Straight to My Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

  But she wasn’t going to sit quietly by and let them discuss her as if she wasn’t there. “I can do it, Pop. Mama Ruth and Mother and I rode all over this ranch when I was growing up.”

  “I know you did. They were good teachers.” He smiled and his mustache quivered. “All the Baker women can horseback. But it’s the branding I’m thinkin’ on. Can you handle that?”

  “Yes.” Not that she ever had, but why not? She’d wrung chickens’ necks and cleaned fish and patched up bloody men like Tad Overton. How hard could it be?

  “You listen to what Whit tells you. He’ll show you how on a couple and then turn it over to you.”

  Not willingly, he wouldn’t. A side glance at Whit revealed the battle still raging. Not only was his boss taking the reins back, he was telling him how to do his job and bringing a woman into the mix. She sat straighter, determined not to disappoint him.

  “You’ll be needin’ your grandmother’s denims.” Pop stood and grabbed his plate.

  Fear leaped up and Livvy followed it. “I know right where they are.” Should she have said that? “I’ll get them from the trunk right now.”

  She dashed out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into Pop’s bedroom, where she opened the trunk for a moment, then dropped the lid and peeked around the doorframe. Chairs scraped against the kitchen floor. If she hurried she could make it to her room unseen.

  How wicked she was, deceiving her grandfather into thinking she was pure and honest. Guilt sat heavy on her formerly light spirit. She must confess. But not yet. Not until after she proved that she could ride and brand as well as any cowhand on the ranches of Eight Mile Mountain.

  And brand she would.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The muscles in Whit’s neck clamped like a farrier’s clincher. His wild-hare comparison of Livvy jumping maverick steers was about to come to life. That was just what he needed—a girl and her crippled grandfather traipsing off into the thick brush. Blasted Jody Perkins. If Whit got his hands on him before the boy got himself shot, Perkins’d wish he’d never heard of the railroad.

  Livvy had lit out of the kitchen quick as lightning. He took his plate and cup to the sink and told Buck to do the same. Baker had already gone to the barn.

  What happened to the peaceful afternoon of watching a beautiful woman do what she was good at? Now he had to spend two or three days—maybe longer—watching her do what she’d never done before.

  It could be worse. But not much.

  Riding leisurely along smooth trails and open meadows was not even close to chasing a wild cow without getting hooked. Or breaking a horse’s leg in a badger hole. Or getting raked off the saddle in thick timber. Lord have mercy on them all.

  As he reached for his hat, she returned to the kitchen, cheeks flushed and near bustin’ with excitement. He didn’t need excitement—he needed level-headed cow sense, a strong back, and a sure hand. Speaking of hands …

  “I thought you were gone.” She pumped water into a dishpan, then set it on the stove before pulling out the flour bin.

  He left his hat on the chair back, spread his feet squarely beneath him, and crossed his arms at his chest. “Do you have gloves?”

  The question stopped her forward motion. “Excuse me?”

  “Gloves. You know, those things you put on your hands.” Irritation called up the worst in him, and he almost regretted the sarcasm.

  She planted her fists on her hips and faced him. “What has your back up, Mr. Hutton? Or do you not like the idea of a woman on roundup?”

  He stood his ground. “What I don’t like is you dodging my question.”

  “Hmm.” She turned back to the counter and set out a large crockery bowl. “Let me see now. I have some lovely pine-green gloves I wear with my traveling suit, white gloves I save for church, and a very nice pair of kid leather gloves for riding.” With a tin cup she scooped flour from the bin into the bowl. “Yes, I have gloves.”

  His neck muscles tightened even more. This was exactly what he didn’t need.

  In two strides he was beside her and grabbed her hand, relieving it of the cup. He forced her fingers against his own, palm to palm. Hardened and rough, his fingers topped hers by two knuckles.

  He leaned in. “Feel that?” He pressed her hand between both of his. The racing pulse in her bare wrist beat against his arm, and her eyes widened with surprise. “Feel those callouses? The hard, cracked skin? Is that what you want for yourself?”

