Branding the Wrangler's Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

  “In a way, I’m glad Whit did not come to town with you.”

  Livvy caught his quick glance.

  He pulled letters from her grandfather’s mail slot, handed them to her and lowered his voice. “There’s going to be trouble over that railroad.” He leaned across the counter and dropped to a whisper. “Santa Fe hired a Kansas sheriff to come head the fight and got the U.S. marshal’s office to pin a star on him.”

  Livvy blinked and held her breath.

  “Bat Masterson. A fast gun, they say. He brought in his pal J. H. Holliday to gather a posse of sorts, and they’re holed up at the roundhouse in Pueblo.”

  The hushed urgency in the man’s voice chilled Livvy’s blood no less that the mountain lion’s scream. “Why are you telling me this?” The hand holding the mail trembled. Daniel enfolded it in his.

  “I’m sorry, Livvy, darlin’. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I know you are a praying gal. Both you and Whit were raised by godly parents, and you could not do any better than to pray that this so-called war comes to a halt.”

  His bushy brows locked together. “If it comes to a fight, it’s not the wealthy train barons that will be catching lead. It’s the young men from this community.”

  Livvy forced herself to breathe.

  Chapter 16

  Whit opened the kitchen door and sucked in a hoot that nearly knocked him over. Baker stood at the stove flipping hotcakes, Livvy’s apron tied high around his chest.

  “Mornin’.” Whit coughed heartily as he stepped inside and hung his hat on a chair.

  Baker scowled over his shoulder. “Least you didn’t say good mornin’.” He poured a saucer-size round of batter and picked up the coffeepot with a bandanna to protect his hand. “Coffee’s hot. Buck’s out pickin’ eggs.” He snorted. “Livvy’s got him plumb scared of that red hen.”

  Whit marveled at Livvy’s ability to keep them all doing her bidding. And missing her like a pup missed its ma. He held a cup out. “Thanks.”

  Baker returned to the griddle. “What’d you learn at Overton’s?”

  Whit swallowed a mouthful and flinched. A bit stouter than what Livvy cooked up. “The widow wants to sell.”

  Baker plated the cake onto a stack next to the stove, shoved the griddle back and took the plate to the table. “Grab the molasses.”

  Whit found a tin on the sideboard, and tucked into the corner, a jar of his mother’s apple butter. He brought it, too. Served Livvy right if they ate it all while she was gone, leaving them the way she had.

  Feeling all of twelve years old, he set the jar and tin on the table and took a seat.

  Baker forked three cakes onto his plate and doused them with molasses. “How many head does she have?”

  Confession was good for the soul, Whit’s pa had always said. “None.”

  Baker looked up.

  “I bought every blasted one, sight unseen.” Whit slumped beneath the weight of what he’d done. He’d have to work for Baker another four years just to earn back what he’d spent in less than four minutes.

  Baker grunted, cut into his hotcakes. “How many?”

  “Says there’s twenty cows but could be forty head by now, counting yearlings and older calves. Don’t even know if they’ve been branded.”

  Baker sopped up a mouthful and chewed for a moment. “That will get you started. You gonna run ’em with mine?”

  “I’d like to. Been thinking on a brand but I haven’t registered one yet.”

  Baker watched him with that gunmetal glare. Whit wasn’t about to tell him of his idea—a double H for Hutton and Hartman beneath the mountain peak. He had to tell Livvy first, that was, if her father allowed the union. The thought soured even his mother’s sweet apple butter dripping off his hotcakes.

  “You takin’ the land, too?”

  “Can’t.” Whit forked another bite and followed it with coffee. “She wants a hundred dollars for it.”

  Baker pushed his plate back and picked up his cup. “They prove it up yet?”

  “Started a cabin, but it’s not half-finished. She’s still living in a tent.”

  Baker grunted, swirled his coffee. “I’ll stake you.”

  Whit sucked air and coughed until he thought he’d lose his hotcakes. He swabbed his face with his neckerchief and downed the rest of his coffee.

