Baker pushed his plate aside. “They prove it up yet?”
“Started a cabin, but it’s not half finished. She’s still living in a tent.”
“I’ll stake you.”
Whit sucked air and coughed until he thought he’d lose his hotcakes.
“Don’t choke up on me, son.” Baker’s mustache quivered on one side, a sure sign of pleasure in his joke. “You can pay me back in calves. Take you a year or so, but it’ll work out.”
“Thank you, sir.” Whit’s thoughts swam around like panicky cows fording a swollen river.
“Overtons’ land borders mine, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. That’ll make it easier.” Baker swirled his coffee. “When will you take her the money?”
Whit sat straighter, tried to stretch out his lungs, open his burning throat. “Today. She was in a hurry to leave. Has an offer from Doc Mason, Tad said—he’s back home already. Said Doc needs help and she’s handy at fixin’ folks. Other than bullet wounds, I suppose. Anyway, she said they’d be packed and ready to leave when I showed up.”
Baker shoved his chair back. “If her cattle are close, drive ‘em back over the draw and run ‘em in with our bunch. That might keep rustlers from pickin’ ‘em off.”
“There’s one other thing.”
Baker stilled.
“Tad said Jody rode through their place three days ago. Said he was gonna sign on to lay rail for the Santa Fe.”
Baker rolled a couple of words around under his breath and snatched his plate off the table.
“I want to go get him.” Whit waited for his boss to break in half over that piece of news, but the man held his tongue and set his dishes in the pan. He jerked off Livvy’s apron and faced Whit. “Don’t get yourself shot.”
Whit added his plate and cup to the pile. “There isn’t anybody else to bring him home. No family other than Buck and us, and with Buck’s luck, he’d get his head blown off if he showed up in the gorge.”
Baker turned for the dining room. “Come by my study before you leave, and I’ll give you the money for the widow.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The back door flew open and Buck lurched in with a basket full of eggs and a bloody hand. “That fool chicken attacked me!”
Baker shook his head and lumbered into the dining room.
Whit grabbed the basket. “Give me those before you drop them.” The eggs were still warm. “Boil some water and wash the dishes. It’ll clean out your hand.”
“But I’m starving.”
Whit jerked his chin toward the table. “You can have what’s left.”
He set the eggs on a towel like he’d seen Livvy do, and on his way past the table, snatched a hotcake and rolled it up for the ride.
“Hey!” Buck’s offended tone rankled.
“That’s what you get for messing with that hen when Livvy told you not to.”
Four cold cakes should hold the boy, and what was left of the apple butter. If Whit remembered right, Ma had given Livvy two jars. The other one had to be around there somewhere, but he’d look for it later.
At the bunk house, he stuffed his savings in his waistcoat, strapped on a gun belt, and picked up the rifle and scabbard. No intention to join the fight, but no sense being foolhardy and unprotected, either. Sometimes looking well-heeled kept the roughs off your back. He hoped for as much today.
He led Oro around to the hitching rail in front of the house and out of habit, peered at the lace window curtains. No white square today, tipping him off to Livvy’s attempted secrecy. Pressure built up behind his ribs and he pulled a deep draught of clean, morning air. Columbines might do the trick. He’d help her plant ‘em by the back door. Like his pa had for his mother.
He jerked his hat off and scrubbed his head, digging deep for his brain. What was he thinking? This wasn’t his place. And what kind of cowhand went around digging posies?
After stomping his boots on the landing, he stepped inside. Baker sat at his desk in the small study off the dining room, opposite the front door.
“Come on back.”
As Whit approached the big walnut desk, he noted an intricate floral pattern carved into the lid of a wooden box on the desktop. Must have been Ruth’s. What was it with women and flowers?
Baker withdrew the money and returned the box to its drawer. Then he folded the bill in half and handed it to Whit. “You going to Texas Creek after Overtons’?”