  She didn’t pull away. Just stared at their hands flattened against each other like two hotcake griddles.

  He dropped her hand. “Your nice kid leather won’t last through one morning. And neither will your skin without work gloves. You’ll be branded as sure as the calves Baker is so all-fired certain you can handle.”

  “I know that. I have watched brandings.”

  “Watching is not the same as doing.”

  An internal fire flared her eyes to sapphires, and the flame jumped to his heart like a wild ember. Anger or protectiveness, he didn’t know which pressed him harder, but either one would cloud his judgment and he could not afford that. He took a step back, grabbed his hat, and shoved it on with a stony stare.

  “I am sure Pop has something I can use.” Her hands balled around her bunched apron and her chin hitched up. Determined as an old steer on the fight.

  He growled, irritated that he couldn’t scare her off. “We leave at sunup.”

  He slammed the door on his way out. Infuriating woman.

  Storming into the bunkhouse, he went straight to his warbag and found the gloves he’d worn when he started for Baker four years ago. He’d grown a might since then. Like skunk cabbage in a wet summer, his pa had said.

  He held a glove against his hand and his fingers topped it by two knuckles. No holes. Stiff, but still good protection. They’d do. He shoved them under his bedroll and headed for the barn, working on a strategy for Baker.

  ~

  Livvy dragged in air and braced herself against the counter. Whit Hutton had more gall than any man she had ever known. How dare he compare the two of them. Why, that was like comparing gingham and leather. She looked at the hand he’d held, felt again the heat in his fingers and the way it made her pulse pound.

  No, that wasn’t it at all. He’d simply taken her by surprise. Caught her off guard the way he always did. What happened to their short-lived truce? Why couldn’t he let her be who she was? Accept her for who she was.

  She mixed yeast and warm water in a small bowl and set it aside. Then she carried the now-boiling dishpan to the sink, dunked the day’s dishes, and shaved in a few soap curls with a paring knife.

  After washing the dishes, she turned to baking bread—the perfect activity for taking out her frustration. Adding flour by the cupful, she worked the dough into a sizeable mound, punching out the air and knots, picturing Whit as she kneaded.

  Her mind played with the word and brought up needed. Humph. She pounded the dough again, tucked it under into a smooth ball, and threw it in the bread bowl to rise. She needed Whit Hutton like she needed a third leg.

  The afternoon flew by with baking, and packing plates and flatware in an old flour sack she planned to tie on her saddle horn. But after considering the clanking of tin against her horse’s shoulder, she unpacked everything. Instead she’d get up early and slice meat and bread and stack it together. The men could eat with their hands. So could she.

  They weren’t taking a wagon. No lemonade. Surely Pop had an extra canteen. She’d rather die of thirst than ask Whit for one.

  Working the Bar-HB and the fringes of neighboring ranches for strays, they’d be back each night to sleep. As happy as she was about riding with the men, she knew she’d be dog tired at day’s end. She also knew the others depended on her to keep them fed whether she was helping jump strays or not.

  She put a roast in the Dutch oven, added water, salt, pepper, onions, and the lid, and shoved it to the back of the oven to cook overnight.

&nb
sp; Preparations continued in her bedroom, where she hunted for a blouse or shirtwaist to wear with Mama Ruth’s denims. Maybe Pop had an old shirt she could borrow. And gloves too. Rubbing her hands together, she recalled Whit’s rough forcefulness—so unlike that day in the columbines.

  At least she’d had enough sense to bring her own boots for summer on the ranch.

  Gathering up Pop’s hat, she headed for his study, where she found a stack of old Cañon City Times newspapers he kept for fire starters in the winter. She pulled one from the bottom, and a headline caught her eye. Tucking a leg beneath her, she settled into the leather-covered desk chair to read:

  The United States Supreme Court on April 21 granted the primary right of way through the narrow gorge above Cañon City to the Denver & Rio Grande Western Railroad. The ruling should put to rest the ongoing Royal Gorge Railroad War between D&RG and the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway.

