Branding the Wrangler's Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

  * * *

  Livvy’s insides quaked and she concentrated on appearing calm and in control of her emotions. She might be able to fool the men but not Ranger. His neck arched and his ears pricked and his walk was more of a nervous trot. Truth be told, she wanted to wheel him and run him as fast as he could go back to the ranch house and hide beneath the quilts on her bed.

  Lord, help her! The fright in Whit’s eyes tore into her nearly as deep as the cat’s scream. Was he afraid for her or because of her?

  The red horizon faded to pink and into a blinding white as the sun climbed above low clouds. Daylight spread slowly over the hills and dripped into the ravines and creek beds. Blackbirds and robins called to one another across the meadows and hawks screed above them. How could such beauty hide such chilling terror?

  By midday they had driven the cattle down to a new pole corral and had half the cow-calf pairs inside. Whit refused to eat until they had finished branding every single calf. Argument danced on the tip of Livvy’s tongue, begging to spring to life, but she bit it back and followed his orders. It helped to believe his sharp commands were directed to his branding crew and not to her personally.

  Only twice did she stop for water, and she noticed with satisfaction that the men took a break at the same time. Against Whit’s wishes, she passed out two cookies to each man and quickly downed one herself. She worried more about Pop’s strength than her own, and if Whit gave her any grief, that was exactly what she’d tell him.

  The sun balanced on the western peaks by the time they loosed the last calf. Livvy pulled her gloves and hat off and sleeved her brow as she watched the youngsters run to their mamas seeking comfort for their burned hides. She almost felt guilty. But cattle from several different spreads roamed the mountains and parks together, and ranchers had to keep them straight.

  Before each calf was branded, Whit read the markings on the cow. If it didn’t carry the Bar-HB, he’d holler out the brand and Buck would heat the rings. Livvy didn’t know how to use the hot brass cinch rings, so Buck burned in a neighbor’s brand that matched the one on the calf’s mama.

  But most of the little ones were her grandfather’s. The recent bunch huddled with the cows at the west end of the corral. Something about their lowing gave her pause, and she considered the way they pressed hard against the far poles.

  As Buck stomped out the fire, she walked to the railing and looked at the pairs outside, all bunching together facing the west with their rumps to the east. She looked over her shoulder and saw black-bellied clouds spilling off the northern mountains. A deep rumble rolled around them and a fat raindrop hit her arm.

  The cattle knew.

  Her grandfather opened the far gate and let the corralled pairs out. They ran to join the others pressing toward the far end of the park, away from the storm. Livvy shoved her hat on, tucked her gloves in her waist and ran to the gray. Buck and Whit were already mounted and she joined them.

  “Should we ride into the trees?”

  Whit and Pop both shook their heads.

  “No,” Pop said.

  “But we’d be out of the rain, a little more protected.” It seemed the only logical thing to do.

  “And asking to be fried.” Whit pushed his hat down and turned toward the draw they had come through earlier. “It’s comin’ a storm, and we don’t want to be in the trees when the lightning hits. We’ll find a bunch of low rocks and hunker down on the south side.”

  With that he kicked Oro into a lope and the others followed. Livvy had no choice but to do the same.

  A sharp riflelike crack tossed Ranger’s head nearly into Livvy’s face. A fiery bolt fingered from the clouds and into the ground, and thunder bounced off far canyon walls and rolled across the park. Whit spurred Oro toward a red sandstone outcropping.

  They managed to get off their horses before the downpour hit. Livvy gripped the gray’s reins and pressed herself against the sandstone.

  “Let him go.” Pop jerked his head toward Ranger. “If he spooks, he’ll run home.”

  Livvy noticed that the men weren’t holding their horses. Reluctantly, she tossed the leather straps over Ranger’s neck. The horse trotted off, swiveling his ears.

  Another crack and Livvy flinched. She slid down, pulled her knees to her chest, and tried to squeeze her entire body beneath her hat brim. Rain pounded her back and bounced off the ground. Bounced? She looked closer and saw white kernel-size hail popping out of the grass. It stung her back and arms but there was nothing she could do.

