Branding the Wrangler's Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

  After her morning bathing ritual, she chose a fresh dress and buttoned on her Sunday shoes. She spent longer on her hair, coiling it tightly at the base of her neck, and laid out her best bonnet.

  The aroma of baking bread drew her back to the kitchen to thump the brown loaves with a finger. Perfect. She smiled, pleased with her culinary skills and aching only slightly from her recently acquired wrangling talents.

  In her excitement she’d forgotten to gather eggs. She hurried to her room to change shoes and rushed outside with the basket on her arm. Thank goodness Buck would be mending the garden fence. Deer had ravaged her radishes and kale—even nibbled the rhubarb. At least they’d left the herbs and lavender alone.

  Did they eat columbines, those lovely purple flowers she’d first seen during the picnic lunch she’d packed for the crew? Her pulse quickened at the memory and she forced her thoughts to the hens.

  She gathered a dozen eggs to feed the men this morning and left three beneath a brooding hen. She must mention the cross old thing at breakfast so whoever gathered eggs would let her be.

  Ha! As if the men cared to gather eggs in her absence.

  She rinsed the eggs beneath the kitchen pump and set them on a towel. The coffee began to boil and she moved the pot a bit and spooned bacon grease into the big skillet. Fresh bread and eggs and coffee should fill everyone. With a sudden flurry, she whisked the apple butter off the table and hid it behind the egg basket. Let them find it after she left rather than finish it off this morning.

  At the sound of her grandfather shuffling through the dining room, she cracked the first eggs into the skillet.

  “Smells mighty good in here.” His mustache hitched in a smile as he came to the stove and reached for the coffee. “Like it did when your grandmother started the day with her fine cooking.”

  Again, Livvy’s heart swelled at his compliment. She had come all this way to help, and she took pride in knowing she had succeeded. Surely that kind of pride was not a sin. Even the woman in Proverbs 31 knew that her work was good.

  Pop tucked a couple of coins in her apron pocket. “Give those to Doc Mason for Tad’s care. And if he’s able, bring the boy back with you and we’ll get him home.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Pop, but are you sure you will be all right today and this evening without me?”

  His gray eyes twinkled as he sipped from a stoneware mug. “I will do just fine. But I won’t hazard a guess where Whit is concerned. I daresay he might pine away while you’re gone.”

  Livvy’s sudden gasp brought a chuckle, and he made his way to the kitchen table, where he eased into a chair and extended his leg.

  She turned to the eggs popping in the too-hot grease and pulled the skillet away.

  “Don’t be so surprised, Livvy, girl. That boy is already roped and snubbed. No other reason explains him spreading his slicker over you in a storm fit to drown a goose when he could have kept it for himself.”

  He knew. That meant Buck did, too. Oh, Lord, help her. Heat leaped from the stove to her face, she was certain. If only she were not so fair skinned, she could ward off the blush. Maybe if she didn’t wear the bonnet, let the sun burn her face on the way to town, she’d have an excuse for her constantly flaming cheeks.

  “You could do worse, Livvy.”

  She stole a peek at her grandfather’s face. He watched her with a keen eye, as if measuring her reaction to his words. “He reminds me of myself when I was young and wanting my own spread. He’s a good man—with the upbringing he’s had, better than I was. You would do well to give him a chance.”

  Livvy flipped three eggs and broke the yolk in every one. She could not discuss such things with her grandfather, even though she knew the man loved her dearly. She set the ruined eggs on a plate for herself and broke three more into the skillet. She must get them right or she’d not have enough to feed the men.

  Dare she tell Pop that his foreman had already turned her heart as well as her head?

  Buck blustered through the backdoor, his perpetual grin beating him into the room. “Bess is all hitched and ready to go, Miss Livvy. The buckboard’s out back here ready whenever you are.”

  Whit followed, apparently not nearly as pleased with Buck’s news. He tossed his hat on a chair and took a seat with as surly an attitude as Livvy had yet seen.

