of them bad. He’d rode with the best of them, fellow Texas Rangers. It wouldn’t be fair to say he hadn’t had times of forgetting, and as the years wore on, those times increased. Until one day he knew he could face returning home. He’d turned in his star, said his goodbyes, and drew out his savings. It wasn’t a lot, by any means, but it would be enough to get a start and hold him over through lean times. The land was good, he had plenty of water, so now all he needed was to ignore the pain of remembering.

He turned and looked across his land, at the Powder River snaking in the distance, the cottonwoods thick along its banks. Yeah, he thought with a smile, he had his work cut out for him. But it was good. God yes, it was good.

Chapter 4

The two weeks were up, and the cattle still hadn’t arrived. Each morning Whip rode to the top of a bluff, scanning the prairie for dust. And during the long days spent building corrals, repairing the barn, and riding his land, he kept a watchful eye on the distant trail.

“Don’t come by the end of the week, I’d better head into Buffalo, see if there’s any news.” He didn’t look forward to the day’s ride when there was so much to be done around the ranch. He tilted his hat off his forehead and wiped his brow. Summer may not be far along, but the sun was already heating up the land. He looked longingly at the cottonwoods in the distance, then once more toward Cheyenne and the empty trail. He needed those cattle, not just for the ranch, but for the work they’d bring with them. The companionship of the trail hands would take away all this time to think and to remember.

He didn’t want to replay that fateful day over and over again in his mind, seeing it, feeling the helplessness. But it didn’t seem to matter what he wanted. His mind’s eye, like it had done for the past five years, controlled him. That day, his cries of anguish, the pain, the loss of his love, the loss of the sun’s warmth and light, and then the beginning of his soul’s darkness.

The nights were the worst. At least during the day he had work to help stop the memories, or at least hold them at bay. He shook his head. “Maybe it wasn’t smart coming back here. I thought I was through with this hell.” But he knew he’d never be through until the man that had stolen his peace was brought to justice. The man had killed his joy in life at the moment he’d killed his one love.

The sun had been hot that day. Just like today. He’d left her alone at the cabin with the promise he’d be back for lunch. A promise he hadn’t kept. Maybe-maybe if he’d kept that promise. If only he’d been there. If only he’d been inside the cabin. If only he’d put her first instead of the ranch. If only his mind hadn’t been totally caught up on the task at hand. If only he’d been more alert. The ‘if only’s’ played through his thoughts following a well-worn path. Oh, he’d intended to be back that morning when he’d kissed her goodbye. In fact, lunch had seemed a mighty long time away. He’d thought about having another cup of coffee, stealing a few more precious minutes with her, but they both knew the demands of the ranch came first.

He rode out, his thoughts already on the work ahead. He’d seen some cattle a few days earlier in a ravine bordering the north pasture. They’d roamed too far in search of the inevitable greener prairie grass. He intended to herd them back closer on his land. What would have been an easy task turned into something else. An old cow he’d thought past calving ability had done just that. The late-born calf was trapped in a gully. It was too little and weak to make its way over or through the jumble of rocks and debris washed down by the spring rains. The mother bawled to her young one as she paced frantically back and forth. It had taken him most of the day to free the calf, to throw it across the front of his saddle, to ride back to the cabin.

He’d been so intent on unloading the calf he hadn’t noticed the lone man standing off to the side of the barn. The sound of a rifle lever cocking into place sent his glance in that direction. The man ambled toward him, a half grin on his face. His eyes were hard and cold. Two saddlebags were slung over his shoulder, stamped “U.S. Bank.”

“Nice of you to have that horse all saddled and ready for me. Mine threw a shoe down the trail a ways and sticking around to get it shod just ain’t my priority right now.”

“I don’t think so,” Whip had replied, moving away from the mare, his hand inching the rifle from the scabbard.

“I wouldn’t try it, mister.” The man’s warning held the venom of a rattler. “By the time you have it free, I’ll have a bullet through you.”

One look at his face and Whip knew he wasn’t bluffing. Shooting him wouldn’t faze the outlaw at all. The horse wasn’t worth it. Whip knew stalling was dangerous. He had to get him away from the ranch. Any minute now Lettie would throw open the cabin door to run out and welcome him home. Nothing was worth taking that chance.

“He’s all your—”

The rest of sentence was cut off by the squeak of the door hinge.

Whip heard it first and turned toward the cabin.