  Whit ran to his horse and unlashed a yellow roll behind his saddle. Then he joined Livvy, shook out the roll and with the slicker spread above him like wings, he squatted next to her, covering her with the yellow shield. Grateful for his body warmth, she pressed close to him as hail pelted against the oilcloth. She laid her head on her knees and looked at the man who huddled closer than was proper. He grinned—that boylike smirk that could fan an angry fire or stir a deep longing.

  Oh, Lord, help her.

  As they waited out the storm, Whit’s arm lowered until it rested on her shoulders. Even through her wet shirt his heat seeped into her. Rivulets formed around their feet and cut paths through the grass. Lightning hit close enough to strike with the thunder, leaving no gap between. She expected the horses to bolt and run. They’d all be walking back to the ranch after the storm. In the dark.

  Thoughts of the mountain lion shivered through her, adding to the chill of her wet clothes. Whit pulled her closer and she didn’t resist. She took off her soaked hat and his breath warmed her. She lost herself in his dark eyes while hail drummed in her ears. Or was that her heartbeat?

  He didn’t have to lean far. His lips brushed her hair and a raspy moan escaped them.

  It was definitely the hail that pounded in Livvy’s temples, for her heart had surely stopped. If she dared raise her face to him, she’d kiss him back. Right here beneath his slicker with Buck and her grandfather hunkered down Lord knew how close. Then Whit would think she was a lightskirt.

  Oh, Lord—again—help!

  As if in immediate answer, the rain stopped. Suddenly and completely. Livvy sucked in a breath and held it, listening. Whit raised his right arm and looked out. It was over. He stood and shook out the slicker.

  Livvy’s legs screamed as she straightened, but she clamped her mouth tight. No complaining, especially not when her grandfather must have suffered terribly, hunkered down in the rain. She spun in a circle. Where was he?

  He hobbled out between two rocks, his hat a wet, floppy mess. Buck looked as bad but without the limp, and he trotted off to gather the horses that had wandered to a shimmering aspen grove. So much for being struck by lightning in the trees.

  No birds sang, no cattle lowed, only the drip, drip, dripping of rain-drenched trees. The storm snagged on the western peaks and the sun slipped from view.

  They had little time to ride home before full dark.

  Chapter 13

  Whit’s chest thundered and it had not one thing to do with lightning and hail.

  She hadn’t pulled away. Nor had she slapped him. But how would he look her in the eye now that she knew she’d tangled his spurs?

  Livvy smelled sweeter than new grass on a spring morning. Even under that oilcloth after a full day’s work.

  He was in deep trouble.

  Buck brought the horses round. Whit checked his cinch and retied his slicker. The sun tucked tail and ran, and there’d be no moon with the cloud cover. If they didn’t want to let their horses lead them, they’d best be going.

  Baker looked as though he’d been rode hard. In fact, he had. They all had, and on empty stomachs. Good thing he hadn’t given in to Livvy’s talk about keeping their strength up. They could have been caught in the corral with a bunch of spooked cattle and had to come back tomorrow and chase ’em all dow
n again.

  As it was, his tally showed they’d branded most all the new calves. Course there’d always be more through the year, what with the bulls running loose. But he’d keep everyone close tomorrow, stay to home. The few head they might have missed could wait until Jody got back.

  If he got back.

  But Baker, at least, needed the rest. If the old man took sick and died, Whit would blame himself the rest of his days.

  Buck rode up, wet as a duck.

  “You still have both irons and the rings?” Whit said.

  The boy nodded and slapped his saddle. “Right here where I tied ’em.”

  Baker walked his bay in closer and his hat flopped over his eyes. He lifted it with a finger and revealed a dripping mustache. “What are we waitin’ on?”

  Whit choked down a chuckle and reined Oro around. Thanks to his slicker, Livvy had fared better than her grandfather and Buck. He couldn’t keep his mouth from lifting with pleasure at the memory of her tucked beneath his arm—and her soft yellow hair against his lips. He pulled his hat down, hoping to block her scrutiny. No sense in having her think he was laughing at her.

