Wyoming Heather

by DeAnn Smallwood

  The ladies would expect to be invited in and offered tea. Tea. She wasn’t even sure she had one clean cup, much less two. She wasn’t even sure she could brew a suitable cup of tea, and there certainly wasn’t anything to serve with it. She’d broken the lid to her mother’s china teapot several days ago. It would just be her luck for the glued pieces to fall apart in one of their cups.

  There was no bread to offer, no butter and jam. The cream was still cooling in the spring cellar, waiting like everything else. There hadn’t been an opportunity to bake for weeks. If it didn’t have a mouth to feed, lungs to bawl, whinny, or cluck for attention, or excrement to shovel and clean, it was left for a later time that seemed never to come.

  Running the ranch was taking every minute of every day. She’d always had her mother and father to round out the team. Then, later, it had been just her father. Now everything fell on her. Try as she might, she fell exhausted into her bed at night leaving a multitude of chores undone. She got up earlier and earlier each day, but the extra hours didn’t seem to help.

  And, somewhere, at the bottom of the list, the very bottom, were her own needs. There was the forgotten luxury of soaking in a hot bath and washing her hair until it shone. Shoot, she was lucky to stuff something in her mouth and pull on yesterday’s clothes.

  She told herself that under no circumstances would these two ladies enter her house. No way! No way would she let them see the chaos inside. The weekly gathering of the ladies’ quilting club would have to have an additional meeting just to thoroughly discuss the situation as presented by the gossip queens, Maude and Clara.

  Much like a soldier going into battle, she resolutely went forward, a smile pasted on her face and a pleasant greeting on her lips.

  “Why, Heather, darling, how simply delightful to see you. I was telling Clara just this morning—wasn’t, I Clara?—that we have been terribly remiss in not visiting you before now. We’ve neglected you and, therefore, our duty.” Maud’s head bobbed and with each bob, the big silk rose on the brim of her church hat nodded in agreement.

  “That’s correct, Maud. Just this morning,” Clara piped up.

  Maud pursed her lips and bobbed again. “Just so. It’s simply not like Sister and me to neglect our Christian duties. Is it, Sister?”

  “Not at all, Maud. Not like us at all.” Clara looked at her sister for approval.

  But approval was not forthcoming, for it was at that moment Maud gave more than cursory glance at Heather. Her eyes widened, she sucked in air as her lips worked soundlessly around a lemon puckered mouth.

  “Oh, my. Oh, my. Whatever . . .? Oh, Heather, your appearance. It’s quite, quite . . .” She weakly laid her head back on the pillowed headrest of the buggy seat. “My salts, Sister. Quickly.”

  “Your, your salts, Maud?” Clara looked like a plucked pullet with her head cocked to one side, her faded blue eyes wide as she stared uncomprehendingly at her gasping sister.

  “Salts, salts,” Maud demanded in a voice unaffected by the near swoon. “Don’t be such a dolt, Clara. My smelling salts.”

  “We-we don’t have any, Maud,” Clara fearfully said. She slid to the far side of the seat, wringing her hands. “They’re at home on the bureau.”

  “Oh, good grief,” Maud moaned as she raised a gloved hand, fanning herself.

  “Miss Maude.” Heather came closer to the buggy, “Could I get you a cold cloth or a cold drink of water?” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she sent up a prayer that there would indeed be a clean cloth and a clean glass.

  “Oh, Heather,” Maude weakly whispered, “your mother, your poor sainted mother. Thank heavens she is removed from the trial and tribulations of this earth and cannot see the state of her only daughter.” Another moan escaped the woman as she gave herself over to Clara’s ineffectual fanning and flapping. What the diminutive sister lacked in size, she made up for with enthusiasm.

  Then Maude reared upright in the seat and gave Clara a shove. “Will you please stop that flapping around, Clara? It’s obvious we were sent here today to help this poor child.” And with that Maude swung a brown, cotton-hosed leg out the door of the surrey.

  In panic, Heather stepped closer, stopping any further movement on Maude’s part. She would throw herself across the seat pinning Maude and Clara before she’d let them put one foot on the ground. There had to be some way to stop this visit and send the two ladies on their way. Her appearance alone was sufficient gossip fodder for the next few days or weeks.

