“Well, Jesse,” she said as she took the little girl’s hand, “how about you and me making a couple new brooms? I’m getting tired of hearing Molly complain about sweeping with a stick instead of a broom. I’ve got some dried broomcorn from last year stored in the barn. It needs to be made up before the bristles start curling.”
Jesse smiled and, hand-in-hand, they strolled into the cool barn. Neither one felt the stranger’s eyes on them, watching their every movement, sheltered from their view by a large boulder. He was close enough to watch with a menacing curl to his lips, yet far enough away to avoid sharing his presence.
Inside the barn Heather took the cured stalks from a shelf where they had been laid to dry late last summer when she’d harvested the broomcorn. She’d watched the corn grow and cut the stalks when the seed heads were still green, knowing that this made the sturdiest broom. Broomcorn looked a lot like regular corn but the leaves were narrower and topped by bushy clusters of seed heads. When it was ready, Heather had bent the stalks down two to three feet below the seed heads then let them hang in the field for several days to dry. When the tassels were thoroughly dry, they would spring back into shape when gently bent. Then they were ready to be made into a broom.
She’d use the handle her father had carved from a yellow birch sapling. Her mother had used the same handle and Heather touched it with a reverence, reliving fond memories. She imagined she was putting her hands where once her mother’s had gripped the smooth wood.
Jesse helped her pick out thirty or so equal-sized lengths of the broomcorn. Heather then took the currycomb and combed out the seeds. Her hands flew, sure and confident, as she passed on to Jesse the skill of shaving and binding the stalk to the handle, making sure the stalks were wrapped snugly. She bound them two more times and trimmed the tassel ends to equal lengths. When finished, she hung the broom by the leather loop her father had put through a hole in the handle. Then she and Jesse stepped back to admire their work. It would last, and Heather knew Molly would be more than pleased.
The remainder of the day was taken up with the usual chores that make up life on a ranch. Heather’s helper worked diligently by her side. And that evening, Jesse was smothering yawns and blinking to keep her eyes open.
“Well, Jesse, shall we call it a day? I’ll bet your Pig Baby is hungry and looking for his bottle. You know, we may just be able to start him on some ground mash and warm milk in a few days. You’ve done such a good job, he’s getting nice and healthy. Fat would be a better word, don’t you think?” Heather chuckled at Jesse’s smile and nod of head.
“We’ll turn in early tonight because tomorrow you and I have some riding to do. I want to look over the pastureland closest to the river to see if there’s enough feed for cattle. If I keep rotating them I should have plenty of grass to fatten up the steers before they are driven to market. I’m lucky I only have to get them to Cheyenne and the railway there. You know, Jess, this should be a good year. I hope to get top dollar for my beef.” She patted the non-communicative child on the head, knowing that Jesse probably understood little of what she was saying. Still, she took pleasure in having someone to share her thoughts with.
“Think you’re up to a ride?”
Jesse nodded, the smile of anticipation on her face broken by a small yawn. She rubbed her hands across her tired eyes.
“Come on, honey. Let’s get some supper in you and tuck you into bed. I’ll finish up the chores and turn in myself. Maybe after we look the pasture over we’ll swing by the Powder River Ranch and bring Toby back with us. He’s been gone long enough, don’t you think?” And maybe, Heather thought, I’ll see Whip. That thought made her smile on and off throughout the night.
Morning came early for Heather. She loved this time of day when the day’s work held its breath, and the first cup of coffee tasted better than anything ever would. The first sip, the first cup held between her hands, the steam curling into the cool morning air. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet nectar of contentment.
While Jesse slept on, Heather packed a few sandwiches just in case the child got hungry before they returned home. The ride to the pasture was further from her ranch than Whip’s. It was a familiar trail, one the kids rode by on their way to the Powder River Ranch to spend the day. Of course, Toby always rode his own horse, but Jesse was content to ride in front of whoever had come to collect them. That was how she would ride today, in front of Heather, holding the reins in her small hands, guided by Heather’s larger, more capable ones.
