She coughed again and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t have a canteen.”
Infuriating woman. “Why didn’t you say something?”
She stared straight ahead.
“You can have that one.”
She held it out to him. “Thank you, but no, thank you.”
He kicked his horse too hard and Oro lunged ahead in a hard trot, then settled to an easy lope. He passed Baker and a few choice words from his boss’s colorful vocabulary jumped into Whit’s mind as he rode by.
Rather than voice his frustration at female wrangling, he pulled up next to Buck, whose horse marched against a tight rein. “I’m glad you didn’t try to chase down those two mavericks up there today. We can get ’em later.”
Buck’s mount had the home pastures in his nose and was in a hurry to get there. “I figured as much.” He checked the reins and the horse slowed. They rode a ways in silence before Buck shared his thoughts.
“She did all right, didn’t she?”
Whit slid a sideways glance at the boy. “Yeah, she did all right. But she nearly choked to death on the smoke.”
Buck scrubbed his hand over his face.
“What?” Whit knew that nervous gesture.
“We didn’t have enough. When Baker had me bring ’em in last night, I could only find three canteens. Why didn’t she say something to the boss?”
“Why does a woman do anything she does?”
Buck guffawed and Whit threw him a warning glare. “She can have mine. I’ve got one in the bunkhouse.”
“I figured Baker’d have a couple extra.”
“Did you ask him?”
Buck rubbed his face again. “No, sir. Didn’t see him after supper and I didn’t think about it this morning.”
“She’s got one now.”
Whit heeled Oro ahead and they loped down the final slope onto the bottom pasture. The sun slanted low across the valley and washed the house and barns in a long yellow light. Gray clouds bunched above the rimrock beyond, and a distant rumble echoed off the mountains to the north. There’d come a rain tonight.
Crossing Wilson Creek, Whit noted it ran wider than two days ago, swollen with summer storms. He hoped they didn’t get more than a light rain tonight. They didn’t need a flood spreading out and running in close to the buildings. He looked again at the bunching clouds and flinched at another thunder roll, louder this time, closer.
A fickle woman, the weather.
Whit felt the sneer on his lips as he rode into the yard and pulled up by the barn. Fickle didn’t begin to describe Livvy. She was up to her old tricks again—fire and ice.
He brushed Oro and turned him loose in the near pasture to roll and shake and feed on sweet creek-watered grass. Buck rode in next, followed by Baker and Livvy. Whit headed for the bunkhouse. If he wasn’t half-starved he’d skip supper. But the bulge in the bottom of the cookie bag made his mouth water. He hoped Livvy got it right.
To his great relief, she did.
She must have left beans in the stove all day, because the pork-laced aroma wrapped around him when he stepped through the back door. Above it lay the crispy lure of calf fries sizzling on the stovetop. Livvy wore an apron over her denims and her loose hair fell down her back like a wild horse mane.
He’d marry that woman if she’d give him half a chance.
Disgusted, he stomped back out. He must be as barn-soured as Buck’s horse, having such thoughts. He scrubbed his hands and arms for the second time and splashed cold water on his face and head. He combed his fingers through his hair, dried his hands and met Buck at the door on his way in.
“You’d better wash up if you don’t want a tongue lashin’.”
Buck grinned. Whit swore it was the only reaction the boy had, regardless of the situation.
* * *
Livvy laid the work table in the kitchen for supper, too tired for the usual formal setting in the dining room. She doubted Pop would mind. After he’d told her how to cook the calf fries, he had retired to his room. She’d heard his boots thump to the floor as he pulled them off and the bed squeak when he lay down.
Poor man. If he were half as sore and worn as she, he’d be needing his liniment tonight. She checked the corner cabinet to make sure they had enough. She might even borrow a little herself.
Grudgingly she admitted that what she was frying in the big skillet smelled enticingly good, if only she could banish the knowledge of their origin. When Buck and Whit finally showed up, Buck wore his usual mindless grin and Whit looked about ready to drool.
