Wyoming Heather

by DeAnn Smallwood

  Table of Contents

  WYOMING HEATHER

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  WYOMING HEATHER

  DEANN SMALLWOOD

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  WYOMING HEATHER

  Copyright©2013

  DEANN SMALLWOOD

  Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-194-3

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  To the wild, wacky, and wonderful Smallwood family. Yes, all of you. You have the amazing ability to laugh when you are sad, cry when you are happy, and talk non-stop. You are each other’s strength and I value each and every one of you. I love that you accept me and my quirks. I also love that I am part of the clan. Floyd, hope you admire Buster Walking Tall as much as I do and don’t mind my taking liberties with your nickname.

  To our own special Heather, lover and healer of animals. Honey, I had fun putting you on a ranch in Wyoming. I also had fun giving you Whip. You were my inspiration for this book. Grams loves you.

  And last but by no means least, to my husband, Marvin. You are and always will be the wind beneath my wings.

  In loving memory of my beloved angel, Jesse, my special little daughter dog.

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to my family that listens to me talk writing non-stop.

  Love to my two Yorkies that spend hours in Mom’s office while I write. Two pillows and a window to watch for cats helps.

  Love and thanks to my husband that brings me sandwiches, coffee, and encouragement.

  Thank you to my copy editor, Janet Zupan. You are my strength and my port in any storm.

  And a special thank you to my granddaughter, Sharon, for her patience as she helps Grams with computer problems. Love you, hon.

  Chapter 1

  No lantern shown in the window to welcome him home. The cabin looked gray in the moonlight. Gray and ghost-like in the shadow of the mountains and the full moon. The corral was empty, poles missing. The barn door hung to one side, held in place by a single leather hinge.

  Whip Johnson leaned back in his saddle, shifting his weary body. His hand rested on his right thigh, his fingers absently circling the indentation of puckered flesh. The wound pulsed, the imbedded piece of lead seemed to seek out and rub against bone.

  The saddle creaked as he leaned forward and patted the buckskin’s neck, his eyes never ceasing in their vigilance. He took a deep breath, drawing in the land, the mountains, and the pungent smell of sagebrush. The faded chambray shirt pulled tight across his back. He sat tall in the saddle, every six-foot three inches of him hard muscle. Close to his hand, gripping the reins, a rifle rested in the scabbard. Nestled against his right hip was a holster, the butt of the pistol tilted at an angle for easy drawing. Like the man, they looked used. His long, tanned fingers left the warmth of the buckskin then rose and tiredly rubbed across his jaw, the day’s growth of whiskers rasping in the quiet of the night.

  He nudged his horse forward. To the far left of him, a jagged bolt of light creased the top of the mountain, momentarily chasing away the gray as thunder rolled, faint and distant. He inhaled deeply. No moisture in the air, the threat of rain only a promise, a teasing whore withholding what the land needed.

  Swinging wearily from the saddle, he looped the reins over the hitching post in front of the cabin. He nudged the door open with the toe of his boot. His keen hearing picked up the sound of something scuttling across the hard packed floor. A varmint, most likely a pack rat, had moved in during his absence.

  A musty odor met him as he slowly walked into the room. Thumbing his nail across the head of a match, he held it in front of him, the shadows falling back from the flickering light. Nothing much had changed, yet everything had, since he’d last seen the room five years ago. All that was left of the furniture was a wobbly table holding a chipped enamel basin, and the old Monarch stove. Too heavy to move, it had remained in the corner where he’d placed it the day he’d brought it home from Cheyenne.

  The match burned his fingers. He blew it out, and then crossed to a lamp set on the plank shelf above the table. He shook it and, hearing the liquid slosh in the glass base, smiled, the sternness momentarily eased from his face. The chimney was black from use, but the wick was still in place and after some urging caught. He carefully sat it down on the table and took a longer look at the room. The chinking in the logs was still tight, the roof solid, the glass in the small window intact. The cabin had weathered the five years better than he had.