  Heather also knew she could count on a visit from Reverend Harris before the week was out. The poor man was at the mercy of Maude’s purse strings and, therefore, forced to dance to her tune.

  Think, Heather, think, she commanded. There had to be some way, and it had to be now. The three words joined hands and danced through her head.

  She had it. It was brilliant. It was wicked. It was her only chance.

  “Oh, Miss Maude and Miss Clara, I am so grateful you are here. Why, you are indeed an answer to prayer.” Then she paused, biting her lip, a woeful expression on her face. “But no, I mustn’t. I really mustn’t.” Heather rolled her eyes in her best heroine tied to the railroad tracks imitation.

  “You are? I-I mean, we are? You mustn’t? No, no, I mean, really, Heather, dearest, whatever is it? You know Clara and I live to serve. Isn’t that right, Clara?”

  “Oh, yes, Sister. Absolutely right. We always look for ways to be of service. Why, just the other day, Sister, when you said it was our duty to tell Reverend Harris about Minnie Stow putting that red rinse on her hair—”

  “That’s quite enough, Clara. You are clattering again. Have some decorum. We do not share everything. That would be gossip, Sister. Why, what would our dear papa think?”

  Clara clamped her mouth shut and hung her head. “Of course, Maude. As always I can look to you for guidance.”

  “Absolutely.” The rose nearly fell from the hat with that head bob. “Now, where was I?”

  “Heather said she mustn’t, she really mustn’t, and you said—”

  “For goodness sake, Clara, it wasn’t a question. Oh,” she said then closed her eyes and gave a long, suffering sigh, “my road is indeed narrow, but I will trod it. I will.”

  Maude turned back to Heather, who by now was fighting hard not to laugh. As tired as she was, she feared if once started, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Poor Maude. Oh, and poor, poor Clara.

  “Now, Heather, my dear, you must share whatever is worrying you.”

  “Thank you, Maude,” she answered in as sincere and sweet voice as could be summoned. “But even though I know you would readily agree to lend a hand, being such a dear friend of Mother’s, I wouldn’t feel right asking you. Still”—She put her finger to her lips—“you are such giving souls.” Her sigh of resignation filled the air. “No, no, it wouldn’t be right.”

  Heather shook her head, a small, disappointed smile clouding her face. If Maude would have looked closer, she would have seen the imp dancing in Heather’s eyes.

  By this time, Maude was bursting with curiosity. She could already visualize relaying this visit to the other ladies, holding them enthralled.

  “Heather, you must ask me, you must.” She fairly shouted the words.

  “But, but, Maude,” Clara meekly broke in. “If Heather feels so strongly about asking you, perhaps she shouldn’t.”

  Both women pounced on the poor, unsuspecting Clara like hens on a June bug.

  “Hush, Clara,” ordered Maude.

  “Oh, no, Clara,” said Heather. “I mean, what I mean is, Maude is right. I should feel free to ask you anything.”

  “Indeed you should, Heather. And I,” Maude said imperiously, “will do everything in my power to assist you in whatever you ask. Now. Ask.”

  Heather swallowed. This was the performance of her life. “Maude, you see I have a problem. A very embarrassing problem. I wouldn’t want anyone but you and, of course, Clara to know.”

  “Go on, go.
For heaven’s sake, Heather, quit stalling.”

  “Well, we have lice.”

  Maude recoiled so fast she bumped heads with poor Clara who had been leaning forward until she was inches from Maude.

  “Ow,” cried Clara.

  “Clumsy bumpkin,” cried Maude.

  “Oh, my dear, Maude,” Heather said. “I worded that wrong. We don’t have lice. I mean we do have lice, but I don’t. Oh, I’m not making myself clear.”

  “Heather Campbell. You will make yourself clear this instant.”

  “What I’m trying to say is, my chickens have lice, or is it mites?”

  “Lice, mites, who cares?” Maude cried in a strangled voice, shivers rolling down her back. “Disgusting.” Her hand tightened on the reins.

  “That’s correct, Maude, how perceptive. It is truly disgusting. My poor hens, pick, pick, pick. Do you know”—Heather leaned forward conspiratorially—“they actually eat the vile critters.”

