Branding the Wrangler's Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

True to her word, the widow had all her worldly possessions—which wasn’t much—loaded in the old buckboard and a sorry-looking horse hitched to it. The other horse was tied to the back. She and Tad waited on stumps around what used to be the fire, cold and scattered now. The spider and tripod were gone, but the tent remained.

  Mrs. Overton stood and almost smiled. “I am glad you made it. The tent is yours and whatever else you find. I have no need of anything to remind me of this place and what I lost here.”

  Whit wondered if that included Tad. He hoped not.

  He stepped off Oro, dropped the reins and reached into his waistcoat. “This is for your livestock.” He handed her the money and waited as she counted through it. With a tight jaw he disregarded the insult since she was a woman.

  “And this is for the land.” He unfolded the bill.

  Tad reached for it. Whit snatched it away and drilled the boy with a hard look. Tad melted back and his mother held out her hand. Whit gave her the money. “As agreed.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you have papers?”

  The woman withdrew a folded paper from her skirt pocket and handed it to Whit. Without another word, she and her son walked to the wagon, climbed up and drove away. They did not look back.

  Suddenly alone, Whit exhaled what he recognized as relief. He had not asked the layout of the property, but the papers in his hand would say. He slipped them inside his waistcoat to read later.

  The camp huddled in a small meadow a hundred yards from the full-running stream he had crossed. Grass-covered hills swelled around it like gently cupped hands, and behind them rose the timbered ridges and rock-strewn mountains common to the area.

  A nice spot. A place that could be home if a man had the right woman. Livvy’s scent brushed by and he turned, expecting to see her standing near him. But it was just the breeze playing tricks with his heart.

  He walked around the cabin. No floor. He’d lay Livvy a wood floor, someday a fine carpet like her grandmother’s. And build her a real house.

  He hadn’t even found the Overtons’ cows yet and here he was dreaming away the daylight.

  A muffled sound jerked his head toward the tent and his heart to a stop. He laid his right hand against his holster and eased toward the shabby shelter. Was there a coyote poking around?

  There—again. His fingers curled around the butt of his pistol and he pulled it from the leather, cocked the hammer. With the barrel he pushed the tent flap aside. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the dark interior. And then he saw it.

  A black-and-white head poked out beneath a cot. Two white paws inched forward and a whimper followed. A small dust cloud rose at the swish of a tail.

  Whit eased back the hammer and slipped his gun in the holster. He squatted. The animal looked away, the paws scooted forward, and the whimper repeated.

  Kind eyes. Not spooked or wild. Whit held out his left hand. “Come on, fella.”

  The whimper strengthened to a yearning that tugged at Whit’s gut. How could they leave a dog behind?

  “...and whatever else you find.”

  Whit edged forward, hand outstretched. He didn’t need a dog, especially not one that cowered.

  The animal bellied its way out, hope and distrust mingled in its black eyes.

  Whit lowered his voice. “Come on, boy. It’s all right. You’re safe now.”

  At the sound of promise, the dog crawled to Whit’s hand and tucked its head beneath his fingers. Whit rubbed the smooth head, the ears. The dog wiggled closer and soon Whit had both hands on it, running them over the bony back, feeling every rib and yearning to get his hands on Tad Overton.

  His throat tightened and he swallowed an egg-size knot. “What’s your name, fella?”

  By now the dog stood to its full height, a youngster, not more than a yearling, maybe less. Its feathery tail wagged like a parade flag, and hungry eyes drank in Whit as if he were God himself.

  “Lord, what am I gonna do with a dog?” He remembered the rolled hotcake in his saddlebag. “Guess that’s an answer, isn’t it.”

  Whit slowly rose and backed through the tent opening, then walked to Oro lipping at grass a few feet away. He pulled out his stash and turned to see the pup sitting behind him, head cocked, ears up. One ear flopped at the tip, sign of a not-grown dog.

  “A sharp one, you are.” Whit held out the rolled cake and the dog sniffed once before inhaling the offering in one swift bite.

