Branding the Wrangler's Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

  For as long as Livvy could remember, Doc Mason had lived at this end of town, caring faithfully for local residents and those from outlying ranches. He’d brought babes into this world and escorted the dying to the next. With a quick breath she clasped her hands. He’d been at her grandmother’s side, as well, but not soon enough in her grandfather’s opinion.

  Through an open doorway, she watched shadows move against a papered wall, heard low voices discuss Tad’s condition. She stepped to the threshold and her nose flared at the smell of fresh blood. Funny she hadn’t noticed it at the ranch house.

  Tad lay on a long narrow table. Doc bent over his shoulder and Whit held a glass lamp close. He must have sensed her presence for he looked at her and nodded. No sly grin hitched his mouth, no teasing words crossed his lips. A thick line ran around his dark hair where his hat had permanently creased it, and the yellow light cut deep grooves between his brows. Livvy clenched her hands against the sudden urge to smooth away the worry and trail her fingertips along his roughening beard.

  The telltale narrowing of her vision warned that she was holding her breath again. She inhaled deeply through her nose and rubbed her temples. Breathtaking was a word she’d not used much before coming to help her grandfather this summer, but his foreman was bringing it more and more to her mind in a most personal way.

  Pop’s quilt and blanket crumpled against a chair in the corner. For something to do, she gathered them and took them out to the parlor, where she picked off the straw and tossed it into the cold fireplace. Then she folded the blanket and quilt into neat orderly squares.

  Why couldn’t she do the same with her emotions where Whit Hutton was concerned?

  Chapter 5

  “Thank you, Doc. We’ll square up with you when we come back for him, if that’s all right.” Whit shoved his hat on and shook the doctor’s hand. He figured Baker would cover for the widow. If not, Whit had enough stashed in the bottom of his bedroll. There was no way he’d let Delores Overton pay for what her fool-headed son had done.

  “That will be fine, Whit, but what are you going to do tonight?” He dried his hands and arms on a towel and hung it over a rod on the washstand. “It’s a couple hours till daylight. I have an extra room upstairs, but only one, and with Miss Hartman...”

  “Thank you kindly. I do appreciate it. But I’m taking Livvy, er, Miss Hartman to my folks’ place. They’ll have room at the parsonage and I can always sleep in the barn.”

  Mason rolled down his sleeves and shot a doubtful look over the top of his wire-rim spectacles.

  Whit laughed. “Rest easy, Doc. The hayloft is only a little softer than Baker’s bunkhouse.”

  Mason shook his head and rechecked the new dressing around Tad Overton’s shoulder. “This is the first gunshot wound I’ve seen from the railway war they’re fightin’ in the canyon. I sure hope this is the worst of it.”

  “Me, too, Doc.” Whit moved to the door. Blamed kid should have known better than to get mixed up in somebody else’s fight, but money could turn a fella’s head. Whit gritted his teeth. If the Perkins boys got dragged into it, he’d wear out their sorry hides.

  On his way out of the surgery, he stopped in the doorway. Livvy slumped in a chair across the room, her head tipped back and her mouth open. He could get her lathered up over that—but he wouldn’t. He’d spent enough of his life riding her about every little thing. He hadn’t known any other way to get her attention when they were kids.

  Things were different now. He was grown and so was she. It was time to be thinking like a man, and the first thing a man needed was a—

  Livvy startled and sat upright. She clamped her jaw and narrowed her eyes. Her reaction put a hitch in his mouth even though he knew it would get her back up.

  “Don’t you dare laugh at me, Whitaker Hutton.”

  He frowned and screwed his hat down. “I am not laughing at you.” He made for the front door, put gravel in his voice. “Come on. We’re going to my folks’ place. They’ll put you up in the spare room and we’ll go back to the ranch tomorrow. Doc wants Overton to stay here a day or two so he can keep an eye on him.”

  He opened the door and waited. Livvy stood and smoothed out her skirt.

  “Where’s your wrap?”

  “In the wagon.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  She marched past him. “That will not be necessary, thank you. I can get it myself.”

