Wyoming Heather

by DeAnn Smallwood

  Besides, there was no reason to think Heather wanted to be anything other than a neighbor. She’d made it clear that she answered only to herself and had no intention of belonging to any man.

  Whip couldn’t help but remember Buster’s parting “Maybe.” The one word spun back and around his mind. They didn’t talk about Heather; neither one would mention her name. And when he was thinking clearly, he knew Buster had as much right to her friendship as he did. Still, it was all he could do to keep his mouth shut and say thank you the day Buster rode in from the direction of the Circle C with Whip’s portion of beef tied on behind him.

  He grunted his thanks, trying not to scowl or ask the questions on the tip of his tongue. Then he hung the beef in the smoke house and told Cookie he wanted some fried that evening, beans or no. The old cook smiled over tobacco-stained gums and eyed the beef. That night, they all enjoyed the steaks even if they were burnt around the edges and blood red in the middle.

  In an effort to put the visit from his mind, Whip took on the chores everybody dreaded doing, working longer and harder than any of his hands. He refused to think about what Heather might have shared with Buster. He refused to think about their conversations. He refused to think about her showing Buster around the animal pens and the underground barn. He had no hold on her—none.

  “Whip?” Buster’s voice broke into his thoughts, his back bent over a shovel-full of manure in the holding corral. “I’m going to ride over to Crazy Woman Creek.”

  Whip wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Crazy Woman Creek? That’s more’n a days ride. What for?”

  “I got word.” Buster didn’t offer more. He held Wind’s reins in his hand. He’d changed from the long pants and shirt he wore around the ranch and now looked every inch an imposing brave.

  Whip knew without being told that he’d been contacted by someone from either his tribe or a friendly band passing through. Whatever the reason, Buster saw need to leave. They both understood this would happen from time to time and they both accepted it as part of the weave of their friendship.

  Whip nodded. “No worry.” Then he said something he’d later remember, “Things couldn’t be going smoother here. Not a problem one. In fact, I think I’ll take off a few days myself and go into town for some supplies. You need anything?”

  “No. But you might want to go by the Circle C and see if Heather does.” Buster’s voice was void of emotion, but his eyes gave him away. They were literally dancing with devilish delight. “Course, if you don’t have time, I could swing by there and check. It’s out of my way, but I wouldn’t mind seeing her.” He paused, and then added, “Again.”

  That did it. A man could take only so much before his mouth overrode his brain. Whip bit at the bait. “Again? Again? Just how many times have you been over to the Circle C checking on Heather Campbell?”

  “Some.” A maddening grin flashed as he lightly vaulted onto Wind’s back.

  “Hold on. What’s some? One, two, three times? What do you do over there? I’ve never seen you be that sociable. What, do you two . . . oh to hell with it. I’ve kept my mouth shut long enough. Just what do you two talk about during these visits that you’re so darned smug about?

  Buster turned the horse’s head and, with his back to Whip, slowly moved away.

  One word drifted back over his shoulder. “You.” He kicked his horse and before Whip could absorb the word, Buster was down the trail.

  “Me? They talk about me? Heather talks about me?” Whip grinned. “So they talk about me.” His grin widened. “All this time I’ve been stewing and fighting with myself, and damned if he didn’t know it. He knew I was festering like a boil and he was watching and enjoying my misery.” Whip shook his head, “I’m sweating and stinking and about as dumb as this manure pile.”

  Pitchfork in hand, he strode across the barnyard. “Here,” he said to a cowboy standing there. “Holding corral needs finishing and when you’re through with that, the barn needs cleaning. Tell the others Buster’s gone for a few days. I’m going into town for supplies. You boys get a list going, and I’ll pick up what you need. Curly’s in charge until I get back.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he walked over to the cabin and lifted a Number 2 washtub down from the side of the building. He carried it around to the back for some privacy. Then he disappeared inside the cabin, returning with a bucket of steaming water from the kitchen reservoir. It took several trips to fill the tub, but when he lowered his aching, smelly body into the water, it was worth every bit of the effort.

  A different man, Whip drove a buckboard onto the Circle C later that afternoon. His boots shined, his black shirt fit snug across his back and chest, molding every hard muscle. He pulled the horse up short and looked around for sign of life. The wind whispered through the big cottonwood. The mare’s tail swatted at a fly as she shifted from one foot to another, waiting for a command. Whip’s eyes moved restlessly over the house and yard.

  He had to shake free of a memory that was always lying in wait: the vision of riding into a different ranch yard. Riding in unobserved, not hearing the message sent by the stillness. His poor judgment had cost him dearly. He wondered if he would ever stop paying.

  With catlike stealth he jumped from the buckboard, his boots lightly touching the ground, his body taut with listening. Then he heard it, a faint murmur. He cocked his head as a slow, easy smile parted his lips and the tension drained from his body.

  Quietly, he walked toward the sound, and the closer he got the more defined the murmur became. He paused as he let the sight of her fill him. She was on her knees bent over something on a sheet of canvas in one of the bigger pens. Her hands moved quickly and surely. Her voice was soothing and calming.