  “Don’t choke on it.” Whit laughed out loud. Baker had told him nearly the same thing an hour earlier. He stood, gathered Oro’s reins and swung into the saddle.

  “You comin’ or stayin’?” Fool question for sure, but he’d soon learn if the dog was the fool or not. A small yip answered and the pup wagged its tail.

  Whit rode toward an open draw that led to the gorge. After a ways he looked over his shoulder. The dog trotted behind, far enough back not to spook the horse or get kicked.

  No fool there.

  A wide park opened on the other side of Eight Mile Mountain, and Whit followed its western reach into the high country. After an hour it narrowed between rocky ridges and sidled up alongside the Arkansas as it churned down the mountain, white topped and roaring through rocky stretches, placid and smooth in others. Like a certain woman he knew.

  Just as the valley opened out at Texas Creek, he turned Oro down toward the river, through the brush and juniper. A hunch told him where he thought men might build a rock fortress. He was right, but no one was there.

  The stonework stood mute and unmanned. The new rail lay not far from the abutment, but without ceremony or defender. The dog trotted closer, sniffed around the rock work and looked at Whit as if to ask the purpose.

  “You’re right. Pointless. Absolutely good for nothing.”

  Whit reined his horse through the trees and headed upstream. Martin Thatcher’s spread lay along Texas Creek. He’d turn in there, see if they had any word on where the railroad crews were.

  An hour later, Whit urged Oro into an easy lope toward Cañon City. The dog ran beside him on the rutted road, its tongue hanging out and a near grin pulling at its jowls.

  “You’re a real maverick, aren’t you?”

  Black ears lifted and the dog looked up as if agreeing.

  “You like that name?”

  A slobbery grin.

  “I’m talking to a dog.”

  Whit slowed to a walk, pulled off his hat and ran his sleeve across his forehead. Would Baker allow a dog called Maverick on the place? He snorted. Maverick pricked his ears. They’d soon find out.

  It was late afternoon before they made it to town.

  This was not how he had planned to spend early June—dragging into Cañon City with a half-dead dog, looking for a foolhardy boy who’d joined a gang of roughs fighting somebody else’s war.

  Martin Thatcher had told him both railroad crews had beat it into town and on to Pueblo and the roundhouse there. What were they going to do? Fight over the train station? They’d just blow a bunch of holes in each other.

  But according to Thatcher, the Denver and Rio Grande boys and the Pueblo County sheriff intended to borrow the cannon from the armory and blow Masterson back to Kansas.

  Whit turned Oro down the lane beside his father’s church and rode back to the parsonage barn, where he watered Oro and Maverick and scooped cool trough water over his own head. Tired from riding and keeping a tight rein on his swirling emotions, he left Oro at the hitching rail and told Maverick to stay.

  The dog dropped and laid its head on its paws with a heavy sigh. If Jody Perkins had as much sense, Whit might be at home courting Livvy. Or at least trying to.

  He slapped his hat against his thigh and stopped at the back porch steps by the columbines. They looked corralled, bunched together. Not free and spre
ading at the meadow’s edge in aspen shade. But he knew his ma’s love for the purple flower. Just like Livvy’s.

  The back door opened and his mother stepped out.

  “What are you doing here?” A knife in one hand and a carrot in the other. If one didn’t get him, the other would.

  “Nice to see you, too, Ma.”

  Her tense shoulders relaxed and she tipped her head to the side with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Whit. But Livvy told us you couldn’t come with her because of your work.”

  He combed his wet hair back with one hand, watched his mother’s eyes narrow at the gesture and then drop to his sidearm.

  “She was right,” he said.

  “And how is that, since here you are?”

  Women sure had a way of complicating a man’s life.

  He moved up the steps, planted a kiss on her cheek and stepped past her into the kitchen. “Do you have any coffee left? I could use a cup.”