  A very green Maude groaned, “Heather.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon, Maude. Let me get to the point.”

  “You’re not at the point yet?” she asked, tears of frustration lacing her voice.

  Heather gave her a beatific smile.

  “I need another set of hands. Actually,” she said, peering around Maude to a crouching Clara, “two sets of hands would be perfect. Each of you could hold a chicken while I douse them with lime. Hmm, maybe . . .” She paused as though giving her next words grave thought. “Maybe kerosene would be best. No, it’s so messy and smelly. What do you think, Maude?”

  “I think,” Maude croaked in a small voice. “Uh, I think Clara and I have given you the wrong impression. Clara, you should have made our visit clearer to Heather.”

  “Clearer, Maude?”

  “Oh, the suffering I endure. Yes, clearer. You see, Heather, we are on a very tight schedule. Very tight. Right, Clara?”

  “Oh, yes, Maude. Very tight.”

  “We must have given you the impression we have time to spare. But we don’t. No, we certainly don’t. We just stopped by for a quick, very quick, visit on our way to the Bronson’s. Mary Bronson just gave birth to twins, and I’m sure she needs us far more than your chickens. You certainly can’t expect us to put a chicken before a baby, two babies.”

  “But, Maude,” Heather protested. “If I don’t de-louse my chickens—”

  “Heather, we must bid you good day. Sister and I have our demands and duties. However, I will relay our conversation, and”—she lowered her voice ominously—“my observations to the Reverend. Now. Step back.”

  With a set jaw and a snap of her wrists, Maude made the horse jump forward. The last Heather saw of the good ladies was through a cloud of dust.

  She collapsed on a nearby chopping block and laughed until tears rolled down her face. But when the laughter left, she gave herself a severe talking to for all the lies and deception she’d served out. Still, a few hours later she was still remembering and chuckling.

  The visit had served an important part in the day and her life. And, later, when she read in her father’s notes that there was a proper way to “butter” the end of a brick with mortar for a firm bond, she didn’t pause in intimidation. Anyone that could forestall a visit from Maude and Clara would have no problem buttering a brick. No problem at all.

  Chapter 21

  Morning came early. The darkness crept away like a thief in the night, leaving only the morning star to greet the sleepy sun.

  Whip went down the porch steps holding a steaming cup of coffee in his large hand. This was his first cup, and although he was up and walking, his mind would not come to grips with the day until his second cup cleared the cobwebs. He hoped to have the wagon unloaded by then.

  He gingerly placed the cup on the side of the wagon and slowly peeled back the canvas. He picked the cup back up, took another gulp of the strong brew, and, rolling his shoulders to ease the night kinks, reached into the wagon with his free hand. It closed around a bare foot.

  Whip’s sleep-clogged mind took its time registering what he held. By that time, the body attached to the foot bolted upright, opened wide its mouth and yelled.

  “INDIANS! HELP! HELP! THEY GOT ME. I’M A GONNER. HELP!”

  “WHAT THE HELL!” Whip shouted. “I’LL BE DAMNED!”

  Then when things couldn’t get much worse, they did. Another body bolted upright, opened up its mouth and began screaming, screams loud enough to shake the birds from the trees. Screams loud enough that the bunkhouse door flew open and cowboys in all states of dress and undress came running, cussing and hopping. Their cries joined the other piercing screams, and the boy hollering, “Indians! Help! Help!”

  Whip’s grip tightened on the foot that had started this whole mess.

  “Run. Run. They’s got me in a bear trap. I’ll hold ‘em off, but you gotta run.”

  “Don’t you dare run,” Whip shouted into the bedlam. “Shorty, grab the little screamer.”

  “Pee-e-uw! This ‘un stinks like horse manure. I ain’t about to—”

  “You leave my, my, uh, my brother alone.” Indians forgotten, the boy wiggled in Whip’s grasp, fists flying at the unfortunate Shorty while he tried to stand upwind of the small offender.

