Force and resistance. Her father used to mutter those two words when faced with a task bigger than he. “We use our brains, Heather,” he’d tell her, his Scottish accent thickening. “We’re a canny lot, us Scots, and stubborn to boot. We can find our way around and through most any conundrum.” The child Heather puzzled over the meaning of many of her father’s words. The adult Heather appreciated them as well as the man who easily let roll them off his tongue.
“Okay, Father. Force and resistance. If I tie the rope around the feet of the cow, then Patch will be dragging it against the grain of the fur. Resistance. But if I tie the rope around the head and then made a small travois or sled to raise the heavy head, it might just slide over any obstacle. With the trees around here, I can cut a couple lower limbs and make my sled. If I cut off the calf’s legs right at the knee joints, I’ll lighten the load considerably. Yes, sir,” she said, smiling, borrowing her father’s Scottish burr, “we Scots are indeed a canny lot.”
Chapter 7
The sun slid closer to the mountain when an exhausted Heather led Patch into the ranch yard. She’d walked the distance, leading him, guiding him, as they picked their way off the mountain. Still, no matter how careful she was or how sure-footed Patch was, she was sure they’d managed to hook and catch the travois on every sagebrush and rock in Wyoming.
The welcoming cabin and barn gave her a burst of energy she hoped would last long enough to see her through the monumental task ahead. But the relief was short lived. Standing as big as if-you-please, back and booted foot resting against the wall of her porch, hat tilted back off his head, was the angular shape of her unpleasant neighbor.
“Ma’am,” he said, in a mocking drawl, “you always drag a beef behind you? Made you a real nice path.” He nodded back toward the way she’d come. “Probably not a rock left on it. Sure kicked up some dust, though. I could see you from a mile off.” He shrugged. “Course, my beef have legs on them so I don’t have to drag them around. You ever thought of—”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” Heather dropped the rope and fell down on the porch. She braced her back against the porch beam, laid her weary head back, closed her eyes and wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her dirt-streaked forehead. She was sweaty, itchy, and tired as hell.
“Mr. Johnson, you’re unwanted, unwelcome, and trespassing. Get off my porch. Get off my property. Get out of my sight. I haven’t got enough energy to look at you, much less to fight with you over a few darn drops of water.”
“Few drops? Hell, woman! You call that creek you’ve diverted into your pond a few drops?” He was just getting started, fueled by her sharp tongue and nasty attitude, when the exhausted look on Heather’s face as she forced herself to her feet stopped the words at his lips. She swayed slightly, then steeled herself and walked purposefully toward her patiently waiting horse and its cumbersome load.
As if he wasn’t worthy of notice, she turned her back on him, and, picking up the lead rope, headed for the barn. She’d only gone a few feet when Whip caught up to her. If she had allowed herself to look at him, she’d have seen nothing but admiration for the gritty woman. But she didn’t. And when he spoke, there was no hint of that admiration. Instead, he put even more of the mocking drawl into his words. “You’re going to have to skin that beef, you know.”
No answer.
“Well?”
“I know.”
“It can’t wait.”
“I know.”
“You know how?”
Again, no answer.
Not a muscle moved in her face. Her body was stiff with disdain for the probing questions and persistence of the know-it-all by her side.
“Sure you do,” he answered. “If you know how to gut a beef, you know how to skin one. You have a block and tackle?”
“My, aren’t we just full of questions?” she snapped. “Yes, Mr. Johnson, I have a block and tackle.” Heather was proud of the nasty in her voice, darn proud.
“Good, we’ll need one.”
She stopped so short that Patch’s nose nudged her back and pushed her forward. Catching her balance, she gave Whip a questioning glare. “We?”
It was his turn to return the favor and not answer.
“We?” she demanded again, angered at the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. The dratted man was clearly enjoying himself.
“Mmmm, hmmm.” His tongue ran over his lips as he waited for her response. Dirty and smelly she might be, but she was all woman. And darned if she wasn’t even prettier when she was mad. And she was mad all right.
