“Pa-ah!” Marti spoke for everyone, and for once Whit appreciated her impudence.
“Caleb, really,” his ma chided. “Tell us what it says.”
“Oh, you mean this?” He lifted the thin folded paper.
Marti stamped her foot underneath the table.
“Martha Mae, hold your foot.” Their ma fought her own battles against foot stomping, and Whit grabbed his coffee cup to hide that bit of knowledge.
Slowly and deliberately, his pa unfolded the paper and silently read the message, moving his lips as he did so. Marti made growling noises, and Whit’s ma scraped her shoes back and forth on the braided rug beneath the table.
“DRG to armory with Sheriff Price to commandeer cannon. Masterson and ATSF in possession. Stormed telegraph office. Shots fired. On to roundhouse. Masterson surrendered. Most well.”
“Most well?” Whit’s ma held trembling fingers to her lips. “Does that mean someone was shot?”
Pa refolded the paper and slipped it into his waistcoat. “Most likely we will know more tomorrow. But it sounds like it didn’t turn into the blood bath I feared, thank the Lord.”
“But who stormed the telegraph office?” Marti’s eyes flashed with a mix of excitement and fear.
“I heard talk at the mercantile that the Denver crew rode to Pueblo to seize the cannon. But this telegram says that Masterson and the Santa Fe men already had it.”
“Then why did Masterson surrender?” Whit could make no more sense of the telegram than his sister and ma.
“We’ll have to wait until our so-called posse returns to get the whole story. And I am certain that it will be the talk of the town for weeks. The trick will be getting the story straight once we start hearing those men boast and gloat.”
Whit’s ma went to the sideboard and returned with a vinegar pie.
His mouth watered for the “in-between” desert they always ate before the peaches came on. She must have been saving her strawberries for jam.
“But who won?” She sliced a generous piece for each member of the family. “If you can call it winning.”
Whit’s pa laid a gentle hand on his wife’s arm and looked into her worried eyes. “I’d say the town won.”
As good an answer as any, at least until they had more details.
Whit cut into his pie and let the sweet custard and flakey crust melt in his mouth. The railroad would run through the mountains’ heart to Leadville—one way or another. He’d prefer men not die over it. Especially young men.
If some hadn’t already.
The next morning, Whit left before sunup and stopped at the livery. The whoosh of Pete’s billows seeped through the crack in the massive barn doors. The smithy was getting a head start before the day’s heat vied with his furnace, and the twang of hot metal nipped Whit’s nose as he tied Oro at the rail.
He walked the alleyway, checking each stall for a stout black gelding with a white blaze, and found it in the fourth one, feeding on grass hay.
“Mornin’, Whit.” The ping of hammer on iron punctuated the man’s greeting. “What brings you into to town so early?”
Whit stopped near the anvil, watched Pete’s massive arm flex as he gripped an L-shaped piece and shoved it into the fire.
“Stayed at my folks last night, and I wanted to see you about a job before I left today.”
The blacksmith withdrew the glowing iron from the coals, laid it over the anvil’s horn and hammered it around. “What kind of job?”
“I need a brand.”
Pete glanced up, repositioned the piece. “The Bar-HB got so many cows they need another iron?”
Whit thumbed his hat up. “I’m starting my own herd.”
The blacksmith set his hammer down, laid the piece across the anvil, and mopped his sweaty face with a rag. “Show me.”
Whit squatted and smoothed the finely-ground dust with his hand. Then he drew the double H with a wide inverted V across the top.
“Like a rafter,” Pete said, looking over Whit’s shoulder.
“Wider. It’s a mountain. Spreads over both letters here.” Whit retraced the angled bars that, to him, resembled a mountain peak, then straightened and wiped his hand on his pants. “Any way I can get it today?”
“After dinner is the best I can do.”
Whit was hoping to be home before that. “No sooner?”
A thick arm swept toward the anvil. “Got shoes to make.”
“All right. Afternoon it is.”
He repositioned his hat and, remembering his other task, jerked his chin toward the alleyway. “Who brought in the black gelding?”