“Should take me half a day to get up there and haul him back. Then we can push the widow’s cows over the draw on our return.” He tucked the bill in with the rest of his money.
“Buck and I can handle things while you’re gone.” Baker studied him. “You tell him what you’re doing?”
“No, sir.”
His boss nodded in agreement.
Whit hesitated.
“What?”
“If Jody’s not where I think he is, at that rock fort, I’m gonna hunt for him. He could be someplace else along the river.”
“Face down.”
A muscle in Whit’s cheek flinched. He truly hoped the boy hadn’t gotten himself killed.
Baker waved his hand in dismissal. “Don’t get shot.” He leaned back in his leather chair, both hands grasping the worn arm rests. “I don’t think Olivia could take it.”
Whit’s collar tightened, and he suddenly knew why Baker was staking him on the Overton place.
~
Livvy thought sure a good night’s rest would smooth her ragged nerves, but that required sleep and there had been precious little of it.
As soon as dawn pinked the sky, she bathed at the wash basin and stepped into her petticoat and dress. She scrubbed her teeth with a small brush and baking soda from a tin in her satchel, then rebraided her hair and twisted it low at her neck. Buttoning her good shoes with a hook, she regretted not wearing her boots instead. Less trouble.
She repacked her satchel and smoothed the star quilt, wanting to smooth away her worry over Whit as easily. Easing the bedroom door open, she glanced at Marti’s closed door. Annie’s stood slightly ajar. A light glowed at the bottom of the stairway, and Livvy suspected the lady of the house was making biscuits or gathering eggs.
She crept down the stairs and stopped near the bottom. Annie Hutton sat at the kitchen table with a lamp drawn near and a Bible opened before her. Her forehead rested against her two opened hands and her lips moved. Feeling intrusive, Livvy grasped the railing and stepped up to the previous stair, catching her skirt in the process. Her petticoat ripped.
Annie looked up.
“Good morning.” She rose and came toward the stairs. “I see you are an early riser too.”
“I’m so sorry I disturbed you.”
Annie reached for the satchel and returned to the kitchen. “You are not bothering me in the least. I was merely starting the day the way I always do.” She set the satchel by the back door and went to the stove where coffee simmered. “Want a cup?”
“Yes, thank you.” Livvy took a chair, glancing at the open Bible. Proverbs 3.
“‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.’” Annie poured two cups as she recited the verse and brought them to the table with two spoons.
“You know it by memory.” Livvy deflated with a stab of guilt for not being more familiar with the Scriptures. And she, a preacher’s daughter.
Annie seated herself and pulled the tarnished sugar bowl closer. “That is exactly the reason. Those words go straight to my heart every time I read them. And when I need the Lord’s comfort and strength, reciting them is the quickest and shortest route I know.”
Livvy waited until Annie had sugared her coffee before dipping her spoon into the bowl. “I don’t read as much as I should, at least I haven’t since coming to help Pop at the ranch. It seems like every waking moment is spent cooking or cleaning or gathering or washing. Some household chore always needs tending to.”
�
�Or branding?” Annie’s eyes sparkled with mirth.
Livvy muted a laugh behind her palm. “Oh yes, branding. And dare I admit that I liked it better than most any other chore?” Because it put her close to Whit.
“I can’t say I blame you, though I’m sure my hands would suffer from such a task.”
Livvy felt a certain affinity with this kind woman, one she believed she could trust. “Whit gave me a pair of sturdy leather gloves to use. I think they were once his.” She dared not meet Annie’s gaze, affinity or not.
“It’s no surprise to me that he looks after you like that. His affection for you was clear when you were here last.”
Livvy stole a quick glance to see if Annie meant those revealing words. Who knew a man better than his mother?
A knowing smile followed. “He cares for you, I am certain. May I be so bold to ask if you feel the same?”
Livvy should have let the sun scorch her face yesterday on the way to town. Better that than its current competition with the brightening dawn burning through the windows.
“Yes, I do.” So faint was her answer she doubted if Annie heard it.