  Livvy circled round the buckboard, lifted her cloak from the back and shook out the straw. Then she draped the light wool over her shoulders, clambered up the wheel and scooted to the far end of the seat before he could climb aboard.

  Infuriating woman.

  He plopped down next to her and reached for the reins. He should have left her behind and brought Jody. But that half-broke bronc would have made a poor nurse. And he’d never smell as sweet as Livvy did right now. He cut a glance to the side. There she sat with her neck stiff as a sulled-up filly. Why couldn’t she be more even tempered, like a seasoned gelding?

  He coughed, covering a laugh that escaped at the outrageous comparison. Miss Olivia Hartman would whack him good if she knew he’d compared her to a horse.

  Bess’s hooves clopped against the hard-packed street and echoed off the sleeping storefronts. Whitaker’s Mercantile had a new sign painted since he’d last been in town. His grandfather was getting up in years like Baker. He and his wife, Martha, had been running the store all Whit’s life, and had often hinted at Whit taking it over.

  He loved his grandparents dearly, but the thought of working every day indoors made his chest hurt. He had to be outside, in a saddle, free to cast his eye over the mountains and timber and parks the good Lord made.

  He shuddered, and from the corner of his eye, saw Livvy glance at him. What made her switch so suddenly? Sweet one minute and sour the next. Was it him? Was he doing something to set her off?

  Near the opposite end of town, he turned into a lane next to a white clapboard church and continued on past the parsonage to a small barn behind it. Two apple trees in the yard had leafed out since he was home last, and even in the falling moonlight, his mother’s roses looked about to bloom. Livvy reached back for the satchel. Whit stopped at the barn, jumped down, and offered his hand. She took it with a quiet thank-you and stepped to the ground. When he didn’t let go of her fingers, she looked up at him with the old challenge.

  Her hair caught the moon and shimmered nearly white. Without thinking, he touched it lightly with his free hand. Her breath hitched.

  If he kissed her, she’d either slap him or kick him or, worse yet, despise him. He ached.

  “Thank you for coming with me.”

  She didn’t pull away. Her challenging glare softened and her lips parted. Could she tell he was looking at them? He forced his eyes back to hers and let go of her hand. “I couldn’t have gotten him here safely without your help.”

  She looked away—the second time that night, and the second time in her life that she’d not won a stare-down between them. “I couldn’t let him lie there alone, bouncing all the way into town.” She wrapped her arms around the satchel and held it against her chest like a barrier between them.

  Softer, as if admitting a secret sin, “I couldn’t let you go alone.”

  His knees nearly buckled and he shifted his weight to hide the fact. If he looked her in the eye he was liable to haul off and do something uncalled for. Instead, he focused on the shadowed row of columbines his mother had transplanted against the back porch.

  “They usually leave the door unlocked. Let’s go see.”

  Without another word, Livvy strode toward the parsonage and up the porch steps.

  He’d done it again. He just didn’t know what.

  * * *

  Breathe, Livvy, breathe. Fine thing it would be to faint and have
Whit carrying her into his parents’ parlor. She gripped the satchel and stood stock-still in the Huttons’ small kitchen. Whit lit a lamp, set it on the table and pulled a chair out for her.

  “Have a seat and I’ll go check on the spare room.”

  “And who are you talking to down there, Whitaker Hutton?” His mother descended the stairs holding a kerosene lamp and clutching a wrapper to her chest. “Oh, Livvy. Welcome.”

  A sense of home swept into the room with Annie Hutton’s warm smile and welcoming arm around Livvy’s shoulders. “Whatever brings you to town this late at night?” A swift alarm crossed her face and she challenged her son with a mother’s scowl.

  Whit had already removed his hat and was hanging it on a peg by the door. “Tad Overton got himself shot up on the railbed in the canyon. His ma brought him to Baker’s, and Livvy helped me haul him to Doc Mason’s. We just finished there.”

  He took a seat at the table and heaved a great sigh. He was weary at best, and Livvy’s arms longed to hold him.

