He should have recognized the hat.
Stifling a comment, he watched her set her booted feet in the stirrups. From his position on the ground, he could clearly see her eager eyes, her lips slightly parted as she settled in the seat, tested the stirrups. Her hair must be piled inside that toadstool she wore or else she’d whacked it off since last night.
She caught him with a shadowed look. “Just right. Thank you.”
He jerked a nod and turned away.
“And for the gloves.”
He stopped and spoke to his shoulder. “You’re welcome.”
He stepped up on Oro, waited for Buck to join them with the irons, and then turned his back on the sunrise and headed toward the mountain. They’d ride to the top and work their way down. If everything went as he hoped, they’d be done in three days.
Dawn lit the top of Eight Mile and melted down the sides and into the grassland like warm butter. Whit led the small party halfway up the rough side of the mountain toward a park where he expected to find a good number of cow-calf pairs. He looked back to find Baker and Livvy holding their own. Buck brought up the rear.
An hour later, at the edge of a long low saddle, Whit rode through a thick timber stand and broke into a wide clearing. A flat park spread before them, eighty or ninety acres. More than fifty cows grazed with their calves beside them.
If he had enough men, he’d set up a bunch ground, build a fire, and brand the calves up here. But it would take at least one other hand to hold the herd together while he roped and the others held them down and branded. He could hog tie them, but those little critters’d kick the bottom out of daylight, and if one of the mamas got on the hook, somebody would get hurt.
Baker had insisted that Livvy brand, but Whit insisted she do it in a corral. He pulled up and whirled Oro to face his scraggly crew.
“Buck, you take the left. Mr. Baker, you go with him, and Livvy and I will take the right. We’ll ease ‘em out into the middle and drive ‘em nice and slow through this break in the timber. Don’t let them get off in the trees. Any runaways on your side, Buck, you take ‘em. I’ll take any on mine. We’ll push them all down into the upper corrals.”
He looked at each person, waiting for agreement. Baker nodded and tugged his hat brim. Buck grinned and spun his horse around. Livvy swallowed and set her jaw.
Whit screwed his hat down and nudged Oro into an easy lope.
He skirted the park, drawing uplifted looks from a dozen cows that switched their tails and called their calves. Three maverick two-year-olds tossed their heads and broke from the herd. Buck better let ‘em be. They didn’t need a rodeo out here on the back of the mountain. He and Buck could always find those big fellas come fall, and if they didn’t carry a brand, they’d build a fire and use the rings on ‘em.
Oro’s strong rhythmic gait and the sense of being part of something bigger welled inside him. How could any other job replace this? He’d die if he had to work in a store or bank or anywhere but in this open country on the back of a good horse.
A quick check ensured that Livvy was a length behind, the gray keeping pace with Oro but no lust in its eye to race. Guess ol’ Baker knew what he was doing putting his granddaughter on a horse that wasn’t out to take the leader. He prayed she had as much sense as her mount. Otherwise, they’d all be in for a Wyoming rodeo whether he wanted one or not.
He reined in until she came alongside, then they slowed to a walk. “When we get behind them, we’ll push ‘em easy toward that gap we just came through. I’ll ride a little ahead of you in case any try to break out through the trees.”
Livvy met his gaze and nodded, her mouth clamped tight. No smile, no words, all business. But her eyes betrayed her excitement and burned like blue embers.
How could he get her to look at him like that when riding wasn’t involved?
He motioned her on. Heels to the gray, she loped ahead. A horsewoman for certain in her grandmother’s denims. No daylight showed beneath—well, no daylight showed where it shouldn’t.
~
It just kept getting better.
Livvy tried not to lean into the wind of the ride, tried not to encourage Pop’s cowpony to pick up speed, but she couldn’t help it. Life surged through her veins on the beat of the gray’s hooves and the scent of grass and pine and cattle. Had she died and gone to heaven?
Longing to pull off her hat and let her hair whip free, she laughed aloud and the sound fell away with visions of Whit Hutton set back on his heels. She laughed again.