  He moved silently closer, smelling the air uneasily. It was natural for him to revert to his Indian upbringing. A scent of danger wafted from Heather. Instinctively he knew that whatever she was doing must not be disturbed. He circled around so that, should she look up, she’d see him standing there. He didn’t want to startle her. He could see her clearly, but her body shielded the animal.

  Minutes ticked by, then, as if she sensed a presence, she paused and looked up from her work. She gave a quick nod, recognizing him standing there, his face shadowed by his hat. A smile curved around her lips. A small dimple danced at the side of her mouth. She pursed her lips in a silent shush as her head motioned him forward.

  He took a few steps then stopped short as if an invisible hand blocked his path. His eyes widened and he swallowed hard, recognizing the animal lying under Heather’s hands. Bobcat. A hot flash of anger and fear went through him. Damn the woman, didn’t she realize? Of course she realized. But if an animal was hurt, dangerous predator or not, it wouldn’t matter.

  He saw the grayish brown coat, whiskered face, and black-tufted ears. This cat was smaller than some he’d seen, probably a young one. The pattern of spots on its coat acted as camouflage, helping it blend with its surroundings. He judged it to weigh about 20 pounds, muscular, its hind legs longer than the front ones. He’d once watched one chasing a rabbit and had laughed at its bobbing gait, that is, until he saw it pounce for the kill.

  It may be smaller than the bigger cats, but it was a hunter, seeing as good at night as it did during the day. Rabbits, mice, birds, even fish were fair prey. Bobcats normally avoided water, but if hungry enough, one would swim for its supper. And they were darned patient hunters, crouching in wait for victims to wander close enough then pouncing and grabbing with sharp, retractable claws. The cats were stalkers and would take down larger game. He had seen the carcass of a small calf with the telltale claw marks.

  What chance would a woman Heather’s size have against a wounded bobcat? Whip’s muscles jerked and he wanted to move quickly, grab the woman, and get her the hell out of that pen. He moved a few, cautious feet closer.

  Now he could see her more clearly. She concentrated on the task at hand, finishing stitching a wide gash across the animal’s back. The ca
t’s yellow eyes were open, unseeing. Its ribs expanded and closed with each shallow breath. Claws retracted, it looked no more dangerous than a large house cat.

  Kneeling down, Whip looked closer at the gash. The animal had been shot, the plow of a bullet furrowed across its back. The wound looked nasty and painful, painful enough to cause any animal to go crazy. Heather seemed oblivious to the danger as she carefully stitched the ragged edges together. She reached for a small can of yellow powder and, taking a handful, sprinkled it liberally over the wound. She started to rise, then paused, stroking her hand gently along the side of the cat’s face.

  “Poor thing,” she whispered.

  Rising to her feet, she looked down. The cat lay under a roofed portion of the pen, shaded from the hot sun. Heather picked up her assortment of tools and started for the gate, Whip following, putting himself between the woman and the cat.

  She no sooner twisted the heavy wire through the gate, securely locking it behind them when she began to tremble. All color had drained from her face as tears flooded her eyes. Whip took one look at her and swooped her up in his arms, holding her tight against his chest. She grabbed his shirt and buried her face as sobs wracked her body. Carrying her over to the house, he climbed the steps to the porch and eased down in a wooden rocker, holding her with gentle strength.

  He didn’t say a word, just held her and rocked. Finally the sobs lessened and the shaking stopped. She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes wide.

  “I was scared, so scared, Whip.” A final shudder rippled through her. She allowed herself a few more minutes in his comforting arms then, taking a deep breath, she pushed herself up. Gingerly, as if she might break, she took a few steps and sat down in the other chair.

  His arms felt empty and he tried to ignore how right she’d felt snuggled against his chest. It was good she’d moved, he told himself. A few more minutes and he might have brushed his lips across those curls of hers. A few more minutes and he might have forgotten that a woman had no place in his life or in his heart.

  Chapter 16

  He rose from his chair. “You sit still. I’m going to see if there’s coffee. You look like you could use a cup. Then, by darned, you’re going to tell me how in the hell I come to find you in a pen with a wounded bobcat.” With that, he stepped inside.

  Heather hugged her knees to her chest and closed her eyes. She could hear the rattling dishes in her kitchen, but her body was drained of any ability to move.

  She was still sitting that way when Whip returned, two coffee cups in hand. She opened her eyes and reached up to take the one he offered. Putting it to her mouth, she inhaled the needed brew. The smell that filled her nostrils was that of rich coffee and, and something else. She paused, the cup halfway to her mouth.

  “Scotch. I found your father’s stash, that is, unless it’s yours?

  “Hardly,” she said, smiling. “It’s my father’s.”

  “Good. I thought you needed something stronger than coffee. You’re still pale.”

  He sat down and pulled his rocker closer to her. “I’m ready when you are.”

  “Do you realize, Whip, that this is the second time you’ve arrived just as I needed you? Two visits to the Circle C and both times I had need of your strength.”

  “Mmm.” The blue of his eyes darkened as they lingered on her face. “You had things under control both times,” he drawled. “Course, we could consider this worthy of another loaf of bread or maybe a pie?” His eyes twinkled.