“There is no ‘we’, Mr. Johnson.” She bit short each word.
“There’d better be, and it’s Whip.”
“Whip? How nice,” she said sarcastically. “Where did you get a name like Whip, Mr. Johnson?”
“From my Momma.” He waited a full minute before going on, knowing he was playing with fire. “I was a big baby and she took one look at me and decided I probably could whip my weight in coyotes.” His mouth curved into a smile and a devilish dimple surfaced. “So, Miss Campbell, Whip it was, and Whip it still is. Now it’s my turn, since we’re exchanging pleasantries.”
“Huh,” she snorted.
He went on as though unaware of her interruption. “I’d be pleased to know your first name. It would be right neighborly, now wouldn’t it?”
She sighed to let him know her patience was thin. Being neighborly wasn’t at the top of her list.
“Heather.”
“Well, now that’s very pretty. Where’d you get a name like Heather?” He parroted her earlier question.
“From my father.” She paused, daring him to comment. When he didn’t, against her will she heard herself say, “Do you know what heather is, Mr. Johnson? No, I suppose not.” She went on, not giving him time to answer. “It’s a plant that has small, purple-pink flowers on it. They’re shaped like a bell.” Her voice had lowered, anger and tiredness, momentarily forgotten. “It grows in Scotland. My father loved the fields of heather and he missed them sorely when he moved to America.”
She was unaware of how her voice and face softened as she mentioned her father and this special memory. “He longed to see and smell the heather again. That there was no heather blessing Wyoming was the only negative comment he had about his chosen home. When I was born, he named me Heather, saying that as long as I lived, he’d have his heather about him. He’d be content and happy because now Wyoming had everything he needed.” She stopped, amazed that she’d shared so much. It wasn’t like her to be so free with her words or emotions. Darn him. He really did bring out the worst in her.
“As I said, Mr. Johnson, there is no ‘we’.”
“Yeah, and like I said, there’d better be.” His voice was softer than before. More than her words, her eyes and face had showed how alone she was and how much she missed her father. Still, he knew better than to let her know he was aware of this. Her pride sustained her.
“Why?” The word came out louder than she’d intended. Damn, but the man was getting under her skin. She was too tired and dirty to stand here jawing. Her patience had run out several rocks, bushes, and snags ago.
“Cause unless you like skinning beef by moonlight, you’d better make it a ‘we’ and take my help. Now stop being so pig-headed and get that block and tackle. We’ll throw a rope over the barn beam and tie the other end onto my horse. Yours has done enough work dragging this carcass around.” Without waiting for an answer, he left her standing. His stride was sure, and with cat-like grace, he covered the distance to his horse.
She watched him retreat and wished to tell him to go straight to hell. She wanted to tell him she was perfectly capable of attaching the hooks of a block and tackle through the tendons of the beef’s knee joints. She was perfectly capable of securing the block and tackle pulley over the barn rafters, and, with Patch walking forward, they would raise the cow high enough for skinning and quartering. She was perfectly capable. Perfectly capable, Mr. Whip. Perfectly. Yeah, a voice
in her head mocked. You sure are. Both you and Patch are exhausted. You couldn’t wrestle a pissant. Take his help. Don’t be stupid. Take it and be darned grateful for the offer. You don’t have to like it or him, but grit your teeth and do it.
She didn’t have a choice. Whip had seen the weariness of both woman and horse. Oh, he had no doubt that, if he hadn’t been there, she would have skinned the beef if it killed her. Moonlight or not. He’d looked the place over while waiting for her, and what he saw was well maintained. Corrals were up, fences secure, house and barn sturdy and well built. A nice spread all right. There had to be times she faced insurmountable tasks, but by the looks of the place, you wouldn’t know it.
She had guts, he had to give her that. Guts, determination, spunk, and a smart mouth. A smart, kissable mouth. Now where had that thought come from? He grinned to himself. Where?