Men. It didn’t take much to please them when they were tired and hungry.
Her heart turned at the thought, and sadness knifed beneath her ribs. How pleasant it would have been to ride beside Whit today if he hadn’t been so certain she couldn’t do her part with the branding. Well, she had shown him.
And what had he shown her?
Kindness. The knife pressed deeper. He’d noticed her coughing fit and offered to share his water. Insisted, in fact. She scooped more beans onto his plate and topped them with several fries.
She set a plate before him as well as Buck and Pop. Buck’s eyes darted between his helping and Whit’s, and a rare frown wrinkled his usually smooth brow. Heat rushed up Livvy’s neck at the obvious favoritism she’d shown, and leaving her own plate on the table, she quickly turned away.
“You men go ahead. I’ll get Pop. He went to rest for a moment.”
“I think she likes you better.” Buck’s hoarse whisper followed Livvy as she hurried through the dining room. The flush climbed into her cheeks. At least Whit couldn’t see her.
Pop’s muffled snore met her at the doorway to his room and she regretted having to wake him. But if he rode again tomorrow, he’d need every morsel of food for strength. She’d make sure he had several eggs for breakfast.
She touched his shoulder. “Pop?”
He groaned.
Fear took a lick at her heart. “Are you all right?”
“I’ll be fine. Give me a minute to get my bearings.” He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, flinching with the effort.
“Would you rather eat in here?”
He waved her off with an impatient hand. “No, girl, I’m not dyin’, I’m just stove-up.” He pushed himself up and softened his tone with a wink. “After supper you can find that liniment your grandmother always kept on hand. It will do me some good tonight.”
Livvy slipped an arm around his waist on pretense of affection, but as she hoped, he laid an arm across her shoulder and they walked together. By the time they reached the kitchen, he had straightened and entered under his own power.
Did men ever grow old enough to not strut and preen?
Pop slid a chair out and dropped into it with a grunt. “Whit, you say the blessing tonight.”
Buck’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth and Whit coughed on a biscuit. Livvy tucked her chin to hide her surprise and seated herself next to her grandfather.
Whit cleared his throat and glanced up as he bowed his head, catching Livvy’s eye before closing his.
“Thank You, Lord, for Your help today, for keeping us all safe. And thank You for this bounty and the company we have in one another. Amen.”
Did Whit count her as one of the company for which he was thankful?
Pop bit into a fry and followed it with beans. “Fine job, Livvy. Fine job. Aren’t you going to try your own cooking?”
She kept her head down, stirring her beans. “Maybe later.” She couldn’t look these men in the eye, knowing what they ate and relished as they did so.
Whit chuckled. Buck shoveled. Livvy prayed for someone to change the subject.
Pop obliged. “Buck, my leg is stiff as a stamp iron. Why don’t
you let me take over the fire tomorrow and you flank calves?”
Livvy bit the inside of her mouth to keep from thanking God out loud. She dared not insult the man’s pride—or good judgment. She sighed and relaxed shoulders she hadn’t realized were tight. Thank God, indeed.
Whit nodded as he chewed and looked Pop in the eye. “Good call, sir.” He traded his spoon for his coffee cup and took a swallow. “I’m thinkin’ most of the cattle are up the northeast draw, over in the far park. That pole corral up there might hold forty, fifty head at a time, but we could drive ’em all down, let ’em graze and rotate ’em in.”
No one commented. Too tired, Livvy supposed, and she wasn’t about to say anything. She had borne enough of Whit’s scowling looks through the day. Instead she savored the beans and biscuits and lamented the fact that she could not fall immediately into bed. Not with preparations for tomorrow’s meal awaiting her after the men left.
“I agree.” Pop wiped his mouth, downed his coffee and pushed back from the table. “Get me that liniment, Livvy, and I’m gonna turn in.”
She retrieved it from the cupboard and picked up a small piece of toweling. “I can help you, Pop.”