  His mother swept in with her usual grace and in no time had a full mug before him on the table. She poured a cup for herself, took the chair opposite and added sugar. Rather than a polite, silent stirring, the spoon clinked against the cup, indicating her concern.

  “One of our hands, a boy about fourteen, lit out after the Denver railroad crew. Since we finished branding, I figured I could ride over to the river and haul him back by the ear. But they’re gone. Every last one, and a rancher told me they all headed to the roundhouse in Pueblo, itching for a fight.”

  His mother seamed her lips, laid her hand on the family Bible. “I have been praying about this war.” She slid a glance his way. “Among other things.”

  Whit was undoubtedly one of the other things.

  “Appreciate that.” He took a swig of the brew and held in a grimace. The pot had cooked down to horseshoe-floating thickness.

  “Before sunup we heard them ride through town. Some in wagons, the rest on horseback. Your father is over at the mercantile now, trying to learn what he can.” She raised worried eyes. “Do you think Tad Overton rode with them?”

  Whit snorted. “Not unless he lit out after I saw him this morning.”

  “So he is at home, with his mother?” A two-sided question if Whit ever heard one, and the weightier side concerned his sister, Marti.

  He glanced toward the stairs. His mother read the look.

  “She is at the library, or so she says.”

  “Reading about dusty professors digging up dustier bones.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She held him with that coppery gaze that had peeled the veneer off many a tall tale. He might as well cough up the whole sorry story.

  “Overtons don’t have a home anymore. I bought it.”

  She froze in her chair, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. The copper gaze turned to brass. “You what?”

  “The widow wanted off the land. Too many bad memories. I bought her cattle and Baker staked me on the land. It butts up next to the Bar-HB and we’ll run the cows together.”

  She set the cup in its saucer and drew her hands into her lap. “Did the Overtons leave the area?”

  “I wish I could say they had. But Doc Mason evidently needs a nurse, and the widow is fit for the job, according to Tad.” He held the mug to his mouth, considered another swallow. “She didn’t do much for the boy the day he was shot, but I guess I shouldn’t fault a mother’s fear.”

  “No, you should not.” She raised a hand to her throat, fingered the open top button of her dress. “So they will be living in town.”

  “If Doc takes her on.”

  She took her cup to the sink and it clattered against the saucer. “Will you be staying to supper?”

  The quiver in her voice decided him. “Yes.” He loved his parents, but an unfamiliar urgency was starting to gnaw at his gut. He drenched it with a final swallow. “If you’ll have me.”

  She turned with a tight smile. “Of course we will have you. You are always welcome.” She tipped her head. “As is Livvy.”

  He was wrong. It wasn’t a smile she wore, standing there with her arms folded across her waist. It was the leer of a professional inquisitor.

  Chapter 18

  The ranch house, barn and outbuildings reached across the verdant meadow like welcoming arms. Livvy’s heart swelled with longing. Not for home in her parents’ fine Denver parsonage, but home here, on the ranch. With Whit.

  She was ruined for city life. For buggy rides through the park, the stately brick church and girls her age paying more attention to their latest fashions than to her father’s sermons.

  Her father. The joyful bubble burst with a painful prick. The dear man had swept a rancher’s daughter off to the city to be his bride and here he was losing his only child to that same rancher’s foreman.

  If he allowed it.

  Panic tightened her chest and inched up her throat. Pop might have made his opinion known where Whit was concerned, but her father did not even know she and Whit had been working so closely. Of course he knew Whit worked for her grandfather, but he didn’t know...

  Oh, dear.

  At least Tad Overton was already gone when she’d stopped at Doc Mason’s. His ma had come for him, Doc said as he took Pop’s money.

  Livvy was relieved. She could drive faster without a wounded passenger to worry about. She slapped Bess into a jolting lope and every board in the wagon squawked in protest.

  Pulling the mare up in a dust cloud at the barn, Livvy looped the reins on the brake and leaped, very unladylike, from the board. Skirts were such a nuisance. She grabbed the leather satchel and marched into the barn.

