“No, I am not going into that—” he raised a callused hand “—so don’t ask me. But you should know that he is determined to bring Jody back from the rail war.”
Livvy tightened her arms around the satchel again and considered pulling out Pop’s liniment to use as a smelling salt.
“He might be gone for a few days. But I’m sure he will be safe.” Pop fingered his mustache and nodded with a far-off look over her shoulder. “I’ve seen him use that Winchester a time or two.”
Maybe her grandfather wanted her to swoon, fall out right there across Mama Ruth’s beautiful dining room carpet.
Oh, Lord, please. Don’t let Whit get involved in the railroad war. Please!
* * *
Whit’s ma’s chicken pot pie was bested only by his grandmother’s, and Whit raised a hearty amen after grace as he set about proving it. It was a wonder his pa wasn’t as big as a horse for his ma’s great cooking and a preacher’s sedate lifestyle. But the Reverend Caleb Hutton had never been one to simply sit by and let other men do the hard labor. Townsfolk still called on him when their foaling mares were having a hard time.
The man had a reputation. Whit chuckled around a mouthful at the oft-told family story about how his dad had delivered a foal during his first Christmas Eve service in Cañon. Dolly, his ma had named the filly, and they had her still.
Soon he and Livvy would be creating their own tales.
He hoped.
Suddenly sobered by the reminder that he needed to talk to Livvy’s father, he cut a glance at his own. “You going to Denver any time soon?”
Marti, always two steps ahead of everybody else’s thought processes, held him in a calculating gaze. “What’s got you wanting to go to Denver?”
Whit straightened his back, hoping to bully her with his bigger bulk. She intimidated as easily as Livvy—not at all.
His pa took a hearty bite and closed his eyes as he chewed, clearly relishing his wife’s handiwork before he replied. “Not any time soon. I want to stay close until this train war is cleared up.”
Whit’s ma made a clucking sound in her throat and Marti’s attention suddenly fell to her half-empty plate.
“I understand that is the reason for your visit,” his pa said.
Guilt poked Whit like a pitch fork. He could take time to follow a fool boy into town but not for a legitimate visit with his folks. He coughed hard and ran the napkin across his mouth.
“Yes, sir, it is.” He glanced at his mother, who was pushing piecrust around on her plate. “Ma said you heard men ride through here early this morning, before daylight. Did you happen to look out and see anything? Specifically a stout little black horse with a white blaze?”
His pa nodded. “Didn’t look out, but I saw that horse at this livery this afternoon. One of yours?”
That characteristic calm set Whit on edge—the way it always had. Rarely did his pa get excited about anything. A fine quality in a preacher, Whit supposed, but there were times when it drove him crazy with impatience.
He forced himself to stay seated, not dash out the door and run across the street to the livery. “More than likely.” But what was it doing here if Jody rode with the railroad men?
A sudden pounding at the front door jerked Marti from her chair before their ma could tell her to keep her seat. Whit followed, grateful for an excuse to use his legs.
Marti had the door opened wide to a breathless boy standing on the threshold.
“Mr. Sutton told me to run this to the pastor.” The boy gulped a quick breath. “He in?”
“I’ll take it for him.” Whit stopped next to his sister and held out his hand.
The boy’s chest heaved beneath his galluses, but he gripped the telegram tightly.
Whit scowled.
His father came from the kitchen. “Thank you, William. Tell Mr. Sutton I appreciate it.” He slipped a coin into the boy’s hand and the youngster repaid him with a grin and dashed across the porch, down the path and into the lane toward Main Street.
No wonder he waited for Pa.
Whit closed the door and followed his sister to the kitchen, where they all resumed their seats. His pa laid the telegram beside his plate and picked up his coffee. A bronc-y gleam danced in his eyes as he ignored his baited family.
“Pa-ah!” Marti spoke for everyone, and for once Whit appreciated her impudence.
