“He’s all your—”
The rest of sentence was cut off by the squeak of the door hinge.
Whip heard it first and turned toward the cabin.
The outlaw raised his rifle, squeezing off a shot just as Lettie ran toward Whip. The bullet that was meant for Whip hit Lettie, killing her instantly.
Stunned, Whip heard the sound of the ejected shell seconds before he felt the second bullet slam into his thigh, tearing through flesh. He fell forward, feeling the warm blood down his leg, soaking the inside of his pants as black dots danced. The pain was all encompassing, but that was nothing compared to the pain in his heart as he tried to crawl to his wife.
“Lettie, Lettie.” His cries filled the Wyoming air. He blacked out.
When he came to, the sun had moved across the sky and his horse was gone. His hand rested on Lettie’s lifeless face. He raised himself to knees weakened from the loss of blood, and gently brushed her blond hair back. A sob ripped its way from his throat as he gently cradled her body against his.
He carried her inside the cabin then eased her onto the bed, lowering himself along her still form, his arms holding her to his chest as if his heart could beat for both of them.
He lay there for the remainder of the day, drifting in and out of consciousness, dimly aware that his Lettie breathed no more, and that, for him, the world had turned black, too.
The pain screamed through him, pulling him back to the raw brutality of living. He gingerly touched his leg. The bleeding had slowed. The wound would need attention, but right now he didn’t care if he lived or died. His only reason for not giving in to the pain and wishing he’d bleed to death was that he knew he needed to live long enough to perform one last act of love. One last act of love for a woman that would take his heart with her to the grave. He lost consciousness again while digging the hole on the rocky knoll behind the cabin.
The rest was a blur. He remembered using the wood from Lettie’s linen chest to make a coffin. He’d reopened his wound digging the grave. By the time the coffin, now heavier with precious cargo, was at the site and lowered into the ground, he’d blacked out again. When he came to, he shoveled the dirt that hid his love from him forever. Then he lay down across the raw earth and waited to die.
He’d fallen into a sleep that bordered on death, and opened his eyes to the warmth of the sun. He remembered the anger tearing through him upon awakening. Anger because he’d lived. He’d bellowed curses to the blue sky or whatever power that had taken Lettie and yet let him live.
In the days that followed, he’d done little to keep himself alive. Once, when the pain became unbearable, he’d grabbed down a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured it over the open wound. His screams echoed through the empty cabin.
Whether it was the whiskey or his strong constitution, he’d lived. If willing death could have made it happen, he would be with Lettie right now. But his body was stronger than his mind, and as the days passed, a new anger and resolve slowly filled him. He had to punish the person who robbed his Lettie’s life.
He’d heard of the Texas Rangers, a band of men formed several years ago by a Mr. Stephen Austin. Austin had spent some time in a Mexican prison and held the title as the “Father of Texas.” There was even a city in Texas named to honor him. Mr. Austin had died right after the Rangers formed up to protect Texas against the hostile Native Americans. The Texas Rangers were now the major peacekeeping force and enforcers of frontier justice. And Whip wanted justice. He wanted the killing, murdering devil to know he’d face slow death by hanging. Hanging for killing a precious innocent. Whip had seen the man’s face. He’d know it anywhere. The memory of those eyes burned into his very soul.
Steel resolve took over, and when the day came he was ready to ride out, he did so without a backward glance. Riding toward the 29 State of the Union. Texas. Or Tashas as some still called it. A Caddo Indian word for friend.
The leg slowly healed. He’d dug around in the wound as much as he could stand, trying to get all of the fragments of lead out, but in the end, like dying, he was unsuccessful. One elusive piece rubbed against bone, serving as a constant reminder of all he’d lost. Not that he needed a reminder. It was there with every breath he drew, filling him with the determination he needed to face each day.