  Hold him? Heat rushed up her neck and she prayed Mrs. Hutton wouldn’t notice in the dim lamp light.

  “What a dear you are, Livvy. The boy’s in good care at Doc’s, but you must be beyond tired. Come with me and I’ll show you to our spare room.”

  Livvy glanced at Whit and he gave her a brief nod. Fatigue and the last vestiges of worry made him look older. Twenty or more. She must look a sight herself.

  Mrs. Hutton had already mounted the stairs and Livvy followed. At the landing, Whit’s mother turned to the right and pushed open a door. From the room across the way a muffled flutter rose. Livvy smiled to herself. The pastor snored.

  But so did her father. Maybe it came with the calling.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hutton. I—”

  “Please, call me Annie. It’s bad enough everyone in town still calls me Mrs. Hutton, even after all these years. Makes me feel old.” She set the lamp on a table beside the bed, turned back a beautiful quilt and fluffed the pillow.

  “Thank you, Annie. I do appreciate this, with no notice or anything.”

  Annie folded her arms against her wrapper and tipped her head to the side. “How long has it been since you and your folks visited? Three years? You’ve grown up quite a bit since the last time I saw you at a church picnic.” She took Livvy’s satchel and set it on a trunk at the foot of the bed. “You helped my Whit and rode all that way in a rough buckboard. You are a dear for doing such an unselfish thing and I am more than happy to let you rest here tonight.”

  “Thank you, again. You are very kind.”

  “I’ll fetch you some warm water in the morning. I imagine you’re too tired tonight to bathe.”

  Livvy dropped to the bed and hiked up her skirt to remove her boots. She hadn’t realized how her back and feet ached until she sank into the soft feather ticking.

  “This was Whit’s room when he lived here,” Annie said, looking around at the furniture. “I’ve tried to do it up a bit nicer so it’s not so boyish. I hope it suits you.”

  Livvy gulped an unladylike breath and glanced at her host. “It’s lovely.” She smoothed a wrinkle in the eight-point star quilt. “Did you make this yourself?”

  Annie smiled through a yawn. “Yes—pardon me!—years ago. It’s an older one, but I love the bright red stars. So did Whit when he was a boy.” She turned for the door and paused there. “You sleep as long as you want. I’ll keep a plate warm for your breakfast.” With that, she softly closed the door behind her.

  Whit’s bedroom. Whit’s bed. Whit’s longing look in the moonlight. Livvy warmed at the memory as she stepped out of her dress and simple petticoat. This was probably a completely different bed. Surely the ticking and pillow had not been his. But the quilt?

  She slipped beneath the covers. The man muddled her mind. One minute he was a childish tease and the next a perfect, caring gentleman. How could he be both and stir such opposing reactions in her stomach—yearning and anger?

  She’d think about all that tomorrow. Right now all she wanted was to lie back and surrender to slumber’s long arms. She pulled the quilt higher, tucked it under her chin, and let out a sigh of her own.

  * * *

  Livvy tucked her legs up and snuggled deeper into the feather ticking, away from a teasing light. She squinted one eye open, gasped and bolted upright. An unfamiliar room, a strange bed. Her gaze landed on her satchel, traveled to the quilt and the four bright red stars that topped the bed. Her shoulders relaxed and she remembered. Whit’s bed.

  Whit’s bed? She clutched the quilt to her throat and looked around the room. No sign of anyone but her. Bright sunlight poured in the window—it must be midmorning. She tossed the covers aside.

  At the washstand, warm water greeted her fingers and she smiled at Annie Hutton’s thoughtfulness. If Livvy couldn’t have clean clothes, at least she could have a freshened body.

  In no time she was booted, buttoned and combed out. She stood before the mirror and pulled her hair over her shoulder, plaiting it into a long braid. She twisted it low on her neck and pinned it in place, wanting instead to let it hang down her back on the ride home.

  The thought fanned a tiny flame in her stomach and she turned to look at the quilt. Quickly she straightened it, propped up the pillow, gathered her satchel and rushed into the hall. The sooner she was out of Whit Hutton’s bedroom, the better.