  “A pie? My, aren’t we getting brave! You’ve already got me owing you a dinner, and now it’s bread or pie. What kind of pie, Mr. Johnson? I want to make sure I bake just what your heart desires.”

  “Well, now, Heather, I’m real partial to apple. Hot apple pie topped with thick, whipped cream. Darn, but it makes my mouth water just thinking of it. I’d come more often if I knew something like that was waiting for me. I’d much prefer that to seeing you in a pen with a wounded bobcat. You up to telling me how that happened?”

  She nodded her head then took another small sip of the coffee.

  “I had just finished feeding the chickens when I heard this strange sound. It was something I’d never heard before. I waited, listening, and just when I thought I’d imagined it, I heard it again.” She looked up at him, her eyes large in her face. “I can’t tell you how I knew, but I knew whatever was out there was hurt. I followed the sound and found it lying on its side, half-hidden in the tall grass. I knew it was a bobcat. I’d lost a few chickens the last week and figured the Circle C was host to a new predator. I also had found claw marks on a couple trees. Must have been marking his territory.”

  She took a deep breath. “It was just laying there, Whip. Every so often it would make that pitiful sound, but other than that, it didn’t acknowledge my presence. The ground around it was churned up some as if the cat had fallen and couldn’t get the strength to get back up. I could see it had been shot.” She shrugged her shoulders. “I had to do something.” The words were a plea for understanding.

  There was a hard expression on his face. “Heather, there’s a difference between doing something and putting yourself at risk. That bobcat was wounded, in pain, and you had no way of knowing whether it could move or not. For all you knew, it would attack you the minute you got closer.”

  “I know, Whip. I know. But I was careful. I really was. I went back to the house and got some chloroform. Doc Watson keeps me supplied,” she offered by way of explanation. “Did you know that chloroform was first used for surgery by a Scotsman?”

  “Go on,” he said tersely. “You’re not going to distract me with one of your history lessons.”

  She managed a wry smile. “There’s not much else to tell. I wet a rag with the chloroform and put it on the end of a stick. My biggest worry was not knowing how much to give him. Too much and he might never wake up.”

  “It’s real hard for me to understand that being your biggest worry. Of course, there was no worry that you wouldn’t give him enough, and he’d wake up snarling and mad in the middle of your stitching him up, now was there?”

  “Whip,” she admonished, “of course I was worried. I was scared to death every minute. I rolled him onto the piece of canvas and dragged him into the pen. He didn’t make a sound or a move. I cleaned the wound, and you know the rest.” She paused, then said, “The last few stitches, he moved. I wasn’t through. Then I saw you.”

  “You mean to tell me that cat was waking up and you stayed bent over him, finishing the job?”

  “That’s why I went to pieces the minute I knew I was safe and it was over.”

  He got up out of the chair and walked over to the porch railing to look out over the land. Seeing nothing, but feeling too much. Every so often he’d shake his head. “This won’t be the last, will it?”

  “No.”

  “You shouldn’t be out here alone.” The statement was flat and fell heavily into the air.

  “Not you, too, Whip Johnson.”

  “Well, damn it, Heather. Well, damn it.”

  He started down the steps toward the buckboard then stopped.

  “I’m going into town for supplies. Need anything?” He tried not to be brusque, but his frustration was overwhelming. He wanted to grab her up and take her with him. Keep her by his side. Watch over her. But another part of him didn’t want her, didn’t want another woman to care about and then fail again.

  He was so caught up in his thoughts he missed what she said.

  “Sorry,” he said gruffly.

  “I said I didn’t need anything from town, but if you wait a few minutes I’d like to send my eggs. Would you mind going by the general store? My best friend, Alice, runs it. Tell her I can’t get away since Summer came fresh. I don’t want all these eggs to go to waste.”

  Seeing his frown, she explained. “Summer is my cow. She calved so she’s fresh, and I have to start milking again. Twice a day.” Still no response, unless you could call the perplexed look on his face
a response. “I sell eggs and milk to the general store when I have them. Oh, never mind, Whip,” she said, exasperated. It was useless trying to make a cowboy understand that you could run cattle and farm, too. “Will you take the eggs?”

  He nodded, his reluctance evident. “Pack ‘em good. Heather,” he called after. “Is there anything you won’t try or that you can’t do?”

  “She held the door open for him, waiting for him to catch up. “Yes,” she replied sweetly, “I can’t sing.”

  A low chuckle greeted her remark, making her smile in return. She didn’t want him to go and wished she could accompany him. It would have been nice to spend more time with Whip. He had the ability to make her mad enough to cuss and then, in the next second, to make her laugh. She knew she was a puzzle to him, not fitting any mold of womanhood he knew. And he was a puzzle to her, too.

  “I suppose it’s useless to ask you to wait until I get back to mess with that cat again.”

  “Yes.” She smiled to soften her words. “But if it eases your mind any, I won’t be getting in the pen as long as he’s awake. Of course,” she said, lowering her voice, “if that wound should fester, I’ll have to clean it again.”

  A low growl and a few choice words rent the air. “If you were mine…”