He resented her presence and she resented him for resenting her. How was that for a tune? She’d show him how much horsewoman she was. She’d show him that Pop’s faith was not ill put.
The cattle began to bunch and move as a herd, away from her and toward the opening in the timber.
She pulled up when she reached the end of the park, turned to face them, and leaned down to rub the gray’s neck.
“You’re a good one, Ranger. Good and even tempered and truehearted. Unlike a certain cowboy I could mention.” Scanning the park for Whit, she found him where he said he’d be—riding flank, slowly pushing the herd toward the break. To her right, Pop and Buck were doing the same. If they kept out of the trees, they might make the corrals by mid-day.
The sun was not yet straight overhead, but it threw heat like a hot skillet. She was grateful for the hat, regardless of Whit’s mockery. The gloves he’d given her snugged against her back, tucked in her waistband, and she admitted he wasn’t all bad. Just bad enough to keep her guessing.
She’d never been so hot and cold over anyone in all her life. Well, not really hot and cold, more like hot and cool. Cold had never applied where Whit Hutton was concerned, and life would no doubt be easier if it had. He could set her blood to boiling with his arrogance and her heart to purring with his tenderness. What a maddening man.
Her eyes wandered to Pop riding easy on the bay mare, his gray hat pulled low. He looked like any cowboy trailing a herd, not a man well up in years with a bad leg. What had he been like when he first met Mama Ruth? A striking cattleman who filled the young Englishwoman with spit and fire the way Whit did Livvy?
More laughter bubbled up. Her gentle mother would cringe at such an unladylike phrase as spit and fire, in spite of her ranching heritage. She rode as well as any man and had been doing so long before Robert Hartman turned her head one Sunday morning in Cañon City. At sixteen, she’d recognized the man of her heart behind that pulpit. Why, Whit’s father had married the two of them in an odd ceremony with three brides and three grooms, a feat not since repeated.
With the deep pull of a strong current, Livvy realized that her connection to Whit—if she dared call it that—went back to before she was born.
A holler drew her attention to the right. Buck leaned forward and kicked his horse into the trees, slapping his coiled rope against his chaps as he followed a cow into the timber. No wonder Whit had warned them all. In a moment Buck had vanished, swallowed by the thick woods.
Lord, don’t let him hit a tree or a low-hanging branch.
Pop loped toward the leaders. Whit held his side, and Livvy tightened her hands on the reins. A little bit farther and they’d be through to the other side and headed downslope toward the corrals.
The opening narrowed at the end, not far from where Buck and the cow came crashing through the underbrush. Several cows turned their heads toward the noise, and suddenly the stray and her calf broke through the timber ahead of the herd with Buck hard on her tail. With a smooth, even motion, he built a loop, swung it above his head, and dropped it around the cow’s horns. He turned his horse and dallied the rope around his saddle horn, jerking the cow around. The calf followed, its tongue hanging out from the hard run.
At an easy trot, Buck led the runaway toward the open corral gate, and in no time the others followed her through in a lowing stream of mottled brown and white and black. Pop and Whit rode in with them, and Livvy shut the gate behind the milling herd.
Buck ran his cow up against the fence, threw slack into his rope, and popped the loop off her head. Then he opened another gate as Whit cut several calves from the herd. Buck and Pop steered them into the next pen. Livvy rode around the outside. After twenty calves funneled into the second pen, Whit shut the middle gate.
Buck started a fire and laid in the irons. Livvy looped Ranger’s reins around a corral pole and waved her arms.
Whit rode over.
“We can eat while the fire’s building.”
He looked at Buck and back to Livvy, nodded curtly and dismounted, draping his reins on the top pole. Pop did the same, and all three men squeezed between the poles to the outside.
Livvy took down her bag and set it on a rock a little ways from the corral. Using the sack as a tablecloth, she laid out the sliced bread and beef, a smaller bag of ginger cookies, and what biscuits were left from breakfast. Pop leaned against the rock, and Buck and Whit squatted nearby.
Pop removed his hat, sleeved his brow, and bowed his head.