The outlaw raised his rifle, squeezing off a shot just as Lettie ran toward Whip. The bullet that was meant for Whip hit Lettie, killing her instantly.

Stunned, Whip heard the sound of the ejected shell seconds before he felt the second bullet slam into his thigh, tearing through flesh. He fell forward, feeling the warm blood down his leg, soaking the inside of his pants as black dots danced. The pain was all encompassing, but that was nothing compared to the pain in his heart as he tried to crawl to his wife.

“Lettie, Lettie.” His cries filled the Wyoming air. He blacked out.

When he came to, the sun had moved across the sky and his horse was gone. His hand rested on Lettie’s lifeless face. He raised himself to knees weakened from the loss of blood, and gently brushed her blond hair back. A sob ripped its way from his throat as he gently cradled her body against his.

He carried her inside the cabin then eased her onto the bed, lowering himself along her still form, his arms holding her to his chest as if his heart could beat for both of them.

He lay there for the remainder of the day, drifting in and out of consciousness, dimly aware that his Lettie breathed no more, and that, for him, the world had turned black, too.

The pain screamed through him, pulling him back to the raw brutality of living. He gingerly touched his leg. The bleeding had slowed. The wound would need attention, but right now he didn’t care if he lived or died. His only reason for not giving in to the pain and wishing he’d bleed to death was that he knew he needed to live long enough to perform one last act of love. One last act of love for a woman that would take his heart with her to the grave. He lost consciousness again while digging the hole on the rocky knoll behind the cabin.

The rest was a blur. He remembered using the wood from Lettie’s linen chest to make a coffin. He’d reopened his wound digging the grave. By the time the coffin, now heavier with precious cargo, was at the site and lowered into the ground, he’d blacked out again. When he came to, he shoveled the dirt that hid his love from him forever. Then he lay down across the raw earth and waited to die.

He’d fallen into a sleep that bordered on death, and opened his eyes to the warmth of the sun. He remembered the anger tearing through him upon awakening. Anger because he’d lived. He’d bellowed curses to the blue sky or whatever power that had taken Lettie and yet let him live.

In the days that followed, he’d done little to keep himself alive. Once, when the pain became unbearable, he’d grabbed down a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured it over the open wound. His screams echoed through the empty cabin.

Whether it was the whiskey or his strong constitution, he’d lived. If willing death could have made it happen, he would be with Lettie right now. But his body was stronger than his mind, and as the days passed, a new anger and resolve slowly filled him. He had to punish the person who robbed his Lettie’s life.

He’d heard of the Texas Rangers, a band of men formed several years ago by a Mr. Stephen Austin. Austin had spent some time in a Mexican prison and held the title as the “Father of Texas.” There was even a city in Texas named to honor him. Mr. Austin had died right after the Rangers formed up to protect Texas against the hostile Native Americans. The Texas Rangers were now the major peacekeeping force and enforcers of frontier justice. And Whip wanted justice. He wanted the killing, murdering devil to know he’d face slow death by hanging. Hanging for killing a precious innocent. Whip had seen the man’s face. He’d know it anywhere. The memory of those eyes burned into his very soul.

Steel resolve took over, and when the day came he was ready to ride out, he did so without a backward glance. Riding toward the 29
th
State of the Union. Texas. Or
Tashas
as some still called it. A Caddo Indian word for friend.

The leg slowly healed. He’d dug around in the wound as much as he could stand, trying to get all of the fragments of lead out, but in the end, like dying, he was unsuccessful. One elusive piece rubbed against bone, serving as a constant reminder of all he’d lost. Not that he needed a reminder. It was there with every breath he drew, filling him with the determination he needed to face each day.

He glanced again toward the cottonwoods. Five years had passed. He’d joined the rangers, and while he’d done his share of seeing that peace was kept, he’d never fulfilled the mission that drove him. He’d never run across the man with the cold eyes, though Lord knows he’d hunted. Five years of vigilance. And, now, he was back. Back to pick up life again. Life without her, but maybe a life with a new purpose.

“What the hell,” he muttered, shaking his head free of the memory cobwebs, if not the lingering pain. He turned his horse in the direction of the beckoning trees and cool waters of the Powder River.

Chapter 5

Heather secured the last button on her shirt. The river bath was just what she had needed. Her fingers stilled as the air around her shifted and she sensed a presence behind her.

