Wyoming Heather

by DeAnn Smallwood

  “For that I’m grateful. You’ve got a wicked right hook. Your father teach you that move?”

  “Don’t try and talk yourself out of this. I don’t want to hear anymore from you. Any man who would abandon two little boys and then act as if missing his breakfast and spilling his coffee—excuse me, his first cup of coffee—is more important than them arriving at his doorstep, scared and dirty. Oh, did I mention that same man doesn’t even know his boys’ names?”

  Whip held in check the smile of understanding playing around his lips. “Heather, you are sure pretty when you’re all in a temper. No.” He jerked back. “Now don’t you go hitting me again.” He slowly rose to his feet, never taking his eyes from her, enjoying her sputtering and venomous looks. “If we’re to get anywhere, which we are, you’re going to simmer down, and I’m going to explain. Because, you see that horse trough over there? Well that’s where you’re going if you don’t cool off on your own. Didn’t anyone ever tell you things aren’t always the way they seem?” He took a swipe at the dust on the back of his pants and turned toward the cabin.

  Shaking his head, he added, “I thought I needed a cup of coffee before you came riding in. But what I felt then was nothing to what I feel now. Heather, I’m getting me a cup of coffee, and if you’re through steaming and swinging, I’ll bring you one too.” He paused for a moment, then said over his shoulder, “Don’t think of leaving. I’ll come after you. And don’t think of shooting me in the back.” He chuckled. “Even if you’re mad enough to pull the trigger. Sit down on that stump over there. We’ve got some talking to do.”

  Dumbfounded, Heather watched him head into the cabin and, surprising herself, she walked over to the stump and sat down.

  Before long, he came back out the door, a cup in each hand. He stopped in front of her, the toes of his boots touching hers. Steam rose from the cups as he carefully sat them on the ground and made sure they were out of harm’s way before he spoke.

  “Now, there’s something you need to know, Heather. No, there are two things you need to know.”

  “Oh,” she said, her voice sarcastic, “and what would they be, Mr. Johnson?” She glanced up and the look in his eyes worried her.

  “One. You caught me unawares with that right hook. But, Heather, I wouldn’t advise trying it again.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, it is. You see, I’m fairly slow to anger, but I can’t promise what the consequences might be should you try that again.”

  “Well,” she sputtered. “Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Slow to Anger Johnson, if you dare to lay a hand on me I’ll, I’ll—”

  “Yes sir,” he continued, ignoring her, “I might not be able to control myself and well, I’d just have to—”

  “You’d just have to what?” she asked in a death voice.

  “Why, Heather, I’d just have to do this,” he replied and in one swift motion he pulled her to her feet, wrapped two strong arms around her, and kissed her soundly. He stared into her emerald eyes, wide with surprise, and then down at her sassy mouth and kissed her again, his lips soft and tender on hers.

  She took a deep breath, letting him hold her, both of them surprised by his actions. Both surprised by how those two kisses had penetrated their hearts with feelings neither one expected.

  “Yuck!”

  The one word broke the spell. The world had caught up with them. Hands dropped to their sides as simultaneously they each took a deep breath. They turned toward the small intruder.

  He stood there, his mouth curled in unmasked disgust. One hand held a biscuit while the other firmly grasped the hand of a smaller, dirtier child.

  Not only did the smaller boy smell, but he was now covered with bits of biscuit stuck in the honey that outlined his lower face and mouth. A small tongue appeared and licked at the top, bottom, and corners of his mouth, searching for any unsuspecting crumb.

  “Disgusting,” the older boy repeated, his eyes shifting from one adult to the other.

  Whip bent down and, ignoring the intruder, picked up the coffee, handing one to Heather. He avoided looking at her. He who was always so sure of himself and decisive, was now unsure and darned if he wasn’t fumbling. Heck, his hand was even shaking as he wrapped it firmer around the cup. He took a big gulp of the hot liquid, needing it now more than he ever had in his life.

