Don’t run, Livvy. Don’t run.
How he loved her! Helplessness burned a hole clean through him as she turned around. Her gasp reached his ears as her hands reached her face.
The cat leaped. Whit fired.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The rifle’s report bounced off the rimrock and set Ranger to prancing. Whit kicked Oro into a run and jumped off before the horse came to a complete stop.
His eye and his rifle never left the cat stretched the length of Livvy, its tongue lolled across her hair. Blood soaked her blouse.
Neither of them moved.
He kicked at a plate-sized back paw. No response.
“Livvy.” The word scraped from his throat, dragging his soul with it.
Finger on the trigger, he knelt beside her, laid a hand on the lion, feeling for a pulse. Satisfied the animal was dead, he knelt and rolled the cat off Livvy. His heart stopped.
Her chest barely rose with each shallow breath, and her hands covered her face—bloody hands, striped with seeping gashes that widened and spilled into rivulets that ran down her arms.
He choked out her name and lifted her to him.
She melted against him and sobbed. “I thought—I thought—”
“It’s all right now, darlin’. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” He kissed the top of her head, felt her heart pounding against his. Oh, God, you guarded her steps and prodded me on. Thank you. With all my life, I thank You.
Easing her onto his leg, he gently lifted the fingers of one of her hands, afraid of what he’d find. But her fair face bore only the wash of her tears.
“We need to get you back to the house. Take care of these scratches on your hands.”
A great soundless sob racked her body and she lowered the other hand. “What scratches?”
More like gouges. They dripped onto the denims she was so proud of, and when she finally saw them she cried out.
Whit pulled off his neckerchief and wrapped it around her right hand, the more deeply cut of the two. Then he stood, easily lifting her in his arms. “Can you ride?”
She nodded. Of course she’d say yes. He was proud of her stubbornness, but he couldn’t have her passing out. “I’m putting you on Oro. I’ll sit behind you and lead Ranger.”
He looked deep into her shining eyes, so round and terror-filled. “Are you sure you can sit the saddle?”
~
Livvy hadn’t been waited on since she was twelve and sick with a fever. But she had no say in the matter. The laudanum Pop administered at annoyingly regular intervals left her head fuzzy.
Whit was worse, seeing to the bandages that swathed both hands, tenderly changing them each morning and even more tenderly, applying a healing salve.
But more healing than Doc Mason’s cure-all ointment was the love in Whit’s eyes. If he never spoke the words in her lifetime, she knew he loved her. The admission spilled over with every touch and every smoky glance that sent shivers coursing through her body.
She yearned for him.
And he knew it.
For that she could kick him and would if she could stand without feeling light-headed and woozy. Yet for all her fussing and grousing, she thanked God for Whit’s attention and Pop’s medication.
Only twice since the attack had she wakened in the night with a cold, incalculable fear clutching her heart. She must have cried out, for both times her grandfather had come immediately, murmuring soothing words, assuring her she was safe, tucking the quilt around her as if she were a child again.
But in the daylight she had been remarkably calm.
Again, she was resting—as Pop insisted—with her legs extended on the dining room settee. She adjusted her skirt and gingerly flexed her fingers, forcing the stiffness from them.
Her hands would always be scarred. When she’d held them unbandaged before the mirror, side by side as they’d been that day against her face, the red swath of three razor-like claws declared how close she’d come to disfigurement. To death. The cuts were smooth, deep, precise.
She’d never understand why she had raised her hands. But she didn’t have to understand. God’s timing had been even more precise than the lion’s attack.
Restless rather than restful, she swung her legs down and stretched her back, considering a trek to the kitchen pantry.
Every morning for a week, Buck had faithfully delivered a basketful of eggs. But the morning he discovered hatchlings peeking beneath the old red hen, he’d strutted more than the rooster.
“You should see them babies,” he cackled at breakfast.
“Those babies,” Livvy murmured.
