Wyoming Heather (8 page)

Chapter 16

He rose from his chair. “You sit still. I’m going to see if there’s coffee. You look like you could use a cup. Then, by darned, you’re going to tell me how in the hell I come to find you in a pen with a wounded bobcat.” With that, he stepped inside.

Heather hugged her knees to her chest and closed her eyes. She could hear the rattling dishes in her kitchen, but her body was drained of any ability to move.

She was still sitting that way when Whip returned, two coffee cups in hand. She opened her eyes and reached up to take the one he offered. Putting it to her mouth, she inhaled the needed brew. The smell that filled her nostrils was that of rich coffee and, and something else. She paused, the cup halfway to her mouth.

“Scotch. I found your father’s stash, that is, unless it’s yours?

“Hardly,” she said, smiling. “It’s my father’s.”

“Good. I thought you needed something stronger than coffee. You’re still pale.”

He sat down and pulled his rocker closer to her. “I’m ready when you are.”

“Do you realize, Whip, that this is the second time you’ve arrived just as I needed you? Two visits to the Circle C and both times I had need of your strength.”

“Mmm.” The blue of his eyes darkened as they lingered on her face. “You had things under control both times,” he drawled. “Course, we could consider this worthy of another loaf of bread or maybe a pie?” His eyes twinkled.

“A pie? My, aren’t we getting brave! You’ve already got me owing you a dinner, and now it’s bread or pie. What kind of pie, Mr. Johnson? I want to make sure I bake just what your heart desires.”

“Well, now, Heather, I’m real partial to apple. Hot apple pie topped with thick, whipped cream. Darn, but it makes my mouth water just thinking of it. I’d come more often if I knew something like that was waiting for me. I’d much prefer that to seeing you in a pen with a wounded bobcat. You up to telling me how that happened?”

She nodded her head then took another small sip of the coffee.

“I had just finished feeding the chickens when I heard this strange sound. It was something I’d never heard before. I waited, listening, and just when I thought I’d imagined it, I heard it again.” She looked up at him, her eyes large in her face. “I can’t tell you how I knew, but I knew whatever was out there was hurt. I followed the sound and found it lying on its side, half-hidden in the tall grass. I knew it was a bobcat. I’d lost a few chickens the last week and figured the Circle C was host to a new predator. I also had found claw marks on a couple trees. Must have been marking his territory.”

She took a deep breath. “It was just laying there, Whip. Every so often it would make that pitiful sound, but other than that, it didn’t acknowledge my presence. The ground around it was churned up some as if the cat had fallen and couldn’t get the strength to get back up. I could see it had been shot.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I had to do something.” The words were a plea for understanding.

There was a hard expression on his face. “Heather, there’s a difference between doing something and putting yourself at risk. That bobcat was wounded, in pain, and you had no way of knowing whether it could move or not. For all you knew, it would attack you the minute you got closer.”

“I know, Whip. I know. But I was careful. I really was. I went back to the house and got some chloroform. Doc Watson keeps me supplied,” she offered by way of explanation. “Did you know that chloroform was first used for surgery by a Scotsman?”

“Go on,” he said tersely. “You’re not going to distract me with one of your history lessons.”

She managed a wry smile. “There’s not much else to tell. I wet a rag with the chloroform and put it on the end of a stick. My biggest worry was not knowing how much to give him. Too much and he might never wake up.”

“It’s real hard for me to understand that being your biggest worry. Of course, there was no worry that you wouldn’t give him enough, and he’d wake up snarling and mad in the middle of your stitching him up, now was there?”

“Whip,” she admonished, “of course I was worried. I was scared to death every minute. I rolled him onto the piece of canvas and dragged him into the pen. He didn’t make a sound or a move. I cleaned the wound, and you know the rest.” She paused, then said, “The last few stitches, he moved. I wasn’t through. Then I saw you.”

“You mean to tell me that cat was waking up and you stayed bent over him, finishing the job?”

“That’s why I went to pieces the minute I knew I was safe and it was over.”

