Pop’s quilt and blanket crumpled against a chair in the corner. For something to do, she gathered them and took them out to the parlor, where she picked off the straw and tossed it into the cold fireplace. Then she folded the blanket and quilt into orderly squares.
Why couldn’t she do the same with her emotions where Whit Hutton was concerned?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Thank you, Doc. We’ll square up with you when we come back for him, if that’s all right.” Whit shoved his hat on and shook the doctor’s hand. He figured Baker would cover for the widow. If not, Whit had enough stashed in the bottom of his bedroll. There was no way he’d let Delores Overton pay for what her fool-headed son had done.
“That will be fine, Whit, but what are you going to do tonight?” He dried his hands and arms on a towel and hung it over a rod on the washstand. “It’s a couple hours till daylight. I have an extra room upstairs, but only one, and with Miss Hartman …”
“Thank you kindly. I do appreciate it. But I’m taking Livvy, er, Miss Hartman to my folks’ place. They’ll have room at the parsonage, and I can always sleep in the barn.”
Mason rolled down his sleeves and shot a doubtful look over the top of his wire-rim spectacles.
Whit laughed. “Rest easy, Doc. The hay loft is only a little softer than Baker’s bunkhouse.”
Mason shook his head and rechecked the new dressing around Tad Overton’s shoulder. “This is the first gunshot wound I’ve seen from the railway war they’re fightin’ in the canyon. I sure hope this is the worst of it.”
“Me too. Doc.” Whit moved to the door. Blamed kid should have known better than to get mixed up in somebody else’s fight, but money could turn a fella’s head. Whit gritted his teeth. If the Perkins boys got dragged into it, he’d wear out their sorry hides.
On his way out of the surgery, he stopped in the doorway. Livvy slumped in a chair across the room, her head tipped back and her mouth open. He could get her lathered up over that—but he wouldn’t. He’d spent enough of his life riding her about every little thing. He hadn’t known any other way to get her attention when they were kids.
Things were different now. He was grown and so was she. It was time to be thinking like a man, and the first thing a man needed was a—
Livvy startled and sat upright. She clamped her jaw and narrowed her eyes. Her reaction put a hitch in his mouth even though he knew it would get her back up.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Whitaker Hutton.”
He frowned and screwed his hat down. “I am not laughing at you.” He made for the front door, put gravel in his voice. “Come on. We’re going to my folk’s place. They’ll put you up in the spare room, and we’ll go back to the ranch tomorrow. Doc wants Overton to stay here a day or two so he can keep an eye on him.”
He opened the door and waited.
Livvy stood and smoothed out her skirt.
“Where’s your wrap?”
“In the wagon.”
“I’ll get it.”
She marched past him. “That will not be necessary, thank you. I can get it myself.”
She circled round the buckboard, lifted her cloak from the back, and shook out the straw. Then she draped the light wool over her shoulders, clambered up the wheel, and scooted to the far end of the seat before he could climb aboard.
Infuriating woman.
Taking the seat, he reached for the reins. He should have left her behind and brought Jody. But that half-broke bronc would have made a poor nurse. And he’d never smell as sweet as Livvy did right now. He cut a glance to the side and found her stiff-necked as a sulled-up filly. Why couldn’t she be more even tempered, like a seasoned gelding?
He coughed, covering a laugh that escaped at the outrageous comparison. Miss Olivia Hartman would whack him good if she knew he’d compared her to a horse.
Bess’s hooves clopped against the hard-packed street and echoed off the sleeping store fronts. Whitaker’s Mercantile had a new sign painted since he’d last been in town. His grandfather was getting up in years like Baker. He and his wife, Martha, had been running the store all Whit’s life, and had often hinted at Whit taking it over.
He loved his grandparents dearly, but the thought of working everyday indoors made his chest hurt. He had to be outside, in a saddle, free to cast his eye over the mountains and timber and parks the good Lord made.
He shuddered, and from the corner of his eye, saw Livvy glance at him. What made her switch so sudden? Sweet one minute and sour the next. Was it him? Was he doing something to set her off?