  “Don’t choke up on me, son.” Baker’s mustache quivered on one side, a sure sign of pleasure in his joke. “You can pay me back in calves. Take you a few years, but it’ll work out.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Whit’s thoughts swam around like panicky cows fording a swollen river.

  “Overton’s land borders mine, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. That will make it easier. When will you take her the money?”

  Whit sat straighter, tried to stretch out his lungs, open his burning throat. “Today. She was in a hurry to leave. Has an offer from Doc Mason, Tad said—he’s back home already. Said Doc needs help and his ma’s handy at fixin’ folks. Other than bullet wounds, I suppose. Anyway, she said they’d be packed and ready to leave when I showed up.”

  Baker shoved his chair back. “If her cattle are close, drive them back over the draw and run ’em in with our bunch. That might keep rustlers off them.”

  “There’s one other thing.”

  Baker stilled.

  “Tad said Jody rode through their place three days ago. Said he was gonna sign on to lay rail for the Santa Fe.”

  Baker rolled a couple of words around under his breath and snatched his plate off the table.

  “I want to go get him.” Whit waited for his boss to break in half over that piece of news, but the man held his tongue and set his dishes in the sink. He jerked off Livvy’s apron and faced Whit.

  “Don’t get yourself shot.”

  Whit took his plate and cup to the counter. “There isn’t anybody else to bring him home. No family other than Buck and us, and with Buck’s luck, he’d get his head blown off if he showed up down in the gorge.”

  Baker turned for the dining room. “Come by my study before you leave, and I’ll give you the money for the widow.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The back door flew open and Buck lurched in with a basket full of eggs and a bloody hand. “That fool chicken attacked me!”

  Baker shook his head and lumbered into the dining room.

  “Boil some water and wash the dishes. It’ll clean out your hand. And give me those before you drop ’em.” Whit grabbed the basket. The eggs were still warm.

  “But I’m starving.”

  Whit jerked his chin toward the table and the remaining cold cakes. “You can have what’s left.”

  Whit set the eggs on a towel the way he’d seen Livvy do. He took a napkin from the counter and on his way past the table snatched a hotcake and rolled it up for the ride.

  “Hey!” Buck’s offended tone rankled.

  “That’s what you get for messing with that hen when Livvy told you not to.”

  Four cold cakes and what was left of the apple butter should hold the boy. If Whit remembered right, Ma had given Livvy two jars. He’d look for the other one when he returned with Jody.

  At the bunkhouse, Whit stuffed his savings in his waistcoat, strapped on his gun belt and picked up his rifle and scabbard. He didn’t intend to join the fight, but no sense being foolhardy and unprotected. Sometimes looking well-heeled kept the roughs off your back. He hoped for as much today.

  He led the buckskin to the hitching rail in front of the house and out of habit, peered at the lace window curtains. No white square tipped him off to Livvy’s attempt at secrecy. Pressure built up behind his ribs and he pulled deeply on the clean, morning air. He’d find her some columbines, help her plant ’e
m by the back door. Like his pa had for his mother.

  He jerked his hat off and scrubbed his head, digging deep for his brain. What was he thinking? This wasn’t his place. And what kind of cowhand went around digging posies?

  He stomped his boots on the landing and stepped inside. Baker sat at his desk in the small study off the dining room, opposite the front door.

  “Come on back.” The man opened a drawer and withdrew a small wooden box.

  As Whit approached the large walnut desk, he noted the intricate floral pattern carved into the box lid. Must have been Ruth Baker’s. What was it with women and flowers?

  Baker withdrew the money and returned the box to its place. Then he folded the bill in half and handed it to Whit. “You going to Texas Creek after Overton’s?”

  “Yes, sir. Should take me half a day to get up there and haul him back. Then we can push the widow’s cows over the draw on our return.” He tucked the bill in with the rest of his money.

  “Buck and I can handle things while you’re gone.” Baker narrowed his eyes at Whit. “You tell him what you’re doing?”