He got up out of the chair and walked over to the porch railing to look out over the land. Seeing nothing, but feeling too much. Every so often he’d shake his head. “This won’t be the last, will it?”

“No.”

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” The statement was flat and fell heavily into the air.

“Not you, too, Whip Johnson.”

“Well, damn it, Heather. Well, damn it.”

He started down the steps toward the buckboard then stopped.

“I’m going into town for supplies. Need anything?” He tried not to be brusque, but his frustration was overwhelming. He wanted to grab her up and take her with him. Keep her by his side. Watch over her. But another part of him didn’t want her, didn’t want another woman to care about and then fail again.

He was so caught up in his thoughts he missed what she said.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly.

“I said I didn’t need anything from town, but if you wait a few minutes I’d like to send my eggs. Would you mind going by the general store? My best friend, Alice, runs it. Tell her I can’t get away since Summer came fresh. I don’t want all these eggs to go to waste.”

Seeing his frown, she explained. “Summer is my cow. She calved so she’s fresh, and I have to start milking again. Twice a day.” Still no response, unless you could call the perplexed look on his face a response. “I sell eggs and milk to the general store when I have them. Oh, never mind, Whip,” she said, exasperated. It was useless trying to make a cowboy understand that you could run cattle and farm, too. “Will you take the eggs?”

He nodded, his reluctance evident. “Pack ‘em good. Heather,” he called after. “Is there anything you won’t try or that you can’t do?”

“She held the door open for him, waiting for him to catch up. “Yes,” she replied sweetly, “I can’t sing.”

A low chuckle greeted her remark, making her smile in return. She didn’t want him to go and wished she could accompany him. It would have been nice to spend more time with Whip. He had the ability to make her mad enough to cuss and then, in the next second, to make her laugh. She knew she was a puzzle to him, not fitting any mold of womanhood he knew. And he was a puzzle to her, too.

“I suppose it’s useless to ask you to wait until I get back to mess with that cat again.”

“Yes.” She smiled to soften her words. “But if it eases your mind any, I won’t be getting in the pen as long as he’s awake. Of course,” she said, lowering her voice, “if that wound should fester, I’ll have to clean it again.”

A low growl and a few choice words rent the air. “If you were mine…”

“Aaah, but there’s the difference, Mr. Johnson. “I’m not yours.”

He glared at her, then held out his hands. “Give me that egg basket. I’ll stop back with the money.”

He refused to look at her as he took the basket and stomped out to the buckboard. He gingerly placed the eggs on the floor by his feet hoping they wouldn’t jostle too much. He snapped the reins.

“Whip, thank you. And tell Alice she’s due for a visit.”

It was all he could do not to stop the wagon and go back and try to shake some sense into Heather’s stubborn head. So why was he smiling like a cat with cream? Why was he so aware of how pretty she looked with her green eyes flashing as she gave him back as good or better than she got? Why was he wishing he could delay the trip to town and find some excuse to spend the day at the Circle C? Why?

Chapter 17

Whip gazed furtively around as he crossed the dusty street to the general store. He held the basket of eggs away from him as though it might bite. “I feel like a sissy,” he muttered. “How’d I get suckered into this?”

Two women moved down the street on the arm of a distinguished-looking gentleman. Whip snatched his hat off and held it over the basket trying to act as if he always tipped his hat that way. Then, he ducked into the store.

He stood there, blinking, as his eyes adjusted. His body and senses soaked up the aromas like a rain-starved desert, identifying each as an old and remembered friend. Spices, cloves, cinnamon, apples, leather, liniment, and the pungency of ripened cheese. He glanced to the right and saw a few ready-made dresses and shirts. A nearby table was stacked with various sundries, ribbons, and jars of buttons. He could swear he could smell them as well. Skirting his way around a barrel of pickles, his nostrils flared as vinegar drifted in the air.

Something about a general store always made him slow his pace and linger, losing himself to each item crowded on the shelves stacked from floor to ceiling. This store was a gold mine with nuggets just waiting to be looked at, touched, and wished for.