He glanced again toward the cottonwoods. Five years had passed. He’d joined the rangers, and while he’d done his share of seeing that peace was kept, he’d never fulfilled the mission that drove him. He’d never run across the man with the cold eyes, though Lord knows he’d hunted. Five years of vigilance. And, now, he was back. Back to pick up life again. Life without her, but maybe a life with a new purpose.
“What the hell,” he muttered, shaking his head free of the memory cobwebs, if not the lingering pain. He turned his horse in the direction of the beckoning trees and cool waters of the Powder River.
Chapter 5
Heather secured the last button on her shirt. The river bath was just what she had needed. Her fingers stilled as the air around her shifted and she sensed a presence behind her.
“What in the Sam Hell is this? No wonder the rapids are slowed. And you, lady, what are you doing on my property? Who are you and what do you know about this-this—”
She whirled around to face the demanding voice and man sitting on the buckskin horse. “Dam, mister. It’s a diversion dam. And to answer the rest of your bad-mannered questions, I didn’t know it was your property. It’s been unclaimed for years. The next answer is, I’m Heather Campbell. Now it’s your turn. Who are you, and what makes you so sure this is your property? A river belongs to nobody.”
“The river may not, but the land bordering it sure as hell does, and the last I looked, my name was on the deed. I’m Whip Johnson, owner of the Powder River Ranch, and this”—his voice lowered, mimicking hers—“this diversion dam is slowing down my water.”
“Water you don’t need.”
“How in the hell do you know what I need or don’t need Miss, or is it Mrs. Campbell?”
“It’s Miss. Because I’ve rode all over this land and its fallow, empty, grown up and unused. There’s a cabin a ways from here and a spring-fed pond. The cabin’s empty and the pond is untouched. This piece of land is prime, mister. Prime and unused.”
“Well, I’ll agree with you on one point. It is prime. But it won’t be unused for long. I’m back, and the cabin isn’t empty. The pond will be useful again as soon as my herd arrives from Cheyenne, and that should be any day now.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Heather walked over to the man, slamming her sweat-stained hat down over the mass of auburn curls framing her face. Her hazel eyes shot green sparks as she narrowed them at the tall cowboy. “Like I said, doesn’t matter. I need the water and you don’t. The little bit I’m diverting won’t matter one little bit to you. Not one damn little bit!”
“Who are you, lady? You dress like a man, you talk like a man, and if you just hadn’t had a bath in that river, I’d bet you’d smell like a man. You’re all caught up in what you need. It’s not my problem or my concern what you need. You’re a Miss not a Mrs. So that tells me I’m wasting my time talking to you. Tell your father I’ll be wanting to meet with him regarding this diversion dam, what the hell ever that is.”
Hands on her hips, Heather looked up at the man, her face tight with anger. “Your ignorance is showing, mister. First of all, if you’ve heard of the Mormons, you’d know they’re using diversion dams over in Utah. They’re damming up small streams and diverting the water to irrigate crops. Well, I’m not irrigating crops. I have a spring on my property that manages that, barely, but it manages. What I need, and what the Powder River is providing, is water enough to keep my pond full. Spring runoff peters out, and without that pond my cattle would die of thirst. It’s not a spring-fed pond like yours, or like you claim is yours.”
Her small chin jutted forward, and Whip was aware again of the emerald fire flashing from her eyes. “As for your other reque
st, I won’t be telling my father anything. Not unless I plan on dying anytime soon, and I don’t. There is no father anymore, and there is no mother. I own and run the Circle C Ranch, and I’m guessing it’s my own darn bad luck that makes me your neighbor. So, neighbor, you can just think of me as borrowing a cup or two of your water.”
With that, she put two fingers in her mouth and gave a sharp whistle. From a copse of trees the black horse threw up his head and came loping toward her. The horse stood seventeen hands high and muscle rippled beneath the shine of the black coat.
Heather walked to a group of small willows and jerked off a saddle blanket. “Patch,” she said the one word softly, but it was loud enough for the horse to hear and obey. She threw the blanket over the horse’s back, then in one motion, grabbed the saddle and settled it over the blanket, ignoring the silent man. She tightened the cinch, then glanced toward Whip sitting still in his saddle, a puzzled frown on his face.
