He led Bess into the fenced pasture behind the barn and pulled off her bridle. As he closed the gate on his way out, he scanned the green bottom land for the other saddle horses Baker kept close. There should be six. He counted three, including Bess.
He strode to the barn and pushed open the tack room door. Baker’s saddle and tack were gone. So were Buck’s and Jody’s. Whit jerked his hat off, slapped it on his leg, and shoved it back on. He grabbed his outfit and took it to the pasture where he hung his saddle and blanket on the fence and whistled for Oro.
The gelding raised his head and looked Whit’s way. His tawny coat gleamed against the meadow’s green, and he trotted to the fence and greeted Whit with a deep-chested rumble.
“You saw them leave, didn’t you.” Whit mumbled his complaint to the horse as he bridled and saddled him. Then he swung up, rode through the gate, latched it, and headed for the farthest canyon. “Let’s go find them.”
~
Delores Overton was gone. Livvy looked in the bedrooms, the parlor, Pop’s study, the dining room and kitchen, even the root cellar out back, though no reason came to mind for the woman to be there. She returned to the kitchen for the egg basket and scrap can and went out to the garden and coop. No Delores.
And no Pop.
She hushed her rampant thoughts. Pop often went for a ride to look over things. Surely he was fine. Out counting his cows. Hopefully not every single one this afternoon. That’s what he had Whit and Buck and Jody for.
She tossed the scraps and entered the coop while the chickens fought over the best pieces. Fourteen eggs this morning, or rather afternoon. Enough to bake a pound cake and have a few to boil. She could almost taste Annie Hutton’s apple butter melting into a golden slice of warm cake. Her mouth watered.
Buck and Jody would make quick work of the fruity spread. Where were those boys anyway? It was too late in the day to be at Overton’s doing chores. And there was enough to be done around here to keep them busy all summer in addition to checking cattle. The fence around the garden plot needed mending, and the wood pile shrank a little every day.
She hooked the basket on her arm, shielded her eyes against the westerly sun, and looked out to the pasture, counting the horses. Her chest tightened as she scoured the green meadow for a buckskin and her grandfather’s stocky gray. Bess and another dark horse grazed unhurriedly. No gray. Delores Overton wasn’t the only one missing.
Livvy and Whit hadn’t been home a half hour and already he was gone.
She hurried from the coop, careful to latch the gate. She didn’t need coyotes nosing their way in due to her carelessness. With the egg basket on her arm, she hiked her skirts and ran to the house. Where was everyone?
The kitchen hugged the north edge of the ranch house, shaded behind a big pine on the west end that kept it cooler than any other room in the summer. But it wasn’t bright like the Hutton’s. How cheerful yellow curtains would be against the dark wood walls.
She washed the eggs and laid them out on a tea towel as her earlier words floated by with tempting appeal.
I learned to ride here.
And she’d done it without a side saddle. No place for such a contraption on a cattle spread. She huffed. Impossible to keep one’s seat chasing cows without two feet in the stirrups.
Everyone had ridden astride, even her mother and Mama Ruth. The three of them had often trailed up to the bluffs, where they sat gazing down at the creek bottom and the ranch buildings.
Dusty memories of horseflesh and leather tugged her to her grandfather’s bedroom where she knelt before the chest by the door. She had long since outgrown her riding skirt, but Mama Ruth had worn denims, and often said she didn’t care what her high-brow English relatives thought. This was America and she’d do as she pleased. Livvy cherished the tender ache the memory pressed.
She lifted the lid on the trunk, tipped it back against the wall, then carefully dug through the linens and dresses that had been Mama Ruth’s. Pausing, she leaned out and looked into the dining room. Heaven forbid that Pop come in and find her snooping. Maybe she should wait and ask his permission. Would he allow what she was thinking?
Brushing hesitation aside, she returned to her search and found what she wanted at the trunk’s bottom. Denims, just like Whit and Pop wore, only smaller. A boy’s size—her grandmother’s size. Livvy stood and held them at her waist. Looking at herself in the glass over Mama Ruth’s dressing table, she pulled a grin. With a hat and her hair tucked up, she could pass for a hired hand.