“Caleb, really.” His ma chided her husband. “Tell us what it says.”
“Oh, you mean this?” He lifted the thin folded paper.
Marti stamped her foot underneath the table.
“Martha Mae, hold your foot.” Whit’s ma fought her own battles against foot stomping and he grabbed his coffee cup to hide that bit of knowledge.
Slowly and deliberately, his pa unfolded the paper and silently read the message, moving his lips as he did so. Marti made growling noises and Whit’s ma scraped her shoes back and forth on the braided rug beneath the table.
“‘DRG to armory with Sheriff Price to commandeer cannon. Masterson and ATSF in possession. Stormed telegraph office. Shots fired. On to roundhouse. Masterson surrendered. Most well.’”
“Most well?” Whit’s ma held trembling fingers to her lips. “Does that mean someone was shot?”
Pa refolded the paper and slipped it into his waistcoat. “Most likely we will know more tomorrow. But it sounds like it didn’t turn into the bloodbath I feared, thank the Lord.”
“But who stormed the telegraph office?” Marti’s eyes flashed with a mix of excitement and fear.
“I heard talk at the mercantile that the Denver crew rode to Pueblo to seize the cannon. But this telegram says that Masterson and the Santa Fe men already had it.”
“Then why did Masterson surrender?” Whit could make no more sense of the telegram than his sister and mother.
“We’ll have to wait until our so-called posse returns to get the whole story. And I am certain that it will be the talk of the town for weeks. The trick will be getting the story straight once we start hearing those men boast and gloat.”
Whit’s mother went to the sideboard and returned with a vinegar pie.
His mouth watered for the “in-between” dessert they always ate before the peaches came in. She must be saving her strawberries for jam.
“But who won?” She sliced a hearty serving for each member of the family. “If you can call it winning.”
Whit’s pa laid a gentle hand on his wife’s arm and looked into her worried eyes. “I’d say the town won.”
As good an answer as any, at least until they had more details.
Whit cut into his pie and let the sweet custard and flaky crust melt in his mouth. The railroad would run through the mountain’s heart to Leadville—one way or another. He’d prefer men not die over it. Especially young men.
If some hadn’t already.
The next morning Whit left before sunup and stopped at the livery. The whoosh of Pete’s billows seeped through the crack in the massive barn doors. The smithy was getting a head start before the day’s heat vied with his furnace, and the twang of hot metal nipped Whit’s nose as he tied Oro at the rail.
Whit walked the alleyway, checking each stall for a stout black gelding with a white blaze. He found it in the fourth stall, feeding on grass hay.
“Mornin’, Whit.” The ping of hammer on iron punctuated the man’s greeting. “What brings you into town so early?”
Whit stopped near the anvil, watched Pete’s massive arm flex as he gripped an L-shaped piece and shoved it into the fire.
“Stayed at my folks’ last night and I wanted to see you about a job before I left today.”
The blacksmith withdrew the glowing iron from the coals, laid it over the anvil’s horn and hammered it around. “What kind of job?”
&nbs
p; “I need a brand.”
Pete glanced up, repositioned the piece. “The Bar-HB got so many cows they need another iron?”
Whit pushed his hat back, already warm so close to the fire. “It’s for me. I’m starting my own herd.”
The blacksmith set his hammer down, laid the piece across the anvil and mopped his sweaty face with a rag. “Show me.”
Whit squatted and smoothed the finely ground dust with his hand. Then he drew the double H with a wide inverted V across the top.
“Like a rafter,” Pete said, looking over Whit’s shoulder.
“Wider. It’s a mountain. Spreads over both letters here.” Whit retraced the angled bars indicative of a mountain peak.
Whit stood, wiped his hand on his pants. “Any way I can get it today?”
Pete folded his arms across his thick chest. “This afternoon.”
Whit was hoping to be home near noon. “No sooner?”
A thick arm swept toward the anvil. “I have shoes to make. This afternoon is the best I can do.”