He’d been so preoccupied with anticipating the coolness of the Powder River, and not expecting anyone being there, he’d never noticed the blanket, saddle, and bridle. Of course the horse had been out of sight, but damn—
“You still there?” she asked disdainfully. “Or are you God and waiting to talk to my father?”
“Huh?” Her words took him aback. “You’ve got a smart mouth, lady. I think you’ve said enough for one day.” He turned his horse back the way he’d come, thoughts of bathing chased from his mind by the sharp tongue of the hazel-eyed girl. “I’ll be riding over to discuss this dam.” He raised his chin toward the river. “We aren’t through talking, and you sure aren’t through doing some explaining.”
Kicking his horse in the flanks, Whip turned in the direction of his ranch, feeling her eyes piercing his back. “Not only do I have a missing herd to worry about, I’ve got a thief as a neighbor.” The fact that she was, despite her manly clothes and manner, a very pretty thief wasn’t lost on him. It wasn’t lost at all.
Chapter 6
For a rancher, Heather ate very little beef. In fact, she ate very little meat at all. Not because beef wasn’t plentiful, nor was it because hunting was poor. There were antelope and mule deer aplenty. And if she’d been so inclined, there was the bigger game of moose, elk, even bear. But she wasn’t so inclined. She wasn’t inclined at all. Much as the love of ranching ran thick through her veins, it turned mighty thin when it came to killing animals. She’d never developed the tough veneer needed to kill and butcher, even for food. Still, once a year she’d cull out a beef, and steeling herself to a day from hell, shoot the animal in the head, praying for a clean shot. But shooting the animal was only the first step down the dreaded road. There was the skinning, butchering, and preserving of meat. It took weeks before she’d breathe without smelling blood and death. Weeks before she could approach a side of beef hanging in the smoke house and cut off a flank steak. She knew she needed meat to keep up the strength required for the mountain of work she faced daily.
She still had a hindquarter in the smoke house, but with the warmer days coming, it would spoil unless she canned it. Canning wasn’t a job she minded; in fact, she enjoyed the rare time she had for such domestic chores. It wouldn’t be necessary to butcher until the cooler weather of fall. With the occasional chicken and rabbit, the beef would last.
It sounded well and good and would have been, if fate hadn’t stepped in. Heather was riding past the pond looking for strays, following a deer trail that climbed further up the mountain than she usually rode. With another herd coming, it was important she made sure all her calves wore the Circle C brand since it was inevitable that the herds would mix with strays wandering over the adjoining borders. Asking her arrogant neighbor to cut out a few wayward cattle would be bad enough. But trying to argue over the ownership of an unbranded calf would be useless. She narrowed her eyes as another unbidden thought of Whip Johnson flashed through her mind. Unbidden, but unstoppable. Try as she might, since that unsettling meeting at the riverbank, she’d found herself thinking of him and the way he looked sitting still in the saddle, his pain-filled eyes locked on her face. “Wait a minute,” Heather Campbell said aloud, “what makes you so sure his eyes were pain filled? Darn.” She shook her head, angry with herself. “Arrogant and insolent is more apt.” She slapped the reins against Patch’s neck, readying him to turn.
Patch halted part way through the turn as morning’s peace was broken by the mournful cry of an animal. Heather turned the horse in the direction of the sound. Another then another cry rent the air. Following the sound, she came upon a yearling trying unsuccessfully to pull itself up on three legs. It only took a glance for Heather to see the bone jutting through the front leg; she had no choice but to put the animal out of its misery.
She grabbed her rifle from the scabbard, gave a short command to Patch, and this time feeling no remorse, pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the clear mountain air, cleaning it of the painful cries.
