Marti bounded into the wagon seat.
Annie’s head wagged again. She dangled a quite naked and headless bird in one hand and pushed graying strays from her temple with the other. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with that child.” Sending an encouraging look Livvy’s way, she continued. “Maybe your housekeeping and cooking sense will rub off on her. I dare say mine hasn’t made much of an impact.”
Livvy climbed up next to the girl and, with a parting wave, turned Bess down the short lane to Main Street.
Immediately, they were in the thick of things. Even her parents’ home wasn’t this close to the markets. But Denver was so much larger than Cañon City, a person couldn’t live so near to downtown without taking a room above a store front or in a rooming house. Livvy shuddered. Living that close to so many people and so much noise? How could she ever?
Visions of purple columbines bobbed into her thoughts, whispering their secrets in the cool aspen shade. The palm of her left hand warmed around Bess’s reins, and Livvy tried to measure which was softer—the mountain flower’s delicate petals or a certain cowboy’s kiss.
“You passed the mercantile.”
Marti’s voice jerked Livvy from her high-meadow musing and back to Cañon City.
“Yes.” Daydreaming could land them at the opposite end of town. “We will come back after the museum.”
“Oh, good.” The girl straightened and pointed ahead on the right. “Just ahead in the next block, this side of the saloon.”
Wonderful. Livvy was escorting the preacher’s daughter into the neighborhood of the saloon. Lord help them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Whit’s imposed day of rest for everyone nearly drove him crazy. Without something to do, he’d be loco by noon and cutting wet hay wasn’t his idea of a good distraction.
Two colts waited in the near pasture. He could run them into the corral at the barn and start working on them. His gut told him that wasn’t a good idea either, not with the way his mind kept wandering off after Livvy and the buckboard.
But he’d lose it for sure soaping saddles, mending tack, or helping Buck repair the garden fence. He watched the boy wrestle with the new-fangled barbed wire that Baker wanted strung in a double row above the top rail. It clearly lived up to its name—the devil’s rope—with those spiny points laced through it.
Whit hunted for Baker and found him in the barn resetting a shoe on Ranger. His boss let the horse’s back left hoof slide off his leather apron and stood straight. Stooping over didn’t seem to bother the man as long as he didn’t have to bend his right leg.
“I’m riding up to Overtons’. See if she needs help with her chores.”
Baker dropped his hammer in a small wooden box, unbuckled the apron, and hung it on a nail. “Tell her we’ll come brand her calves in the next few days. See if she has irons. If not, I’m sure Buck can work out her brand with the rings.”
Whit nodded and turned on his heel, not interested in conversation or in explaining his jittery condition to his steely-eyed boss. He saddled Oro, swung up, and struck out for the widow’s, six miles west as the creek ran.
And the creek was more than runnin’. The usually clear stream gushed across the meadow. Muddy with mountain storm water, it swamped its banks like syrup on hotcakes. Oro pranced across, tucking his chin and twitching his ears at the chattering late-spring runoff. Yesterday’s storm had hurried the high-country snowmelt and most likely set the Arkansas to churning.
Not any more than Whit’s gut. That little catch in Livvy’s breath when he’d kissed her hand had spurred his heartbeat as sure as any rowel could set a bronc to twisting. And she’d not jerked away. From the look on her face, she’d liked it. But that didn’t solve his problem of getting her father’s blessing and having something to show for his own worth.
He should have bought those cows when he was thinking about it instead of chewing on the matter. Three, four head even. Anything was better than nothing.
Whit rode over a draw in the near hills and paused to look down on the Overton place. The woman still lived in the tent her husband had put up, for an unfinished cabin slouched next to it. Another winter like that and she and her no-account son might freeze to death.
Whit took the trail down in plain view of the camp and waved his hat over his head hoping the widow would see the movement if she didn’t hear him coming. He didn’t need a startled woman peppering him and his horse with buckshot or bullets.