  But it wasn’t laughter that hitched his heart for Olivia Hartman. It was anything but. He spurred Oro into a lope and headed through the draw on the last thread of light.

  By the time they reached the ranch house, the clouds had scattered and stars washed the sky to nearly daylight. Whit reined in, prompting Baker and Livvy to do the same. “Buck and I will take the horses.”

  Baker angled a resentful glare his way, but stepped down and handed Whit the reins.

  “I can unsaddle my own horse.” Livvy bowed up the way she always did when her independence was threatened.

  “I know you can.” Whit scowled, put gravel in his voice. “But I don’t cook so good and I figure everyone is hungry.”

  “Well, if you had let us stop and—”

  The scowl must have stopped her, for she caught her words in her teeth and clamped her mouth shut. She stepped off, untied the soaked larder sack and went to the house.

  About time she did something his way without an argument.

  Wet leather. Wet saddle blankets. Wet clothes. Whit nursed memories of the Saturday-night baths he’d grumbled over at his parents’ house. What he wouldn’t give to soak in a tub of hot water tonight.

  He and Buck laid out the tack, turned the horses into the near pasture and slopped through mud to the bunkhouse to change clothes before supper. After that downpour, at least their bodies were clean.

  When they stepped into the kitchen, the smells of fried potatoes and bacon and beans hit Whit in the gut. Livvy wore her blue dress and apron but stood at the stove in her stocking feet. She caught the question on his face and grinned like Buck.

  “Pop built a fire and we put our boots on the hearth. Why don’t you two do the same? Socks, too, if you don’t mind eating barefoot.”

  Whit wasn’t so sure he wanted to smell Buck’s wool socks warming up while he ate. But dry boots sounded too good to turn down.

  Baker sat in an overstuffed chair by the dining room fireplace, his stocking feet crossed before him on the fancy carpet. Buck dropped to the floor and started yanking on his boots. Whit returned to the back door, where he knew a bootjack waited. Two smooth pulls, and he carried his sodden boots to the hearth. He’d grease them tomorrow, help keep them drier the next time he got caught in the rain.

  “Supper’s on.” Livvy set the beans on the dining table and returned to the kitchen. Whit noticed the fancy china plates already there, cups and spoons and knives in place. He shook his head. Didn’t take her long to get them all feeling at home.

  She returned with the coffee. “Well, are you going to eat or sit by the fire?” She poured each cup full and set the pot on a thick cloth.

  Baker grunted as he shoved out of his chair and moved to the head of the table like an old bull favoring a new injury. Buck was a two-year-old coming into his own, rangy and full of himself. Livvy shone like a yellow filly with her hair hanging down her back, still damp from the rain. Whit—he just wanted to wrap his hands in that mane and hold on tight.

  He coughed to clear his throat and head and took his place to Baker’s right. Baker caught his eye and gave him a quick nod that Whit interpreted as an order to say grace. Guess it naturally fell to him as a preacher’s son. Baker was calling on him to do so more often.

  “Oh, Lord, You are mighty good to us. Thank You again for keeping us all safe in the storm. Give us strength from this good meal. Amen.”

  “Amen” echoed round the table, and Livvy served heaping helpings of beans and bacon and biscuits. Happiness hovered over her like a plum tree in full bloom, and she had a smile for each man as she set his plate before him. She served Whit last and her cheeks pinked as she glanced at him.

  “Thank you.” Whit shoved his longing down to his damp socks and turned his attention to the full plate.

  “We goin’ back tomorrow?” Buck tossed the question out between two bites.

  “No.” Whit took control before Baker could intervene. “My tally book says we’re near done with only a handful left to check. We can finish when Jody gets back. I figure we all need to rest tomorrow, and there’s plenty to do around here. Fences to mend. Hay needs cuttin’.”

  He slid a look at Baker, who worked on his food and kept his eyes down but not his voice.

  “Buck, you mend the garden fence with that roll of wire I brought back and start on the hay. Whit can soap tack, fix what needs fixin’ in the near pasture, and check on the widow Overton.” Pop lifted his gaze to Livvy. “You need anything in town?”