  A door at the landing’s end stood open, one she had not noticed the night before. Another fine quilt topped a bed there and a china-faced doll perched against a pink pillow. Whit’s sister’s room. The girl was two or three years younger, if Livvy remembered correctly. She must be about fifteen now.

  Women’s voices drew her to the stairway, and she hurried down and into the kitchen. A grown-up Martha Mae Hutton stood next to her mother at the counter, her bronze-colored hair as vivid as Livvy remembered. The homey scent of yeast-laced dough veiled the room. Both women turned at Livvy’s arrival.

  “Good morning!” Annie rubbed her hands against her apron and met Livvy with a brief hug. “I hope you slept well. You seemed to be when I slipped in earlier with the hot water.”

  Livvy ducked her head at being caught asleep so late. “Thank you. I—I don’t usually sleep so long.”

  “Nothing to worry about.” Annie brushed away Livvy’s remark and returned to her work. “You do remember Martha, don’t you? Marti, this is Ruth and Hubert Baker’s granddaughter, Olivia Hartman.”

  A smile as warm as her mother’s and terrifyingly close to her brother’s spread across the girl’s face. She extended her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Olivia. I think the last time was at the church picnic three or four years ago.”

  “Livvy, please. Call me Livvy.” She took the girl’s warm hand, smooth with flour. “Looks like I caught you in the middle of baking.”

  Marti pulled a plate from the warmer and set it at the kitchen table. “This is for you. We barely had enough to hold for you after Daddy and Whit finished breakfast. My brother eats like a horse now that he’s up at your grandfather’s place.”

  “Shame, Marti.” Annie poured coffee, set the cup before Livvy and bumped her daughter with her hip, a playful move that forced a laugh from Livvy.

  Marti lightly bumped her mother in return. “I’m not being mean, Mama. Just speaking the truth, that’s all.”

  A bank of windows topped the counter and sink all along the west wall, and bright yellow curtains drew back at each end, matching the checked cloth on the table. Livvy seated herself and whispered a quick prayer over the eggs and bacon and biscuit. She was hungrier than she’d thought. “It’s not often lately that I eat something I haven’t cooked myself. This looks—and smells—wonderful.”

  The back door opened and Whit stepped in on the cheerful exchange. “You ready?” His question landed on Livvy’s plate like a blob of co
ld grease. She looked at him, at her plate, and back to his creased brow.

  “I need to get back to the ranch.”

  Chapter 6

  “Stop fussing, Whit, and sit down and have some coffee.” His mother didn’t give Livvy a chance to answer before bringing two cups and the coffeepot to the table. “We’ve hardly had a good visit and here you want to rush off already. Can’t you stay for dinner?”

  She filled the cups, returned the pot to the stove and took a seat across the table. Her mischievous smile reminded Whit that no other preacher’s kids could have had it as good as he and Marti did growing up.

  He hung his hat on the chair back rather than the peg by the door. He and Livvy were not staying. This wasn’t a social call, and he had calves to brand. Lord knew the trouble Buck and Jody Perkins could wrangle before he returned.

  But the hungry look in Livvy’s blue eyes set him back. It wasn’t eggs and biscuits she was longing for. His impatience settled and he scooted to the table, gentled his voice. “Go ahead and eat, Livvy. We have time.”

  His mother cocked an eyebrow in that way she had. Made him want to duck every time. She could always tell what he was thinking. He raised the heavy mug to his lips and sipped the black brew. Good cowboy coffee. Amazing what a delicate little preacher’s wife could concoct.

  “Did you check on Tad?” Livvy spread apple butter on a biscuit and looked at him as she took a bite.

  He waited. Surprise lit her eyes and she turned to his mother. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Hu—Annie. I’d love to get your recipe.”

  Livvy couldn’t have said anything better.

  His mother beamed. “You’ll have to come down this fall when Marti and I pick apples and you can make a batch with us.” She slid Whit a bold look. “Of course, we’d love to see you before then, too.”