Wyoming Heather (6 page)

Chapter 12

“You bide your time, don’t you, Heather Campbell?”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Whip?”

“Uh, huh. You gonna tell me about all this without me saying, pretty please? The whole time I was on your porch and then helped you with the calf, I had no idea”—he made a sweeping gesture—“this was back here.”

“Hmmm, you have been nicer since the crawdad episode.” She grinned at the lean ex-ranger with laugh wrinkles at the corners of his sky blue eyes.

“I’ve always loved animals.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And I guess they know it. They trust me. I can’t remember the time when there wasn’t a hurt animal to help.” She chuckled. “My poor mother. She never knew what I’d drag home next. I think it was after the turtle died and rotted under my bed that my father stepped in.”

“Under your bed?” He wrinkled his nose. “Headstrong even then,” he muttered, but the smile on his face softened the words.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it headstrong. I just thought he was hibernating.” She smiled at the memory and her mother’s reaction.

“I’ve often found animals can be more needy and helpless than humans, but they are often times more grateful.” She waited, a challenge in her voice. Wisely, he remained silent, letting her go on with her story.

“Take this one, for example.” Heather motioned to a fat, black and white spotted hog. “Got him from Bob Evans, a rancher east of town. Bob raises cattle, but has a few hogs for butchering.”

The hog ignored them as it lay on a bed of straw, grunting. Every so often it wiggled its snout at the flies persistently irritating him. He was long without being overly fat and Whip could just imagine some mighty fine, lean bacon.

“I call him Mr. Hog. He’s got the prettiest snout.”

Whip watched the young woman reaching through the pen to scratch the animal’s ears. He squinted a quick look at her to see if she was pulling his leg with the pretty snout business, but she wasn’t. He wasn’t sure who was enjoying the scratching more, Heather or Mr. Hog.

“Uh, Heather.”

“Yes? Oh, yeah. He had what my father’s book on animal husbandry called
Black Tooth
. When Bob unloaded him, he was slobbering, hanging his head to one side and off his feed. Bob left him with me hoping I could figure out what was wrong.”

“How’d you figure out what it was?”

“When animals are hurting they often lose their fear of man. He let me poke and prod enough to determine the only source of pain was near his mouth. So,” she said, drawing out the word, “I gave him some whiskey.” Her voice lowered to a whisper and she turned her head as she uttered the word.

“You gave him what?”

“Whiskey,” she said only slightly louder, then peered up at him, her green eyes full of devilish, repressed laughter. “I gave Mr. Hog a snout full of whiskey. In fact, I gave him several. I’d say he became drunker than a skunk, but that sounds odd, doesn’t it?”

“Odd! Sure, let’s worry about something sounding odd when you’re telling me you purposely got a hog drunk. You poured perfectly good whiskey down a hog? What’s next?”

“Well, as soon as he was out, snoring, his mouth open, tongue lolling to one side, I just opened it wider and, sure enough, there it was. One of his teeth was darker colored than the other. I knew that the tooth had to come out. If it didn’t, Mr. Hog would be in so much pain he’d soon quit eating entirely. Bob couldn’t afford to lose such a fine animal, since his family depends on what they can raise. So,” she said, smiling up at him, “I pulled it.”

“You reached inside a hog’s mouth and pulled a tooth? How?” he asked incredulously.

“I wedged his mouth open with a piece of wood, then tied a strand of rawhide around the tooth. Mr. Hog didn’t even notice. He was out, Whip. You should have seen him.”

“I am. I’m seeing it right now, and I can’t believe it.” Whip’s voice was strained as he tried to hold back the laughter threatening to overtake him. Heather took obvious pride in her accomplishment and laughing probably wasn’t wise.

“I knew I needed to get it out first try and all in one piece.”

“Mmm, hmm.” His words were muffled as he turned his head to the side, choking on the swallowed laughter.