Excitement burned through her like a fast fuse. She returned everything else to its neat order and closed the trunk. Then she borrowed one of Pop’s old work hats from the back of a bent-wood rack in the corner, clutched the denims to her chest, and ran to her room.
Quietly she closed her door and draped her treasure over the brass footboard. Her movements reflected in the glass across the room that also caught her flushed cheeks beneath Pop’s hat. She pulled it forward, low over her right eye like Whit wore his. Perfect. But she’d have to line the hat band with newsprint to keep the old Stetson from flying off.
The back door closed.
Livvy choked and snatched off the hat. She rolled the denims and shoved them under the bed. The hat followed, and she fluffed out the dust ruffle. Did it always stick out or should it be kicked back a little?
She licked both palms and smoothed her mussed hair on the sides, giggling at the childish trick she hadn’t used in years.
She opened the door and walked as elegantly as possible into the dining room and toward the kitchen. No other sounds had followed the door’s closing, so she had no idea who had entered.
At the doorway she stopped.
He sat at the work table beneath the kitchen window, hat lying next to his propped elbows, head braced in both hands. Looking so alone.
She ached to reach out to him, to be a comfort, a companion. But they were only beginning to be friends, working out their stubborn differences, working together on her grandfather’s ranch. Nothing more.
He raised his head and looked straight into her eyes. And as suddenly as that, she knew that Whit Hutton could not only see through the dining room curtains. He could see into her very soul.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Whit stared at Livvy standing in the doorway, her lips parted as if to speak. If he wasn’t so angry, he’d kiss her soundly. As it was, his head pounded and it had nothing to do with courting.
“Jody’s gone.”
“Gone?” Livvy’s brow wrinkled as she came to the table. “What about Pop and Buck? Are they okay? Is Pop all right?”
Of course she’d worry for her grandfather. He should have mentioned Baker first. The knots in his shoulders tightened. “Your grandfather is fine. He and Buck are out in the barn unsaddling their horses.”
Visibly relieved, Livvy went to the stove and opened the flue. “I’ll make some coffee.”
She pumped water into the coffee pot and set it over the fire.
He watched mutely as she scooped out beans and added them to the mill. The grinding matched his churning thoughts, but the aroma soothed him. Maybe that was all he needed. Hot, strong coffee.
His stomach growled. Annie smiled and threw him a side-long glance. “I know you had eggs this morning, but that’s all I’ve got. Want some to go with the coffee?”
He heaved out a heavy breath, rolled his shoulders, and leaned back in the chair. “That sounds good.”
He’d not watched a woman work—work for his comfort—for any length of time. It touched something inside him, brought to mind the way his father watched his mother.
Livvy moved smoothly between tasks, wasting no effort. He rubbed the stiffness in his neck and studied her mannerisms, the soft curves her dress failed to conceal, the hair working lose from her coiled braid.
She added the ground coffee to the pot and more wood to the stove. Then she spooned bacon grease into an iron skillet and gathered three eggs from the counter’s far corner. At t
he cabinet she drew out a loaf of bread, cut two thick slices, and laid one on each of two plates.
He could get used to this set up, sitting in the kitchen, enjoying female company. Livvy’s company. “You going to share that apple butter with me?”
He winced at his tone. He couldn’t seem to say anything that wasn’t a borderline jab.
But she must have been worried about Baker, because she didn’t goad him back or get all worked up.
“No, I am not. I’m saving it to have with pound cake. You will have to wait.” She buttered the bread and set his plate before him, then started breaking eggs into the skillet.
“Thank you.” He bit off the corner. “But I don’t smell pound cake.”
Her cheeks colored. Couldn’t be the stove—she’d just stirred the fire.
“I haven’t gotten to it yet.” She pushed at her escaping hair. “I had other things to do when we got back.” Fingering the same strands again, she looked around as if searching for something. “Gathered eggs, fed the chickens. Hunted for Mrs. Overton.”
