Branding the Wrangler's Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

  Whit’s hand tightened around his fork and Livvy feared he might stab Buck right there in front of God and everybody. Instead he nailed the boy to his chair with an icy glare.

  Pop snorted. “Whit’s too smart for that, son. He knows which side his bread’s buttered on.”

  Buck frowned but didn’t ask and Livvy wasn’t about to tell him what it meant. This was not her conversation. Plus she had something on her mind, which required all her concentration to frame exactly right, and now might be the perfect time to bring it up.

  She served Pop and then herself and resumed her seat. A quarter of the pie remained.

  “My guns are for snakes, coyotes and lions,” Whit said. “Not taking potshots at men working on laying a railroad that we need through these mountains. Regardless whose name is on the train.”

  Pop grunted again. Seemed as though he did that more and more since Mama Ruth had been gone. She’d always insisted he speak in complete sentences.

  “I’ll ride over to Cunningham’s early tomorrow.” Whit pushed his plate back and looked at Pop. “See if their boys can help us with the branding.”

  “Won’t be necessary.” Pop leaned his arms on the table, tilted his head over his plate. “I can still ride. But I’d be more help on the ground. You and Buck can drive them off the mountain to the bunch grounds. You rope ’em, and Buck and I can hold ’em down.”

  “Who will brand?”

  Pop cut a look at Livvy without raising his head.

  Her breath stuck in her throat. Did her grandfather really have that much faith in her? Did he remember all those years she and her mother and Mama Ruth had horsebacked through these hills?

  “No.” Whit’s jaw tightened and the muscle below his ear bulged.

  Pop’s gaze shifted to his foreman. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  Livvy pulled air through her nose. She watched the battle in Whit’s eyes—his desire to please and respect his boss, and his apprehension at taking a woman on a roundup. He wouldn’t meet her gaze and she was glad. She couldn’t stand to have him look down on her.

  But she wasn’t going to sit quietly by and let them discuss her as if she wasn’t there. “I can do it, Pop. Mama Ruth and Mother and I rode all over this ranch when I was growing up.”

  He smiled and his mustache quivered. “I know you did. They were good teachers. All the Baker women are good horsewomen. But it’s the branding I want you to do. Do you think you can handle that?”

  “Yes.” And why not? She’d wrung chickens’ necks and cleaned fish and patched up bloody men like Tad Overton. How hard could it be?

  “You listen to what Whit tells you. He’ll show you how on a couple and then turn it over to you.”

  He will? She slid a glance at Whit and saw the battle still raging. Not only was his boss taking over, he was telling him how to do his job and bringing a woman into the mix. She sat straighter. She would not disappoint him.

  “You’ll be needin’ your grandmother’s denims.” Pop stood and picked up his plate.

  Fear leaped up and Livvy followed it. “You’re right. I know where they are.” Should she have said that? “I’ll get them from the trunk right now.”

  She dashed out of the kitchen, through the dining room and into Pop’s bedroom. She opened the trunk for a moment, then dropped the lid and peeked around the doorframe. Chairs scraped against the kitchen floor. If she hurried she could make it to her room unseen.

  How wicked she was, deceiving her grandfather into thinking she was pure and honest. Guilt sat heavy on her formerly light spirit. She must confess. But not yet. Not until after she proved that she could ride and brand as well as any cowhand on the ranches of Eight Mile Mountain.

  And brand she would.

  Chapter 9

  The muscles in Whit’s neck clamped like a farrier’s clincher. His wild-hare comparison of Livvy jumping maverick steers was about to come to life. That was just what he needed—a girl and her crippled grandfather traipsing off into the thick brush. Blasted Jody Perkins. If Whit got his hands on him before the boy got himself shot, Perkins’d wish he’d never heard of the railroad.

  Livvy had lit out of the kitchen like a jackrabbit in tall grass. He took his plate and cup to the sink and told Buck to do the same. Baker had already gone to the barn.