The wooden floor creaked under his boots as he walked toward a counter running the width of the back wall. He passed a potbellied stove in the middle of the room, the stovepipe going straight up and out the ceiling. A piece of tin flashing circled the exit hole, keeping out the rain or snow. The stove was cold now, waiting for winter. There was no layer of wood dust and he identified it as a missing smell.

Nothing could compare with the homey aroma of wood burning and crackling, giving out a welcoming glow of warmth. The only bad thing about a potbellied stove, if anything could be called bad, was one side of you toasted while the backside froze. A person had to keep changing positions, warming first the front, then backing up and warming the back. Too close and you did more than warm. A black, iron teakettle sat on the narrow top, ready and waiting.

The general store was the hive of the community. People met there to gossip, have weighty discussions about the weather, and to catch up on what was going on in town. If you were looking for someone, a note could be left at the general store and, sooner or later, that person, or someone who knew that person, would happen by. It could be years, but the note would be waiting.

And, a lucky child could buy a piece of penny, or two for a penny, candy. Of course you didn’t just haphazardly buy a piece. There was a proper way of handling a job of this magnitude. You peered at each jar, nose pressed as close as possible. You looked, and looked, chose, then changed your mind, and looked some more, deciding which piece would give you the most for your money and would last the longest. It was a decision not to be rushed into. Once the right piece was chosen, you pointed, and reluctantly opened your hand giving the clerk your warmly clutched penny.

But today was different. Today the store was empty save for the pretty, young woman standing behind the counter, smiling as he approached.

“Here.” He shoved the basket of eggs at her.

“Well, thank you, I guess.” Her eyes danced as she took the basket from him. She tilted her head, and her long blond hair fell forward in a golden cascade. “It isn’t every day I get a basket of eggs shoved at me.”

“I-I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m not usually so disrespectful. It’s just that I’m not used to, uh, I don’t usually, well—”

“You’re more at ease herding, branding, and roping cattle than carrying a dainty basket of eggs, is that right?”

“How’d you guess?” Whip flashed her what he hoped was a charming smile.

She held out her hand. “I’m Alice Anderson, and you?”

He took her slim hand. “I’m Whip Johnson, owner of the Powder River Ranch, and a friend to Heather,” he added.

“Oh my gosh, Heather. And these are her eggs? Were you talked into being her deliveryman?”

“That’s pretty much right, ma’am. Heather said to tell you her cow, Summer, just came fresh, and she won’t be able to come into town because of milking. She also said to tell you, you were due for a visit.” He sighed, relieved at getting all the messages delivered.

Alice frowned, disappointment covering her face. “Darn. I was hoping for at least a few more visits before she tied herself down to that dratted ranch again. If it isn’t the ranch, it’s one of her animals.” She raised her eyes to Whip and smiled apologetically. “Heather’s my best friend, and I don’t get to see enough of her. I think I must be jealous of her love for that place. I keep trying to get her to sell and move into town where she can have some sort of a life.”

“She does have a life.” His defensive response burst from his lips. “She’s got a good spread of land there, and she’s doing what she loves. I can’t picture Heather being satisfied with town life. She’s got too much inside of her to bottle it up.”

Alice hid a smile at the vehement reply. She looked closely at the weather-tanned man with the startlingly blue eyes.

“You sound as if you know Heather quite well, Mr. Campbell.”

He blushed and shifted his attention to the bit of chipped paint on the wall behind the counter. “No. No, I don’t know her well at all, but what I do know of her tells me she likes her life just fine, and it suits her. Sorry if I came on too strong, Miss Anderson, but Heather Campbell’s an unusual woman.” He cut his sentence short as if fearing he’d already given away too much. He should have just put the darn eggs on the counter and went on about his own business. He glanced up to find her smiling at him.

“You’re right. Look, let’s start all over. Please, call me Alice. If you know Heather, you’ll come to know me. At every opportunity I coax her into town to spend time with me, and I go out to the Circle C whenever I can. That ranch is a healing place for me. You might say I’m one of Heather’s wounded.” She gave a small, quiet smile, then shook her head in dismissal. “Anyway, Heather and I have been friends since she moved here with her parents.”