Chapter 8
The muscles rippled across Whip’s back as the shirt tightened with each pull of the rope. He made look effortless what would have taken every ounce and more of Heather’s diminishing strength. She watched him, feeling inadequate.
Satisfied that the calf was high enough off the ground, Whip took a long knife out of a rawhide bound scabbard. “Any particular side?” He flashed a grin in her direction.
“What?”
He’d caught her staring at him and made no effort to hide his pleasure. “I said, do you have any particular preference which side of the beef you start skinning?”
“No,” she muttered, “one’s the same as the other.” She drew her knife and grabbed a fistful of hide, pulled it away from the flesh.
Both of them were silent, concentrating on the job at hand. When the hide lay crumpled at their feet, they both stepped back and looked at the completed task, circling the beef like warriors circling an opponent. Both examined the other’s side for a nick or cut into the red meat. Nothing. Both sides had been perfectly skinned.
“Nice job.”
“Yeah,” Heather acknowledged, then grudgingly added, “you, too.”
“You darned right, but I knew my side would be perfect. I just wasn’t so sure about yours.”
“Mr. Johnson,” Heather warned, “you’re like a cow that gives a good bucket of milk, then kicks it over.”
Whip threw back his head and laughed, all sternness and pain chased from his face.
Heather drew in her breath. The man was more than handsome. He was, well darn it, he was nothing short of gorgeous, if a man could be called gorgeous.
“Speaking of milk, I like it in my coffee. Cream if you have it.”
“What coffee?” she asked. This man seemed to have an uncanny ability to keep her off balance. She never knew what was going to bounce out of that mouth of his.
“Why, the coffee you’ll be serving me with supper.”
“Mr. Johnson, I haven’t invited you to supper and, what’s more, I don’t intend to.”
“Well, damn,” he said, “that’s a shame. I was just going to suggest you go on into that nice house of yours and fix us both something to eat while I finish quartering and carrying this beef to your smoke house. Course, if you’d rather carry the beef . . .”
He let the sentence dangle like the worm at the end of a hook.
Giving an exaggerated sigh, Heather turned on her heel. No, she wouldn’t rather carry the beef, and he knew that perfectly well. He’d played her all right. Supper it would be.
“It won’t be fancy,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Leftover beans and biscuits.”
“Baking powder biscuits?” His voice followed her across the yard and up the steps to her house. “I’m real partial to baking powder biscuits. Be sure you make plenty. I’m more’n hungry, I’m famished.” He chuckled at the sound of her angry oath and then the slamming of the door.
Whip wasn’t kidding. He ate like the famished man he said he was. Of course, Heather did her fair share at depleting the meal set out on the oilcloth-covered table. Still, she was no match for the big man as he smeared fresh butter across yet another biscuit.
Heather folded her hands under her chin and watched him. He looked up and smiled. Unguarded, her stomach did a funny flip, then righted itself. It was an unexpected and never before experienced sensation. She didn’t like it, not one little bit.
“How many of those you going to eat?”
“Enough I get my fill. I haven’t had biscuits this light and fluffy since—” He stopped, and pain flashed through his blue eyes, turning them cold and distant. “Well, since a long time,” he finished lamely. “A mighty long time. You’re a good cook, Heather.”
“Yeah, well don’t get used to it. There’s no reason we’ll be sharing many meals, Mr. Johnson.” Heather knew she was being uncharacteristically rude to a guest, but the feelings he invoked scared her, and words just popped from her mouth. She vacillated between wanting to do him bodily harm, and wanting to make him smile or chuckle again so she could see the change it brought to his face.
“Well, now there is reason to,” he said, laying his knife and fork neatly across his plate, and pushing his chair back. He picked up his coffee, and, taking a big gulp, waited for her to pick up the gauntlet he’d just thrown down.
He didn’t have long to wait. Heather pounced on his words like a tabby cat on a mouse. “What possible reason could there be, Mr. Johnson, for you and I to ever have a meal together again? We are not friends. In fact, you could say we are, well . . . ”She paused, at loss for words.