She looked at him then, worry clouding her eyes. “She’s not here either.”
“I know. Buck said he sent Jody with her early this morning. She wanted to go home, and Jody took her so he could help with chores.” Whit shoved the rest of the bread in his mouth and chewed like he wanted to chew on the boy. “He never came back.”
Livvy flipped the eggs over, the way he liked, then came to the table and took his plate. “More bread?” She served the eggs with cracked peppercorns and paused at the counter, waiting for his answer.
He could look at her all day and never come up with the right words, so he nodded.
She added a fork to his plate and set the food before him, then took the other chair.
He shoved his back. “I need to wash.”
She stopped him with a hand on his arm. “It’s all right.” A smile hinted and she scooted closer to the table. “Just don’t tell Buck and Jody.”
He sat. The day wasn’t all bad. He was eating in private with Miss Olivia Hartman.
Until the kitchen door banged open and Baker and Buck walked in.
Buck stopped, took one look at Livvy, then ran back out. Splashing sounds carried into the kitchen.
Baker pumped water at the sink, washed, and dried his hands on a towel that Livvy kept on a nail for his use. His ranch, his house. He could wash where ever he pleased.
Livvy whisked away her plate and checked on the coffee. She added grease and several more eggs to the skillet, and soon offered two more plates filled with fried eggs and buttered bread. Baker brought two chairs from the dining room and motioned for Livvy to join them.
The coffee smelled ready and Livvy must have agreed, for she bunched her apron and brought the pot to the table. Baker set three stoneware mugs and a china cup and saucer on the smooth wood surface and took the farthest seat against the west wall with his right leg angled out from the table. He had a clear view of the kitchen, the window, and the back door.
Buck joined them, as did Livvy. She lifted her brows at the mixed dishes on the table and eyed her grandfather.
Baker read her query. “In here I like a mug. Less formal. Your grandmother didn’t mind.”
“Makes the coffee better, I think.” Buck shoveled into his eggs, and Baker watched him fill his face. Withering under the close examination, the boy swallowed, laid his fork down, and bowed his head.
Silence stood at the table as Baker gathered his thoughts. “Thank you, Lord, for this food and for bringing Livvy and Whit home safely. Thank you for bringing Tad and his ma here so we could help.” He paused and cleared his throat. “Save him, Lord. Amen.”
Baker sure enough knew how things stood. Whit wasn’t sure if the saving had to do with Tad Overton’s body or soul, but it really didn’t matter. God always seemed to take both into account.
~
Livvy bit into her bread and sipped coffee from the tea cup. What an old softy Pop was, knowing she liked the colorful china better than the heavy stoneware.
From the way Buck finished off his eggs, she wondered what the men and Mrs. Overton had for breakfast. If they’d had anything. Livvy glanced at the pie safe, remembering last night’s interrupted dessert. She had a second pie tucked away, if it hadn’t disappeared too.
“What did Doc Mason say about Tad?” Pop sheared off half his bread and gulped his coffee.
Whit shook his head in disgust, a signal Livvy recognized all too well. “He wants to keep him for a few days, keep an eye on him.”
“Keep him out of trouble, more likely.” Pop’s bread disappeared beneath his silvery mustache, and he chewed as if the bread were a week old and tough.
“I told Doc we’d take care of the bill. Can’t see the widow havin’ enough to pay for what her fool son did.”
Buck studied his plate and kept his head down. The men stopped eating and stared at him. In the silence, the boy must have sensed their scrutiny, for he peeked out from under his pale brows and frowned.
“I know what you’re thinkin’.”
“And just what are we thinkin’?” Whit’s eyes narrowed into skewers.
“That it’s all my fault.”
“How’s that?” Pop said.
Buck cut a glance at Whit and blanched as if he’d seen a Ute warrior, spear in hand. “Whit said I was in charge and if anything went wrong, he’d blame me.”
Pop grunted, gulped another mouthful of coffee, and eyed his foreman. “I was here too. Can’t be entirely your fault.”
Color returned to Buck’s face and he sat a little straighter.