Pete picked up his hammer and chuckled. “I saw the Bar-HB when the sheriff brought it in. Wondered how it got all the way down the mountain with a saddle and no rider.”
Whit’s throat tightened. “Sheriff? No rider?” Not one thing funny about that.
“Then he told me he locked the boy in the jailhouse. Said to keep the horse until the Denver railroad crew got back from Pueblo. Even paid me.”
“He being the sheriff?”
Pete nodded, grabbed the tongs, and shoved the bent iron back into the fire. “You gonna take the black with you?”
Whit dragged his hand over his face. “Yeah, I’ll take him when I leave. Put the brand on Baker’s tab, if you don’t mind. I’ll square up with him.”
The smithy returned to his work, and Whit headed for the door and fresh air.
Dawn flushed the horizon, and he thought of the cougar. Hoped she hadn’t taken another calf while he was gone. Hoped even more that Baker hadn’t heard her scream again and gone out looking for her.
Urgency slinked in and started gnawing at his gut. There’d be a hole clean through him by dinnertime, and he wouldn’t be able to eat even if he wanted to.
He swung into the saddle and struck out for the mercantile. His grandfather would have the coffee on, few customers this early, and plenty of time to hear how his grandson was going into the cattle business.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A cow bellowed, and Livvy’s eyelids fluttered open. Sparrows chittered from the lilac bush near her window, and she burrowed beneath her quilt, listening, delighted to be back on the ranch.
And just that quickly, worry nibbled a hole in her comfort. Was Whit back? Or was he still riding the countryside looking for Jody Perkins and meeting up with God knew who?
Throwing off the quilt, she sat up and stretched her arms above her head. Her Bible lay open on the bedside table, and a ribbon marked the passage she’d read the night before. “‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding.’”
Trusting God with her eternal soul had been easy. Raised to take Him at His word, she believed what He said about salvation. It all made sense to her—God’s gift of love and forgiveness in Jesus.
But trusting Him with her heart where Whit was concerned? For some reason, that was harder.
“Oh, Lord, please protect him from gunmen and his own brash ways.” Tears pricked her eyes and she knuckled them away. What choice did she have other than to trust God? She looked again at the passage. Lean not on thine own understanding.
That was her only option, and she knew full well that her own understanding fell far short on so many things. She could not see Whit at the moment. She could not perceive his thoughts, nor did she know his next move. She didn’t even know where he was.
“Oh, God, help me trust You.”
Fear pressed in and took a bite. If she truly placed Whit in the Lord’s hand and removed her own clutching fingers, she could lose him.
What if God chose not to bring him home safely?
What if a future with Whit was not in God’s plan for her life?
She closed the Bible, determined to commit that particular verse to memory as Annie Hutton had. Maybe that would calm her quaking heart.
After washing and dressing for the day, she tied her hair back with a blue ribbon, and plucked the egg basket from the kitchen coun
ter on her way to the hen house.
Sweet mountain air filled her lungs and soul with fledgling hope, and even weeds sprouting in the garden failed to discourage it. Though she’d pay dearly for a week’s neglect—three days spent branding and two in town—at least Buck’s prickly new fence looked to be holding out the deer.
She lined the basket with pink rhubarb stalks, then went to the coop where she found the red hen napping atop her clutch.
He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.
The old childhood verse flew across the years. “Again, it’s trust,” she whispered to the old hen. Blinking away a rising sting, she stepped back, watching the docile creature that could become a vicious defender if necessary.
How much more so the Lord?
Forcing herself from thought into action, Livvy quickly cleaned out the remaining nests and left the coop. Daylight was burnin’, as Whit would say. The memory of his voice tugged at her insides.
And Buck Perkins tugged at the back door, stomping his feet on the step. Behind him, Livvy cleared her throat loud enough to be heard. He looked over his shoulder and opened the door wider, stepping aside for her to enter.
“Thank you, Buck. And thank you for washing before you come inside.”