“Enemies?” The word hung between them.
“Well, no,” she faltered, “not exactly enemies.”
“Neighbors?”
“Well, yes, Mr. Johnson, you know we’re neighbors. But-but not friendly neighbors. We’re not neighbors like I’m neighbors with the Harrisons.” She glanced up at him, seeing the dimple again as he held in his laughter. The darned man was deliberately goading her.
“Stop it right now, Mr. Johnson. You know exactly what I mean.”
“Well, yes, I do, Miss Heather Campbell. It’s hard to be neighborly like you are with the Harrisons.” He paused. “When one of you is a thief.”
“A thief! Darn you, Whip Johnson. Who are you calling a thief?”
“Why you, of course, Heather. A water-stealing thief. Now you’ve got to admit, that’s down right un-neighborly, taking a man’s water when he’s not around to say yes or no.” Rubbing one tanned finger against the side of his nose as he slightly closed his eyes, long lashes fanning tanned cheeks, he gave every impression of someone thinking serious and dire thoughts. “Would you say that would be a punishable offense, Heather?” His eyes snapped open, pinning her with their intensity. “Punishable as in against the law?”
“Get out! Get out from under my table. Get out of my house. How dare you call me a thief and threaten me in my own home?” Heather’s hands curled into fists as she leaned across the table.
“Now, calm down, Heather. I didn’t threaten you. I called you a thief, and you are.” He held up a hand as though to stop her from leaping across the table and putting those fingers around his throat. She wouldn’t mind squeezing the life out of him, and instead of making him angry, he was delighted with the fire inside this woman. “I simply asked you if you thought it was a punishable offense. Now if you’ll sit down and try to act like the lady you aren’t, I might be willing to work out a compromise.”
Heather’s nostrils flared. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, trying to get control of herself. No one had ever made her this angry. Yes, they’d diverted the water from the river that ran through his land. Yes, they’d done it without asking, but darn it, he wasn’t there to ask. But that didn’t make her family thieves. Heather sank slowly into her chair wishing for her father’s cool head and steadying advice. He’d have the words needed to reason and explain the diversion to Whip Johnson. And he would have done it without losing his temper. She swallowed hard. Okay, if her father were here, what would he do? What would he say to her? She licked her lips.
&
nbsp; “Mister Johnson,” she started.
“Whip,” he interrupted.
Oh, Lord, this was going to be harder than hard. Whip Johnson seemed to be determined to make her crawl.
“Whip,” she said sarcastically, “we did divert the water running through your land.”
“You sure did.”
Take a deep breath, don’t let him rile you, she silently admonished. “Now, my ranch depends on that water for survival. What I’m diverting won’t be missed by you.”
“Might be,” he said laconically. “I have a large herd due any day now. We have a hot summer, I’m going to need all the water the Powder River offers. Say,” he said as he reached for another biscuit, “you don’t mind if I help myself to another, do you, neighbor?”
“No, help yourself, neighbor,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Mr. Johnson, Whip,” she said, forestalling his admonition. “I have lived here four years now and have never seen the Powder River run dry. I think you know that’s a mighty slim possibility.”
“Slim, but possible.”
“Oh!” she exploded. “Just what do you want for your measly water? Blood?”
“Nope. Just some neighborly consideration.”
“And just what do you call neighborly consideration, Whip?” Her tongue curled around his name.
“Well, now, I’ll have to give that some thought. I think a home-cooked meal once a week or so would be a start. You mind if I let you know as we go along and the considerations come to me?”
Not waiting for an answer, he pushed his chair back and reached for his hat. “Thank you for the meal, Heather. It was truly the best I’ve had in a long time.” Gone was the teasing, exasperating man replaced by yet another. “I’d forgotten what sharing a home-cooked meal with a pretty woman was like. It’s like a beautiful sunset at the end of a day. Not necessary to life, but necessary to living. I’ll be in touch.” He put his hat on his head and, before she could think of a response, he was out the door leaving her sitting there.
Wyoming Heather Page 3