  Bedding his horse in the barn, he made himself walk back out the sagging door. He’d wait until morning. Then he’d take as much time as he wanted to look it over. Right now the cabin floor was beckoning. He took the rope off his bedroll and rolled it out. Lowering his body, he pulled the worn quilt over him. The last conscious thought he had was that of his pistol resting beside him; in easy reach should he need it.

  Chapter 2

  Heather brushed the dirt from the front of her pants. Rising, she gave the rope a practiced jerk and freed the calf’s hoofs, releasing the bawling animal to find its mother. Her mouth was dry, her clothes filthy. She was wearing not only the dust of the land, but hair and blood from the calves she’d spent the morning branding. Hair, blood, and dust.

  Some perfume, she thought with disdain. I’m a real lady. Still, a part of her burst with pride as she surveyed the small herd of calves and cows milling in the field. She was halfway throug
h with the branding and dog-tired. In some ways it was a blessing the herd was small. In other ways, like money, it was bad. Bad, and darn worrisome.

  Arching her back, she gave a groan as she straightened out the kink from bending over the smoldering embers of the branding fire. She’d been warned a woman her size wasn’t made for roping, throwing, and holding down a bawling, squirming calf while applying a hot iron to its hind quarter. Well, she’d proved them wrong. Of course, she’d had help and her gaze wandered warmly to the sturdy cutting horse standing there, patiently waiting for her to mount and throw her lariat over yet another calf.

  “Patch, you’re worth two men.” The horse’s ears pitched forward at hearing her voice.

  She limped over to him and put her head down between his ears. She inhaled the clean, horse smell, appreciating it over the odors she’d breathed all day. “I was right to name you Patch,” she whispered. “You sure do own a patch of my heart.” She picked up the reins and led the gleaming black over to a bucket of water. Reaching into the saddlebags, she pulled out a wrapped bundle. Last night’s chicken and this morning’s biscuits looked like a small feast. She made short work of the meal and washed it down with tepid water from her canteen. Wiping her forehead with her arm, she glanced around. The tiredness dropped away as her eyes roamed possessively over her land.

  The Circle C Ranch wasn’t much if you measured it by size. But what it was, was paid for. She owned every last acre, every blade of grass. For a moment a wave of sadness swept her, filling her with regret that her mother and father hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy it with her, the land they had all worked so hard on. She’d lost them both two years ago, her mother going first, then followed two months later by her father. Her mother went to pneumonia and her father to a drowning accident as he tried to cross a river swollen with spring run-off. She’d defied the dire predictions and warnings of her friends and stayed on the ranch, working it from dawn until well after dusk. Two years of growing tougher and wiser. Two years of working like a man until she’d forgotten what it was like not to. Now this year, with the sale of her beef, she should have enough put by to weather any storm.

  Yes, she thought as she swung herself back into the saddle, the Circle C has everything. Everything but water. Tomorrow, she nudged Patch toward another calf, I’d better ride Powder River way and see if the diversion dam Dad built needs any repairs after the long winter.

  The pond, fed by the dam, was full, but Heather knew that come summer when the rains slowed down, the pond would start drying up. It depended on the river to keep it full. Without the pond, there would be no water for the cattle. She had the small spring behind the house for domestic use and for watering the garden. But in the hot months of July and August, it, too, slowed to a trickle. She’d become an expert at making a canteen of water last all day. The only extravagance she allowed herself was a full pot for her daily coffee. Even then there were times when she had to make that pot stretch into the next day. Summer months, she made the ride to the Powder at least once a week checking the dam and indulging in a bath under the shade of the huge cottonwoods. The rest of the time, a‘spit’ bath, as her mother had called it, sufficed.

  She shook her head again in frustration that her father hadn’t seen to it that some of his land took in the Powder River. Well, he hadn’t, and it didn’t. Thankfully, it was close and able to be diverted. She’d just have to keep praying that whoever owned that portion of riverbank never returned to make trouble over the small dam.

  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 k
new 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.