“I gave it a yank and out it came, tooth and root, all in one piece. Whip, I don’t mind telling you, I was relieved. I poured some more whiskey into the cavity and took out the wooden wedge.”

“And Mr. Hog?”

“He just snored on, every now and then grunting happily. I put some soft mash in his trough and got out of there. I figured it best not to be around when he came to. If he had a headache, or a hangover, I sure didn’t want to be in his path.” Heather looked over at Whip who had turned his back to her and stepped a few feet away. His shoulders were shaking and funny sounds were coming from him.

“Whip, Whip, are you okay?”

His words were muffled. “Snout full, drunker than a skunk. A hungover hog.” And his shoulders shook even harder, his hand wiping his eyes. He reached up and took off his hat, swatted it against his leg, then put it back on.

“Whip?”

“I-I’m fine, Heather. Just had something in my eye. Gone now.” And he turned back toward her.

“So, as I understand it,” he said, trying to maintain control, “you’re the local hog, skunk, rabbit, badger, coyote”—he looked through the pens— “eagle, and whatever else you’ve got back there, doctor?”

She nodded. “And that’s why my father built this underground barn. He knew I would only get more and more animals to care for especially as word got out of my ability. He had been planning something on this order for our livestock, because of his grave concerns about the Wyoming winters with blizzard conditions and below zero weather. Our first winter here we tied a rope from the house to the barn. During those whiteout blizzards when you can’t see your hand in front of your face, we’d follow along that rope while going out to feed or milk. Father swore he’d not put in another winter like that. He poured through his books and drew up plans. The next summer, we started in on our dugout barn. Come on, I’ll show you the rest of it.”

He walked over to the remarkable woman and gently put his arm around her. It felt right to both of them. And, feigning unawareness of their shared closeness, they walked past all the cages until they were further inside the cavernous room.

As his eyes adjusted, he could see several empty stalls, a milking stanchion, a walled-off area still half full of hay, a chicken roost, and, lining one wall, a row of egg-laying nests. He took it all in, amazed at the thought and planning that had gone into this unique barn. Heather moved toward two doors at the back of the room. Once opened, they revealed a root cellar with shelves of canning and sacks of potatoes. The smell from a near-empty bushel basket of apples sweetened the air as it mingled with the clean earthiness of walls and floor. She turned and looked at him, waiting for a response from a man whose approval was becoming surprisingly important.

“Heather, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He looked around the barn again, then back at her. “Your father must have loved you and your mother a great deal.”

“He did, and we loved him. He is, was, the Circle C.”

“He thought of everything. Everything except water.”

Heather’s head shot up and she faced him, her eyes wide, an angry flush starting.

With a gentle smile, he leaned toward her, gently stroking a finger down her cheek, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “And I can supply that.”

Chapter 13

Day was getting away from them as they rode through rocky canyons and dry creek beds. For hours, they hadn’t spoken and had only stopped for brief rests.

“A herd could get through here.” Whip broke the silence as he paused long enough to look over the valley below. Then he turned in the saddle, looking back at the way they’d come. “It would be slow going, but possible. We’ll go a little ways further, Heather, but if we don’t see something soon, we’d better head back. It’ll be dark in a few hours.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth before a chorus of distant sounds reached them. Cowboys shouted, cows bawled, and hooves struck sun-baked earth, sending pebbles rolling. The ground shook and dust stirred under the impact of the nearing herd as they came forward in closely packed formation. The smell of heat bouncing off the sea of plodding bodies was welcoming to the weary searchers.

Whip and Heather glanced at each other, both wearing the same grin. He motioned for her to follow him as he made for a copse of trees. It wouldn’t be smart to startle a herd of tired, thirsty cow’s intent on moving forward. The scent of the distant Powder River called like a siren’s song, luring them on.

Whip and Heather would silently wait until the lead cow passed them. Then they’d make themselves known. It had to be Whip’s herd. It had to be. Why they were coming in from this direction, they’d soon know.