“Thank you, Lord, for Your good help and this food. Amen.”
Livvy smiled to herself. Pop had always been short on words, but he was long on heart. Certain that everyone had enough to eat, she stacked bread and beef and made quick work of it. Amazed at how hungry she was, she ate two cookies before remembering she had no water.
“Thank you, Livvy.” Pop laid a hand on her shoulder. “That hit the spot.”
Buck lifted his hat and grinned. “Thank you, ma’am. ‘Specially for them cookies.”
Whit straightened. “You ready to get started?”
Ungrateful beast. “As soon as I clean up here.” She stashed what little was left over, tied it on her saddle, and glanced around, not finding what she wanted.
The men had returned to the corral, and Whit was already mounted, swinging his rope at a mottled calf.
She squeezed through the poles into the corral, then pulled on the leather gloves. They fit perfectly.
Of course they did. She held her hands out, inspecting the back and palm, the way the gloves were worn in places and already curved perfectly to each finger. As if made for her. Where would Whit get something like this if they hadn’t been his when he was younger and smaller?
Grimacing at the irony, she reset her hat. In order to follow her heart and be herself, she had to don the trappings of others—her grandmother’s britches, Pop’s hat, and Whit’s gloves.
The calf bawled when Whit’s loop snagged its back legs and he dragged it to the fire. Her grandfather hop-skipped to the calf and pinned it to the ground with one knee, his stiff leg sticking out to the side.
Whit dallied and stepped off Oro, who stood stock still, keeping the rope taut. He grabbed an iron, returned to the squalling calf, and pressed the hot brand to its right hip. Hair sizzled and white smoke billowed around Whit, obscuring him in its cloud.
He stepped back and looked at Livvy. “That’s how it’s done. You up to it?”
She took the iron, walked to the fire, and shoved it in the glowing coals. Whit swung to the saddle and signaled Oro forward, loosening the rope so Pop could let the calf up. It bawled and raced to a corner with the others.
Whit built another loop, and dropped it beneath a second calf that stepped right in. The process repeated, and Livvy prepared for the next victim.
No—not victim. This was their livelihood, their very food for the table and the tables of miners in mountain camps and people in Cañon City and elsewhere. This was life, and she chose to partake.
Buck handed her the hot iron. He should be holding the calves, not Pop, but she suspected her grandfather’s pride had played into the arrangement. Whit watched her, eyes squinted, expression grim. Taking a deep breath, she stepped to the calf, turned the iron so the Bar-HB was upright, and pressed it into the calf’s right hip.
Instantly the hair singed and curled away to cinders. White smoke swirled, heavy with the smell of scorched hide. She coughed but held the iron firmly.
“Good,” Whit shouted.
She lifted the iron and stepped back.
“You don’t need to cook ‘em.” A crooked grin flashed briefly as he loosened his dally. Pop let the calf up.
Whit coiled his rope and built a loop for the next one. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get the iron hot.”
She gritted her teeth. What had she expected? A pat on the back?
Her throat screamed for water, and she looked at the remaining calves huddled in the corner, wondering if they were as parched as she.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Whit had to concede that Olivia Hartman could brand with the best of ‘em. Had to be the Baker blood in her.
A part of him was proud. The other part snarled, but he was careful not to let her hear, or she’d be after his hide with that hot iron.
The next calf was a bull, and Buck stepped in to hold a leg. Pop straddled the calf, pulled out his stock knife, and with a quick grab and slice turned the little fella’s mind toward grass rather than heifers. Whit glanced at Livvy who stood gaping, horrified. Obviously, she hadn’t seen the cuttin’ side of branding.
“Run and grab that cookie sack and bring it over. We’ll have calf fries tonight,” Whit said.
She stood motionless, staring as if she were deaf.
“Go on, Livvy.” Baker motioned toward her horse. “We can’t hold him all day.”
At her grandfather’s word, she squeezed through the pole corral and returned with the small sack. Baker took it, dropped the tenders inside, and snugged the mouth of the sack in his waist. By then Buck had the iron hot, and Livvy laid the Bar-HB against the bawling animal’s hip.
