Wyoming Heather

by DeAnn Smallwood

  “Not at all, Mr. Pease. Because of your neighborly kindness, Toby found a friend and another family to enjoy, not to say anything about the unending supply of tadpoles.”

  The attempt at lightness was wasted on Mr. Pease. He was heavy with worries, work, and the unpleasant task of asking a neighbor for a favor. He was a proud man, and if it hadn’t been for his wife’s scolding push, he wouldn’t have come to this young woman for help.

  “I’d be glad to look at your cow, but I probably don’t know a thing more about cows than you do with your years of experience.”

  Somewhat mollified, the man managed a weak smile. “No, I may know a thing or two, but this has me baffled. Would you be able to ride back with me now, Ma’am?”

  “Please, call me Heather. And, yes, if you wouldn’t mind giving me a few minutes to get Toby on his way with Mr. Walking Tall. I’ll pack a few things I might need and be with you.”

  “Molly,” she called.

  “Right behind you.” And she was, a steaming mug in her hand.

  “I was just going to ask you to get Mr. Pease a cup of coffee, but you read my mind.”

  “I sure did.” Her face creased with pleasure. “Mr. Pease, you wrap your hands around this mug, and I’ll see that Missy here has that young’un on his way.” No invitation was made to the uncomfortable man to come into the kitchen or living room and sit down while he drank his coffee. His need had brought him inside the door of Heather’s home and to ask him to venture further would have been cruel.

  In a matter of confused minutes, Heather had Toby on his way, and her saddlebag was packed with a sundry of medicines and herbs. She followed Mr. Pease out the door to his waiting horse.

  “Molly, I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone. Would you mind checking the water pans in the pens? It doesn’t take long for them to dry up in the day’s heat.”

  “Now you don’t worry none about us, Heather. I’ll put that sweet baby girl to helping her Aunt Molly, and we’ll have the chores done in no time.

  Heather started to say more, then looking at the impatient man throwing his leg over his horse’s back, decided it would be prudent to keep her thoughts to herself and follow suit.

  Molly’s bold wink, seen only by Heather, warmed her like a ray of sunlight and sent her on her way.

  Chapter 32

  It was a small farm with kids as its major crop. Everywhere Heather looked, there was a child. All towheaded and of various heights, from a baby held in an obviously pregnant Beth’s arms, to a tall, shy girl with freckles sprinkled across her nose. She held the chubby hands of a little boy and a girl. They were the same age, height, and looks. Heather smiled to herself. Twins.

  She realized how wrong she had been in assuming the two boys that had ridden over with the calf were the only children of Mr. and Mrs. Pease. No wonder the man hadn’t minded Toby coming for the day. One more child would have been swallowed up in the melee.

  The woman handed the baby over to a pigtailed little girl that, although she was a child herself, confidently took it and slung him over a hip barely big enough to provide a saddle for the child’s diapered bottom. The baby gave a toothless grin and buried its head in the girl’s neck. There was no doubt the hip was a familiar home.

  Heather glanced around the yard and saw that, although it was bustling with life, it was neat and well kept. The house was small, and she wondered how on earth it could hold all the children without bursting. She looked at the man and woman smiling over the many heads, eyes warming with love as they found each other. Their look of love filled her with an empty envy, and the knowledge that there would always be room on this small farm, in that small house, for every child born.

  Then the woman came quickly toward her.

  “Miss Campbell, I’ve been longing to meet you. We’ve heard all about your ways with animals but didn’t think we’d ever have cause to take advantage of your skills. Then, in no more’n a week we’ve had to push ourselves into your life and impose on your neighborly kindness not once, but twice.”

  Then, with a mother’s ability to see everything at once, she turned her head and snapped out a command. “John, you get yourself down from that fence. That old boar hog in there would just as soon eat you as to look at you. Bill”—she turned to a slightly older boy—“you get hold of that brother of yours and the two of you turn your hands to spreading some of that manure into the patch of ground your father dug up for me another garden. Do it now. I want to get the seed into the ground today.”