“This afternoon it is. I’ll be back.”
He repositioned his hat, and remembering his other task, jerked his chin toward the alleyway. “Who brought in the black gelding?”
Pete picked up his hammer and chuckled. “I saw the Bar-HB when the sheriff brought it in. Wondered how it got all the way down the mountain with a saddle and no rider.”
Whit’s throat tightened. “Sheriff? No rider?” What was funny about that?
“Then he told me he locked the boy in the jailhouse. Said to keep the horse until the Denver railroad crew got back from Pueblo. Even paid me.”
“He being the sheriff?”
Pete nodded, grabbed the tongs and shoved the curved iron back into the fire. “You going to take the black with you?”
Whit dragged his hand over his face. “Yeah, I’ll take him when I leave. Put that brand on Baker’s tab. I’ll square up with him.”
Pete returned to his work. Whit headed for the door and fresh air.
Dawn flushed the horizon and he thought of the cougar. Hoped she hadn’t taken another calf while he was gone. Hoped even more that Baker hadn’t heard her scream and gone out looking for her. The urgency returned, chewing at his gut. He had to get back.
He swung into the saddle and turned Oro toward the mercantile. His grandfather would already be there with the coffee hot.
Chapter 19
A cow bellowed and Livvy’s eyelids fluttered open. Sparrows chittered from the lilac bush near her window, and she burrowed beneath her quilt, listening, delighted to be back on the ranch. In the next breath, worry nibbled a hole in her comfort. Was Whit back? Or was he still riding the countryside looking for Jody Perkins and meeting up with God knew who?
Oh, Lord, please, please protect him.
Throwing off the quilt, she sat up and stretched her arms above her head. Her Bible lay open on the small table, and a ribbon marked the passage she had read the night before. She reached for it and looked again at the words Whit’s mother had shared.
“‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.’”
Trusting God with her eternal soul had been easy for Livvy. She had been raised to take Him at His word, and she believed what He said about salvation. It all made sense to her—God’s gift of love and forgiveness in Jesus. But trusting Him with her heart where Whit was concerned? For some reason that was harder.
“Oh, Lord, please protect Whit from gunmen and from his own brash ways.” Tears pricked her eyes and she knuckled them away. What choice did she have other than to trust God? She looked again at the passage. Lean not on thine own understanding.
That was her only option, and she knew full well that her own understanding fell far short on so many things. She could not see Whit at the moment. She could not perceive his thoughts, nor did she know his next move. She didn’t even know where he was.
“Forgive me, Lord. Help me trust You even with this.”
Fear pressed in and took a bite. If she truly placed Whit in the Lord’s hand and removed her own clutching fingers, she could lose him. What if God chose not to bring him home safely? What if a future with Whit was not in God’s plan for her life? What then?
She closed the Bible and laid it on the table, determined to commit the verse to memory as Annie Hutton had. Maybe that would calm her quaking heart.
She washed and dressed for the day and tied her hair back with a blue ribbon. In the kitchen she grabbed the egg basket and headed for the henhouse.
Sweet mountain air filled her lungs and dew sparkled on the fence posts and lilac bushes—even on the weeds that had taken up residence in the garden during a week’s neglect. She’d pay dearly for three days’ branding and two days in town. But Buck’s prickly new fence looked to be holding out the deer.
She lined the basket with pink rhubarb stalks then went to the coop, where she found the red hen napping atop her clutch. Livvy cooed to the old bird as she slipped a hand beneath her feathery roundness and counted six warm eggs.
“He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.”
The old childhood verse flew across the years. Again, trust. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered to the setting hen, “help me trust You.”
Livvy blinked away the persistent tears and stepped back, watching the docile creature on her nest. She knew what a vicious defender the wise old mother could be.
How much more so the Lord?
Forcing herself from thought into action, Livvy quickly cleaned out the remaining nests and left the coop. Daylight was burnin’, as Whit would say. Her heart tugged at the thought of his warm voice.