Buck shot her a shy glance. “Yes, ma’am. Those babies.”
“You act like you had something to do with ‘em.” Pop’s mustache twitched.
Buck blushed and ducked his head. “I did. I left her alone.”
Whit snorted. “After she nearly peeled the skin off your hand the first time you reached in there.”
Jody hooted, fitting in more comfortably than he had for a few days. Buck had worn him out, and he’d no doubt think twice before he lit out after any more hired guns.
Livvy had awkwardly spread apple butter across one of Pop’s famous hotcakes, getting more on the plate than the cake. Whit reached to help her, and she stopped him with a deadly glare. He smirked and withdrew his hand before it suffered the same as hers, but from a well-aimed fork.
Chuckling at the memory, she prepared to stand when Pop came out of his study and straight at her with a bottle and spoon.
She shooed him off. “I am done with that, thank you very much. I must get my mind clear, and you’ve got me all cloudy and befuddled with that whiskey you’re giving me.”
He stopped short, stared at the bottle, then held the label side toward her. “It is not whiskey. See here? It’s laudanum.”
“Oh, Pop, I’m teasing you. But I cannot take any more. I need to start thinking straight. Why, I could barely make sense of the newspaper article about the train war.”
He grunted and stuffed the cork back in the bottle. “Makes no difference if you ask me. Far as I can tell, Masterson went back to Kansas. Some folks think he was paid off. But I think he got smart and figured he’d let the train barons fight it out.” A bushy brow raised. “Denver did have a court order, you know. Proved they had the right-of-way through the gorge.”
She vaguely remembered reading something about that on a page of her hatband stuffing, but regardless, the whole affair sounded like a bunch of roughs on both sides working themselves up for a fight that was already won.
“Won’t be long until we hear the whistle all the way up here when the train runs through to Leadville.” Pop lumbered back to his study and returned with an envelope.
“This was in the mail you brought the other day. Didn’t you see it?”
Livvy took the envelope and read the return address. “Mother and Daddy. No, I didn’t.” She looked at her dear grandfather. “Thank you. I must have been too distracted over the rail-war news to notice.”
She held out the envelope. “Open it for me, please?”
After a quick swipe of his stock knife, Pop handed back the letter. “I’ll be in the study if you need me.”
Livvy unfolded the thin paper, smelled her mother’s light rosy scent, and read news of her parents and home. Their lives were the same—the daily duties of a pastor and his wife. She missed them, but she did not miss Denver. A frown drew her brows as she read of their plans to visit in the fall. Did they expect her to return home with them?
She could not. Even if Whit never declared himself, she could not go back to Denver. Not after living here. Surely her grandfather would let her stay and care for him, cook for his crew …
The kitchen door opened and a familiar boot step crossed the floor and stopped at the dining room. Livvy looked up at the handsome cowboy, hat cocked to the side, a confident gleam in his eye.
Her pulse quickened. “Have you come to take me beyond the bounds of these crush
ing walls, Mr. Hutton?”
A slow smile spread. “‘Bout time you got off your pretty pastime, don’t you think, Miss Hartman?”
She fanned the letter in front of her face, feigning embarrassment at his forward remark. “Really. Such language.”
Whit strode to the settee and bent to scoop her up.
She resisted. “My legs work just fine.”
His face close to hers, one side of his mouth lifted in an unspoken comment and her flush rose with it. No doubt her complexion matched the burgundy cushion beneath her.
Laying the letter aside, she slipped a bandaged hand in the crook of his arm as he straightened. “A walk would be lovely.”
They left through the front door and strolled toward the barn, Maverick frolicking beside them. The fresh air invigorated her, reminding her of the life that flourished beyond the confines of the ranch house, and the beautiful countryside surrounding it.
Whit led her to a rough bench against the barn, shaded now in the afternoon light. He sat beside her, looped his left arm through her right one, and cradled her bandaged hand in both of his. Then he raised her hand to his lips and kissed the palm side of her fingers.