“What in the Sam Hell is this? No wonder the rapids are slowed. And you, lady, what are you doing on my property? Who are you and what do you know about this-this—”

She whirled around to face the demanding voice and man sitting on the buckskin horse. “Dam, mister. It’s a diversion dam. And to answer the rest of your bad-mannered questions, I didn’t know it was your property. It’s been unclaimed for years. The next answer is, I’m Heather Campbell. Now it’s your turn. Who are you, and what makes you so sure this is your property? A river belongs to nobody.”

“The river may not, but the land bordering it sure as hell does, and the last I looked, my name was on the deed. I’m Whip Johnson, owner of the Powder River Ranch, and this”—his voice lowered, mimicking hers—“this diversion dam is slowing down my water.”

“Water you don’t need.”

“How in the hell do you know what I need or don’t need Miss, or is it Mrs. Campbell?”

“It’s Miss. Because I’ve rode all over this land and its fallow, empty, grown up and unused. There’s a cabin a ways from here and a spring-fed pond. The cabin’s empty and the pond is untouched. This piece of land is prime, mister. Prime and unused.”

“Well, I’ll agree with you on one point. It is prime. But it won’t be unused for long. I’m back, and the cabin isn’t empty. The pond will be useful again as soon as my herd arrives from Cheyenne, and that should be any day now.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Heather walked over to the man, slamming her sweat-stained hat down over the mass of auburn curls framing her face. Her hazel eyes shot green sparks as she narrowed them at the tall cowboy. “Like I said, doesn’t matter. I need the water and you don’t. The little bit I’m diverting won’t matter one little bit to you. Not one damn little bit!”

“Who are you, lady? You dress like a man, you talk like a man, and if you just hadn’t had a bath in that river, I’d bet you’d smell like a man. You’re all caught up in what you need. It’s not my problem or my concern what you need. You’re a Miss not a Mrs. So that tells me I’m wasting my time talking to you. Tell your father I’ll be wanting to meet with him regarding this diversion dam, what the hell ever that is.”

Hands on her hips, Heather looked up at the man, her face tight with anger. “Your ignorance is showing, mister. First of all, if you’ve heard of the Mormons, you’d know they’re using diversion dams over in Utah. They’re damming up small streams and diverting the water to irrigate crops. Well, I’m not irrigating crops. I have a spring on my property that manages that, barely, but it manages. What I need, and what the Powder River is providing, is water enough to keep my pond full. Spring runoff peters out, and without that pond my cattle would die of thirst. It’s not a spring-fed pond like yours, or like you claim is yours.”

Her small chin jutted forward, and Whip was aware again of the emerald fire flashing from her eyes. “As for your other request, I won’t be telling my father anything. Not unless I plan on dying anytime soon, and I don’t. There is no father anymore, and there is no mother. I own and run the Circle C Ranch, and I’m guessing it’s my own darn bad luck that makes me your neighbor. So, neighbor, you can just think of me as borrowing a cup or two of your water.”

With that, she put two fingers in her mouth and gave a sharp whistle. From a copse of trees the black horse threw up his head and came loping toward her. The horse stood seventeen hands high and muscle rippled beneath the shine of the black coat.

Heather walked to a group of small willows and jerked off a saddle blanket. “Patch,” she said the one word softly, but it was loud enough for the horse to hear and obey. She threw the blanket over the horse’s back, then in one motion, grabbed the saddle and settled it over the blanket, ignoring the silent man. She tightened the cinch, then glanced toward Whip sitting still in his saddle, a puzzled frown on his face.

He’d been so preoccupied with anticipating the coolness of the Powder River, and not expecting anyone being there, he’d never noticed the blanket, saddle, and bridle. Of course the horse had been out of sight, but damn—

“You still there?” she asked disdainfully. “Or are you God and waiting to talk to my father?”

“Huh?” Her words took him aback. “You’ve got a smart mouth, lady. I think you’ve said enough for one day.” He turned his horse back the way he’d come, thoughts of bathing chased from his mind by the sharp tongue of the hazel-eyed girl. “I’ll be riding over to discuss this dam.” He raised his chin toward the river. “We aren’t through talking, and you sure aren’t through doing some explaining.”

Kicking his horse in the flanks, Whip turned in the direction of his ranch, feeling her eyes piercing his back. “Not only do I have a missing herd to worry about, I’ve got a thief as a neighbor.” The fact that she was, despite her manly clothes and manner, a very pretty thief wasn’t lost on him. It wasn’t lost at all.