She stooped over a campfire tripod stirring something in an iron kettle. Supper, he supposed. Beans and a little pork wafted toward him. She set the spoon aside, returned the lid, and straightened. As he reined up next to the half-built cabin, Whit could easily see the worry lines creasing a face too young to look that old.
Would that happen to Livvy if she married him?
The thought cut him like a barb on Buck’s new garden wire.
The widow pushed hair out of her face with the back of her hand. “Good morning, Whit. What brings you over?”
He stepped off Oro and dropped the reins, then removed his hat and walked to the fire. “Mornin’, ma’am.”
She handed him a tin cup of strong-smelling coffee. He nodded his thanks and sat on an upturned stump. She took one opposite, with the tripod between them, and cradled a similar cup. Even from a distance her hands revealed the rough, cracked skin of hard work.
“I’ve come to see if you need any help with your chores.” He glanced around for some sign of what needed to be done.
The woman looked over her shoulder at the tent, then returned her attention to Whit. “We’re doing all right. Tad’s been getting stronger every day, but he’s resting now. Takes it out of him in the mornings.”
The tent flap pulled back and the boy stepped out, his arm in a sling and his hair dirty and wild like a mountain man’s. Gaunt and weary, he lowered himself onto a stump, and his ma handed him her coffee.
Surprised to see Tad, a knot yanked into Whit’s gut. The odds were against these two. Sure, he and Buck could finish the Overtons’ cabin before winter, but would the widow and her boy get enough food stored up? Did they have warm clothes and enough ammunition to keep varmints away?
Did they have any money for supplies?
An old buckboard sat behind the tent, and two horses grazed a ways off.
“We’re makin’ out.” The boy’s defiant tone made Whit think otherwise.
“How many head do you have?” Whit swirled the thick coffee, watching it lap around the inside of the cup rather than catch the boy’s eye and get his back up.
“Twenty cows,” the widow said. “At least that’s how many my husband bought.” She looked down at her hands, and her hair fell across her tired eyes.
“You be interested in selling them?” Whit spooked himself with the question, wondering how it had fallen out of his mouth without so much as a serious consideration.
Mother and son exchanged a look, and she sat a little straighter, pushed her hair back again.
“You offering?” the boy asked.
Was he? Baker had tried to buy her out in early spring, but she’d refused. Had loneliness, back-breaking work, and her son’s stupidity changed her mind? Whit made an offer—every last dollar he had in his bedroll.
The boy looked at his ma, and she jerked a nod.
“Done.” Tad walked to Whit, sticking his left hand out in an offside handshake. “They’re yours.”
Whit stood and took the boy’s hand but kept his eyes on Mrs. Overton. The cattle were more hers than her son’s. The transaction was hers to make.
She looked at Whit. “You can have the land too, for a hundred more.”
Whit didn’t have a hundred more and wasn’t sure he wanted the place. Things were gettin’ outta hand. Helping with the Overtons’ chores was a lot different than buying the whole kit and caboodle.
“I’ll see what I can do.” Again his gut knotted. He’d already done too much.
She sighed and a few worry lines
slipped off her face. Whit looked again to make certain, and sure enough, she seemed ten years younger already. She almost smiled.
“We can be out tomorrow. Can you get the money by then?”
She didn’t beat around the bush any more than Livvy.
“There’s no hurry, ma’am. You can take your time. I might not be able to get back over here tomorrow.”
Her shoulders slumped and she shrank before his eyes. Tad coughed and wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve. “Doc Mason told me he needed a nurse, or someone who could help him with his patients. I told him Ma here was right good at fixin’ people, and he said he’d think on it. We could sure use that job ‘fore somebody beats us to it.”
We? Us? Whit wanted to thrash the boy. “What will you be doing while your ma’s working for the doctor? Taking pot shots at the railroad crew?”
Whit’s conscience barely nipped him as a scowl curled Tad’s brow into a dark snake. With a bold stare, Whit dared the boy to make something of the remark. He’d gladly give him the lickin’ he needed.
“We’ll be ready when you come with the money.” Mrs. Overton stood, and Whit heard goodbye in the movement. He handed her his coffee cup and put on his hat.