Heather reined Patch alongside Whip’s buckskin. She leaned forward and laid a quieting hand on the horse’s neck. It wouldn’t do for him to whinny now, with the herd getting closer by the minute.

Whip touched her on her arm and when she turned to him, he mouthed, with a smile, “Mine.” Even from a distance he’d recognized One Horn, his lead cow, a Texas Longhorn and veteran of the trails. One long horn curved proudly, like the back of a rocking chair. The other side of horn was broken off at the base of what should have been an equally proud curl. Whip didn’t know how she’d broken the horn, and the man he’d bought her from didn’t either. She was lean and rangy, her gaunt hip bones clearly defined. Her stiff-legged gait ate up the miles as she led the herd forward.

She spied the silently watching couple, paused, raised her head, nostrils flaring with their smell, then proceeded past, canting her one horn toward them in warning. One horn or not, she’d be a worthy adversary.

A couple of the trail hands rode past. Whip recognized them even with their scarves pulled up over their nose.

The men sat tall in their saddles. One of the cowboys saw the couple the same time his horse did. The horse snorted. The rider pulled back tightly on the reins, jerking the horse around in a tight circle. He nodded at Whip, never breaking his stride. The scent of water would become stronger with each mile and the herd would make a run for it if they weren’t kept bunched tightly and moving at a steady pace.

Whip looked for Buster, but didn’t see him. A cold shiver danced across his back. Where was he? It wasn’t like Buster not to be out front, scouting, leading the way, making sure the trail was safe for the men and herd in his charge. Buster should have found them long before they found the herd.

As the herd passed by, they raised a cloud of dust that enveloped Whip and Heather. Finally, the cowboys riding drag rode past, whistling, their lariats snapping circles in the air, as they ate the dust of the herd. They were followed by the remuda and the cowboys riding charge.

Whip looked down the trail and saw the chuck wagon in the distance, bringing up the rear, its canvas covered back offering protection for the kegs of foodstuff inside. Skillets and pans tied on the side bounced as the wheels found each and every rut and rock in the trail.

But what he saw next made his heart freeze. Tied behind the chuck wagon was a golden palomino. “Wind.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken the name aloud.

Heather followed his eyes to the wagon. She sensed Whip’s tenseness and, without saying a word, followed him as he turned down the trail to meet the wagon.

There was only one reason Buster wouldn’t be on that horse. Only one reason it would be tethered behind the wagon: the man who had caught the wild stallion and tamed him for his own was unable to sit in the saddle.

Whip wanted to race toward the chuck wagon, but another part of him wanted to slow his approach, dreading what Cookie had to tell him. He willed his mind not to think of how much Buster Walking Tall meant to him and to the ranch. He wouldn’t, couldn’t, contemplate so great a loss.

The last few weeks since his return had given him hope that he could feel and live again. Meeting Heather had brought light into his life, but now that light flickered like an empty lantern.

He pulled his buckskin up short and waited for the wagon to come alongside. Buck danced sideways when Cookie drew back the reins, slowing, then stopping the team. The two men looked at each other.

Cookie glanced toward Heather and, nodding, tipped his hat with two tobacco-stained fingers. The man was toothless. He leaned over the side of the wagon to spit, then jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. His eyes and manner said it all.

Heather dismounted Patch and dropped his reins. She caught up to Whip as he untied the palomino and moved him out of the way. Something was wrong, and, whatever it was, she intended to be by the ranger’s side, softening the blow as much as she could.

Whip drew back the canvas and, with his heart beating in his mouth, peered inside. Kegs and barrels had been shifted around to make room for a quilt and the body on it. Whip drew in his breath. His eyes adjusted to the dim interior then focused on the still form.

He couldn’t tell if there was breath left in the big man. Buster filled every bit of space allowed him. Then, Whip noticed his hands, roughly bandaged and motionless across his chest. Whip held the flaps open wider and motioned to Heather. It wasn’t necessary, for she was inches from his shoulder.