Before they started on the trip, Heather wanted to check on the Arabian mare. The banker from town had brought her here, worried about the horse’s feet and possible lameness. He was planning on putting the animal down and told Heather she was his last hope. Heather had been watching the animal closely, puzzled by what appeared to be lameness first thing in the morning, but disappearing as the animal walked or ran throughout the day.
The next morning, however, the lameness would return. This had been the pattern for the past week, and Heather was beginning to despair of finding the answer, much less the cure. She had spent some time last night reading through her resource books, hoping to stumble onto something that would shed light on this particular ailment. When the words had begun to blur before her eyes, she closed the book and went to bed, no closer to a solution than when she’d started.
She had also used one of her father’s reference books to learn what she could about Arabians. She knew they were an expensive animal, highly prized for their endurance and disposition. The banker had bought her as a birthday gift for his only daughter and feared that not only would his investment be lost, but his daughter’s beloved animal might be, too.
Heather was enthralled by what she read. The Arabian was one of the oldest breeds of horses and could be dated back to biblical times. It was said King Solomon had been given an Arabian mare by the Queen of Sheba.
They were originally desert horses and were often kept in their owners’ tents at night with the family and children to keep them from being stolen. Their excellent disposition and gentleness with children was credited to this practice.
She doubted that the banker would go that far, but she did know the Arabian was becoming more and more popular. Mr. Schrift had admitted he’d purchased it with the hope of breeding Arabians in order to preserve their bloodline as a pure desert horse. While all this sounded good and noble, Heather suspected Mr. Schrift saw the money to be made and, quite frankly, enjoyed the prestige of owning such a fine breed of animal.
She went over to the corral where she kept the mare separated from the other horses. The horse threw her head up and whinnied a greeting. The distinctive head, arched neck, and high-carried tail told Heather that this little lady was proud of her linage and was well pleased with herself.
Her coat gleamed in the sun, a mantle of gray, so thick and rich, she couldn’t help but run her hand over the velvet sleekness. But under the luxurious coat, the mare’s skin was black, the true sign of a pure Arabian. They were said to have the black skin to protect them from the rays of the desert sun.
But to Heather it didn’t matter whether or not the saucy lady was a pure Arabian or a simple cow horse. She would work just as hard to find a cure.
The horse stood about fourteen hands high. Its stature made it the perfect size for the young lady it had been purchased for. Heather didn’t think she could bear seeing such a proud beauty destroyed. She wanted more than anything to find the reason for the elusive lameness.
The horse limped over to where Heather stood. The banker had told her he first thought the limp was the result of being in a stony pasture and developing a stone bruise. But it had long since been out of the pasture with no discernible results.
Stone bruise, Heather thought. Why did those words ring a bell? Then she had it. There was a disease of horses called Ring Bone. But the main cause was faulty conformation.
Heather entered the corral and slowly ran her hand down the mare’s legs. The
re was nothing wrong with her conformation. She was a beautiful animal from tail to mane.
Heather stepped back. What was it that niggled at the back of her brain? What? Then she had it, and a smile broke over her face.
“Little lady,” she whispered into the horse’s ear. The horse stilled, its ears pointed forward as though listening to every word Heather uttered. “Another cause of Ring Bone, according to my resource book, is by a young animal running in stony pastures. It’s not common, but it is a possibility. I think we just may have the answer to your problem.”
She felt lighthearted as she left the corral and went into the tack shed by the barn, coming back out with her hands full.
She lifted up the lame foot. She took scissors from her back pocket and began to clip away the hair from around the top of the hoof. When finished, she placed the foot back on the ground saying a silent thank you that the mare was so inclined to please. She opened the lid to a small tin of salve and breathed in the unmistakable aroma of turpentine and pine tar. She made the concoction herself by mixing turpentine, pine tar, iodine, lard, and a couple other herbs known for their healing properties.