His mumbled “Yes, Miss Livvy” faded behind the closing door, and she smiled at his reticence. She’d make a civilized man out of that boy if it was the last thing she did.
The morning flew by with rhubarb and egg-custard pies, cinnamon cookies, and the scrubbing of what had not been scrubbed in a week. By then it was time to feed Pop and Buck again. As soon as she finished cleaning up after dinner, she hung her apron over a chair back, went to her room, and traded her blue calico dress for a blouse and Mama Ruth’s denims. She’d forego the hat since the sun was edging away toward the western peaks.
Pop snoozed in his desk chair, his stockinged feet crossed on the desk blotter and his mustache ruffling as he snored. Easing past the door, she chose not to wake him. She’d be back in an hour or two, in plenty of time to serve leftovers for supper, with bread and apple butter. And more pie.
Maybe it was habit that prompted her to saddle Ranger rather than another horse. He had proved such a stalwart fellow during the branding. His surefootedness comforted her, and he wisely avoided badger holes long before she even saw them. She could ride Ranger and relax, enjoy the mountain beauty without being overly alert. And that was exactly what she wanted to do.
She set the sturdy gray to a leisurely walk and angled him across the meadow toward the rimrock. Cottonwoods clustered at the base of the red wall and she expected to find columbines hiding in their shade. The sky hung like a blue curtain, a sharp contrast to the cliffs and quivering green trees.
Ranger’s ears pricked forward and he raised his head higher as they approached the towering wall. Livvy tried to follow his gaze, but saw only the multi-hued strata of rock and sediment laid down over the centuries. Perhaps a deer or mountain sheep had sent a loose stone tumbling, catching the horse’s keen hearing.
In a moment, he relaxed his neck and plodded onward, matching Livvy’s peaceful demeanor. She marveled at such color so far from town, more varied and brilliant than any dressmaker’s work or gaily painted house. And with the afternoon sun behind her, shining directly on the scene, the rocks and trees and grass shimmered with near incandescence.
Tranquility embraced her. No shouting freighters and rattling wagons. No rowdy miners. No bickering women haggling over a merchant’s prices. No people sounds at all. Simply peace.
A sigh escaped her lips and she settled even deeper into the saddle.
The cottonwoods were farther than she anticipated—a phenomenon she’d noticed during the branding. Pristine air made the mountains and ridges appear closer than they really were. But the ride was pleasurable, and as she approached the trees, her expectations were rewarded. Fragile purple heads clustered in gossipy groups.
When she stopped at the clearing’s edge, Ranger immediately began lipping the tender grass. She untied the old flour bag she’d brought for holding columbines on the return trip. A heavy cooking spoon, perfect for digging, weighted it down.
Slipping to the ground, she dropped Ranger’s reins, confident that the well-trained horse would stay nearby.
She stepped carefully through the patch, intent on her hunt, and stopped at the most prolific clusters to dig up a clump for transplanting. Without her notice, the afternoon waned.
A distant cloud’s pass across the sun alerted her to the fading day.
One more clump, and then home.
An unexpected pile of leaves and brush caught her eye, and she turned aside to inspect it. Persistent buzzing hung about, and a septic odor wafted her way. Odd that she would smell an open wound here in the meadow so far from people.
Whit’s words at a long-ago breakfast hit her memory like a rifle shot: I found her latest kill in the cottonwoods, half covered with leaves and brush.
Livvy’s breath locked in her lungs as she stopped dead still. The fine hair on her arms rose, and a spidery shiver crawled up her back. Someone—or something—was watching her.
~
Whit made Jody Perkins ride next to him on the way to the ranch. Maverick trotted drag, unaware of the insulting position and grinning as if happy to be included at all.
The pride-busted boy sat his horse like a seed-corn sack, slump-shouldered and sullen. Three times before they cleared town, Whit convinced himself not to whip the stuffing out of him. Buck would more than likely see to that.
Jody had to keep reining in the black, determined as it was to lead. He’d check the horse with quick jerks on the reins, and Whit would check him out. Was he mad at being found in the hoosegow or was he mad that Sheriff Price had locked him up so he couldn’t follow the Denver bunch to Pueblo?