“No.” The curt hand wave stopped her. “You have enough to do tonight. We’ll be leavin’ at the same time and needin’ the same food as you brought today.” He took the towel and bottle. “See you all then.”
At the dining room door, he paused and turned his head to the side. “Good job today. That includes you, Livvy.”
Full of glory at her grandfather’s remark, she stood by the stove and watched him hobble through the dining room. At the fireplace he stopped, opened the gaudy French clock on the mantel and wound it, turning the key four times. She counted, the way she did every night when he tended Mama Ruth’s favored timepiece.
Returning to the table, she caught Whit’s dark eyes above the cup he held to his lips. He watched her take her seat, pick up her spoon and swallow the rest of her beans whole. Why did he have to stare?
“I agree,” he said, parroting Pop’s earlier words.
She met his look head on, her nerves steeled by her grandfather’s confidence. “About what?”
“Today.” Both elbows rested on the table, the cup held aloft in his rough hands. “You did a good job.”
The compliment shot heat beneath her already too-warm skin. She lowered her gaze and lifted a napkin to her mouth. “Thank you.”
“Got any more beans?”
God bless Buck Perkins. In his typically awkward manner, he delivered her from what could have been an awkward moment.
“Of course.” She took his bowl to the stove and ladled in an extralarge helping. She had no doubt in the boy’s ability to finish it off.
Suddenly fatigued, she bent beneath the ache in her back and legs and moaned inwardly at the thought of rising an hour earlier than they planned to leave so she could make biscuits and eggs and bacon.
Whit stood, gathered his bowl, and took it to the dishpan. “Thank you.” His gaze traveled the swath of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “See you in the morning.”
He grabbed his hat on his way out and looked at Buck. “Hurry up. We leave at daybreak.”
Buck shoveled, scooted his chair and sleeved his mouth nearly all at once. Livvy shook her head at the boy’s ability to be so effortlessly mannerless.
“Thank you, ma’am.” He handed her his dishes. “Mighty good.”
She gave him a weary smile. “See you tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 12
On the third morning, the clock in Whit’s head woke him to the tuneless racket of Buck snoring. Snorting was more like it. The kid gagged like a choked bull.
The roundup’s second day had gone much like the first, and Whit hoped today would be their last. In fact, he did more than hope, he prayed. He’d smelled rain on the breeze the last two nights and didn’t want to get caught in a storm today.
He pulled on his pants and boots, knotted his bandanna and tucked in his shirt. He kicked Perkins’s bunk on his way outside. “Get up. Daylight’s burnin’.”
Wasn’t burning, wasn’t even smoldering, but by the time the kid made it to the kitchen it would be. They had farther to ride today and needed a fast start.
He gathered three horses, checked their hooves, saddled them, and led them to the hitching rail behind the house. The square light of the kitchen window pulled at his belly and his heart as he watched Livvy at the stove doing what she did best. One of many things, he grudgingly admitted. She was definitely full of skill and surprises. Maybe he’d get a few moments alone with her before Baker and Buck showed up.
But he’d not be apologizing for his earlier behavior. He was justified in his concern for his men, for the cattle. For her. They were his responsibility. Hauling a woman in to do a man’s job was not. Lucky for her it had turned out all right.
Lucky for him.
He pulled his hat off, stepped through the back door and into the warm, yellow light.
She looked up from the stove, a pleased expression tilting her mouth in a pink curve. “Good morning.”
“Mornin’.” So far, so good. He straddled a chair.
“Coffee?” She brought the pot and two mugs to the table, set one before him and filled it with the dark, steamy liquid.
He nodded his thanks and took the cup in both hands, pulled the hot brew through his lips. “Hmm.”
She poured another cup and sat down.
He glanced at the stove.
“Don’t worry. Breakfast is ready. I’m waiting for everyone to show up so we can all eat at once rather than in shifts.”
She had pulled her long hair back into a single plait. He felt a twinge of disappointment. “Your grandfather not up?”