Near the opposite end of town, he turned into a lane next to a white clapboard church and continued on past the parsonage to a small barn behind it. Two apple trees in the yard had leafed out since he was home last, and even in the falling moonlight, his ma’s roses looked about to bloom.
Livvy reached back for the satchel. Whit jumped down and offered his hand. She took it with a quiet “thank you” and stepped to the ground. When he didn’t let go of her fingers, she looked up at him with the old challenge.
Her hair caught the moon and shimmered nearly white. Without thinking, he touched it lightly with his free hand. Her breath hitched.
If he kissed her, she’d either slap him or kick him or, worse yet, despise him. He ached.
“Thank you for coming with me.”
She didn’t pull away. Her challenging glare softened and her lips parted. Could she tell he was looking at them? He forced his eyes back to hers and let go of her hand. “I couldn’t have gotten him here safely without your help.”
She looked away—the second time that night, and the second time in her life that she’d not won a stare-down between them. “I couldn’t let him lie there alone, bouncing all the way into town.” Wrapping her arms around the satchel, she held it against her chest like a barrier between them.
Softer, as if admitting a secret sin, she said, “I couldn’t let you go alone.”
His knees threatened to buckle and he shifted his weight to hide the fact. If he looked her in the eye again, he was liable to haul off and do something uncalled for. Instead, he focused on the shadowed row of columbines his ma had transplanted against the back porch.
“They usually leave the door unlocked. Let’s go see.”
Without another word, Livvy marched to the parsonage and up the porch steps, leaving him by the wagon.
He’d done it again, though he didn’t know what.
~
Breathe, Livvy, breathe. Fine thing it would be to faint and have Whit carrying her into his parents’ parlor. She gripped the satchel and stood stock still in the Hutton’s small kitchen. Whit lit a lamp, set it on the table, and pulled a chair out for her.
“Have a seat and I’ll go check on the spare room.”
“And who are you talking to down there, Whitaker Hutton?” His mother descended the stairs holding a kerosene lamp and clutching a wrapper to her chest. “Oh, Livvy. Welcome.”
A sense of home swept into the room with Annie Hutton’s warm smile and welcoming arm around Livvy’s shoulders. “Whatever brings you to town in the middle of the night?” Sudden alarm replaced her welcome with a motherly scowl aimed at Whit.
He’d already removed his hat and was hanging it on a peg by the door. “Tad Overton got himself shot up on the railbed in the canyon. His ma brought him to the ranch, and Livvy helped me haul him to Doc Mason’s. We just finished there.”
He took a chair at the table, heaving a great sigh and weary at best.
Livvy had the oddest inclination to pull him into her arms and hold him.
Hold him? She prayed the dim lamp light hid her sudden flush from Mrs. Hutton.
“What a dear you are, Livvy. The boy’s in good care at Doc’s, but you must be beyond tired. Come with me and I’ll show you to our spare room.”
Livvy glanced at Whit, and he gave her a brief nod. Fatigue and the last vestiges of worry made him look older. Twenty or more. She must look a sight herself.
&nbs
p; Mrs. Hutton had already mounted the stairs, and Livvy followed. At the landing, Whit’s mother turned to the right and pushed open a door. From the room across the way, a muffled flutter rose. Livvy smiled to herself. The pastor snored.
But so did her father. Maybe it came with the calling.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hutton. I—”
“Please, call me Annie. It’s bad enough everyone in town still calls me Mrs. Hutton, even after all these years. Makes me feel old.” She set the lamp on a table beside the bed, turned back a beautiful quilt, and fluffed the pillow.
“Thank you, Annie. I do appreciate this, with no notice or anything.”
Annie folded her arms against her wrapper and tipped her head to the side. “How long has it been since you and your folks visited? Three years? You’ve grown up quite a bit since the last time I saw you at a church picnic.”
She took Livvy’s satchel and set it on a trunk at the foot of the bed. “You helped my Whit and rode all that way in a rough buckboard. You are a dear for doing such an unselfish thing, and I am more than happy to let you rest here tonight.”
“Thank you again. You’re very kind.”