  She bit the inside of her mouth to squelch a laugh. He looked the way he had as a boy when his ma made him sit out of a game. Well, she’d cut him some slack this morning, not laugh in his face. She wanted him to treat her with grown-up grace. The least she could do was return the favor.

  As Livvy expected, the men ate heartily and quietly, apparently enjoying the fruit of her labors. Deeply satisfied, she almost regretted leaving them to their own devices. Almost. A day and night with two bright, intelligent women outshone even the lilacs that bloomed round the ranch house.

  And they would be here when she returned—the lilacs.

  And Whit.

  Chapter 14

  If Buck didn’t swallow that stupid grin, Whit would feed it to him fist first and tamp it down with a stamp iron.

  Fine thoughts for a preacher’s son.

  He swigged the hot coffee, hoping to burn away the fact that Livvy was riding into town alone and was as happy about it as a sparrow at a wormhole.

  Baker was in a chipper mood, as well, which made it all worse somehow. Soaping tack was not the work Whit needed today. He needed bronc busting, maverick chasing, hard riding—something to wear him out and down to nothing.

  He needed to drive Livvy to town himself.

  And he’d have better luck skinning a live skunk than getting that idea past Baker without a hoot and a holler. Whit ground his teeth and swallowed a growl.

  She ate quicker than a coyote, swept everyone’s plates away and into the sink, and left Buck with his mouth full and a fork in his hand. When she came back and snatched the fork, Baker laughed outright and shoved away from the table.

  Livvy faced them all with her hands on her hips, ready to shame each and every one of them. “Who will be gathering eggs tomorrow morning?” Whit jerked a thumb at Buck, who couldn’t speak for himself.

  “He will.”

  Baker hooted again.

  “Buck, use this basket.” She pushed it to the end of the counter. “And let that old red hen alone. She’s setting and we need some hatchlings this summer. Besides, she’ll peck a hole in your hand if you try to move her.”

  By the glint in her eye, Whit knew Livvy was toying with the boy, but Buck didn’t. He nearly choked on his biscuit and quickly downed the last of his coffee.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Livvy peeled soap into the dishpan and informed everyone and no one in particular that deer had gotten into the garden again last night. “If you all want any more greens—or rhubarb pie, for that matter—you’ll be needing to fix the fence.”

  “Deer don’t eat rhubarb.” Whit’s ma had told him that years ago. Said the leaves made them sick.

  “Tell that to the deer.” Livvy cast a blue light over her shoulder and he nearly squinted in the brilliance.

  He grabbed his hat and stormed out the door before he shamed himself by begging her not to go.

  Infuriating woman.

  Bess dozed in the traces and Whit checked her harness just to have something to do. He’d already greased the axles and made sure the wheels were sound. Livvy didn’t need to break down between the ranch and town. She didn’t need to ride off alone at all. He’d get Baker to listen to reason.

  And then the woman flew out the back door with her bonnet and satchel and a look in her eye that warned him not to get in her way. Like a green-broke colt.

  “I’ll be back by noon tomorrow.” Livvy set her satchel in the back, hiked her skirt with one hand and held out the
other hand to Whit.

  He took it and grasped her elbow as she climbed the wheel. She settled onto the seat, spread her skirt about her feet and gathered the reins.

  “Be careful.” He swallowed the kiss he wanted to give her. “Don’t let her run with you.”

  Livvy rewarded him with a true smile. She leaned over and laid her hand against his cheek. Quickly he covered it with his own.

  “I will be fine, Whitaker Hutton. You take care of my grandfather while I’m gone.”

  He turned his head and kissed her palm, heard the catch in her breath, and reluctantly let her pull her hand away. The bonnet hid her face, but when she flicked the reins she glanced his way, washing him in a blue gaze that set his insides afire.

  “Giddyap, Bess.”

  Like a lost pup, he stood in the yard and watched her drive away. Lord, keep her safe.

  The back door shut and Whit turned to see Baker lumber over, hat in his hand. He slapped it on his head, stopped a few paces away and leveled a hard eye on Whit. “You thinkin’ about puttin’ your brand on her?”