The woman reached out to grasp her hand. “That does me good to hear, Livvy. I have been praying for you both.” With a quick squeeze, she rose and set about starting breakfast.
Livvy felt as obvious as a thistle in a columbine patch, certain her cheeks were just as brilliant. But hearing that Whit’s mother prayed for her—for them—touched something deep in her soul.
The hot coffee was warming her more than necessary, so she went for the egg basket. “I’ll gather for you this morning. Is the coop behind the barn?”
“Attached on the left side. Two hens are setting. A red and a black-and-white speckled.”
Livvy thought immediately of her grandfather’s surly russet hen and wondered if Buck had survived the chore.
Later at breakfast, all the Huttons were in a better mood than the previous night at supper when Livvy had asked her unfortunate questions about the railroad war. Which side was in the right? Was the whole thing really worth dying over? Marti had fled from the meal and remained in her room the rest of the evening.
Undoubtedly, the display had something to do with young Tad Overton, for Pastor Hutton had raked his brows together and made guttural noises just like Whit. Livvy’s insides had quaked.
But in the light of morning, Marti came to the table with swollen eyes that quickly brightened as she shared about Livvy’s visit to the curio shop. The girl’s obvious delight in fossil remains pulled her toward a scholarly pursuit, though not the scholarly pursuit her parents imagined. However, if it drew her affections away from the Overton boy, Livvy guessed her family might accept it.
Eager to be on her way, Livvy folded her napkin and gathered her plate and cup. “Thank you for breakfast, Annie. And for supper last night and your wonderful company, all of you.” She looked to each one to emphasize her sincerity.
“Maybe you can persuade our son to come with you next time.” The pastor held his coffee mug in both hands, elbows resting on the table like Whit.
Livvy’s chest tightened. “I will try.” She smiled, hoping it masked her worry over Whit’s uncommon sense of duty where the Perkins boys were concerned.
“And remind him that Papa Whitaker wants him to take over the mercantile.” Marti tacked on the afterthought with a dash of sibling impishness.
Livvy looked away to hide a grin. And a jealous tug. She did not want to marry a store clerk. She wanted to marry a cowboy. A particular cowboy.
Oh, Lord, how self-centered she was.
“Do you have any idea how early Doc Mason is up and around?”
Pastor Hutton leaned back in his chair. “Depends on how late his last call was the day before. But don’t mind knocking good and loud.”
Annie brought two jars from her pantry, wrapped them in toweling, and tucked them into Livvy’s satchel. “If he doesn’t answer, you will simply have to come back to town.”
Livvy pushed the jars deeper into the bag. “Thank you for the—apple butter?”
Annie nodded. “Of course.”
“I left one jar out for the men while I was gone, hoping to appease them in my absence.”
Annie kissed her lightly on the cheek. “You are a good woman, Livvy Hartman.”
Marti rose and took Livvy’s hand. “Come back soon and we can go to the library. They have books on paleontology. And if you stay long enough, we could take the buggy up to the quarry to see the dig.”
“Perhaps, Marti. Don’t make rash promises.” Her father’s remark dampened the girl’s spirit only briefly, and she shot Livvy a sly wink and quick nod.
Outside by the columbines, Livvy paused for one last look. “Thank you all again. I will be sure to give Whit your best wishes.”
“You could give him a big kiss too.”
Annie’s quick swat nearly knocked her daughter off the porch.
Livvy was grateful she had turned toward the wagon, already hitched and waiting. She climbed aboard with the pastor’s hand at her elbow, and his laughing eyes reaffirmed the Hutton family’s playful spirit.
“Annie and I are riding up the river today, something we do quite often, as a matter of fact. Hopefully, she’ll take her daughter’s advice to heart.”
Blushing at the comment, Livvy hardly knew what to say, though she certainly knew where Whit came by his outrageous remarks. Yet how could the pastor take his wife up river with all the shooting?