  “Disgusting, huh?” he managed to croak, turning toward the boy. “Well now, son, I think that stinky one you’ve got a hold of lends a whole new meaning to the word. Now, you two just stand there real quiet like while I finish talking to Miss Heather here. Then we’ll discuss what is, or isn’t, disgusting, along with a few other things we need to talk about.” He turned back to Heather, never questioning that his orders would be followed. They were.

  “Heather, before you start sputtering again, take a sip of your coffee and just listen. These two don’t belong to me. I don’t have any boys.” He grinned. “No girls either. The boys hid in my wagon while it was parked in front of the general store yesterday. They’re off the Orphan Train.” He put his free hand on her shoulder. “Let’s walk over here a ways where we can be upwind of Stinky and I’ll tell you all I know.” He led her over to the shade of a tree, delighting in the pleasure of touching her again. Delighting in the fact that he’d managed to not only steal a kiss from the beautiful mistress of the Circle C, but he’d also managed to rob her of any coherent speech.

  Chapter 24

  Heather cradled the coffee cup in her hand. She curled her fingers around the mug, glad to have something to hold, something that would hide the shaking. He’d kissed her. The words sang in her mind, drowning out his voice. And not only had he kissed her, but it had been wonderful. Absolutely wonderful. She definitely needed to give this more thought. And she would. Tonight before sleeping, she’d replay the day over in her mind including, and she felt heat infuse her cheeks, including her hitting the man standing beside her. How could she have done that? How?

  “Heather, are you listening?”

  “What? Of course I am. You said they stowed away in your wagon. It was, uh, it was outside the general store?” she finished hopefully.

  He voice was laconic and a smile played around his mouth. “I said that five minutes ago.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maybe you’d better sit down.” He pointed to a nearby rock. “I’ll start from the beginning. This time listen, cause, Heather, I need your help. I really do.”

  She nodded. He leaned forward and talked.

  Several minutes later, a thoroughly repentant Heather hunched her shoulders and said, “Whip, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what made me—I don’t usually—I’ve never hit a man before.”

  “Well now, Heather, I guess I should be proud to be your first.” He rubbed his jaw.

  “Whip, please. I really am sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “I’ll surely try, Heather. But, you know, forgiveness is not something you can just hand out like a plate of beans. Nope. It has to be earned.”

  “Earned?” Her voice rose as suspicion played across her face.

  “Yep.”

  “Uh, huh. And just how do you propose I earn this forgiveness, Whip Johnson? I’m sure you have something in that devious mind of yours.”

  “Now that wasn’t nice, Heather.” He grinned at her. This was going better than he expected. She was playing right into his hands, and the devil did a dance in the dark of his eyes. “’Course, I do have something in mind.”

  “I’ll just bet you do.” She gave a loud sigh of resignation. “Okay, I suppose there’s no help for it. Just what do I have to do to obtain this forgiveness?”

  “Bathe Stinky.”

  “No! No, I will not. Whip, you can’t be serious. No, I simply cannot bathe that child. From what you’ve told me, I’ll have to fight not only Stink— Uh, him, but his self-appointed tiger brother at the same time. No. N. O., No!”

  “Well now, Heather—”


  “Don’t you ‘Well now, Heather,’ me, Whip Johnson. You will not cajole me into this.”

  He took a deep sigh and hung his head. “Darn, sure was counting on your help. You being used to wounded critters and all. You being a soft, gentle woman, always offering your hand to those in need. You being so highly respected by the town folk for your loving, giving.” He peeked up at her through his lowered eyes. “Did I say loving? Yes,” he drawled out the words, “loving, caring, gentle, forceful”—His hand gently touched his face—“when needed, I mean, only when needed. Where was I, oh, yes, caring, gentle, loving—”

  “Oh, stop! You’re making me nauseated. I’m not—”

  He raised his head and, with what he hoped was a sorrowful look, said, “You’re not what, Heather? Surely you’re not suggesting I’m mistaken, and you aren’t loving, caring, gentle, and forceful when needed?” he added quickly.