  Surprised by his boss’s question, Whit hesitated to tell the man he was in love with his granddaughter. But he was. That was the truth of the matter, and he might as well face the old bull head-on.

  He straightened his shoulders, stood squarely on both feet. “Yes, sir, I am.”

  Baker’s silver mustache twitched at one end and he jerked his head in a sideways nod. “’Bout time.” Then he hobbled off toward the barn.

  If Whit’s horse had talked to him, he could not have been more surprised. Those words constituted a blessing.

  Joy split his insides and he could feel his face cracking in a Buck grin. He wanted to whoop. He wanted to jump on Oro and catch Livvy and ask her to marry him and kiss her good right there on the wagon seat.

  A sudden, sober thought punctured his happiness. He screwed his hat down and headed for the barn. Any woman wanted her father’s blessing, as well. Could he afford to ride to Denver to ask the Reverend Hartman for his daughter’s hand? And what did he have to show for himself—a foreman’s salary, a good horse and a saddle? Not much for a gal who deserved a whole lot more.

  Suddenly the morning light glared harsh and unforgiving.

  How would he ever get Olivia Hartman to be his bride?

  * * *

  Livvy’s left hand burned as sure as a yearling’s hide. She turned it over and was surprised to see no seared brand smoking in her white palm. Whit Hutton had kissed her hand. Her hand! Not like an English gentleman dips his head to a lady’s gloved fingers. But...intimately.

  Shivers ran up her back and she slapped Bess into a trot. If she had to take an easy walk the entire ten miles to town, she’d surely jump out of her skin.

  What she wouldn’t give for a moment with Mama Ruth. Her grandmother would know what it felt like to be swept away by a cowboy’s charms.

  A bouncing laugh escaped her throat as Bess clopped merrily along the ranch road. Her grade-school teacher would qualify cowboy’s charms as an oxymoron. But Livvy knew better. The two words fit together like bacon and beans, and they came in the shape of one Whitaker Hutton.

  The kiss wasn’t his first gentle tenderness. She thought of that day in the columbines, the moments beneath the slicker in the hailstorm. Even his roughly insistent offer of the gloves and canteen showed his concern. Somehow those small tokens had swept away every barb he’d ever thrown at her. She clucked her tongue and flicked the reins.

  What might it feel like to really kiss him? She shivered and pushed her bonnet back, let the sun do the kissing.

  The sky spread strikingly blue above Fremont Peak and the lesser hills that guarded the gorge where men fought over the right-of-way. She sobered at the thought of Tad and Jody getting mixed up in the so-called war. Whit would never do such a thing.

  Doubt wiggled beneath her breastbone and she pressed a hand against it, forbidding it to spread. Whit was too levelheaded, too smart to be caught in a foolish fight over a railway.

  As she neared the bend that turned sharply along the river and into town, cottonwood trees waved a shimmering greeting. The Arkansas rushed at their feet, shouting to be heard above Bess’s hoofbeats. Children played outside the hotel across the river, and couples strolled hand in hand along the footbridge dangling mere inches above the swollen river. She drove by the massive stone wall of the territorial prison and passed carriages and lone horseback riders headed to the hot springs. Mules pulled by with freighters’ heavy wagons bound for the mining camps. What would happen to those supply wagons and the men who drove them once the railroad won passage through the mountains to Leadville?

  The number of people increased as she drove farther into town, but this time she sat proudly with her best bonnet and Sunday shoes. She might not have a parasol, or even the latest, most fashionable dress, but contentment spread across her heart and she sat a little straighter. She had a pair of britches and could hold her own with a branding iron. She doubted that any fine women she saw on the boardwalks could say as much.

  At the church she turned Bess into the lane and the mare quickened her pace for the secondary home and hay crib ahead. Livvy pulled into the yard behind the parsonage, where Whit’s mother knelt weeding the columbines that edged the porch. Annie stood and pressed her hands against her lower back, then shook out her skirt and greeted Livvy with a bright smile.