  “No, sir.”

  Baker jerked his head in quick agreement.

  Whit hesitated.

  “What?”

  “If Jody’s not where I think he is, at that rock fort, I’m gonna hunt for him. He could be someplace else along the river.”

  “Face down.”

  A muscle in Whit’s cheek flinched. He truly hoped the boy hadn’t gotten himself killed.

  Baker waved his hand in dismissal. “Don’t get shot.” He leaned back in his leather chair, both hands grasping the worn armrests. “I don’t think Olivia could take it.”

  Whit’s neck warmed beneath his collar and he flicked a look at the man’s eyes. All of a sudden he knew why Baker was staking him on the Overton place.

  * * *

  Livvy thought sure a good night’s rest would soothe her ragged nerves, but that required sleep and she got precious little of it.

  As soon as dawn pinked the sky, she rose, bathed at the wash basin and stepped into her petticoat and dress. She scrubbed her teeth with a small brush and baking soda mix from a tin in her satchel, then rebraided her hair and twisted it low at her neck. Buttoning her good shoes with a hook, she regretted not wearing her boots instead. Less trouble.

  She repacked her satchel and smoothed the star quilt, wishing she could smooth away her worry over Whit as easily. She eased the bedroom door open. Marti’s door was closed, but her parents’ door stood slightly ajar. A light glowed at the bottom of the stairway, and Livvy suspected Annie was making biscuits or gathering eggs.

  She crept down the stairs and stopped near the bottom. Annie sat at the kitchen table with a lamp drawn near and a Bible opened before her. Her forehead rested against her two opened hands and her lips moved. Feeling intrusive, Livvy grasped the railing and stepped up to the previous stair, catching her skirt in the process. Her petticoat ripped, she gasped, and Annie looked up.

  “Good morning.” Annie rose and came toward the stairs. “I see you are an early riser, too.”

  “I am sorry to disturb you.”

  Annie reached for the satchel. “You are not bothering me in the least. I was merely starting the day the way I always do—with the Lord.” She set the satchel by the back door and went to the stove, where coffee simmered. “Want a cup?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Livvy took a chair at the table and looked to see what Scripture Annie was reading. Proverbs 3.

  “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.” Annie poured two cups as she recited the verse and brought them to the table with two spoons.

  “You know it by memory.” Livvy wilted at the stab of guilt for not being more familiar with the Scriptures. And she, a preacher’s daughter.

  Annie seated herself and reached for the silver sugar bowl. “That is exactly the reason. Those words go straight to my heart every time I read them. And when I need the Lord’s comfort and strength, reciting them is the quickest and shortest route I know.”

  Livvy waited until Annie had sugared her coffee before dipping her spoon into the bowl. “I haven’t spent the time reading that I should, at least not since coming to help Pop at the ranch. It seems like every waking moment is spent cooking or cleaning or gathering or washing. Some household chore always needs tending to.”

  “Or branding?” Annie’s eyes sparkled with mirth.

  Livvy muted a laugh with her hand. “Oh, yes, branding. And dare I admit I liked it better than most any other chore?” Because it put her close to Whit.

  “I can’t say I blame you, though I’m sure my hands would suffer from such a task.”

  Livvy felt a certain affinity with Annie, one she believed she could trust. “Whit gave me sturdy leather gloves to use. I think they were once his.” She dared not meet Annie’s gaze, affinity or not.

  “Hmm. I am not surprised that he looks after you like that. I saw his affection for you when you were here last.”

  Livvy stole a quick glance to see if Annie meant those revealing words. Who knew a man better than his mother?

  Annie gave her a knowing smile. “He cares for you, I am certain. May I be so bold as to ask if you feel the same?”

  Livvy should have let the sun scorch her face yesterday on the way to town. Better that than its current competition with the brightening dawn burning through the windows.

  “Yes, I do.” So faint was her answer she doubted if Annie heard it.

