“Pretty,” she whispered to the empty room. “Well, Whip Johnson, you sure do know how to have the last word. Pretty.”
She slowly gathered the dishes and walked over to the dishpan. All thoughts of being a thief and what other considerations he might dream up were forgotten. She had just experienced a beautiful sunset at the end of her day.
Chapter 9
Heather placed the canvas wrapped meat in one saddlebag and a loaf of warm bread wrapped in a dishcloth in the other. She put her foot in the stirrup and with the ease born of years of riding, settled herself into the saddle, reaching forward and patting Patch’s neck, then turning toward the Powder River.
As good as it would feel, she wasn’t going for a swim or a bath. Her destination was the Powder River Ranch. The beef in the saddlebags was only a portion of the hind-quarter she felt she owed Whip Johnson for his help yesterday. And the fresh-baked bread was a peace offering. It certainly wasn’t an excuse to see the exasperating man again. Absolutely not.
As she approached the ranch, Heather could see signs that the deserted cabin, barn, and corrals were coming back to life. She pulled Patch up short at the next rise and sat surveying the ranch below. Gloved hand resting on the saddle horn and her hat shading her face, she seemed as much a part of the environment as the trees and prairie grass. She’d taken extra time braiding her riotous mass of auburn hair. The braid lay down her back reaching to the waistband of her split skirt. But the extra time was in no way meant to impress Whip Johnson. She had no interest in the man other than getting his cooperation for allowing the diversion dam to remain on his property. If a neat appearance and a loaf of bread helped that along, then all the better.
The wind blew softly against her face, bringing with it the perfume of the prairie, subtle blends of new grass, sunshine, willows, sagebrush, the river, and the Indian Paintbrushes growing profusely among the tufts. Intense vermilion embraced this wide country that she called home. A mischievous breeze teased her hair, releasing several strands from the heavy braid.
Lost in thought, she scanned this untamed land, her eyes deepening to a green that rivaled the willows lining Whip’s portion of the Powder River. This was her land, full of harshness, yet beautiful. A sense of well-being and gratitude filled her. She belonged here. She belonged on her ranch. She was a part of the Wyoming Territory. She knew exactly what the explorer, John Fremont, meant when he said it seemed as, “nature had collected all her beauties together in one chosen place.” Her father had loved that quote, and often, standing on their porch, coffee cups in hand as they greeted the morning, one or the other would quietly repeat it. Yes, she belonged here; and if she got lonesome, which of course she didn’t a voice inside her protested, she could make the ride into town and spend the night with any one of several friends. But she never stayed long. The Circle C needed her. Her animals needed her.
She couldn’t help admire the ranch spread below her. The cabin was nothing. It looked much the way it always had, except maybe less lonely. But the barn and outbuildings were different. They looked stronger, in better repair. Fences were mended, corrals had new poles. Whip Johnson had placed his priority and his able hand where it was most needed.
Heather smiled. That was exactly what she would have done. A herd of cattle was coming. Then, hopefully before winter, there would be time to worry about the cabin.
She knew every inch of this ranch because it had stood empty and silent for so long that Heather had begun to think of it as her own. She’d ride over when she had time and occasionally eat her lunch at the pond or in the shade of the barn. With a reluctance she didn’t understand, she rarely went into the cabin. It was empty in a way that made lonely cry. By the same token, she left the grave on the knoll to its lonesome vigil. The cabin and knoll were private, not to be intruded.
The ranch lazed in the morning sun. A small, underground stream meandered along one edge of pasture. A bee hummed past her face, and across the field a prairie dog stood up on its hind legs and whistled, catching sight of the woman then disappearing into its hole within seconds. Heather enjoyed watching the small animals as they called to one another. They were a neighborly bunch and preferred to dwell in towns. Yet, while she enjoyed them, she also knew what stepping in one of their tunnels could do to a horse.
Everything had its place here, where nature was king. If the trespasser expected to make a life here, he or she would have to accept and bend to the land, the animals, and the hardships.