  Dismissing the two boys, she turned her attention back to Heather and continued her conversation without missing a beat. Heather smiled to herself. There was no doubt in her mind that it was Beth Pease that made things hum. Tom may be the head of this house, but Beth was the neck that turned the head. Heather marveled at the ease with which she did it.

  Bill grabbed his brother down from the fence, and the two of them took off to do her bidding.

  “Tom,” she said to her husband, “we’d better show Miss Campbell the cow. I know she’s a busy lady.”

  “Please, call me Heather. I don’t know that I’d answer to Miss Campbell.”

  “I thank you. I couldn’t agree more. I’m more likely to turn my head if I hear Beth. So we’re Beth and Tom. I’d start naming off our children, but I’d wear you out before you had a chance to do what you came for.” She smiled at her small joke. “And, I have to admit, I’d rather sit in one of them rockers on the porch and visit with you than go look at a sick cow. I get mighty lonesome for someone to talk to that doesn’t need their pants changed or their mouth fed. And we’ll do it someday, if you’re willin’.”

  “I’m more than willing, Beth. I’d like nothing more.” Heather wasn’t just making polite conversation. A visit with Beth would be something to look forward to. Another friend had been added to her world.

  “Tom and I didn’t have a chance to talk. What seems to be wrong with your cow?”

  “Wish I knew, Heather,” the man broke in, frowning, as they made their way to a small corral where a large bovine stood calmly chewing her cud. Her bony hips jutted out, her bag sagged, still empty after the morning’s milking.

  The cow glanced at them, then continued chewing and sunbathing. Her tail hung limply between her legs, the ends of it snarled with hair and manure. The strong muscles in it totally relaxed and soft.

  Heather knew from painful experience what a healthy cow’s tail felt like as it slapped across your face while you were perched on a milk stool, easy prey to the smelly sting.

  She drew her attention back to Tom. The man cleared his throat, obviously embarrassed to be discussing the cow’s ailments with a woman. But he did, determined to spill it out, his head averted, his voice low. “Her, uh, her,” he fished for a word, then pleased with finding something suitable, said, “her water’s bloody.”

  “Her water?” Heather asked, puzzled, then understanding dawned on her. “Oh, yes, her water. Is there blood in her milk, too?”

  “Yes. There is.” Surprise was evident in his voice. “I had to throw out this morning’s milking. She’s been down some in her milk. I’m afraid that if I don’t get to the bottom of her troubles, she’ll dry up on us. We got a calf from her a year ago that has the makings of another good milk cow, but it’s too young to do us any good for a while.”

  They were both silent, studying the cow.

  “Foamy.”

  “What?” Heather asked, pulling herself back from running the symptoms through her head. She was comparing them to what she’d read about cows and their possible ailments in her animal husbandry books. She reviewed the pages, seeing the words as if they were in front of her.

  “Her milk’s foamy. Half the bucket this morning was foam. I’m a milker, Heather, and my father always said you could tell a good milker by the head of foam he could make in the bucket. Psst, psst, psst, I can sting that milk with each pull of her, uh, with each pull,” he finished lamely. “But I ain’t never seen foam like I saw this mor
ning.” He lapsed back into silence, embarrassed by his recital.

  “Is she losing weight, Tom?”

  “I believe she is. She’s not off her feed, but it don’t seem to stay on her like it used to. She’s an easy keeper, but . . .” He let the words hang in the air, saying what he couldn’t. The cow was vital to them, and he feared he wouldn’t be able to save her.

  “Tom, I’m going to ask you some questions that might not make sense, so please bear with me.”

  “Okay.” He held himself still, his focus entirely on her face.

  “Is there any part of your pasture marshy?”

  “Marshy?”

  “Yes. Where there’s rotting soil?”

  “There is. One corner of the pasture is fed from some underground seepage. The dirt’s always wet, and you’re right,” he said with surprise, “it does smell like something’s rotten.”

  “Does your cow go into that pasture?”

  “Now that you mention it, she does. She’ll head for that corner in the heat of the day. There’s a big cottonwood shading that spot and she spends her afternoons there.”