A storm stirred in his eyes as fierce and powerful as the squall that had pinned them at the rocks, and his pulse pounding against her wrist hammered a heavy counterpoint to her own running heartbeat.
“I love you, Olivia Hartman.”
His husky voice rippled through her, and she took a moment for the current to subside. “Well, I’d say it’s about time you figured that out.”
His eyes darkened, narrowed as he searched her face.
She raised her left hand to his rough chin and glazed the stubble with her fingertips. “I love you, too, Whitaker Hutton. Whiskers and all.”
He swallowed. “Would you marry a cowboy?”
Unable to resist the temptation, she rounded her eyes and struck an innocent pose. “Do you have one in mind?”
The growl came from deep in his chest, and she shivered in delight, holding his dangerous gaze.
“Will you marry me?”
“With pleasure, Mr. Hutton.”
Leaning toward him, she closed her eyes in expectation of a kiss—that never came. Chagrined, she straightened, scolding herself for being so brash and bold.
He released her hand, left her briefly, and returned with a canvas roll. Standing before her, he withdrew a long, wooden-handled stamp iron she didn’t recognize. Then he smoothed the dirt with his boot and stamped the brand. When he stepped back, a wide inverted V hung above twin Hs.
Puzzled, she looked up.
“That’s you and me—Hutton and Hartman—beneath the mountain. That’s our brand.”
“Our brand?” She leaned over and traced the imprinted dirt with her finger, a spark of joy flaring in her breast. “But we—you—have no cattle. Why do you need a brand?”
Gently he raised her to stand, and with his hands grasping her arms, leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. “I bought out the widow Overton, and your grandfather staked us on the land. We have our own herd now, our own place.”
“You—you had this made before you even asked me?” She stiffened at the realization, stinging from the emotional hail pelting her reasoning. “You arrogant—”
Lightning struck and he pulled her against him, pressing his mouth to hers with a hunger that both startled and thrilled her. When he broke away, he buried his face in her hair with a hoarse whisper. “You had to say yes, Livvy. What would I do with all those cows without you?”
Laughing, she wrapped her swathed hands around his neck and leaned back. “Confident, aren’t you, Mr. Hutton.” She kissed him back, more heatedly than she’d thought possible, then drank in the love pouring from his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll be needing my help come branding time.”
He lifted her off the ground and swung her around with a cowboy’s whoop that shot straight to her heart.
And that was exactly where she intended to keep him.
~~~
Thank you for reading Book 2 of the Cañon City Chronicles.
A preview of Book 3, Romancing the Widow, follows on the next page.
I hope you enjoyed Whit and Livvy’s story in Straight to My Heart as much as I enjoyed writing it. If so, I’d greatly appreciate a brief review on Smashwords or your favorite book websites and other social media.
Keep reading the ongoing story of the Hutton family in Book 3, devoted to the life of Annie and Caleb’s daughter, Marti. You can order Book 1 Loving the Horseman and Book 3 Romancing the Widow or the entire Cañon City Chronicles collection under one cover.
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Acknowledgements
My heartfelt thanks to all who aided and supported me in telling Whit Hutton and Livvy Hartman’s story, particularly readers Jill Maple, Amanda, and Lynne Schricker who shared tales of real cattle-ranching life in the “parks.” Much appreciation also goes to my editor, Christy Distler.
About the Author
Bestselling author and winner of the Will Rogers Gold Medallion for Inspirational Western Fiction, Davalynn Spencer writes heart-tugging romance with a Western flair. Learn more about Davalynn and her books and sign up for her free newsletter at www.davalynnspencer.com
Romancing the Widow
Cañon City Chronicles
Book 3
CHAPTER ONE
Cañon City, Colorado
September, 1888
Martha Mae Stanton yanked the satin ribbon beneath her chin and jerked off the ridiculous black hat. Digging her nails into the fine netting, she ripped the veil away and tossed it on the seat beside her.