Heather took in a deep lungful of the summer air and wondered, not for the first time, what in the heck was she doing on Whip Johnson’s land. Why had she given into the urge to come when so much work waited for her on the Circle C? Sure, she could justify the ride over by telling herself it was only right she bring him some of the meat he’d helped butcher. And the bread? Well, the bread was a peace offering. She’d been pretty rude yesterday. She cringed remembering some of the things she’d said, but darn it, he was out of line too, wasn’t he?
She was lost in thought, debating if she should turn Patch around and go back to her ranch where she belonged and forget about peace offerings, when Patch’s ears pointed forward, quivering in the air. A low drawl reached her.
“Adding trespassing to stealing, Heather? Or are you here to borrow a cup of water?”
Startled, Heather gave a sharp pull on the reins jerking Patch’s head
“You! Whip Johnson you have a disgusting habit of sneaking up on people.”
“Now, Heather. It’s not sneaking when you come across uninvited people on your own land is it?” His smile was disarming, filled with devilish delight. Her eyes flashed with the same emerald green he’d remembered all the way home and just before falling off to sleep. They penetrated his mind and the ice around his heart. He’d have to be cautious.
“I won’t dignify that question with an answer. For four years I’ve ridden this ranch. Now, after a few run-ins with you, I’m not sure it wasn’t better off abandoned.”
Whip threw back his head and laughed. Darn but it felt good to laugh, and a light entered his darkness. He looked at the scowl on the woman’s face and chuckled. Teasing Heather Campbell might just become a habit.
“Well now, I’m real sorry we’ve gotten off to another bad start. Would you like me to turn around, then ride back up this rise singing so you won’t be caught sitting there daydreaming? We could start all over.”
“I wasn’t daydreaming,” Heather sputtered, then caught herself realizing she’d walked right in to yet another one of Whip Johnson’s jabs. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he rankled her. She’d be polite and neighborly, just like planned. She’d come over to the Powder River Ranch to do the right thing, and damned if she wouldn’t, even if it killed her.
“Whip,” and she put on her sweetest smile, “I do want to be a good neighbor. So,” and she reached into a saddle bag, “I brought you over a loaf of bread fresh baked this morning. And, if you’ll give me a hand, I have several thick steaks from the calf you helped me with. They need to be cooked, or put in a springhouse if you’ve got one. I figure I owe you a hind quarter for all your help, but I left it in the smoke house until you’re ready for it.” She glanced at the expression on his face, and knew he was fully aware of her nervousness and his ability to shatter her composure.
“Homemade bread. No! Homemade light bread. I don’t know how many years it’s been since I’ve had a slice, much less a loaf, of bread.” Without being aware of it, he glanced at the knoll behind the house. A trace of nostalgia and longing entered his voice.
“Family, Whip?” Heather asked softly.
He nodded his head, not looking at her. “Wife,” his voice hoarse.
“I’m sorry,” she reached over and touched his arm.
He flinched, surprised by her touch. It was the first time someone had physically reached out to him. It was the first time he’d shared that one, pain-filled word with anyone.
Heather rested her hand on th
e pommel of the saddle and let the quiet of the land enfold them. The minutes were still. Then, she smiled softly. “Want to ride over to your pond? I’ve trespassed and spent some stolen time on its banks. Even did some wading.
He turned his eyes to her. They were the soft blue of the Wyoming sky. With a nod, he lightly touched his heels to the buckskin’s flank.
Chapter 10
The morning sun rose. Its warmth reached the two sitting by the pond. Heather, giving into an impulse, had removed her boots and was gingerly dipping her toes into the water.
She looked up at Whip, sitting on a nearby rock, his hat pulled low over his eyes, his face shaded. “Come on. Take your boots off and give it a try. Chicken?”
“Nope. Smart.”
“Smart?”
“Crawdads,” the answer came slow and deliberate.
“What do you mean, crawdads?” Heather’s voice pitched higher than usual, her toes involuntarily curling.