  “Quiet!” Whip’s bellow stopped time. Silence followed. “Don’t anybody say another word. I mean it. You, Stinky, you stop that caterwauling. And you,” he said, giving the foot a shake, “you shut up. I have you, but I wish to gosh I didn’t. If you don’t shut up and hold still, I’ll find some Indians and pay them to take you. Now. You tell me, and you tell me quickly, what are you doing in the back of my wagon?”

  “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ till you let my brother go.”

  “Listen, son. You aren’t in any position to bargain. You and that stinking brother of yours are trespassing in my wagon, smelling up my ranch, ruining my first cup of coffee, and”—he glanced at the men circling the wagon—“making fools out of my hands. Start talking.”

  “Ain’t.”

  “What?”

  “Ain’t.”

  “Ain’t? Well, then, guess I have no choice. Shorty, take Stinky there out to the woods and do your best Indian call. You know. The owl one.” He nudged his head toward the puzzled man.

  “What? Oh. Yeah, the owl one. Sure will boss. That owl one always brings in a bunch of Indians screaming mean with war paint all over them. They’ll make short work of this tadpole.”

  “Wait! Wait, mister. Mister Shorty, don’t you make no owl call. I’ll talk. I will.”

  “Get a move on,” Whip ordered. “Shorty’s got his mouth all puckered.”

  “Don’t mean you no harm, mister. All’s I wanted was a ride for me and my brother. We was goin’ to jump off soon as we came to the woods. Didn’t plan on falling asleep. But, now that you know, guess we can be movin’ on out of your wagon seeing we’re tres-tres—”

  “Trespassing,” Whip supplied the word. “Sorry, son. But you ain’t moving on anywhere.” Whip frowned. “Just where were you planning on running to after you jumped off?”

  “The river probly. Least ways we would start there, I expect.”

  “Start what?” Whip’s patience was wearing thin. One spilled cup of coffee, the brown stain already soaked into the dry ground, lingered on his lips and in his mind.

  “Gettin’ us some of that gold.”

  “Gold?” Whip and several of the men barked out the word.

  “I wasn’t gonna take much of it. Just enough to get us a house and some food. I ain’t no thief, Mister. I smelled them apples you got in that sack there, but I never touched them. They smelled mighty good, but I didn’t. I figured I’d catch us a couple fish before we started looking for them gold nuggets lying on the ground.”

  “Whoa, son. Let me get this straight.” Whip loosened his grip on the boy’s foot while keeping a close watch. “You and Stinky there hitched a ride in my wagon. Right?”

  “Yessir, mister.” The boy’s eyes looked everywh
ere but at the man questioning him.

  “And you were planning on jumping out of the wagon at the most likely spot. Right?”

  “Yessir.”

  “And once you were there at that most likely spot, you planned on running to where those big gold nuggets were just lying around.” Snickers greeted this statement. “Right?”

  “Yessir. But I wasn’t planning on taking them all.”

  Whip sucked in his cheeks to stop his grin. The young boy, barely daring to look at him, was serious, and it would crush all the boy had, his pride, if he was laughed at. Whip threw a warning glance at the hands surrounding the wagon. The shake of his head stopped the grinning and poking that had started.

  “Well now, son, I appreciate that, I sure do. But there is one fact you’ve overlooked.”

  “What’s that, mister?”

  “Well, you see, there are no nuggets.”

  “No nuggets?” The boy’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “No.”

  “None?”

  “Not a one, son.”

  “Somebody took ‘em all?” Incredulous disappointment shrouded his face and body. Each word, each question, was embroidered with wonder and dread.

  “Well, son, that’s not quite the way of it. You see, there never were any gold nuggets just lying around waiting to be picked up.”

  “But my pa—” The boy’s voice cracked. “My pa said one day we would pack up and head West where gold nuggets were just waiting for our picking. He said that.” Then in a much lower voice, he repeated the words. “He said that.” His head dropped to his chest and despair emanated from the small body.

  Several of the men lowered their eyes and slowly shook their heads. Then one by one each drifted back to the bunkhouse. No one was laughing now.

  Whip wiped his hand roughly across his face and swallowed hard.

  “You hungry, son?”

  “I could eat a bear, mister. I surely could.”

  “Well, I don’t have any bear on hand, but I can offer pancakes, honey, and side pork. Would that fill the hollow spot?”