A long, hot train ride was one thing. Making that ride behind a socially-dictated curtain was quite another.
Across the aisle, a matron gasped and clutched her reticule to her bulging bosom.
Martha picked up the veil, leaned into the narrow walkway, and dropped the netting on the woman’s shelf-like lap. “Here. You wear it. I’ve had quite enough.”
The matron sputtered and huffed and swatted the black tulle from her knees as if it were a stinging hornet.
A smile almost made it to Martha’s dry lips but died for lack of sustenance.
She leaned back against the plush green seat and squeezed her eyes shut. The late afternoon sun boiled through her dirty window. Grit dusted her teeth, and perspiration gathered beneath her arms and down her back. September had never been so sticky—not in the Rocky Mountains.
Mimicking the matron a half hour later, the Denver & Rio Grande wheezed to a coughing stop at Cañon City’s depot. Steam hissed along the wheels, and a knot tightened in Martha’s neck. She retied the hat as impatient travelers rushed the aisle. Weary mothers herded their petulant young ahead of them, reminding Martha of her former students—and the children she would never bear.
The porter stopped at her seat with a shining smile and tip of his cap. “This be your stop, ma’am. Last one today.”
“Yes—yes, I know.” Through the open door at the end of the car came happy shouts and endearments of reuniting families. She gripped the seatback ahead of her and stood, giving her legs a moment to remember how to proceed.
“May I carry that for you, ma’am?” He reached for her bag.
“No. Thank you.” She curled her fingers into the handle, desperate for something to ground her, to keep her from running back down the rails.
She made her way to the exit and paused, searching the crowd for her parents.
Caleb and Annie Hutton stood apart, the only two people not huddled with arriving passengers. Upon catching sight of her, a smiling mask formed hard against her mother’s gentle face, one Martha recognized from the countless times her father had dealt with the more unpleasant duties of his calling.
&nb
sp; Regret slid from the back of her damp collar and pooled at her waist. Returning had been a mistake. She did not want her family to see her as an unpleasant obligation.
The porter cleared his throat. “You all right, ma’am?”
She plucked at her high collar. “I am fine. Thank you.”
Breathing in a dusty draught, she descended to the step and then the ground.
Her father approached and drew her into his arms. Silent. Strong. He held her close, knowing as always exactly what to do.
Her mother wrapped an arm around each of them and bent her lilac-scented hair toward Martha. The fragrance embraced her as closely as her parents and drew her back through the years.
“I am so sorry.” Mama’s whisper fell as gently as her scent.
Martha pulled from their arms and met troubled eyes—her father’s black as her mourning dress but shining with love. Her mother’s burnished and beautiful as ever, though age had etched their corners.
“Thank you,” Martha said. “Both of you. Let’s go home.”
It was a short walk to the buggy, and she and her mother climbed in while the porter helped her father strap her trunk to the back. Settling her carpet bag at her feet, Martha glanced toward the depot’s long covered platform. In a shadowed corner an abutment jutted from the building and a man leaned against it. Had the sunlight not cut from a sharp angle, she would have missed him in his dark clothing, hat pulled just below the level of his eyes. One knee bent with a booted foot resting on the wall. His thumbs hooked his trousers, draping back a black coat.
It was too hot for a coat of any kind.
She didn’t realize she was staring until he raised his head a hairbreadth and bore into her with a blue gaze.
Steeled, perhaps by months of grief, she held his scrutiny without reaction, measuring him as he measured her. Lean and alone, like a wolf. So unlike her beloved Joseph.
Dressed in black, as was she in her widow’s weeds.
Her jaw clenched at the phrase, and the tightness coupled like a freight car to her cramping neck. It was bad enough to be shrouded in spirit, bereft and singular after sharing life with a fine and caring man. Her eyes pinched at the corners, dry and tearless. Depleted.
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