  “You said there was seepage. Could she possibly drink any of the water coming up out of the ground?”

  “Could. She’s got water in the trough, but she probably wouldn’t leave that tree to come get a drink. Sure, she could suck up some. She likes to eat the grass that grows there, guess its greener.”

  Heather smiled. The peace of understanding filled her. She knew what was wrong with this family’s milk cow, and she silently blessed her numerous books that held so many answers and secrets to helping animals. Animals are unable to list their complaints and often suffer and die because of lack of simple doctoring.

  “You two got her figured out yet?” Beth asked, slightly out of breath. She’d lagged behind them, and now she stepped to Tom’s side, lending her gaze to the object of their discussion.

  Both spoke at once.

  “Nope,” Tom said, shaking his head.

  “Yes,” Heather said as a smile made tiny crow’s feet at the side of her expressive eyes.

  “You do?” Tom and Beth asked surprised.

  “I believe so. I think she has what’s called Red Water.”

  “Red Water.” Tom shook his head. “I ain’t never heard of that.”

  “No, I’m not so sure it’s all that common. Still, your cow has all the symptoms. Red Water,” Heather went on eagerly, “is caused from marshy pastures with decomposing soil. The cow can drink the water or eat the green shoots of grass or plants and sicken from it. Her water becomes bloody, her milk very foamy, and she can start losing weight.”

  “Is it serious, Heather?” Beth asked, fearing the answer.

  “It can be deadly. If it isn’t caught and corrected, she would continue to lose weight and eventually die.”

  Tom swallowed hard and looked across the field.

  Beth closed her eyes. They were doing so good. They had not one milk cow, but soon they’d have two. There would be milk aplenty for their growing brood. Maybe things had been going too good. Maybe they’d been too prideful and took their small farm and the life it provided for granted. Suddenly, a dark cloud threatened to blot out the rays of summer and a cold hand of doubt came down over the two adults and all they held dear.

  “Nothing we can do, Heather?” Beth asked timidly.

  “Of course there is.” Heather felt remorse for not realizing the fear Beth and Tom felt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I get so busy in my mind, I forget no one else is up there with me.” She gave a small laugh and shrugged. “My father often said I lived too much in my head and I’m afraid he was right. But, yes, there are things we can do. I feel that because you caught it this early, we’ll be able to stop the disease before it does anymore damage.”

  Tom looked up at the summer sky and let out a pent-up sigh of profound relief. Beth clapped her hands and grabbed Heather in a spontaneous hug.

  “You tell us, Heather. Tell us what to do and we’ll do it. Oh, my gosh, I didn’t realize I was so worried. We love each and every one of our children. Love them dearly, but it takes everything we got to keep them fed and clothed. Tom works so hard. To have something happen to our cow and our calf, why it sets you to wondering. Tom”—and she turned to her husband, who grinned as he watched the love of his life enjoying the moment—“you were smart to pick up her sickening like you did. And,” she said with a laugh, reaching a hand up to pat at her own back, “I was smart to insist you get Heather’s help.”

  “Beth, don’t tempt fate. We aren’t outta the woods yet. Heather, what do we need to do?”

  “Block off that marsh land and, sadly enough, her cottonwood, unless she can get to it without having access to the water seepage and the vegetation.”

  “Done,” Tom said. “I’ll fence it off today. She’ll stay in the corral for a spell. Is that all?” he asked hopefully.

  “No, there are a few other details. She has to drink only fresh, clean water. And, she needs a mixture of wheat bran and rolled oats steamed in a pan. We need to replace the nitrogen the marsh water and bad grass drained away. She’ll need this feed twice a day. And”—she paused searching for words—“if she should become, uh, plugged up, I’ll leave you a mixture of ginger that should take care of that problem.”

  “That’s it?” Tom asked.