“I’ll fetch you some warm water in the morning. I imagine you’re too tired tonight to bathe.”
Livvy dropped to the bed and hiked up her skirt to remove her boots. She hadn’t realized how her back and feet ached until she sank into the soft feather ticking.
“This was Whit’s room when he lived at home,” Annie said, looking around at the furniture. “I’ve tried to do it up a bit nicer so it’s not so boyish. I hope it suits you.”
Livvy gulped most unladylike. “It’s lovely.” She smoothed a wrinkle in the eight-point star quilt. “Did you make this yourself?”
Annie smiled through a yawn. “Oh, pardon me. Yes, I did. Years ago, before I was married.”
Affectionately, she bent to touch a star. “I’ve always been partial to these red stars. So was Whit when he was a boy, though they’re not as bright as they once were.” She turned for the door and paused there. “You sleep as long as you want. I’ll keep a plate warm for your breakfast.” With that, she softly closed the door behind her.
Whit’s bedroom. Whit’s bed.
Whit’s longing look in the moonlight.
Livvy stepped out of her simple dress and petticoat, and shivered. He’d touched her hair. Gently, tentatively, as if…Oh, she didn’t know what. Shaking off the memory, she took in the iron bed from head to foot. A common enough piece of furniture found in most households. Surely the ticking and pillow had not been Whit’s. But the quilt?
She slipped beneath the covers, muddled in heart and mind by the disconcerting man. One minute he was a childish tease and the next a perfect, caring gentleman. How could he be both at the same time, stirring such opposing reactions in her breast—tenderness and anger?
Perhaps tomorrow would offer fresh light on the subject. Right now, all she wanted was to sleep, surrender to the soft warmth around her. She pulled the quilt higher, tucked it under her chin, and closed her eyes.
~
Livvy pulled her legs up and snuggled deeper into the feather ticking, away from a teasing light. Squinting one eye open, she gasped and bolted upright. An unfamiliar room, a strange bed. Her gaze landed on her satchel, then flew to the four red stars that topped the bed’s quilt. Her shoulders relaxed as the facts aligned themselves. Whit’s bed.
Clutching the quilt to her throat, she looked around the room. No sign of anyone but her. Bright sunlight poured in the window—it must be mid-morning. She tossed the covers aside.
At the washstand, warm water greeted her fingers, evidence of Annie Hutton’s thoughtfulness. If Livvy couldn’t have clean clothes, at least she’d have a freshened body.
In no time she was booted, buttoned, and combed out. Standing before the mirror, she pulled her hair over her shoulder, plaiting it into a long braid. She twisted it low on her neck and pinned it in place, wanting instead to let it hang down her back on the ride home.
The thought fanned a tiny flame in her stomach, and she turned to look at the quilt. Quickly she straightened it, propped up the pillow, gathered her satchel, and rushed into the hall. The sooner she was out of Whit Hutton’s bedroom, the better.
A door at the landing’s end stood open, one she had not noticed the night before. Another fine quilt topped a bed there, and a china-faced dolled perched against a pink pillow. Whit’s sister’s room. The girl was two or three years younger, if Livvy remembered correctly. She must be about fifteen now.
Women’s voices drew her to the stairway, and she hurried down and into the kitchen. A grown-up Martha Mae Hutton stood next to her mother at the counter, her auburn hair as vivid as Livvy remembered. Fresh biscuits veiled the room with a homey scent. Both women turned at Livvy’s arrival.
“Good morning!” Annie rubbed her hands against her apron and met Livvy with a brief hug. “I hope you slept well. You seemed to be when I slipped in earlier with the hot water.”
Livvy ducked her head at being caught asleep so late. “Thank you. I—I don’t usually sleep so long.”
“Well, you did arrive well past midnight, so you were quite in need of the rest.” Annie turned back to her work. “You remember Martha, don’t you? Marti, this is Ruth and Hubert Baker’s granddaughter, Olivia Hartman.”
A smile as bright as her mother’s and terrifyingly close to her brother’s spread across the girl’s face as she extended her hand. “It’s nice to see you again, Olivia. I think the last time was at the church picnic three or four years ago.”