Jody Perkins didn’t know how lucky he was.
A heavy sun hung in the late-afternoon sky by the time they made the ranch road. The boy hadn’t said two words and that suited Whit just fine. He had other things on his mind.
If he didn’t care so much for his horse and the black, he’d over-and-under it all the way home. His scalp itched and it wasn’t due to his pa’s trough water from the day before. It went deeper.
His blood simmered with warning, yet their surroundings offered no clue. Oro gave no sign that predators lurked. Even Maverick was unaffected, though his carefree countenance could simply mean he had as much sense as Jody Perkins and wouldn’t know a mad bear if one slapped him on the rump.
Whit slid his Winchester partway from the scabbard and slid it back in. He did the same with the Colt on his hip, made sure the pull was smooth and unhindered. He flexed his right hand, and the gesture drew a worried glance from Jody.
Served him right.
Whit’s nerves bunched in his legs and his back, and he urged Oro into an easy lope. Another half hour and they should see the barn roof and the rimrock across the valley.
Rimrock. The word rippled through his arms and down his back. He was more nervous than a prairie dog at a badger picnic.
Watch her, Lord. Please, watch out for Livvy till I get there.
Until he got there? What an arrogant prayer—as if he had more say-so than the Almighty. Maybe there was a bite of truth in Livvy’s stinging reprimand of him for not praying. He needed to trust the Lord more and stop thinking everything depended on his doings. But that’d be a whole lot easier if he could see Livvy from where he sat atop his good horse.
When they loped into the yard, the place was deserted. No Buck, no Baker, no Livvy. No lights in the house, and the sun had pulled itself behind the first ridge. Before long it would tuck tail and run for cover of night.
“Check the house for Buck and Livvy,” he told Jody. “I’ll check the corral and pasture.”
The boy hit the ground running.
Whit loped to the barn and around to the back pasture. Baker’s gray was gone. Either Whit’s boss or the woman he
loved was out riding.
Jody ran out the kitchen door and halfway to the barn before he yelled. “Neither one’s here. Just the boss.”
Buck’s horse was in the barn. That left Livvy out alone. Hurt? Trapped? Lost?
The yelling drew Buck from the bunk house, barefoot and shirtless. Whit slid Oro to a stop before him and tossed him the Colt. “Fire this three times if Livvy rides in.” Buck held the gun as if it were hot iron and nodded so fast Whit thought his head would fly off.
He whirled Oro around and squeezed his heels. The buckskin lunged forward and landed on the gallop, straight for the fading red rimrock.
Baker’s gray caught the last of daylight as Whit neared the meadow’s edge. He slowed to a trot, saw the horse’s reins dragging as it grazed. At Whit’s approach, it jerked its head up and rumbled a greeting.
Livvy was nowhere.
Had she fallen? Had Ranger thrown her into some spot Whit couldn’t see in the waning light? Or was she off climbing the outcroppings, getting herself in a fix.
And then he saw her yellow hair. She stood a hundred feet beyond the gray, against a bank of cottonwood trees, as still as stone, looking down. Every fiber in Whit’s body wanted to run to her and sweep her into his arms, but his instincts told him to look closer.
Only the cottonwood leaves moved, fluttering in the early evening breeze. And a long golden rope that whipped soundlessly from side to side atop a small pile of boulders.
Whit’s blood froze. A shout formed in his throat but he checked it.
He drew out the rifle, cocked the hammer, and took aim. The gray’s ear swiveled at the metallic click. Livvy didn’t move.
Daylight faded by degrees. He hadn’t warned Livvy about riding out alone. How could he have been so careless? Why hadn’t he hunted that cat down when he had the chance?
Regret dug its rowels deep. Oh, God, please…
His finger snugged the trigger as he sighted just to the left of the boulder that hid the cougar’s body. Only the movement of its tail betrayed its position. If he shot too soon he’d miss. If he shot too late…
Slowly, calmly, Livvy raised her head and looked at him. She knew.
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