  What happened to the peaceful afternoon of watching a beautiful woman do what she was good at? Now he had to spend three or four days watching her do what she’d never done before.

  It could be worse. But not much.

  Riding leisurely along smooth trails and open meadows was not even close to chasing a wild cow without getting hooked. Or breaking a horse’s leg in a badger hole. Or getting raked off the saddle in thick timber. Lord have mercy on them all.

  As he reached for his hat, she returned to the kitchen. Her cheeks were flushed and she was near bustin’ with excitement. He didn’t need excitement. He needed levelheaded cow sense, a strong back and a sure hand. He looked at her hands.

  “I thought you were gone.” She pumped water into a dishpan, then set it on the stove before pulling out the flour bin.

  He left his hat on the chair back, spread his feet squarely beneath him, and crossed his arms at his chest. “Do you have gloves?”

  The question stopped her forward motion. “Excuse me?”

  “Gloves. You know, those things you put on your hands.” Irritation called up the worst in him and he almost regretted the sarcasm.

  She planted her fists on her hips, faced him and raised her chin. “What has your back up, Mr. Hutton? Or do you not like the idea of a woman on roundup?”

  He stood his ground. “What I don’t like is you dodging my question.”

  “Hmm.” She turned to the counter and set out a large crockery bowl. “Let me see now—I have some lovely pine-green gloves I wear with my traveling suit, white gloves I save for church and a very nice pair of kid-leather gloves for riding.” With a tin cup she scooped flour from the bin into the bowl. “Yes, I have gloves.”

  Whit’s neck muscles knotted. This was exactly what he didn’t need.

  In two strides he was beside her and grabbed her hand, relieving it of the cup. He forced her fingers against his own, palm to palm. Hardened and rough, his fingers topped hers by two knuckles.

  He leaned in. “Feel that?” He pressed her hand between both of his. The racing pulse in her bare wrist beat against his arm, and her eyes widened with surprise. “Feel those calluses? The hard cracked skin? Is that what you want for yourself?”

  She didn’t pull away. Just stared at their hands flattened against each other like two hotcake griddles.

  He dropped her hand. “Your nice kid leather won’t last through one morning. And neither will your skin without work gloves. You’ll be branded as sure as the calves Baker is so all-fired certain you can handle.”

  “I know that. I have watched brandings.”

  “Watching is not the same as doing.”

  An internal fire flared her eyes to sapphires, and the flame jumped to his heart like a wild ember. Anger or protectiveness—he didn’t know which pressed him harder, but either one would cloud his judgment and he could not afford that. He took a step back, grabbed his hat off the chair and shoved it on with a stony stare.

  “I am sure Pop has something I can use.” Her hands balled around her bunched apron and her chin hitched up. He’d seen that same determination in old steers on the fight.

  He huffed out a hot breath. Why had he tried to scare her off? She was determined to go.

  “We leave at sunup.”

  He slammed the door on his way out. Infuriating woman.

  He stormed to the bunkhouse and dug through his few extra clothes and tack until he found the gloves he’d worn when he started for Baker four years ago. He’d grown a mi
te since then. Like skunk cabbage in a wet summer, his pa had said.

  He held one against his hand and his fingers topped the glove by two knuckles. No holes. Stiff, but still good protection. They’d do. He shoved them under his bedroll and headed for the barn. He needed to plan a strategy with Baker.

  * * *

  Livvy dragged in air and braced herself against the counter. Whitaker Hutton had more gall than any man she had ever known. How dare he compare the two of them? Why, that was like comparing gingham and leather. She looked at the hand he’d held, felt again the heat in his fingers and the way it made her heart pound.

  No, that wasn’t it at all. He’d simply taken her by surprise. Caught her off guard the way he always did. What happened to their short-lived truce? Why couldn’t he let her be who she was? Accept her for who she was.

  She mixed yeast and warm water in a small bowl and set it aside. Then she carried the now-boiling dishpan to the sink, dunked the day’s dishes and shaved in a few soap curls with a paring knife.