She bit her lip as she looked. She had to know. Was this his friend? And the most dreaded question of all: Was he alive?

The words formed on her lips when the stillness was broken by a harsh voice. “Don’t you start singing my death song, Whip. I’ve rode night watch with you and heard your wailing. I sure don’t plan on hearing it sung over me.”

“Why you lazy, no good excuse for a foreman. Flat on your back in Cookie’s wagon. I’ll be damned.” Whip’s voice broke and caught as tension ebbed from his body. “Damn, Buster, you scared ten years off’n me. What am I supposed to think, Wind tied back of the wagon and you nowhere in sight?” The rebuke was edged with anger, mixed with relief.

“Well, I sure am sorry White Man scared by big Indian brave.”

“Don’t you go giving me any crap, Buster. And don’t give me that Indian brave stuff either. What the hell happened?”

The man rose to a sitting position in one swift motion, the muscles in his stomach rippling like a tightly coiled rope. His copper skin gleamed with a sheen of moisture. Brown eyes as dark as a well settled first on Whip, then moved with a snap to Heather. The smile that had started to form on his face froze into a haughty, penetrating gaze. His eyes deepened until Heather felt as if they were looking into her very soul.

He said something in Lakota.

Whip smiled and shook his head. An exchange of words followed.

Heather understood nothing of what was being said. She looked from one man to the other, waiting for Whip to include her, to let her know the answer to his questions. She had no way of knowing Whip was busy doing some explaining of his own. Questions were thrown at him in a teasing, probing manner by the man still sitting on the floor of the wagon. The same man who had haughtily dismissed her.

Heather’s patience was rapidly dwindling. “Excuse me. I didn’t ride all this way to be ignored by the two of you. I don’t understand a word of Lakota, which I’m sure you know, Buster Walking Tall.” She narrowed her eyes at him. He definitely wasn’t ignoring her now. “I let the needs of my own ranch go to ride with Whip in search of you and his herd. I’m not going to stand here like a tree until you decide to acknowledge me. I am Heather Campbell, Whip’s neighbor. And”—guessing correctly at one of Buster’s questions—“I am not Whip’s woman. I am not any man’s woman now or ever.” She paused, giving the two men time to digest her words.

Both wore the same, open-mouthed expression.

“Heather, I—”

“And you, Whip,” she interrupted him, “you have the manners of a bear.”

Whip pulled back in surprise. Buster’s black eyes danced as the green-eyed wildcat took on the two of them. Her hands were on her hips and her eyes held sparks of fire.

She looked at his hands, held gingerly away from his body. “What happened to you? Why is the herd coming this way instead of the more traveled route? Why are you asking Whip questions when you should be giving us answers?”

Buster held up a bandaged hand. “Enough.”

Heather’s shocked inhalation was loud in the air.

Then Buster smiled and the man’s entire countenance changed. “You’re right,
wiwasteka,
beautiful woman.”

He shifted his body, and with the litheness of a big cat came to his feet. His bent head grazed the roof of the wagon. Whip and Heather moved back, giving him room to jump down. He landed on the balls of his feet, the impact jarring his hands. A flicker deep in his eyes was the only indication of the pain.

His bearing was proud; his shoulders wide and squared. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on Buster Walking Tall. His black hair was cropped at his shoulders, kept out of his eyes by a beaded leather headband. Every facial feature seemed carved from stone, but the smile lingering on his thin lips lit up his eyes and banished the fearsome warrior. He wore fringed moccasin boots laced up muscular calves. Thighs hard from hours of riding and running were exposed by his breechclout.

Heather blushed as she realized she’d been staring at the startlingly handsome man. Gone was her anger and impatience. It had been replaced by a desire to know more about Buster Walking Tall. She instinctively knew Whip was right to call him ‘friend’. She also knew she wanted that privilege, too.