  The woman reached out to grasp Livvy’s hand. “That does me good to hear, Livvy. I have been praying for you both.” Annie rose and set about starting breakfast.

  Livvy felt as obvious as a thistle in a columbine patch, certain her cheeks were just as brilliant. But hearing that Whit’s mother prayed for her—for them—touched something deep in her soul.

  The hot coffee was warming her more than necessary. She picked up the egg basket. “I’ll gather for you this morning. Is the coop behind the barn?”

  “Yes, dear. Attached on the left side. Two hens are setting. A red and a black-and-white speckled.”

  Livvy thought of her grandfather’s surly russet hen and wondered if Buck had survived the chore.

  Later at breakfast, all the Huttons were in a better mood than the previous night when Livvy had asked her unfortunate questions: Which side was in the right regarding the railroad war? And was the whole thing really worth dying over? Marti had fled from the table and remained in her room the rest of the evening.

  Undoubtedly, the display had something to do with young Tad Overton, for Pastor Hutton had raked his brows together and made a guttural sound just like Whit. Livvy had shuddered.

  But in the light of morning, Marti sat at the table with swollen eyes that quickly brightened as she told her parents about Livvy’s first visit to the curio shop. The girl’s obvious delight in fossil remains pulled her toward a scholarly pursuit, though not the scholarly pursuit her parents imagined. However, if it drew her affections away from the Overton boy, Livvy guessed her family might accept it.

  Eager to be on her way, Livvy folded her napkin and gathered her plate and cup. “Thank you for breakfast, Annie. And for supper last night and your wonderful company, all of you.” She looked to each one to emphasize her sincerity.

  “Maybe you can persuade our son to come with you next time.” The pastor held his coffee mug in both hands, elbows resting on the table like Whit. Livvy’s chest tightened.

  “I will try.” She smiled, hoping it masked her worry over Whit’s uncommon sense of duty where the Perkins boys were concerned.

  “And remind him that Papa Whitaker wants him to take over the mercantile.” Marti tacked on the afterthought with a dash of sibling impishness. Livvy looked away to hide a grin. And a jealous tug. Sh
e did not want to marry a store clerk. She wanted to marry a cowboy. A particular cowboy.

  Oh, Lord, how self-centered she was.

  “Do you have any idea how early Doc Mason is up and around?” Livvy picked up her satchel and stood by the door.

  Annie brought two jars from her pantry, wrapped them in toweling and tucked them into the dark leather bag. “It always depends on how late his last call was the day before. But don’t mind knocking on his door. If he doesn’t answer, you will simply have to come back to town.”

  Livvy pushed the jars deeper into her satchel. “Thank you for the—apple butter?”

  Annie nodded. “Of course.”

  “I left one jar out for the men while I was gone, hoping to appease them in my absence.”

  Annie gave Livvy a light kiss on the cheek. “You are a good woman, Livvy Hartman.”

  Marti rose and took Livvy’s hand. “Come back soon and we can go to the library. They have books on paleontology. And if you stay long enough, we could take the buggy up to the quarry to see the dig.”

  “Perhaps, Marti. Don’t make rash promises.” Her father’s remark dampened the girl’s spirit only briefly, and she shot Livvy a sly wink and quick nod.

  Outside by the columbines, Livvy paused for one last look. “Thank you all again. I will be sure to give Whit your best wishes.”

  “You could give him a big kiss, too.”

  Annie’s quick swat nearly knocked her daughter off the porch. Livvy was grateful she had turned toward the wagon and was climbing aboard with the pastor’s hand at her elbow as he steadied her ascent. His half-hitched smile reaffirmed the Hutton family’s playful spirit.

  Livvy settled the satchel at her feet and clucked Bess ahead. With a quick slap of the ribbons she was on her way down the lane and onto Main Street. One stop at Doc Mason’s, and then home. She should be at the ranch well before noon, within three hours at the most if she hurried.

  And her heart said to hurry.

  Chapter 17

  Whit rode into the camp at a slow walk.