  “Welcome!” She extended a hand as Livvy climbed down and then enfolded her in a warm hug. “It’s so good to see you again, and so soon.” Her brow knit together and she stepped aside to peek in the wagon. “Oh,” she breathed. “I was afraid you had another wounded young man with you. This train war has gotten completely out of hand.”

  Livvy’s shoulders relaxed at Annie’s welcome. “No wounded men, only my satchel in case...” She hesitated and looked down at her hands, not knowing exactly how to phrase her request without begging or sounding presumptuous.

  “Oh, by all means, you must stay the night.” Annie’s deep copper eyes twinkled with comprehension and the arm she linked through Livvy’s confirmed her sincerity. “I can’t tell you how much Marti and I could use a good woman-to-woman visit.”

  “Thank you so much. I need a few supplies from the mercantile and I’d hoped I wouldn’t be an imposition.”

  “You must always think of us as an open home. Come in, come in.”

  Arm in arm they headed for the shady back porch, where Annie halted suddenly on the lowest step. “Did you come alone?”

  Livvy hated to disappoint the woman, aware that Annie would love to see her only son. “Yes, I’m sorry. Whit is busy at the ranch.”

  Annie snorted—a most shocking reaction that Livvy surprisingly adored in this lovely woman.

  “He is a man now and can’t be chasing off to visit his mother.”

  Livvy’s palm warmed again with Whit’s send-off. “I believe he wanted to come, but Pop won out. I think giving me a day to do as I please was his way of thanking me for my help with the branding.”

  Annie opened the door to the kitchen and a question danced in her eyes. “You helped with the branding? You mean you cooked?”

  Livvy untied her bonnet strings and laid the light cotton cover on the table. “Yes, I cooked, but I did that at the house. I helped brand. I ran the iron, as they say.”

  Annie’s head wagged as she pumped water into a teakettle and set it on the stove. “My, but you do have pluck, young lady. It sounds like those men are working you to the bone.”

  Livvy settled into a chair at the table. “I loved it. Really. It was so exciting to ride again and help gather the cattle.” She shivered slightly as she remembered her near wreck on Ranger.

  “Surely you didn’t do all that in a skirt?” The way Annie said it made Livvy want to snort herself.

  “I wore my grandmother
’s denims.”

  Annie joined her at the table while the water heated. “That sounds absolutely wonderful. I am nearly jealous of your adventure.”

  The front door opened and someone entered through the parlor with a cheery “I’m home.” Ruddy cheeked and exuding unbridled energy, Martha Hutton rushed into the kitchen with a stack of papers and books. She dropped them on the table and fell into a chair.

  “Oh—Livvy. Did my beastly brother chase you off?”

  “Marti!” Annie reddened at her spirited daughter’s outburst.

  “Oh, Mama, you know I’m only joking.”

  “Ladies do not joke, Martha Mae.”

  Livvy stifled a laugh and gave Marti a teasing frown. “You know, we will have to discuss that. Sometimes I could absolutely whack him with a carpet beater.”

  Marti leaned back in her chair and laughed remarkably like her brother. Shaking her head, Annie rose to attend to the water and bring cups to the table.

  After a lively visit, Annie went to the henhouse to choose a young fryer for dinner. Livvy made herself useful by scrubbing and peeling potatoes for a salad, only too happy to be busy. Marti set half a dozen eggs in a small pot on the stove.

  “You’re going to think I’m terrible, but I hope Mother doesn’t call me out to help her wring that chicken’s neck. I can’t stand to do that.” The girl shuddered and her fiery red curls shook in agreement.

  How would Marti survive on a ranch? Livvy glanced at the books on the table. “Are those papers last term’s school studies?”

  Marti brightened. “Oh, no.” She swiped her hands down her white apron, drying them front and back from the egg water that had splashed them. “These are library books and the papers are notes I took at Mr. Winton’s museum this morning.” She sat down at the table and spread out the papers.