  After washing the dishes, she turned to baking bread—the perfect activity for taking out her frustration. Adding flour by the cupful, she worked the dough into a sizable mound, punching out the air and knots, picturing Whit as she kneaded.

  Her mind played with the word and brought up needed. Humph. She pounded the dough again, tucked it under into a smooth ball and threw it in the bread bowl to rise. She needed Whit Hutton like she needed a third leg.

  The afternoon flew by with baking and packing plates and flatware in an old flour sack she planned to tie on her saddle horn. After considering the clanking of tin against her horse’s shoulder, she unpacked everything. Instead she’d get up early and slice meat and bread and stack it together. The men could eat with their hands. So could she.

  They weren’t taking a wagon. No lemonade. Surely Pop had an extra canteen. She’d rather die of thirst than ask Whit for one.

  Working the Bar-HB and the fringes of neighboring ranches for strays, they’d be back each night to sleep. As happy as she was about riding with the men, she knew she’d be dog tired at day’s end. She also knew the others depended on her to keep them fed.

  She put a roast in the Dutch oven, added water, salt, pepper, onions and the lid, and shoved it to the back of the oven to cook overnight. Then she went to her bedroom to prepare for tomorrow. She still needed to fit the hat and find a blouse or shirtwaist to wear with Mama Ruth’s denims. Maybe Pop had an old shirt she could borrow. And gloves, too. She rubbed her hands together, recalling Whit’s rough forcefulness—so unlike that day in the columbines.

  At least she’d had enough sense to bring her own boots for summer on the ranch.

  She took the hat to her grandfather’s study, where she found a stack of old Cañon City Times newspapers he kept for fire starters in the winter. She pulled one from the bottom and a headline caught her eye. Tucking a leg beneath her, she settled into the leather-covered desk chair to read.

  The United States Supreme Court on April 21 granted the primary right of way through the narrow gorge above Cañon City to the Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad. The ruling should put to rest the ongoing Royal Gorge Railroad War between D&RG and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway.

  Livvy let the paper flop back. The article was nearly two months old. If the Supreme Court had ruled, then why were Santa Fe crews laying track? No wonder the Denver men were sabotaging the rail. But must they shoot at mere boys like Tad Overton?

  She spread the paper across her grandfather’s desk and folded back the edge. Then she turned the broadsheet over and folded the new edge back, continuing to alternate the folds front and back until she had a large fanlike strip. She pressed the folds together and flattened them, then tucked the strip under the sweatband inside the old hat. John B. Stetson was stamped into the leather in gold letters. She tried it on and it slid down over her eyes.

  Tipping it back, she looked through the stack for other interesting stories.

  “School Superintendent Unearths More Fossil Remains.” Livvy shuddered. Who wants to go around digging up old dead animals on purpose?

  She folded the sheet into a long fan, and three pages later, her grandfather’s Stetson stayed put. She rose to go look in her mirror and stopped short. Whit leaned inside the doorway, arms folded against his chest and one booted foot crossed over the other.

  She jerked off the hat. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know you look like a toadstool with that thing on.”

  Hot blood rushed into her face and she clenched her jaw. He’d better be on his horse when she got that stamp iron in her hands.

  Uninvited, he sauntered to the desk, picked up the hat and shoved it back on her head. She couldn’t move. Nor could she see him, he stood so tall above her and so close. Mindful of her tendencies, she focused on breathing through her nose.

  He bent to the side and peeked under the brim. A distinct ripple twisted his mouth. He straightened and shoved the hat down farther until it pinched her ears. “You want it screwed down good and tight so it doesn’t fly off if you get to running.”

  She hated him, yet she could not make her feet walk away from the desk.

  He snorted like the horse that he was and she refused to raise her head to look at him. He waited. He could wait all day. She watched his boots. He shifted his weight and she heard a sharp brush against fabric. He held a pair of thick leather gloves within her view, lifted the hat brim and looked her in the eye.