“Though he is your brother, not mine.”
Whit’s mouth quirked on one side and he picked up his coffee. “Where do you think he went after Overtons’?” He held Buck with a you’d-better-tell-me stare.
Buck stalled.
The boy was about to become the next entrée.
Livvy regretted having nothing else to feed the men. Gone one night, and here they were near starving. And now they’d cleaned out her eggs too. She’d never get to sneak off and ride with a day’s worth of baking and cooking ahead.
She stood and walked to the pie safe.
Safe, indeed.
“He’s a good boy,” Buck said. “I’m sure he helped Mrs. Overton with her chores like I told him to.”
“That’s not what I asked you.” Whit’s eyes flicked a warning.
Livvy set the canned-peach pie on the table near Whit and sliced a fat piece for him. “Look what I found.”
He ignored her.
Buck fidgeted with his fork and then laid it on the table with a defeated sigh. “I think he went upriver toward Fort DeRemer at Texas Creek.”
“Fort what?” Whit’s expression hardened.
“DeRemer,” Pop said. “Named after a man who fought in the Civil War. Just a rock wall, but the Denver and Rio Grande men are building them at strategic points along the river and firing on the Santa Fe workers. Heard about it when I was in town last week.” He mumbled something into his coffee. “It’s all gonna bust out like a full-bellied storm caught in a canyon.”
Buck watched the pie-cutting. “Jody wanted to hire on to lay track for the Santa Fe company. He ain’t a good-enough shot to hole up behind those rock forts with the Denver fellas. But I didn’t think he was serious, ‘specially since we got all them cows to gather and calves to brand.”
Livvy’s hand stopped above the oozing pie as an idea sliced through her mind. Buck noticed and looked as if he wasn’t going to get any of the juicy dessert. She caught herself, cut him a bigger piece, and set it before him.
“Thank you, Miss Livvy.”
“You are welcome.” At least the boy was learning something.
“I’ll admit, we talked on it some,” Buck said around a mouthful. “Fact is, Jody thought they’d want you for a hired gun, Whit, being’s you’re such a crack shot and all. Figured they’d be after you for sure since you know the country.”
Whit’s
hand tightened around his fork, and Livvy feared he might stab Buck right there in front of God and everyone. Instead he nailed the boy to his chair with an icy glare.
Pop snorted. “Whit’s too smart for that, son. He knows which side his bread’s buttered on.”
Buck frowned but didn’t ask, and Livvy wasn’t about to tell him what it meant. This was not her conversation. Plus she had something on her mind that required all her concentration to frame exactly right, and now might be the perfect time to bring it up.
She served Pop and then herself and took her seat. A quarter of the pie remained.
Whit attacked his serving. “My guns are for snakes, coyotes, and cougars, not taking pot shots at men laying a railroad that we need through these mountains. Regardless whose name is on the train.”
Pop grunted again. Seemed like he did that more and more since Mama Ruth was gone. She’d always insisted he speak in complete sentences.
“I’ll ride over to Cunninghams’ early tomorrow.” Whit finished off his pie and pushed his plate back. “See if their boys can help us with the branding.”
“Won’t be necessary.” Pop leaned his arms on the table, tilted his head over his plate. “I can still ride. But I’d be more help on the ground. You and Buck can drive them off the mountain to the bunch grounds. You rope ‘em, and Buck and I can hold ‘em down.”
“Who will brand?”
Pop cut a look at Livvy without raising his head.
Her breathe stuck in her throat. Did her grandfather really have that much faith in her? Did he remember all those years she and her mother and Mama Ruth had horsebacked through these hills?
“No.” Whit’s jaw tightened and the muscle below his ear bulged. Pop’s gaze shifted to his foreman. “Are you questioning my judgment?”
Livvy pulled air through her nose as she watched the battle in Whit’s eyes—his desire to please and respect his boss, and his apprehension at taking a woman on a roundup. He wouldn’t meet her gaze and she was glad. She couldn’t stand to have him look down on her. Not now. Not after the truce they’d reached today.
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