For a few long minutes, she was unmoving as her body and mind dealt with the aftermath of the mercy killing. Then, the practical rancher took over the sensitive woman. “Great,” she said to the stillness, vaulting down from the horse, “now how do I get it back to the ranch to save the meat?” She bent down and swiftly cut the calf’s juggler to let the animal bleed out. Beef meant money, no matter how insurmountable a task. No rancher let a perfectly good hunk of meat rot on the ground.
“Okay, Patch,” she said, “this is one time I have to use brains because I sure as heck don’t have the brawn to quarter and lift this heifer onto your back.” Lying on the ground, the animal looked five times bigger than it had on the hoof. She closed her eyes, her mind racing and discarding various possibilities. This was one of the times Heather wished she could afford just one hired hand. Maybe, she consoled herself, maybe if her plans went her way, this time next year she’d have the extra needed to pay a man’s wages. But next year wasn’t going to solve the immediate problem.
“What would Dad do, Patch?” Many times her father drew on his academic background to help solve a ranching problem. His methods were often unconventional, but they worked. The diversion dam was one. James Campbell was a history professor at a leading university when he made the life changing decision and gave it all up for the opportunity to follow a lifelong dream and move to Wyoming, buying his own small piece. Yes, he’d done it. And done it well, despite warnings and occasional derision from friends who scoffed at the scholar whose knowledge of ranching had all come from a book. Well, the ranch was holding its own. Now it was up to Heather to keep it that way.
“A travois,” she proudly shouted the words, her eyes lighting up. “Yoo-hoo, I knew I could think of something!”
The Indians used a travois to drag loads along the ground. They’d bind a hide or weave together branches to poles then attach them to a horse or even a dog. She closed her eyes, willing herself to visualize the sketch she could only vaguely remember seeing in one of her father’s books.
“Sounds good, but the hide is still attached to the cow and I don’t have anything to cut down poles with.” She gained strength from hearing her voice. “I do know one thing, though. If I wait around, the summer sun will bloat this cow up to twice its size. As long as I’ve been given the dubious gift of meat, I don’t want it to ruin on me. I can gut it as it lays, then figure out my next step.” She wrinkled her nose at the odious prospect, but squared her shoulders and unsheathed her knife.
The sun was higher in the sky when Heather leaned back on her heels and arched her back. The area around her was littered with various viscera. Her hands were bloody. Cutting into the carcass, she’d breathed a small prayer that her knife would be true and she wouldn’t make the incision deep enough to perforate a bowel. She’d done that once on a deer, and if it hadn’t been for her father’s stern warning of the consequences should she give in to the weaker impulse, she would have walked away from the needed meat. But this time her hand was steady and the long incision had been made w
ith skill coming from practice and determination.
Her back hurt something fierce from pulling on the firmly attached innards. Gnats, drawn by the fresh blood, buzzed around her eyes and sweat dotted brow. Unable to use her hands to brush them away, she shook her head or rubbed her face against her shoulder. Not only were they irritating, but their bites were painful. She hated to think what her face would look like after the tenacious little insects had eaten their fill.
She’d practically had to crawl inside the cow as she cut and pulled. Satisfied that she’d removed everything, she grabbed a handful of grass and wiped the now hollow carcass, cleaning it as best she could without water. Slowly she rose to her feet and using the toe of her boot scuffed up some dry dirt. Grabbing up a handful of the clean prairie soil, she rubbed it into her hands then wiped the excess down the front of her pants. While they weren’t clean, at least the blood was covered.
She leaned her back wearily against a tree looking at the animal on the ground. The problem of how to get the calf back to the ranch hadn’t been magically solved. It was still there staring at her, waiting for a solution. Then it came to her. She moved away from the tree, the tiredness forgotten. Her mind raced. She nodded as each segment of the dilemma was reviewed and affirmed. The head was the heaviest part of the animal. If she tied a rope on it and dragged it behind her horse, it would catch on every dang bush and rock. But, she thought to herself, smiling, if I use the principle of force and resistance, I can change that.
Wyoming Heather Page 2
