Wyoming Heather

by DeAnn Smallwood

  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 h
is 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.

  Chapter 14

  They moved to the meager shade of some scrub oak. Patch followed behind Heather. Whip paused long enough to untie Buck and Wind from the chuck wagon. He spoke quietly to Cookie who nodded, snapped the reins, and bellowed out a curse filled command. The wagon jolted forward and was soon lost to sight as it closed the distance to the herd.

  Heather sat on the one rock leaving Buster and Whip to lean against the brush or to hunker down in the small strip of shade. With evidence of time spent along rough trails, the two eased to a squat, Whip near Heather and Buster facing them.

  Buster raised his hands directing his words to Heather.

  “Prairie fire. Dry lightning.”

  Heather nodded, encouraging him.

  “About five days out of Cheyenne. Storm came up that night. Lightning crackling all around us for hours until the herd was ready to stampede at any sound. The boys and I had all we could do to keep them bunched and moving in a circle. Old One Horn earned her salt.” His eyes crinkled with the memory. “She’d look up at the sky and shake that one horn as if warning the gods, daring them to strike her or her herd.”

  Then he looked down at his hands, his voice lowered. “The next thing we knew lightening hit a pinion tree. It must have been full of sap because it exploded sending burning embers into the air. One of the embers fell on one of the new kids riding herd. Young and scared, he didn’t have the sense to jump off his horse and roll. Instead, he jumped off and ran, swatting and screaming, fanning the fire. The spark turned into a blaze. I caught him, tried to beat it out, but”—he shook his head—“it didn’t matter. We buried him the next morning.

  “He was the only man or animal touched by the storm. But the land was different. The skyline glowed and we had no choice but to move the cattle in a direction as far away as possible. I knew of this trail. Rough and slow, but, like I said, we had no choice. We turned the herd, backtracked a day, then found the cut across. Anyway,” he said, raising his head once again to direct his words and gaze to Heather, “that’s what happened.”

  “Let me see your hands,” Heather demanded and, much to Whip’s surprise, Buster docilely held them out as she reached toward them. Her manner was gentle and she held them tenderly before slowly unwrapping the bandages.

  As the last vestige of bandage was removed, Heather gave a sharp intake of breath at the reddened flesh. She glanced up at Buster, tears touching the lashes of her eyes. “Oh, Buster. The pain.” It was a statement not a question. Then she did something surprising. She lowered her head and smelled both hands. When she looked up at the two men, a hint of smile chased away the threatening tears.

  “Onion?”

  Buster nodded.

  “That’s why there are no blisters.”

  He nodded again, his respect for the woman growing. Now he could see why she had captivated Whip.

  “Are you a healer, wiwasteka?” he asked Heather.

  “No. But I suspect you are. I’ve read about the effectiveness of bruised onions on burns in my animal husbandry books.”

  “I’d noticed some wild onions growing alongside a stream a few days back,” Buster said. “Cookie picked them to cut up and put in his beans. He wasn’t too happy about me making him mash them then smear the paste all over my hands. He was even unhappier when I insisted he tear up one of his dishtowels for bandages.”

  While he was talking, Heather rewrapped his hands. They would heal, but they’d hurt in the process.

  “Can you ride?” Whip spoke for the first time. He knew that, like all the Indian ponies, Wind had been trained to respond to pressure from his rider’s knees. Reins were unnecessary.

  Buster nodded. “Some. When it got too bad, I’d take a rest in Cookie’s wagon. That’s why you found me there. I’d been out most of the morning and knew we were getting close to the Powder River. Herd should reach it by tonight. I figured we’d bed down there and make it on into the ranch some time tomorrow. We got a couple of good hands, Whip. They took over and drove the herd, making as good a time as possible.”

  Whip heard what Buster wasn’t saying. The men would do anything for this man who had put himself at risk trying to save one of their own. If getting the herd through in good time was what Buster Walking Tall wanted, then it was what they wanted, too. Buster would never admit his selflessness, and he would be angry if Whip made anymore of the incident.

  Her task completed, Heather stood and gathered Patch’s reins in her hands. “There ought to be some catnip or skunk cabbage growing around here,” she said. “I give it to my animals for pain. I know there’s skunk cabbage along the Powder River.” She shrugged apologetically. “I don’t know how it’ll work on humans, but it’s worth a try.”

  “I’ve been using
nettle, but I’ll look for your skunk cabbage. Thank you.”

  “Whip, you’ll be moving slower than I want to. Dark will catch me if I don’t start back now.”

  “I’ll go with you,” he answered.

  “No. Your place is with Buster and the herd. You take them on home. Patch and I can make good time. I should make the border of the Circle C before dark. If not, I’ll give Patch his head, he’ll know the way.” She flashed a warning look at Whip, stopping any words of protest. “I know this land. My ranch needs me.” Her words said it all.

  She looked at Buster, his face stoic. “You know where to find me if you need me?”

  He nodded. He knew. He’d heard talk of the Circle C.

  “Whip, don’t forget your beef.” Her gaze softened as it lingered on the tall ranger. His eyes held hers.

  Having said all she needed to say, she turned Patch back to the trail, and, without a backward glance, she left the two men standing, watching the trail dust eat up any sight of her.

  “Whip,” Buster said.

  “Buster, you’re my friend, but I don’t care, hurt hands and all, I’ll bust you in your mouth if you say one smart thing.” Whip growled the words, but the smile on his face took the sting out of them.

  “Whoa, I wasn’t going to say anything except—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Except I’m not sure you’re man enough for that woman.”

  “And you are?”

  “Maybe. Maybe.”

  Chapter 15

  Whip knew he had put it off as long as he could. He had to go into town for supplies. That morning Cookie had given him a list a mile long and told him they were getting mighty short on beans. Whip wondered if that’s all the old man knew how to cook and he caught himself thinking of Heather’s fresh bread. Of course, that wasn’t all he thought of when he thought of Heather. He tried to push her from his mind and when that didn’t work, he’d go to the top of the knoll and stand by Lettie’s grave, letting the memories of the woman he had loved wash over him. And if Heather’s green eyes, her soft curly hair, and her wide smile invaded more of his waking hours than he wanted, he quickly reminded himself there was no room for a woman in his life. Not now, not ever, not until— He shoved the thought aside. He’d spent five years pursuing the man who’d killed Lettie, and that man had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him.