“Mean little buggers. That one big claw grabs hold of something, say a toe, and darned if you don’t have a heck of a time pulling it loose. Pond’s full of them.”
Heather screamed, then yanked her foot out of the pond and jumped back all in one movement. She would have fallen if a pair of strong arms hadn’t caught her.
Whip liked the feel of her in his arms. And darned if she didn’t smell good, too, a familiar scent of pine, horses, and woman. He tightened his arms knowing that any minute she’d realize he’d been teasing and explode. But it was worth it. Just holding her, feeling her in his empty arms would be worth all the hell she’d vent. He felt her stiffen just seconds before her voice cut into his thoughts.
“Crawdads? Whip Johnson, you are a liar, a cheat, a scoundrel, a—”
“A man that’s holding a very pretty woman in his arms. Now don’t you think the end justifies the means, Heather? Why, it’s all in how you look at it. There could be crawdads. Just cause I haven’t ever seen any in this pond doesn’t mean they aren’t there hiding in the mud just waiting for a pearly, pink toe to nibble on.”
“Let go of me. You,” she said as she jerked free of him, fire dancing from her eyes. “You are despicable and a”—she fished for words bad enough to describe him—“a rotten neighbor. I won’t be friendly with you. I won’t.”
Whip put a sober expression onto his face and tried to look contrite. “I’m sorry, Heather. I don’t know what it is about you, but you bring out the ornery in me. Could be I’m just not used to female company. The last five years, the closest I’ve come to a woman was a dance hall girl. Come on, you can’t ride off without accepting my apology. ‘Sides,” he said with a grin, “you’ve got my bread in your saddlebag. I might tolerate your leaving, but that homemade bread, well now, that’s a horse of a different color. Here, let me get it out of the saddlebag and you and I sit down on this rock and tear us off a hunk. I can smell it from here, I swear.”
“Tear us off a hunk?” she asked. “Tear us off a hunk of my bread? Mr. Johnson, you slice bread, you don’t tear off hunks. You”—she pursed her lips fighting back a smile—“have certainly been out of civilization too long. I can see I’m going to have my work cut out for me.” She paused, looking up at him, her hands on her slim hips. “Oh, what the heck. A hunk of bread does sound good. You wouldn’t happen to have some sweet churned butter on you, would you?” she asked.
Again, his chuckle surprised her.
Heather realized she liked the sound of his laughter and vowed she’d make it happen more often.
They munched the bread in silence, with Whip having more than one hunk. Heather laid back and let the sun shine on her, one foot at the edge of the pond, her toes kissing the water, but not venturing in.
Whip noticed this and couldn’t help smiling to himself. There were a million things he should be doing. Sitting on the bank of a pond wasn’t one of them. When he’d come across Heather, he’d been on his way to a higher bluff hoping for a better view as he looked for any sign of his herd. He wouldn’t be able to put off going into Buffalo much longer. A sense of unease plagued him, and he knew he was unwise to ignore it.
“You’re frowning,” Heather said, breaking the silence.
“My herd’s past due. When I spied you, I was riding up that bluff to see if I could spot them. I’ve got a lot tied up in that herd.” He paused, “Money and dreams. I keep telling myself they’re just taking it slow like I told them to. My foreman, Buster Walking Tall, is the best. He’d handle anything as good or better’n I would.” He fell off, silent.
“Buster Walking Tall? You left your herd…your foreman is an Indian?” The questions came unbidden to her lips.
“Yep. He’s a Lakota brave,” Whip said, studying her face.
“And you trust him?”
“With my life. We grew up together. I was orphaned when my ma died. I thought I was man enough to make it on my own. The townspeople thought differently.” He smiled at her, then pulled a blade of grass and put it into his mouth.
“Tell me about him. About you.” Unconsciously, Heather moved closer to him, a gentle, questioning look on her face.
He heard himself talking and sharing his story with her. Somehow, he knew she’d understand and accept what his city-bred Lettie never could.