And Buck Perkins tugged at the back door, stomping his feet on the step. Livvy cleared her throat loud enough to be heard. He jerked a look over his shoulder and opened the door wide, stepping aside for her to enter.
“Thank you, Buck. And thank you for washing before you come inside.”
His mumbled “yes, ma’am” faded behind the closing door and she smiled at his reticence. She’d make a civilized man out of that boy if it was the last thing she did.
The morning flew by with rhubarb and egg-custard pies, cinnamon cookies, and the scrubbing of what had not been scrubbed in a week. By then it was time to feed Pop and Buck again. As soon as she finished cleaning up after dinner, she hung her apron over a chair back, went to her room and traded her blue calico dress for a blouse and Mama Ruth’s denims. She’d forgo the hat with the sun edging away toward the western peaks.
Pop snoozed in his desk chair, his stocking feet crossed on the desk blotter and his mustache ruffling as he snored. She smiled as she eased past the door, deciding not to wake him. She’d be back in an hour or two, in plenty of time to serve leftovers, bread and apple butter. And more pie.
Maybe it was habit that prompted her to saddle Ranger rather than another horse. He had proved such a stalwart fellow during the branding. His surefootedness comforted her, and he wisely avoided badger holes long before she even saw them. She could ride Ranger and relax, enjoy the mountain beauty without being overly alert. And that was exactly what she wanted to do.
Livvy set the sturdy gray to a leisurely walk and angled him across the wide meadow toward the rimrock. Cottonwoods clustered along the base of the red wall and she expected to find columbines hiding in their shade.
As she approached with the sun at her back, the blue curtain above the rimrock hung in sharp contrast to the red cliffs and quivering green trees. Wilson Creek chattered contentedly nearby.
Ranger’s ears pricked forward and he raised his head toward the nearing wall. Livvy tried to follow his gaze, but saw only the multihued strata of rock and sediment laid down over the centuries. Perhaps a deer or mountain sheep had disturbed a rock and sent it tu
mbling to catch the horse’s keen hearing.
In a moment, he relaxed his neck and plodded onward, matching Livvy’s peaceful demeanor. She marveled at such color so far from town, more varied and brilliant than any dressmaker’s work or gaily painted house. And with the afternoon sun shining directly on the scene, the rocks and trees and grass shimmered with near incandescence.
Tranquility embraced her. No shouting freight drivers rattling their wagons. No rowdy miners. No bickering women haggling over a merchant’s prices. No people sounds at all. Simply peace.
A sigh escaped her lips and she settled even deeper into the saddle.
The trees were farther than she anticipated—a phenomenon she had noticed during the branding. The clear air made the mountains and ridges appear closer than they really were. But as she approached her expectations were rewarded, and she spotted fragile purple heads clustered in gossipy groups.
She stopped at the clearing’s edge, and Ranger immediately began lipping the tender grass. She untied the old flour bag she had brought for holding columbines on the return trip. A heavy cooking spoon, perfect for digging, weighted it down.
She slipped to the ground and dropped Ranger’s reins, ground tying the well-trained horse as Whit had demonstrated.
Intent on her hunt, she stepped carefully through the patch, stopping at the most prolific clusters. The afternoon waned without her notice, but a distant cloud’s pass across the sun alerted her to the fading day. One more plant, then home.
An unexpected pile of leaves and brush caught her eye, and she turned aside to inspect it. A persistent buzzing hung above the leaves and a septic odor wafted her way. Odd that she would smell an open wound here in the meadow so far from people.
Whit’s words at breakfast two weeks ago hit her memory like a rifle shot. “I found her latest kill in the cottonwoods, half covered with leaves and brush.”
The breath froze in her lungs and she stopped dead still. The hair on her arms rose and a spidery shiver crawled up her back. Someone—or something—was watching her.
Branding the Wrangler's Heart Page 15