She gave him a worried look, considering how best to warn someone older and wiser against such an unwise outing.
His mouth quirked up like Whit’s “We don’t go past the hot springs. Not until things are settled with the railroad.”
Relieved, she situated the satchel at her feet, waved at the close-knit family, then clucked Bess ahead. With a quick slap of the reins she was on her way down the lane and on to Main Street. One stop at Doc Mason’s, and then home. She should be at the ranch well before noon, within three hours at the most if she hurried.
And for some unknown and uncomfortable reason, her heart said to hurry.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Whit rode in at a slow walk.
True to her word, the widow had all her worldly possessions—which wasn’t much—loaded in the old buckboard and a sorry-looking horse hitched to it. The other horse was tied to the back. She and Tad waited on stumps around what used to be the fire, cold and scattered now. The spider and tripod were gone, but the tent remained.
Mrs. Overton stood, tension sluicing off her thin shoulders. “The tent is yours and whatever else you find. I have no need of anything to remind me of this place and what I’ve lost here.”
Whit stepped off Oro, dropped the reins, and reached into his waistcoat. “This is for your livestock.” He waited as she counted through the money, disregarding the insult since she was more than likely unaccustomed to such things.
“And this is for the land.” He held out the folded bill.
Tad reached for it.
Whit snatched it away and drilled the boy with a hard look, melting him into the background.
“As agreed.”
She added the bill to the others.
“Do you have papers?”
She pulled a folded piece from her skirt pocket and handed it to Whit. Without another word, she and her son climbed into their wagon and drove away.
They did not look back.
Suddenly alone, Whit exhaled what he recognized as relief. He had not asked the lay of the property, but the paper in his hand would say. He slipped it inside his waistcoat to read later.
The camp huddled in a small meadow fifty yards from the full-running stream he had crossed. Grass-covered hills swelled around it, and behind them rose the timbered ridges and rock-strewn mountains common to the area.
A nice spot. A place that could be home if a man had the right woman. Livvy’s scent whispered by and he turned, expecting to see her standing there. Just the breeze playin
g tricks with his heart.
He walked around the cabin. No floor. He’d lay Livvy a wood floor, someday add a fine carpet like her grandmother’s. And build her a real house.
A huff rose up in his throat. He hadn’t even found the Overtons’ cows yet and here he was dreaming away the morning.
A muffled sound jerked his head toward the tent. His right hand went straight to his gun, and he eased closer to the shabby shelter. Was a coyote poking around?
There—again. His fingers curled around the butt of his pistol and he pulled it from the leather, cocked the hammer. With the barrel he pushed the tent flap aside and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the shadowy interior. And then he saw it.
A black-and-white head poked out from beneath a cot. Two white paws inched forward and a whimper followed. A small dust cloud rose at the swish of a tail.
Whit eased back the hammer and slipped his gun in the holster before squatting. The animal looked away, its paws scooted forward, and the whimper repeated.
Kind eyes. Not spooked or wild. Whit held out his left hand. “Come on, fella.”
The whimper strengthened to a plea that tugged at Whit’s insides. How could they leave a dog behind?
And whatever else you find.
He edged forward, hand outstretched. A cowering dog wasn’t worth its keep—just what he didn’t need.
The animal bellied its way out, hope and distrust mingled in its black eyes.
Whit lowered his voice. “It’s all right. Come on.”
At the sound of promise, the dog crawled to Whit’s hand and tucked its head beneath his fingers. He rubbed the smooth head, the ears. The dog wiggled closer, and soon Whit had both hands on it, running them over the bony back, feeling every rib, and itching to get his hands on Tad Overton.
“What’s your name, fella?”
The dog stood to its full height, a youngster, not more than a yearling, maybe less. Its feathery tail wagged like a parade flag, and hungry eyes drank in Whit as if he were God himself.
“Lord, what am I gonna do with a dog?” He remembered the rolled hotcake in his saddle bag. “Guess that’s an answer, isn’t it.”
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