“I ran away from the mission school those good folks sent me to. I had stayed long enough to know I wasn’t going to take anymore of the headmaster’s canings. Not that I didn’t deserve a few,” he said, winking at her. “My horse threw a shoe.” His voice was quiet as he thought back. “Well, it wasn’t exactly my horse. I borrowed it from the school.
“Anyway, we’d wandered into Lakota territory. The Lakota’s are one of the seven council fires of Sioux tribes. They’re fierce warriors and have no equal as horsemen.
My water had given out the day before, my food long before that. I don’t know where I thought I was going. I don’t think I was capable of thinking. The sun was hot and I was getting weaker. I saw a tall sagebrush and laid down under it hoping for some shade. The next time I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by a band of Lakota braves. They had been out hunting and trapping wild horses and had a small herd with them to show for their work.
“Riding beside the meanest looking brave was a boy my age: Buster. He wore vermilion slashes across his face and a claw necklace hung on his bare chest. He was scowling like the rest of them.” Whip grinned. “He wasn’t called Buster back then. His Lakota name was a bunch of sounds I never could wrap my tongue around. I gave up and started calling him Buster. After I got to know the language some, I realized his name translated into Walking Tall.” He gave a short laugh. “It was too late by then. He was Walking Tall to everyone else, but he remained Buster to me.” He shrugged, the smile still playing around his lips.
“I’m getting ahead of myself,” Whip said. “We sure weren’t on a first name basis at that moment. In fact, there was a great deal of talk going on, none of which I could understand. Damn, I was scared to death, sorely wishing I’d never left the mission school and the saintly headmaster.
“They looked fierce and every now and then one of them would scream something and jab me with his lance. I found out later they were arguing about my outcome. Some wanted to leave me for the spirits to take. I wasn’t even worth the effort to kill; the sun would do that for them. They’d already helped their selves to the only thing they saw of value, my horse. Others wanted to take me back to their camp and let the women have me for a slave.
“I found out later, Buster talked a good talk. He won them over by saying he’d take responsibility for me. He’d take the punishment should I prove unworthy. It was the first, but not the last time, he put his life on the line for me.
“They jerked me to my feet and tied me on my horse. Buster gave me a drink of water and some dried jerky that tasted like heaven. Almost, but not quite as good as your bread, Heather Campbell.”
“Hush! Go on, Whip. What happened?”
“Well, what happened is, when we got back to cam
p, Buster went immediately to his father who was a very wise and much-respected man. He knew the Indians had to accept the settlers and that the only way they could exist was to co-exist.” He paused. “Have you heard of the Fort Laramie Treaty?”
“Yes, my father was a history professor. He kept up on what was going on in this new land he’d adopted. I remember him being quite hopeful over the treaty. “As long as the river flows and the eagle flies,” she quoted with a quiet reverence. “The Indians could have control of the Great Plains for that long. In turn, they would guarantee safe passage for settlers and would allow forts to be built on their land. My father was sorely disappointed when Article Seven was changed on the treaty. Do you know what Article Seven is, Whip?”
“Nope, you tell me.” He gently touched the end of her nose with his finger. “You’re quite the scholar, Heather.”
“No, I had quite the father. The Indians were promised $50,000 a year annuity payment for fifty years. It was adjusted to ten years. My father thought this very unfair. Time has proven him right.”
“Yeah.” Whip shook his head. “Well, Buster’s father had been one of the tribal representatives at that council, but he wasn’t one of the six making their mark on the treaty. He had wisdom to see ahead and realized then what was needed was greater knowledge of the white-man’s world. That’s where I came in. Lucky for me, although I sure didn’t think it at the time, some of the headmaster’s teachings had sunk in and stayed.
“Anyway, they kept the scrawny white boy, and to pay for my life, I taught Buster English, how to read and write and sums. He taught me far more—the Lakota language, how to hunt, how to live off the land, how to ride like a Lakota warrior but, most of all, how to believe in myself. We’re brothers.” He made the statement proudly then sat there quietly reflective, his mind back in the Indian camp.
Wyoming Heather Page 4