“Livvy, please. Call me Livvy.” She took the girl’s hand, smooth with flour. “Looks like I caught you in the middle of making bread.”
Marti pulled a plate from the warmer and set it at the kitchen table. “This is for you. We barely had enough to hold for you after Daddy and Whit finished breakfast. My brother eats like a horse now that he’s up at your grandfather’s place.”
“Really, Marti.” Annie poured coffee, set the cup before Livvy, and bumped her daughter with her hip, a playful move that forced a laugh from Livvy.
Marti lightly bumped her mother in return. “I’m not being mean, Mama. Just speaking the truth, that’s all.”
A bank of windows topped the counter and sink all along the east wall, and bright yellow curtains drew back at each end, matching the checked cloth on the table. Livvy seated herself and whispered a quick prayer over the eggs and bacon and biscuits. She was hungrier than she thought.
“It’s not often lately that I eat something I haven’t cooked myself. This looks—and smells—wonderful.”
The back door opened, and Whit interrupted the cheerful exchange. “You ready?”
His question landed on Livvy’s plate like a blob of cold grease. She looked at him, at her breakfast, and then back to his creased brow.
“I need to get back to the ranch.”
CHAPTER SIX
“Stop fussing, Whit, and sit down and have some coffee.” His ma set two cups on the table. “We’ve hardly had a good visit and here you want to rush off already. Can’t you stay for dinner?”
She filled the cups, returned the coffeepot to the stove, and took a seat across the table. Her gentle scolding reminded Whit that no other preacher’s kids could have had it as good as he and Marti did growing up, but this wasn’t a social call. He had calves to brand.
He hung his hat on the chair back rather than the peg by the door, determined that he and Livvy were not staying. Lord knew the trouble Buck and Jody Perkins could wrangle before noon. But the hungry look in Livvy’s blue eyes set him back, and he swallowed what he was about to say. It wasn’t eggs and biscuits she was longing for. His impatience settled and he scooted to the table, gentled his voice. “Go ahead and eat, Livvy. We have time.”
His ma cocked an eyebrow in that way she had. Made him want to duck every time. She could always tell what he was thinking. He raised the heavy mug to his lips and sipped the black brew. Good cowbo
y coffee. Amazing what a delicate little preacher’s wife could concoct.
“Did you check on Tad?” Livvy spread apple butter on a biscuit, and looked up as she took a bite.
He waited. Waited for the surprise to hit.
She turned to his mother. “This is wonderful, Mrs. Hu— Annie. I’d love to get your recipe.”
Livvy couldn’t have said anything better.
Ma beamed. “You’ll have to come down this fall when Marti and I pick apples and you can make a batch with us.” She slid Whit a bold look. “Of course, we’d love to see you before then too.”
Clearing his throat, he swirled his coffee even though he had no sugar or cream in it to swirl. He was definitely outnumbered in the kitchen with three women, though Marti hadn’t lit into him yet. She plopped a mound of yeast dough in a crockery bowl, covered it with a towel, and then poured herself some coffee. Taking a chair, she tossed her red curls—her long-standing attempt at appearing casual.
“So, is this Tad you speak of Tad Overton?” Marti spooned sugar into her coffee and added a cow’s worth of cream.
“Yes,” Livvy said, finishing her eggs. “Do you know him?”
Whit stiffened.
Marti turned her coffee mug around so the handle was on the left side. “We went to school together before he and his folks moved to Eight Mile.” A slight blush colored her cheeks.
“He’s a no-account fool.”
Whit’s comment deepened the blush. Marti speared him with a pointed glare.
“What an unkind thing to say, Whit.” His ma’s reprimand didn’t carry her usual fire. It didn’t need to. Marti’s ire heated the room.
Whit gulped his coffee, waited for his throat to stop burning. “He had no business getting mixed up in the train war. Now he’s got himself shot and his ma will have to do all the chores until he heals up. Not only that, he took me away from the roundup, and the Perkins brothers are sitting on their thumbs at the ranch waiting for me to get back.” He drained the cup. “At least they better be.”
Straight to My Heart Page 4