“Then you knew her father?”

“Yes, and I’m sure Heather has spoken about him.”

Whip smiled. “Nearly every sentence.”

“Yes, I know. She loved him dearly. He was a scholar and a gentleman. Not the type for hard work and ranching. But he gave it his best and darned if he didn’t succeed. Of course, he had Heather by his side working like a son and being a daughter, too. Still, I often wonder if he would have wanted this for her—stuck out there all alone, taking the risks she does, working from dawn to dusk.” Alice’s voice drifted off.

“I don’t mean to differ with you Miss, uh, Alice.” Whip shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “But like I said, Heather’s doing what she wants to do. I might not know her all that well, but I do know she loves her ranch. And darned if she isn’t running it as good as any man. But please, don’t tell her I said so. She’s got a wicked tongue, and I don’t intend to give her any more fuel for her fire.” His laugh softened the words.

“You’ve met the razor edge of that tongue, I take it?” she asked, fumbling at his name.

“Whip,” he supplied. “Call me Whip. And, yes, I’ve felt the strop a time or two.”

They both broke out laughing, enjoying private memories of the person both called friend.

“Well, what can I do for you, Whip, besides pay you for the eggs?”

“I need some things,” he said, pulling out his list. “In fact, I need quite a bit of things.”

“Okay.” She smiled, reaching for the list. “Why don’t I start filling this while you look around and see if there’s anything you might have missed? Today is an exceptionally good day to shop. In fact”—she waved her hand—“you have the store to yourself.”

“Couldn’t help noticing that. Where is everyone? Or don’t the people here know the value of a good general store?”

“Oh, they know. Usually there’s people in and out all day. Some buying, some jawing. But today, even our two regulars that have squatters rights to those chairs”—she pointed to a barrel with a checker board for a lid—“have deserted me in favor of the train.”

“Train? Weekly train tops a good game of checkers and gossip here, does it?”

“Not just any train, Whip. The Orphan Train. Didn’t you see the signs posted on every post in town?”

“Well now, Alice, I wasn’t looking for any signs. I was too busy getting them eggs here in one piece.”

“And out of your big hands before someone saw you?” Her voice was full of suppressed laughter.

“That, too,” he chuckled.

“Here.” She thrust a flyer at him, then stood back while he read.

The paper was a wrinkled brown and the black print was large and blocked. The word
WANTED
jumped from the page.

WANTED.
Homes for the Homeless. Homeless children will arrive. These are children of various ages and sexes. But make no mind of it, they are all hard workers. The good Samaritans of the Children’s Aid Society have taken these orphans from the dangers of city life and bring them to you to join your loving family. Of course, they are required to attend church and go to school. You must feed and clothe them.

They will be taken off the train and lined up for your inspection. Those not chosen in your town will travel on to the next until all are spoken for.

COME SEE THE CHILDREN. PICK WHILE THERE’S PLENTY TO PICK FROM.

Whip gripped the paper until his hand shook. He read it a second time, then threw it to the counter.

“Taken off the train and lined up for inspection. Like a traveling freak show.” His voice was low and gravely, filled with emotion. “Poor tykes. Orphans. Well, maybe some good will come of it and they’ll all get good homes, but I doubt it.”

“Why would you doubt it, Whip?” Alice asked, “We’re all good people here, and from the excitement and buzz around town since these flyers came out, I know homes will be offered. There have been wagons of families arriving for the last two days. They’re all down at the station now.”

“Yeah.” He spat out the word. “Waiting for those kids to be taken off the train and lined up for inspection,” he said, stabbing his finger at the flyer, “just like it said. I wonder just how many will be given good homes and how many will be given over for free labor? I’d like to agree with you, Alice, that you are all good people here, but I can’t. I know human nature too well. And,” he continued, his voice barely audible, “I know about orphans.”

With that, he turned away from the startled woman and stalked toward a counter of horseshoeing tools. “Too darn well,” he muttered.