  Livvy let the paper flop back. The article was nearly two months old. If the Supreme Court had ruled, then why were Santa Fe crews laying track? No wonder the Denver men were sabotaging the railbed. But must they shoot at mere boys like Tad Overton?

  She spread the paper across the desk and folded back the edge. Then she turned the broad sheet over and folded the new edge back, continuing to alternate the folds front and back until she had a large fan-like strip. Pressing the folds together, she flattened them, then tucked the strip under the sweat band inside Pop’s old hat. John B. Stetson was stamped into the leather in gold letters.

  She tried it on and it slid down over her eyes. Tipping it back, she looked through the stack of papers for other interesting stories.

  “School Superintendent Unearths More Fossil Remains.” Livvy shuddered. Who wanted to go around digging up old dead animals on purpose?

  That sheet became another long fan, and three pages later, her grandfather’s Stetson stayed put. Rising to go look in her mirror, she stopped short. Whit leaned inside the doorway, arms folded against his chest, one booted foot crossed over the other.

  She jerked off the hat. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to know you look like a toadstool with that thing on.”

  Hot blood rushed into her face and her jaw clenched. He’d better be on his horse when she got that stamp iron in her hands.

  Uninvited, he sauntered to the desk, picked up the hat and shoved it back on her head. She couldn’t move. Nor could she see him, he stood so tall above her and so close. Mindful of her tendencies, she focused on breathing.

  He bent to the side and peeked under the brim. A distinct ripple twisted his mouth before he straightened and shoved the hat down farther until it pinched her ears. “You want it screwed down good and tight so it doesn’t fly off if you get to running.”

  Her feet ignored her command to walk away.

  He snorted like the horse that he was, but she refused to raise her head and look at him.

  He waited. Well, he could wait all day. She watched his boots. One moved as he shifted his weight, accompanied by a sharp brush against fabric. A pair of thick leather gloves appeared within her view, and he lifted her hat brim and looked her in the eye.

  “These are for you.”

  She took the gloves, and before she could form words, he turned and walked out of the study, across the dining room carpet, into the kitchen, and out the back door.

  Slumping into her grandfather’s chair, she pulled the hat off her stinging ears.

  “Thank you.”

  ~

  That evening at supper, Jody’s dining room chair sat glaringly empty. Buck shoveled his food like he always did, and Whit ate quickly and left.

  Livvy had stared at her plate during most of the meal—anything other than catching Whit’s eye and blushing with anger or humiliation. A fine line ran between those two emotions at the best of times, and tonight the delineation was even narrower.

  “You ready to leave early?” Pop studied her over the coffee-filled tea cup he held before his lips.

  “Yes.” She straightened, assuming her role as fellow cowhand and cook. “I’ll have biscuits, coffee, and bacon ready for anyone who wants to eat before we leave.”

  Buck grinned at her, and Pop grunted.

  “I also have food for us at midday.”

  Her grandfather nodded and placed the delicate cup on its saucer. “We’re not taking the wagon, you know.”

  “I have a sack of food, and if everyone has a canteen, that will do.” She laid her flatware across her plate and topped it with her napkin. “Do you have an extra canteen I could use?”

  “Sure do. I’ll bring it up from the barn along with mine to rinse out tonight.” He looked at Buck. “You might want to do the same.”

  Buck nodded and wiped his mouth.

  “Why don’t you go to the barn and get ‘em all right now?”

  Buck glanced between Pop and the remaining sausages and potatoes on the serving platter, clearly struggling with his boss’s request.

  “Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” Buck scooted from the table and lifted his plate. “I can take these to the kitchen if you’d like, Miss Livvy.” He reached for the platter.

  “Leave it.”

  At Pop’s quick command, Buck snatched his hand back with a grimace.

  “If there’s any left when you get back with the canteens, you can have ‘em.”

  Livvy prayed that Buck wouldn’t toss her grandmother’s china in the dishpan on his way out, and sighed in relief as the back door opened and closed without a preliminary clatter of plate against metal. Her shoulders relaxed and the day’s activity and drama seeped from her arms, leaving her empty and tired.