But Tad wasn’t finished.
“I ain’t the only one worked on the rail lines.” He smirked as if his information was valuable.
Whit took the bait. “Is that right? Someone from around here?” Suddenly Jody galloped through his thoughts.
“You missin’ a hand over at Baker’s spread?”
Whit stepped toward the boy. “You know something you should be tellin’ me?”
The smirk held but Tad moved behind a stump. “Jody Perkins rode through here three days ago, first day I was back. Said he was gonna lay rail.”
“Hush, Tad. You don’t know if he really went to work for the railroad. He could have been full of bluster.”
Tad snorted and hung the thumb of his good hand in his waist. “He’s there. Makin’ three dollars a day at it. A whole lot better’n punchin’ cows.”
Whit wanted to wipe the sneer off the boy’s face, but he figured he’d have a she-bear on his back if he tried it. He shoved his hat down hard and gave Mrs. Overton a nod. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
~
Curious, indeed. Livvy looked at the sign above the store as they left: Winton’s Curiosity Shop. She had read about prehistoric creatures that once roamed the earth, had even seen drawings of their massive bones the size of a man. But to see an actual fossil right before her eyes was an experience she’d never dreamed of. In a small way, she understood Marti’s fascination with the unusual and her rejection of the mundane.
Not that teaching children was mundane. It was honorable work for any woman. But studying fossils and discovering secrets of the past offered the mystique of the unknown.
Livvy drove Bess around the corner, two blocks east, and back to Main Street, where they stopped at the rail before Whitaker’s Mercantile. Marti jumped down with a young boy’s enthusiasm rather than a lady’s grace and restraint. No wonder Annie Hutton had fits over her daughter.
The girl dashed through the door, setting the bell to singing as she raised her own melodic “Hel-lo-oh.”
Livvy set the brake, looped the reins, and followed through the open door. The smells swept her back to childhood days of visiting her grandparents and stopping here for a sweet. And Mr. Whitaker looked the same, with his snowy hair and mustache and rosy Father Christmas cheeks. Marti greeted him with a kiss and a hug, then hurried to the back where her grandmother Martha ground fresh coffee beans. Arbuckle’s, Livvy guessed from the rich aroma. Mentally she added several pounds to her list.
Livvy held her hand out to Mr. Whitaker. “Good day, sir. How nice to see you again after so long.”
He smothered her hand in both of his and cocked one white brow. “It’s Daniel to you, young lady. Why, you’re nearly kin, you know.”
Feeling as much, she appreciated his welcome. “I feel the same, Daniel. Thank you.” Withdrawing her hand, she turned to survey the goods and stopped at the sight of a bright flag hung on the store’s back wall—new since her last visit. Thirty-eight white stars gleamed against a deep blue field, flanked on the right and below by white and red stripes.
“Is this the first time you’ve been down since Colorado earned statehood?”
Livvy tallied the years. “The first time I’ve been in the mercantile. The last time we came was for Mama Ruth’s services, and we didn’t stop in then.”
A sudden sadness flickered in the man’s eyes. “So sorry to lose her, dear. So sorry.”
He came around the counter. “Well now, you must be here for supplies. I understand you are helping your grandfather Baker at the ranch.”
“Yes.” She felt in her skirt pocket for the list.
“Did Whit ride in with you?”
Against Livvy’s deepest wishes, warmth raced up her neck and she turned away, suddenly interested in the nesting salt boxes against the opposite wall. “Not this time. He had too much work.” She bit her lip at the near lie, assuring herself it was partially true.
A deep chuckle rumbled in the man’s throat, and she suspected Daniel Whitaker saw through most of his customers’ defenses. “I was hoping the boy would take over the store for Martha and me, but he’s set on cowboying. Gets that from his father, you know. He wasn’t always a preacher.”
Livvy did not know. That story had failed to make it to the dinner table. “No, I’ve not heard about Pastor Hutton’s younger days.” She faced the storekeeper hoping to hear more.
Instead, he held out his hand for her list.