  She laid her spoon aside and dabbed her perfectly clean mouth with a napkin, but Baker spoke before she had a chance.

  “Take the wagon in tomorrow and get what you need.”

  “We are nearly out of coffee and a few other things. And I’ll get another bottle of liniment from Doc Mason.”

  “You know I have an account at Whitaker’s.”

  She gave her grandfather a loving look that almost made Whit jealous.

  “I can get the mail, too.” She picked up her coffee and held it before her as if debating a proposition. “If I leave enough food prepared, do you think you could get by without me for a day?”

  Whit’s heart jumped into his throat, ready to bust out of his mouth in a loud “no!”

  Baker leaned back against his chair and considered Livvy’s request a moment. “And what takes a whole day in town?”

  She placed her cup in its saucer and dropped her hands to her lap. “I want to stop and see Martha Hutton.” Her face flushed a bit but she pressed on, keeping her eyes off Whit and fixed on her grandfather.

  “When Whit and I were in town last, Mrs. Hutton said I could stop by any time. I’d like to take her up on that. For a visit.”

  Whit would go with her.

  Baker smiled for the first time in several days. “I think that is a fine idea, Livvy. You need other women’s company. Stay the night. I’d rather you not drive back alone near dark, and the three of us can hold this place together in the meantime.”

  But if Whit went with her... The three of us?

  Her smile ravished the fire’s light and kindled anxiety in Whit’s mind. Livvy gone? For an entire day and night?

  * * *

  Gratitude flooded Livvy’s heart for her grandfather’s generous understanding, but her mind raced at the sudden shock plastered across Whit’s face. He’d blanched white as her apron and looked as if he’d swallowed a boiled egg whole.

  She felt his eyes following her as she refilled coffee cups and cleared her dishes to the kitchen. She had to get away from his scrutiny. She had to breathe. The tension between them was stifling and she prayed that her grandfather and Buck didn’t pick up on it. Of course, Buck didn’t
pick up anything that didn’t go into his mouth, so she was safe there.

  But Pop was not easily duped. Not that she was sneaking around or doing anything she shouldn’t. Warmth flooded her neck at the memory of riding out the storm beneath Whit’s slicker.

  Too much heat, that’s what it was. She opened the back window and let the night air rush in, cool and fresh after the storm. A hesitant moon edged above the rimrock, and she shuddered, remembering the lion lurking there. Lonely, Whit had said. That meant only one thing in the animal world. Her neck flamed again. Goodness—could she not think of anything without flaring like a wind-driven wildfire?

  As much as she longed to fall across her bed, she needed work to keep her mind on more suitable thoughts. And she had plenty of it before leaving tomorrow. Another roast in the oven, fresh bread. She’d sweeten the deal by leaving Annie Hutton’s apple butter on the kitchen table for the men to enjoy in her absence. A small price to pay for a day in town and a chance to visit with other women. Whit’s women. Oh, dear.

  She busied herself as the men filed out and off to bed, and she finally settled into the mundane chores of washing dishes and preparing food that required little if any conscious thought. An entire day with Annie and Marti Hutton held as much anticipation for her now as Christmas morning had as a child.

  With the Dutch oven banked at the back of the stove, and the fireplace cooling in the dining room, Livvy dragged herself to bed, too tired to pack but mentally going over what to gather in the morning. Her back and legs ached from the less-than-customary movements required in branding. She longed to soak in a hot bath, one of the luxuries of her parents’ Denver parsonage.

  Pop had a fancy copper tub—Mama Ruth had insisted years ago. But Livvy was too tired to drag it out and wait for enough water to boil for even a warm bath, much less a hot one. Her pitcher and basin would have to meet her needs tomorrow.

  In the morning Livvy startled awake, only mildly surprised to see that she’d fallen asleep across her bed still wearing her house dress and apron. The mantel clock struck five. Daylight teased at her window and birds warbled out a welcome. She hurried to the kitchen to check the roast, set water to boiling and put the bread in the oven.