  Pop reached for her hand. “You’ll do fine tomorrow, Livvy. I know you will. You’ve got Baker blood in you.”

  She drank in his confidence and affection. “Thanks, Pop. I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m not worried about that.” He patted her fingers with his other leathered hand. “But I want you to be safe. That’s why I want you to ride Ranger.”

  Shocked, Livvy met her grandfather’s solemn gaze. “But he’s your horse, Pop.”

  “That he is, but he’s a good, sure-footed mount, and that’s what you’ll be needing out there in the rough.” He released her hand, folded his arms on the table, and leveled his steely eyes upon her.

  “I know you and Whit sometimes have your squabbles. For a couple of preachers’ kids, you fight like two polecats.”

  Polecats?

  “He will show you exactly how things are done. Do what he tells you, watch for flying hooves, and you’ll be fine.”

  Pop’s eyes glistened and his mustache quirked. “Your grandmother would be proud.”

  “Did she ever work the roundup with you?”

  A deep sigh threatened to cleave the dear man’s chest. “Oh, yes. Our first year here, it was just the two of us roping and branding calves. Your mama helped too, the little sprite. Had her on the stamp iron. We didn’t have that many cows back then, but it was a sight to behold, this old cowboy and his two female hands.”

  He chuckled and slapped both hands on the table as he pushed back. “Think I’ll turn in. We’ve got a long day ahead with an early start.”

  Livvy stood and planted a kiss on his cheek. “If Buck doesn’t hurry back, I’ll save these potatoes for tomorrow morning.”

  The back door banged open and Livvy flinched.

  Pop shook his head.

  “Got the canteens here for you, Miss Livvy.”

  She gathered the dishes and joined Buck in the kitchen. “Thank you. Leave them on the counter there and find your fork. You can clean up the leftovers.”

  Buck grinned like she’d given him an entire pie and nearly had the remains of their meal cleaned off the platter before his backside hit the chair.

  Livvy set the dishes in the pan, shaved in a soap curl, and added hot kettle water. Three canteens lay on the counter.

  “You brought only three cantee
ns, Buck. Didn’t you want to fill yours?”

  He swallowed his last mouthful. “Them’s all there was. That one with the red stripe is mine. The other two must be your grandfather’s and Whit’s, unless Whit has one in his tack that I don’t know about.”

  A tingling burn raced down Livvy’s throat. How could she ask her grandfather to share his water? And she’d rather die of thirst than beg from Whit.

  Tomorrow might be more difficult than she anticipated.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A faint glow edged the distant rimrock. Whit itched to scale its face and find the cougar he knew prowled there, but other work needed tending to.

  The scent of pinion, juniper, and damp earth hung in the air, fallout from a brief rain that had settled the dust. Hidden birds twittered their pre-dawn songs.

  Oro stamped a foot and tongued his bit, impatient to leave. Whit checked his cinch and stirrups, the oilcloth slicker he kept rolled behind the cantle, two ropes coiled and strapped on the right side of the saddle, a full canteen on the other.

  He repeated the routine for a sleek bay mare and Baker’s stout little gray gelding, Ranger. The man insisted that Livvy ride the gray. Whit shortened both stirrup straps a notch. Instead of a rope, the leather thong on her saddle snugged an old flour sack—Livvy’s provisions for their midday meal. Her efforts dulled the irritation that chafed like a splinter under his chaps. But only slightly.

  Buck should be checking his own mount, but he was probably still filling himself full of Livvy’s bacon and biscuits.

  The kitchen door opened, and pale yellow light spilled across the yard. Baker walked out followed by a slight-built boy. Had Jody Perkins wised up and returned in the night? His bunk was empty this morning. Maybe he’d sneaked in before breakfast.

  Anger churned in Whit’s belly as the pair moved toward the hitching rail. Baker loosed the reins holding the bay and pulled himself into the saddle, stiff leg and all. The boy walked around to Ranger’s left side, gathered the reins, and swung himself up with surprising grace. The move drew Whit’s closer scrutiny. Livvy.