Heather spent about twenty minutes rubbing in the salve. She’d repeat the routine every other day while also keeping the animal as quiet as possible. Tonight, after today’s ride, she’d research a little further for more suggestions to speed the healing. She straightened her back, repacked the items, and took them back to the tack shed. She was on the right track. She just knew it. That inner voice whispered a calming reinforcement that the horse would heal to full recovery.
It was time to wake Jesse. Time to take their lunch and head for the pasture.
Heather filled with a warm glow as she opened the kitchen door. All was well in her world. More than . . . Well, it was perfect.
Chapter 39
Whip felt uneasy. Something gnawed at his gut, a lawman’s intuition that something was wrong.
He didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t been able to pick up tracks from the intruder. He’d ridden over the land several times where the steer was butchered, always losing the trail at the river. He was going back over it again later today just as soon as he finished some much needed repairs on the bunkhouse.
Whip felt pride for what he had accomplished so far on the Powder River Ranch. The cattle were thriving, and the men, though busy, seemed content. He planned on adding to his herd this fall, and it felt good. Heck, it felt more than good, it felt downright unbelievable that the ranch was holding its own and he’d be able to keep on all the men through the winter months.
The other unbelievable feeling was the lessening of the pain and hurt he felt when he looked at the cross on the knoll. He’d never forget his first love, never. But he knew now there was room in his heart for another love, another special woman with a saucy mouth, green eyes, and hair that begged for touching. Heather. His heart jumped at the thought of her name. Then, anger filled him. He was unable to go to her and proclaim this love. He was unable because of his inability to find and bring to justice a man that had eluded his grasp, but never his memory.
He tried to concentrate on the task at hand. The thoughts eased, but the uneasiness didn’t. What was his mind trying to tell him? He’d learned long ago to pay attention to this inner voice. He took a deep breath. Okay, he’d not only pay attention, he’d do something about it. He had about another couple hours work, and then he’d ride out again. This time he’d stay until he found answers.
Heather was enjoying her day. She loved the feel of Jesse’s warm body pressed against hers as the two of them guided the horse. It was a day made for being alive, for riding, for being one with the land.
Heather was glad she’d packed the sandwiches because she and Jesse were not going to hurry back to the ranch. They were going to enjoy the day, the sunshine, and the possibility of seeing the owner of The Powder River Ranch later. Her heart was light, and the horse, sensing her mood, seemed more surefooted than ever as they covered the ground to the pasture.
One look at the pasture and she knew she was right. It was almost time to move the herd on the rich grass. Heather slid from the back of the horse and rested one hand on Jesse’s leg. The little girl sat straight in the saddle, reins held tight in her hands, a miniature version of the horsewoman she would become.
“Well, sweetie, ready to get down? I thought we’d let Patch eat some of this grass while you and I tuck into the sandwiches. I put in a few of those sugar cookies you like so much. Molly had better not be gone too long. We’ll need her to replenish the cookie jar, won’t we?”
Jesse nodded, anxious for a cookie, but reluctant to get off Patch’s back and turn over the reins. Still, the sun was getting hot, and she turned her eyes from Heather’s face, glancing over her shoulder toward a group of cottonwoods offering shade.
The smile vanished from her face. Her eyes widened. Her body stiffened. Heather felt the change in the child. Fear. She turned in the direction Jesse looked. She saw the man, and the look on his face as he approached. It was a look of evil compounded by the gun in his hand. A gun pointed directly at her.
“Don’t move, lady,” he called. “I’ve got you covered. One wrong move and you’re dead. First you, then the little girl. Now, real slow-like. Get her off that horse and step away. Don’t get ideas. You won’t be the first woman I’ve killed. You likely won’t be the last.” His chuckle rent the air, a voice from hell.
“Do it,” he shouted, closing the distance between them.