  The shady interior hung like night and she blinked several times, willing her eyes to adjust to the dim alleyway. The stalls stood empty and no one worked on anvil or tack. She strode to the side that opened into the corrals and the near pasture, counted the horses.

  One was missing. A tall black-stockinged buckskin.

  She hurried to the house and stopped at the kitchen door with her pulse pounding in her ears. Gripping the satchel’s handle, she pulled clean mountain air in through her nose and concentrated on slowing her heartbeat. With one hand she shook out her skirts and checked her braid to find it still coiled in place. Another deep breath and she reached for the doorknob.

  Pop’s voice boomed from his study, rolled around the dining room and shot into the kitchen. “That you, Livvy?”

  She closed the door quietly behind her, determined not to match his uproarious greeting though she wanted nothing more than to run through the house like Marti would, jump into his lap and confess her affection for his foreman.

  Glancing at the table, untidy sideboard and stove top, she continued into the dining room, noted the wilted lilacs on the dusty table, and stopped at the door to her grandfather’s study. “Hello, Pop.”

  Poise. Grace. Restraint. She drew them all together like ribbons on a package and pinned on a smile. “Did you miss me?”

  The man looked up and his gray eyes sparkled. “You are a bright flower among dull sagebrush. Come here, child.”

  Delighted by his tender greeting, she pulled the mail from her satchel, dropped the bag by the door and walked to his chair. He folded her into his still-powerful arms in a great bear hug.

  “We missed you, Livvy.”

  We?

  “I was gone for only a day and night. Surely you could get by without my cooking for that long.”

  “Not just your cooking.” He held her at arm’s length and gave her a squinted appraisal. “I do believe you are more beautiful than when you left. Just like your mother and Mama Ruth.”

  She giggled and worked free of his hands. “You are trying to get on my good side so I’ll give you fresh biscuits and Annie Hutton’s apple butter.”

  He leaned back against his leathe
r chair and twisted one side of his mustache. “That was mighty good, what you left behind. We finished it off.”

  “So soon?” She laid the mail on his desk. “I should have known. And my guess is that Buck ate the most.”

  He grunted. “Not a chance with Whit keeping the jar at his plate, a knife in one hand and a sour eye on anyone daring to reach for it.”

  Laughter bubbled up and she walked back to the door. “I have your liniment here, and two more jars of apple butter. But I’ll need Whit and Buck to unload the supplies.”

  Pop’s mustache fell and jerked her hopes down with it. Breathe. “Where are they? Out chasing mavericks?”

  “I imagine Buck has his boots off at the bunkhouse.” Pop stood. “I’ll go get him.”

  “Can’t Whit do that?” Why couldn’t Whit do that?

  Her grandfather stopped directly in front of her and held her with a loving gaze. “He’s gone after Jody.”

  A gasp slipped away before she could forbid it and her right hand tightened on the satchel handle.

  “Now, don’t you worry. That Whit’s got a fine head on his shoulders, don’t doubt that for a minute.”

  It wasn’t his shoulders she was worried about. “Where did he go?” Not the railroad war. Please, not the war.

  “Overtons told him Jody joined up with the Santa Fe boys layin’ track.”

  If she did not sit she would faint and show her grandfather she was no better than the wilting lilacs. She leaned against the doorframe, afraid to attempt the great distance to the nearest chair.

  Pop took her by the arm and led her to the dining table, where he pulled out a ladder-back chair. Grateful, she fell into it and clutched the satchel to her breast as if it held all her strength and fortitude rather than tooth powder, a hairbrush and Annie’s apple butter.

  Pop took the next chair and turned it to face her. “Whit left the same morning you did with a couple things on his mind.” At that, the man’s eyes snapped with a private notion and his silver mustache jerked to one side. “He has some news I am sure he wants to tell you himself rather than have me spill the beans.”

  Curiosity gained a foothold on worry and Livvy relaxed her death grip on the bag.