  “These are for you.”

  She took them and before she could form words he dropped the brim, turned and walked out of the study, across the dining room carpet, into the kitchen and out the back door. She slumped into her grandfather’s chair and pulled the hat off her stinging ears.

  “Thank you.”

  Later at supper, Jody’s dining room chair sat glaringly empty. Buck shoveled his food the way he always did, and Whit ate quickly and left.

  Livvy had stared at her plate during most of the meal. Anything other than catching Whit’s eye and blushing with anger or humiliation. A fine line ran between those two emotions and tonight the delineation was even narrower.

  “You ready to leave early?” Pop studied her over the coffee-filled teacup he held before his lips.

  Livvy forced a smile. “Yes.” She raised her head, assumed her role as fellow cowhand and cook. “I’ll have biscuits, coffee and bacon ready for anyone who wants to eat before we leave.”

  Buck grinned at her and Pop grunted.

  “I also have food for us at midday.”

  Her grandfather nodded and placed the delicate cup on its saucer. “We’re not taking the wagon, you know.”

  “I have a sack of food, and if everyone has a canteen, that will do.” She laid her flatware across her plate and topped it with a linen napkin. “Do you have an extra one I could use?”

  “Sure do. I’ll bring it up from the barn along with mine to rinse out tonight.” He looked at Buck. “You might want to do the same.”

  Buck nodded and wiped his mouth.

  “Why don’t you go to the barn and get ’em all right now?”

  Buck glanced between Pop and the remaining sausages and potatoes on the serving platter, clearly struggling with his boss’s request.

  “Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Buck scooted from the table and lifted his plate. “I can take these to the kitchen if you’d like, Miss Livvy.” He reached for the platter.

  “Leave it.”

  At Pop’s quick command, Buck snatched his hand back with a grimace.

  “If there’s any left when you get back with the canteens, you can have ’em.”

  Livvy prayed that Buck wouldn’t toss her grandmother’s china in the dishpan on his way out and sighed in relief as the back door opened and closed
without a preliminary clatter of plate against metal. Her shoulders relaxed and the day’s activity and drama seeped from her arms and left her empty and tired.

  Pop reached for her hand. “You’ll do fine tomorrow, Livvy. I know you will. You’ve got Baker blood in you.”

  She drank in his confidence and affection. “Thanks, Pop. I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m not worried about that.” He patted her fingers with his other leathered hand. “But I want you to be safe. That’s why I want you to ride Ranger.”

  Shocked, Livvy met her grandfather’s solemn gaze. “But he’s your horse, Pop.”

  “That he is, but he’s a good, sure-footed mount, and that’s what you’ll be needing out there in the rough.” He released her hand, folded his arms on the table and leveled his steely eyes upon her.

  “I know you and Whit sometimes have your squabbles. For a couple of preachers’ kids you fight like two polecats. But he will show you exactly how things are done. Do what he tells you, watch for flying hooves, and you’ll be fine.”

  Polecats?

  Pop’s eyes glistened and his mustache quirked. “Your grandmother would be proud.”

  Livvy banished the image of Whit as a polecat. “Did she ever work the roundup with you?”

  A deep sigh threatened to cleave the dear man’s chest. “Oh, yes. Our first year here, it was just the two of us roping and branding calves. Your mama helped, too, the little sprite. Had her on the stamp iron. We didn’t have that many cows back then, but it was a sight to behold, this old cowboy and his two female hands.”

  He chuckled and light flickered in his gray eyes. Suddenly he slapped both hands on the table and pushed back. “Think I’ll turn in. We’ve got a long day ahead with an early start.”

  Livvy stood and planted a kiss on his cheek. “If Buck doesn’t hurry back I’ll save these potatoes for tomorrow morning.”

  The back door banged open and Livvy flinched. Pop laughed.

  “Got the canteens here for you, Miss Livvy.”