“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.
Chapter 18
Dusk fell. Whip knew he shouldn’t have treated himself to a shave and hot meal, but the opportunity didn’t present itself often. He’d left Alice filling the remainder of his order a few hours ago, and made sure to steer clear of the railroad station.
He’d brought the wagon around and left it behind the store. Alice had assured him she had a couple of husky kids to do the heavy lifting, and he was not to worry. It would be all loaded when he returned. He only had to pay the bill.
When he walked back into the store this time, the chairs surrounding the barrel were taken by two old timers. They eyed him suspiciously and stopped talking as he got closer.
“Evening.”
The thinnest and most grizzled of the two had a chaw of tobacco poking out the side of a weathered cheek. He turned his head to the side and spit, hitting the spittoon dead center. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then reached into a pocket of his bib overalls and pulled out a stick of chew and a knife. He squinted and with a trembling hand cut off a hunk and popped it in his mouth.
Whip could have been a tree for all the notice the old man gave him.
“Harley don’t like strangers.” The comment was offered by the other chair holder. Where Harley was thin and grizzled, this man was short with an overall covered belly that stuck out far enough to hide his shoes. His shiny, round face was red, made even more so by a full head of white hair. He stuck out his hand. “I’m Everett, and I don’t mind a stranger or two. Kinda livens up the day seein’ a fresh face now and again.”
His eyes twinkled and Whip felt drawn to the likeable old man.
“I’d get up, Sonny, but don’t see no sense in haulin’ this gut of mine out of this chair lessen I have to.”
Whip took the proffered hand and was surprised by the strength of the man’s grip.
“Everett, pleased to meet you. You’ll probably be seeing more of me from time to time. Whip Johnson, Powder River Ranch.”
“Know the place. Been let go,” he said laconically.
“I’ve been gone.”
“You the feller whose missus was killed by the bank robber several years ago.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I am,” Whip answered quietly.
Everett nodded toward his companion who had stopped chewing and listened intently. “Harley was in the bank when it was being robbed.”
Whip’s head spun around. “That right?” he asked, giving Harley a piercing look.
“Yep.”
“You saw the man?”
“Yep.”
Whip pulled from his pocket a silver star, dull with age and wear. His eyes never left Harley’s face.
“I’m a Texas Ranger. Spent the last five years looking for that man. You’re the first person I’ve met who knew of him.” He hunkered down in front of the two men, both leaned forward in their chairs.
Harley reached out a gnarled finger and took the star from Whip’s hand.
“Texas Ranger, huh? Thought you said you owned the Powder River Ranch?”
“I am, and, yes, I do own the ranch. I’m here to stay, but I’ll never quit looking for that man. I may not be active, but I’m still a Ranger. I’d appreciate anything you could tell me. Anything.”
Harley handed back the star. “Nothing to tell. I was in the bank when this feller comes in with a pistol in one hand and a feed sack in the other. Bandana covered half his face, but it fell and I saw it real good.”
“When what?” Whip exploded, standing to his feet. “You saw his face?”
“He didn’t know it, but I did. I looked the other way, and he pushed it back up quick-like.”
Whip shook his head trying to bring himself back under control. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Do you know him?” he whispered, with the quietness of a hesitant prayer.
“Yep.”
Whip sucked in his breath. The store was evening cool, a slight breeze coming in the open door, but Whip felt bathed in fire, his ears roaring. Then he realized Harley was speaking.
“Newt Jessup. Youngest one of the Jessup boys. Whole passel of them was no good and Newt wasn’t any different. The old man was a thief and, like they say, the apple didn’t fall fer from the tree.” He hit the spittoon with a whang adding an exclamation to the sentence.
Whip’s throat was dry and the words caught in his throat. “You don’t know where I might find this Newt, do you?” He held his breath.
“Nope. Sorry. The old man died and the boys scattered every which way. All that’s left to even mark their being in thes
e parts is what’s left of a sod shanty. Never saw Newt after that day at the bank. When the story got out about your wife, I knew Newt was the one shot her. Rode out to your place to tell you, but you was long gone. Wouldn’t uh mattered. Newt, he wasn’t dumb. Don’t rightly know why he stopped at your place, but like I said, he wasn’t dumb. Bet a dollar he lit out for Mexico and holed up there, especially if he had plenty of money, which I guess he had.”
Whip laid a weary hand on the old man’s shoulder. The pleasant, all-around, good feeling he’d had after his shave and dinner, was gone.
“Thanks,” he said, giving the thin shoulder a squeeze. “Least I’ve got a name to go with a face. Nice talking to you. Missed you earlier.”
“Yeah,” Everett broke in, “we had to take in that Orphan Train.”
Whip blinked back to the present. “How’d that go?” he asked, glad to change the subject.
“Well, depends on whose side you’re talking from. From the people that took them a kid or two, I guess it went okay. But by darn, if I was one of them kids, all trussed up in new Sunday best and paraded out to stand waiting for someone to look me over and decide if they wanted me or not, well, that’s a different story. Those kids looked tired and scared. And why the hell wouldn’t they be?” he asked, belligerently. “Can’t fault with wanting to get them out of the city and into a home, but ‘pears to me there’s a better way of doing it. Don’t know what, but I’d sure hate to be in their shoes. No, sir. I wouldn’t like it one little bit.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more, Everett. It had to be hard.” Whip headed to the back counter but Everett’s next words stopped him. “Heard you met our Heather.”
Whip smiled warily and turned back to the man. “I did.”
“Well, you see her again tell her Everett said ‘hello’. Tell her my pup’s doing just fine.”
“Your pup?”
“Heather saved him. Gotten a’hold of Coyote poison, I guess. I got him out to her ranch and she took over. She’s got a way with animals, all right. She stirred up something and poked it down his gullet. He started puking. Didn’t think he’d ever stop. Anyway, he’s fit as a fiddle now. But you tell Heather, he’s still chewing up every piece of leather in sight.” The smile on Everett’s face told him that the pup’s chewing was pretty much okay with him.
Wyoming Heather Page 8