  “That’s it, Tom. But, if she doesn’t show improvement immediately, please come get me. We’ll try something else. I’ll read up more on Red Water, but I know we’re on the right track. And,” she added with a smile, “I think you’ll be able to bring that calf home in a few more days. It just needed weaned from so much rich milk. I’ve been giving it a tonic and some herbs to stop the runs. Darned if that calf hasn’t found it can live off of hay and some softened bran.” The three of them chuckled, lighthearted with the day’s blessings.

  “Now,” Heather said, breaking the spell, “it’s nothing to worry about, but I’ll bring it up just in case someone else does. You notice how her tail is hanging limp?”

  “Looks as if it didn’t have a muscle one,” said Tom.

  “Well, there’s an imaginary condition some of the farmers and cow doctors cling to. It’s called Wolf In The Tail.”

  “Wolf In The Tail,” Beth repeated, a smile in her voice. “You’re funning us, Heather.”

  “No.” Heather laughed. “I’m not. Your cow probably has some indigestion because of what she’s been eating. The indigestion makes her tail muscles relax or soften. There are still some cow doctors, as they call themselves,” she said, “that will split the cow’s tail with a sharp knife, then fill the wound with salt and pepper and bandage it back up. This is cruel treatment and doesn’t do anything at all but cause discomfort to the cow. I’m only telling you this in case someone comes visiting and takes it upon themselves to give out well or not so well-meaning advice.”

  Beth’s smile was wide, turning her homely face radiant with inner beauty. “Heather, we wouldn’t listen to anyone’s advice but yours. Still, I like the sound of that condition, I surely do. Wolf In The Tail. Wait until I tell the kids. They’ll strut around like proud roosters thinking that their cow has such a fine-sounding ailment.”

  “Now, I know you got work awaiting you, and we’ve put a dent in your morning, but I have leftover pie from Sunday dinner and I’d be ever so pleased if you’d sit a few minutes and enjoy a piece. Tom, don’t you look so worried. There’s plenty for your lunch, too.”

  Tom put his arm around his wife and said, “Heather, what do we owe you?”

  “Nothing,” she said emphatically. “Because of all this, Toby and I have made new friends, I get a chance to enjoy Beth’s baking, and,” she said with a grin, “I’ve just diagnosed my first case of Wolf In The Tail.”

  Chapter 33

  Whip slapped the Witch Hazel onto his freshly shaved face, wincing at the sting.

  Giving his smooth cheeks a final pat, he grabbed the small tin from the shelf by his bed
and stuck it in his shirt pocket. Putting his hat on his still damp hair, he shut the cabin door firmly behind him.

  The day’s brightness made him squint. Unwrapping the reins from around the hitching post, he mounted his horse and turned it in the direction of the Circle C.

  When he awoke that morning, he knew he wasn’t going to spend yet another day talking himself out of seeing Heather. He tried justifying the ride, but he knew there was no real reason for taking a day off from work other than one. He wanted to see the woman who had effortlessly crept into his every thought. He wanted to see her smile, he wanted to see the sun turn her hair to burnished gold, and he wanted to see the spark of fire flash in her eyes when she rose to his baiting.

  He ignored the increased tempo of his heart as the ranch came into view. Then the smile on his face froze as he made out the silhouette of a man standing in front of the house talking to a woman. His woman. He tamped down the two words, angry with himself for thinking them.

  It wasn’t the presence of another man on the Circle C that bothered him; it was how close he stood to Heather, how he leaned in to her. As he came closer, he heard the tinkle of her laughter, and an unfamiliar rush of jealousy made his jaw clench. The man bent his head even closer to Heather’s, their shoulders touching as their backs made a barrier, hiding the front of their bodies. They were as one, casting a single shadow on the ground. They were so absorbed in each other, Whip was only feet from them before they were aware of his presence.

  Heather turned first. The smile became perplexed as she saw the anger in Whip’s eyes. His rigid body sent a message of its own.

  “Whip,” she said, her voice hesitant, “how nice to see you.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said tersely, his words low, not reaching her ears.

  Then the man beside her bent over, dropped something on the ground, dropped another something, then reached over and took yet another object out of Heather’s hands and placed it on the ground, too. He turned toward Whip.