She complied. “I will also have five pounds of that wonderful Arbuckle’s I smell cooking.”
“I married a mighty smart woman.” He glanced at Martha and her namesake, their heads bent together over some intriguing topic. “We’ve sold more coffee since she keeps it going all day instead of only in the morning. People can’t resist the smell.”
Within an hour, Livvy had her flour and sugar, coffee and toweling, and a few other things not on her list that she knew her grandfather wouldn’t mind. Daniel had the wagon loaded, and she stood at the counter as he wrote out her ticket.
“In a way, I’m glad Whit did not come to town with you.”
Livvy caught his quick glance.
He pulled letters from her grandfather’s mail slot, handed them to her, and lowered his voice. “There’s going to be trouble over that railroad.” Leaning over the counter, he dropped his voice to a whisper. “Santa Fe hired a Kansas sheriff to come head the fight and got the U.S. Marshall’s office to pin a star on him.”
Livvy blinked and held her breath.
“W. B. Masterson. Bat, they call him. A fast gun, I hear. He brought in his pal J. H. Holliday to gather a posse of sorts, and they’re holed up at the roundhouse in Pueblo.”
The hushed urgency in the man’s voice chilled Livvy’s blood no less than the mountain lion’s scream. “Why are you telling me this?” The mail trembled in her hand, and Daniel enfolded it in his.
“I’m sorry, Livvy. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but I know you are a praying gal. Both you and Whit were raised by godly parents, and you could not do any better than to pray that this so-called war comes to a halt.”
His bushy brows locked together. “If it comes to a fight, it’s not the wealthy train barons that will be catching lead. It’s the young men from this community.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Whit opened the kitchen door and sucked back a hoot that nearly knocked him over. Baker stood at the stove flipping hotcakes, Livvy’s apron tied high around his chest.
“Mornin’.” A hearty cough mangled his greeting as he hung his hat on a chair.
Baker scowled over his shoulder. “Least you didn’t say good mornin’.” He poured a saucer-sized round of batter, then picked up the coffee pot, a bandana bunched on the handle.
Whit snagged a cup from the counter. “Thanks.”
“Buck’s pickin’ eggs.” Baker grunted as he flipped the hotcake over. “Livvy’s got him plumb scared of that red hen.”
Whit marveled at Livvy’s ability to keep them all doing her bidding. And missing her like a pup missed its ma.
“What’d you learn at Overtons’?”
Whit swallowed a mouthful of coffee and flinched. A shade or two stouter than what Livvy cooked up. “The widow wants to sell.”
Baker flopped the cake onto a stack next to the stove, shoved the griddle back, and took the plate to the table. “Grab the syrup.”
Whit found a tin on the side board and, tucked into the corner, a jar of his ma’s apple butter. He brought it too. Served Livvy right if they ate it all while she was gone, leaving them the way she had.
Feeling all of twelve years old, he set the jar and tin on the table and took a seat.
Baker forked three cakes onto his plate and reached for the apple butter. “How many head does she have?”
Confession was good for the soul, Whit’s pa had always said. “None.”
His boss looked up.
“I bought every blasted one, sight unseen.” Whit slumped beneath the weight of what he’d done. He’d have to work for Baker another four years just to earn back what he’d spent in less than four minutes.
Baker grunted, cut into his hotcakes. “How big a herd?”
“Says there’s twenty cows but could be forty head by now countin’ yearlings. Don’t even know if they’ve been branded.”
Baker sopped up a mouthful and chewed for a moment. “That will get you started. You gonna run ‘em with mine?”
“I’d like to. Been thinking on a brand, but I haven’t registered one yet.”
Baker watched him with that gunmetal glare. Whit wasn’t about to tell him of his idea—a double H for Hutton and Hartman beneath a mountain peak. He had to tell Livvy first, that was if her father allowed the union. The thought soured even his ma’s sweet apple butter dripping off his hotcakes.
“You takin’ the land too?”
“Can’t.” Whit cut another bite and chased it with coffee. “She wants a hundred dollars for it.”
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