She had grit, he’d give her that.
By day’s end, they’d branded sixty calves and had enough fries for a feast tonight. Whit chose to let Baker explain to his granddaughter how to cook them.
While Buck kicked out the fire, Whit opened the inside gate and let the calves return to their mothers. Pop was back on his horse and rode through the herd to open the outside gate. With little encouragement, the lead cow saw her opportunity and dashed through. The others followed.
The taint of singed hair and hide hung in the air, and deep satisfaction coursed through Whit’s veins. A good day. With what he and the Perkins’ brothers had accomplished earlier, they were more than a third of the way through the stock. If the cattle hadn’t scattered too far, they might have this done in three days after all.
Whit brought up the rear on the ride home. From the way Baker and Livvy sat their horses, it looked like they’d nearly worn themselves out. Baker worried him more with his bum leg than Livvy did. She’d held her own. But Baker’s leg might not last. He should take the fire and let Buck work the calves.
Livvy rode a few yards ahead and a sudden coughing fit drew her up.
Whit leaned forward, setting Oro to a trot. He reined in beside her and looked for her canteen. She didn’t have one.
He unlashed his own and held it out.
She scowled over the hand across her mouth.
Had she gone loco? “Here, take a drink.” He pushed the canteen toward her chest. With a final stabbing glare, she took it, removed the top, and drank like a drunkard.
“Did you really think you could go all day and breathe all that smoke and not need water?”
She coughed again and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t have a canteen.”
Confounded woman. “Why didn’t you say something?”
She stared straight ahead.
“You can have that one.”
She held it out to him. “Thank you, but no thank you.”
He kicked his horse too hard and Oro lunged ahead in a hard trot, then settled to an easy lope. As he passed Baker, a few choice words from his boss’s colorful vocabulary jumped to mind.
Rather than voice his frustration at female wrangling, he pulled up next to Buck, whose horse marched against a tight rein. “I’m glad you didn’t try to chase down those maveri
cks up there today. We can get ‘em later.”
Buck’s mount had the home pastures in his nose and was in a hurry to get there. “I figured as much.” He checked the reins and the horse slowed. They rode a ways in silence before Buck shared his thoughts.
“She did all right, didn’t she?”
Whit slid a sideways glance at the boy. “Yeah, she did all right. But she nearly choked to death on the smoke.”
Buck scrubbed his hand over his face.
“What?” Whit knew that nervous gesture.
“We didn’t have enough canteens. When Baker had me bring ‘em in last night, I could only find three. Why didn’t she say something to the boss?”
“Why does a woman do anything she does?”
Buck guffawed and Whit threw him a warning glare. “She can have mine. I’ve got one in the bunkhouse.”
“I figured Baker’d have a couple extra.”
“Did you ask him?”
Buck rubbed his face again. “No, sir. Didn’t see him after supper and I didn’t think about it this morning.”
“She’s got one now.”
Whit heeled Oro ahead and they loped down the final slope onto the bottom pasture. The sun slanted low across the valley and washed the house and barns in a long yellow light. Gray clouds bunched above the rimrock beyond, and a distant rumble echoed off the mountains to the north. There’d come a rain tonight.
Crossing Wilson Creek, he noted it ran wider than two days ago, swollen with summer storms. More than a light rain tonight could spell trouble. They didn’t need a flood spreading out and running in close to the buildings. He looked again at the bunching clouds as another roll of thunder grumbled louder. Closer.
A fickle woman, the weather.
Whit felt the sneer on his lips as he trotted into the yard and pulled up by the barn. Fickle didn’t begin to describe Livvy. She was up to her old tricks again—fire and ice.
He unsaddled and brushed Oro, then turned him loose in the near pasture to roll and shake and feed on creek-watered grass. Buck rode in next, followed by Baker and Livvy. Whit headed for the bunkhouse. If he wasn’t half starved, he’d skip supper. But the bulge in the bottom of the cookie bag made his mouth water. Hopefully, Livvy’d get it right.
Straight to My Heart Page 8