Heather’s mind raced. There was no way she could get to the rifle in the scabbard. She’d put Jesse in danger. But she couldn’t let the man reach them. She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill her or Jesse, but what she didn’t know was why. She’d never seen him before in her life. But she’d seen his kind. He was like a wolf that enjoyed the taste of blood and killed for the pure pleasure of it.
“Jesse,” she whispered. “Can you hear me?”
The child gave a very slight nod.
“Lady,” the man hollered. “I’m giving you just a few more minutes to do as I said or I’ll start shooting. Get that kid down. Move away from the horse.”
“Jesse, I need you to be brave. When I say the word, you have to bend over Patch’s neck and ride as fast as you can for help. Do you remember how to get to Whip’s?”
Again, a nod.
“Okay. You have to hang on and ride fast, faster than you’ve ever ridden before. Don’t drop the reins, Jesse.” Heather whispered orders. Could Jesse do as she was asked? Her life depended on it.
“Ride to Whip, Jesse. Ride fast. Don’t look back. Don’t stop until you reach him. Get him back here as quick as you can. I need you, Jesse. I need you to do exactly as I say. You may hear a shot, you may hear me scream, but you cannot stop. Understand? You cannot stop.”
Heather waited a precious second, fearing a bullet with every delay.
“Get ready. Hold on tight and RIDE.” With the last word she slapped Patch hard on his hindquarters and yelled, “Ride. Ride. Ride.”
The horse bolted and tore off away from the field, hooves kicking up clods of grass and dirt. The little girl lay low over his neck, her small arms wrapped around him, her body urging him on as she swayed from side to side.
Heather held her breath, praying that Jesse would stay on the horse, praying that she wouldn’t let go of the reins, praying that the man, now only a slight distance away, would shoot her instead of the child molded to the horse’s back.
A shot rang out. Followed by a string of cuss words and shouts.
But Heather didn’t hear the words or the angry shouts. She only felt.
She felt the impact as the bullet found its mark. She felt instant pain. The side of her head was on fire and then, blessedly, she felt nothing as welcome blackness claimed her. She didn’t hear the man curse as he jumped from his horse. She didn’t feel his kick. She didn’t see him raise his rifle to take aim, then slowly lower it, an evil grin on his face. She didn’t hear the sound o
f his laughter as he rolled her over and bound her hands behind her back. She didn’t feel him lift her with him onto the horse’s back. She didn’t hear the sound of her blood dripping onto the saddle as she lay face down across his lap.
Whip was putting away his tools when he heard the sound of hooves pounding across the open yard. He threw down the hammer and ran toward the sound. He recognized Patch, but it took him a moment before he realized the small lump hanging on to the horse’s neck was Jesse.
“Whoa there. Whoa.” He grabbed hold of the horse’s bridle and pulled his head around stopping all forward movement.
Then, with trembling hands he attempted to pry the child loose from the horse.
“Jesse. Jesse, let go. You’re all right, honey. It’s Whip. You’re safe.” He lifted her rigid body from the horse and held her against him. She gasped for breath. He lowered her to the ground supporting her with his hands wrapped around her small waist.
Jesse’s head was thrown back, her eyes glazed as her mouth worked frantically. With each movement of her mouth, air was expelled. Whip feared the wind had been knocked out of her. Then he realized she wasn’t trying to breathe. She was trying to talk.
“Jesse, slow down. What happened? Where’s Heather?” Fear closed its fist around his heart.
Something had happened to Heather. Whip’s world stood still.
“Jesse, try to tell me. You’re all Heather has now, baby. You’re the only one who can help her. What happened?”
Jesse’s eyes filled with tears, her small body gripped with a shaking ague. When Whip tried to pull her to him, to comfort her, she shoved him away, gripping his shirt with her fists.
“Aaaah, Aaaah,” she cried. Then, “Maaa, Maaa.”
“Ma?” Whip asked, puzzled.
Her head shook violently no.
“Maa, Maan.” She took another gulp of air expelling it loudly. “Mmmman. Man. Man,” she cried. “Man.”
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