  “No, of course not. I-I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, I’m just trying to tell you—”

  “Cause you are,” he broke in. “You are loving, caring, gentle, and forceful when needed. That’s surely how I see things, Heather.” The look on his face would have put an angel to shame.

  “Be that as it may, Whip, I just can’t, well you see, I just can’t—”

  “Can’t turn away someone or something in need, especially a child?”

  “Right, no, no, wrong, well, that is, I can’t turn away a child—”

  “Lord love you, Heather.” He wrapped his arms around her in a playful bear hug and danced her in a circle. “I knew you’d help me. I knew it. I was counting on your soft heart.”

  “Let me go, Whip Johnson,” she sputtered. “That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it. I meant, oh never mind.” She closed her eyes and raised her head heavenward. “I’ll do it,” she said weakly. Then in a stronger voice added, “But you will help, darn you. You’ll take the tiger and I’ll, heaven help me, I’ll take the little stinky one.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.” He held out his hand to shake, only to have it swatted away.

  “You and your, ‘Well now, Heather.’ It worked this time but you’d better enjoy your win because you won’t have another. Now, how are we going to go about this?”

  Before he could answer, two things happened. One, there was a rustle in a nearby clump of oak brush, and as though he appeared magically from the middle of them, out stepped Buster Walking Tall. The second thing that happened was Whip was almost knocked to the ground as two small bodies threw themselves at his legs and hung on for dear life.

  “I-I-Indian,” the bigger boy stammered, his eyes wide in his too white face. “R-r-real honest to gosh Indian.”

  The boys were crawling up his legs as a scowling Buster came closer. Heather had to admit, he seemed darned scary. If she hadn’t known better, one look at Buster’s face would have had her vying for room on Whip’s leg, too.

  Whip glanced down at the two boys plastered to him, their faces buried in an attempt to block out the advancing warrior.

  He looked up at Buster and both men had a mischievous glint in their eyes.

  “Wacin wicasa tankala,” Buster uttered the words in a loud, chilling voice. “Wacin wicasa tankala,” he repeated demandingly.

  “Wha-what’s he saying, Mr. Whip?”

  “Well, son, he’s saying he wants the Little Big Man. I suspect he means you.”

  “Mmmm-me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Wasicun winyan, wiwasteka.” Buster’s eyes narrowed as he glanced first at Whip then at Heather.

  “I don’t know, boy, if I can save you two or not. He’s talking to me and Miss Heather here.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “Well, he’s saying, white man and beautiful woman. I suspect he’s going to demand we give both of you. ‘Pears he wants to take you and Stinky back to his tribe. Probably to be slaves, maybe even tortur—”

  “You two stop this right now!” Heather stepped between the scowling Buster and the grinning Whip. “You’re scaring them to death. Buster, you wipe that scowl off your face and, Whip, shame on you. ‘I want Little Big Man’ indeed.”

  “Well now, Heather, he did call you beautiful woman.”

  “Hmmpf. Little boy, uh, boys.” She addressed the two round eyed children still clutching Whip’s legs. “This is Buster Walking Tall. He’s a Lakota brave and a friend of Whip’s. He’s also the foreman of this ranch so you’ll be seeing a lot of him. Now let go of Whip’s legs and say hello to Buster.”

  And darned if they didn’t do as she said.

  Chapter 25

  “Hello, Mr. Walking Tall.” The barely audible voice wavered, and the eyes that peered up at the man were full of apprehension.

  Buster, his expression stoic, said, “Hello, wicasa tankala, little big man.” Then he asked the question no one else had taken the time to ask. “What is your name?”

  “My, my name?” the boy stammered, looking everywhere but at the imposing man questioning him. “Uh.” Then he defiantly spurted out the word. “Toby. Yeah.” His bony, little chest stuck out as if defying anyone to question him. “That’s it, my name is Toby.”

  “Hmmm.” Buster glanced up at Whip.

  “Son.” Whip placed a gentle hand on the boy’s head. “Toby’s a real fine name, but it isn’t your real name now, is it?” And without waiting for an answer, he asked, “What is your real name?” His voice was compassionate, but firm, leaving no question he was to receive an honest answer.