She sipped. “He’s up, but moving slow.”
A faint trace of liniment mingled with the coffee’s strong aroma. He leaned toward her and sniffed. “Did you rub him down?”
She blushed like the sky at dawn and hid behind her mug. Two laughing eyes peered over the top. “I was a little sore myself after two days, so when he fell asleep last night, I stole in and borrowed the bottle.”
He chuckled at her admission. Another surprise. “I guess you might be. How long has it been since you rode?”
“It’s been awhile. There was no riding on our last visit for Mama Ruth’s funeral.”
The memory stripped the smile from her eyes and replaced it with sorrow. He longed to bring the light back, tip her mouth in that pink curve.
Baker walked in with a more pronounced limp as Buck came through the back door. Whit looked at his crew gathering around the table and prayed again. This time for a miracle. They’d need it if they were going to get the rest of the calves branded today and not get someone busted up.
Pop gave thanks and Livvy served bacon, biscuits with white gravy, and eggs, and kept everyone’s coffee hot and full. She ate standing at the counter as she packed her larder bag and filled the canteen Whit had given her. Good thing he saw her—he’d forgotten to fill his.
“I’ll be right back and then we’ll leave.” He took his dishes to the sink, gave Livvy what he hoped she’d consider a friendly smile and beat it out the back door.
By the time he returned to the house, everyone was mounted. He filled the canteen at the outside pump and draped it over his saddle horn.
Oro rumbled deep in his chest and pawed the ground. “Enough.” Whit slapped him good-naturedly on the neck, slipped the reins from the rail and swung into the saddle. Buck carried the irons, Livvy had her bag and everyone had a canteen. He turned Oro toward the east.
Dawn peeked above the rimrock, flattened by a dark blanket that glowed orange and pink at the edges. Not a good sign. Whit drew in a deep breath and with it the promise of a storm.
They rode toward the jagged rock wall and Whit scanned its shadowed lip. Near the base they turned north to follow the draw around a low hill. A scream split the air.
Another scream behind him, and he whirled to see Livvy with Ranger’s reins pulled to her chest. The horse danced backward, bouncing its front feet off the ground.
“Let up!” He charged toward her and pulled up next to the rearing gray. “Let up on the reins!” Leaning out, he jerked her hands toward the saddle horn.
As soon as the reins went slack, Ranger stopped. He stood trembling and his eyes rolled white at the fear he’d picked up from his rider.
Breathless and pale, Livvy held Whit with frightened eyes, her fingers clutching the reins with an iron grip. Whit’s doubts returned and dug in their spurs.
“Easy. Easy.” He spoke low, as much to Livvy as to the horse.
Pop loped over and grabbed the gray by its headstall. “He’ll flip over backward if you yank on him like that.”
“I—I know. It just startled me.” Livvy’s chest heaved on every word and her hands shook.
She released one hand and leaned down to pat Ranger’s neck. She looked to Whit. “What was that?”
Whit laid his hand atop hers on the horn, gave it a light squeeze. “A lion. Up on the rimrock. But it’s all right—she won’t come down here.”
“Why does she scream like that? Did she kill something?”
Whit withdrew his hand, looked at Pop, who let go of Ranger, and moved away. “She’s lonely.”
A bit more than lonely, more like calling for a mate, but Whit wasn’t about to go into that. Livvy ducked her head. She’d figured it out.
Buck had ridden back at the commotion. “It’s enough to chill your blood for sure.”
Livvy raised her chin and heeled Ranger ahead. “She caught me off guard, that’s all.”
And that was exactly how Whit felt—caught off guard by a beautiful woman out in the breaks where she didn’t belong, nearly getting crushed beneath her horse. He had never believed in omens, not with his God-fearing folks. But the stormy dawn and bloodcurdling cat cry didn’t bode well for the day ahead. He tugged his hat down and loped back to the front of their small string. If any other surprises awaited them, he wanted to take the brunt.
Branding the Wrangler's Heart Page 9