  The boy hung his head. “Longfellow,” he replied in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible.

  “Longfellow,” Whip said loudly, a hint of laughter in his voice. Then he nodded his head as he heard something else in the muffled name. He heard embarrassment and pain from the teasing the boy must have suffered. “Longfellow. Your pa must have liked poetry.”

  The boy looked up at Whip, nodding. “My pa read something fierce. He read all them poems to me ‘fore he died. But I hated that name, Mr. Whip. The older boys at the orphanage—”The boy stopped, his voice choked with tears and shame. “The older boys . . .”

  “Never mind, Toby,” Whip said.

  “Toby?” The child stammered, eyes wide with disbelief and a glimmer of love.

  “Sure, that’s your name, isn’t it?” And a mock frown gathered between Whip’s eyes. “Now isn’t that what you said, or did I hear it wrong?”

  “No. No, Mr. Whip. You didn’t hear nothin’ wrong. Yep,” he said with a swagger in his voice and a smile on his worried face. “Yep, my name’s Toby. Toby Waterman. And”—he motioned toward the small, smelly child still hugging Whip’s leg—“my brother’s name is Jesse. He’s called Jesse, uh, Jesse Waterman. Right, Jesse?”

  A head bobbed, but still no sound came from the sticky mouth. Clutching Whip’s jeans in one grubby hand, long eyelashes blinked as the tall man and the imposing Indian were eyed with distrust. There was no smile on the child’s face. In fact, if the tremble in the small chin was any indication, Jesse was moments away from breaking into tears.

  Heather was still, watching the reaction of both children. It was apparent Toby was a fighter and would meet head on any situation with bravado and swagger. But Jesse. Jesse was an entirely different matter, and Heather felt her heart swell with compassion and love for the small child. A child too young in years and too tender to be placed in such a harsh situation. A child whose only defense was a bad smell, and the protection of someone claiming to be a brother.

  She walked over and gently pried the small, dirty hands loose from Whip’s leg. Then she bent down and lifted him into her arms. The pungent odor reached her nostrils and she moved her head back. She felt immediate shame for the involuntary movement, but she couldn’t help it. There had to be a bath, and it had to be soon.

  Jesse held his back stiff, not daring to yield to the soft warmth of the woman holding him. There had been so little love in his few short years, and remembered none of it coming from a woman. He leaned his f
ace into Heather’s neck and took a deep breath. She smelled like sunshine; like sunshine and flowers. Maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt; maybe it would be safe to rest for a moment in her arms. Vertebrae by vertebrae, he relaxed and like a ship nosing into a harbor, slowly molded against her.

  Heather felt him as he fought against trusting her. She felt him breathe in her scent. She felt him lower his guard and warily lay his head against her shoulder. She fought back tears as her hand came up to steady the small back. This was a child that had been thrown aside and mistreated. It was then Heather made a silent vow. No one. No one would ever harm Jesse Waterman again. She would see to that.

  The child must have felt her resolve for he raised his head and peered deeply and silently into her eyes.

  What he saw must have reassured him, for, with a sigh, he laid his head back down, his entire body at peace. He was dirty and stinky, but his stomach was full and maybe, if he could trust enough to allow it, maybe a small part of his heart could fill, too.

  None of this went unnoticed. Whip knew at that moment Heather Campbell had taken not only the smelly boy from him, but she had taken his heart also. He swallowed hard and blamed the lump in his throat on the coffee.

  Buster turned his head from one to another, then looked at Toby and said, “Come with me, wiscasa tankala.”

  “Are you calling me by my name, Mr. Walking Tall?”

  Buster nodded and he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “A real honest-to-goodness Indian name?”

  A smile crept around Buster’s mouth. “Yes. You are wiscasa tankala, Little Big Man.”

  “I like that fine, Mr. Walking Tall, ‘cept for one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you see, I’m not really a man. I’m a boy. But maybe I could keep the name ‘cause I will be a man someday.”

  “You’re a man now, son,” Whip said.