“Pup’s no good.” Harley added, his eyes dancing.
Everett rose to the bait like a trout to a worm. “Now you listen here, Harley. That pup’s got more between his ears than most people, present company included.”
“Dumb.” Harley leaned back in his chair and reeled Everett in.
“Smartest one of the litter!” Everett thrust his chin out. “He picked me. I moseyed up to that box of pups and over the side he came, fat little belly dragging the ground. Waddled right over to me and darned if he didn’t lay his head on my boot and go right to sleep. Like I said, he picked me.”
“Like I said. Dumb.” The spittoon bounced with the velocity of the well-placed wad.
Everett snorted, his face an angry red. Then he saw the gleam in Harley’s eye and knew he’d been had. Whip had seen it first, and his laughter filled the room.
“You ain’t got the sense God gave a goose, Harley. Don’t know why I put up with you. I’m probably the only friend you got.”
“Only friend I got left, you mean. Rest is dead and buried. We’re getting old.”
“Speak for yourself.” Everett spit out, turning his back as if to say, Harley was no more than a splinter, barely able to penetrate his thick hide.
“Just hold on now, young fella, Everett said. “Don’t pay him no never mind. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Heather,” he said warming to his topic. “Single woman. Pretty as a picture, too.” He waited for Whip’s reply, daring him to differ.
“That she is,” Whip offered cautiously, not wanting to give the two old gossips fodder.
“Fella could do worse.” His eyes narrowed. “Got a mighty nice spread.”
“She does that.”
Everett frowned. Not about to give up, he threw out, “Sassy.”
“Mmm, hmm.” Whip smiled, easing away from the pair. “That’s a fact.”
“Course I like my women sassy. How ‘bout you, sonny?” Everett’s voice rose, nipping at his heels.
“Now, Everett, that’s a double-barreled question,” Whip said softly. “Either way I answer could hang me.”
Harley gave a phlegmy chuckle. “He’s got you there, Everett.”
“You two have a nice evening. Hope to see you the next time I come in for supplies.” Whip tipped his hat at the two, then paused. “And, Everett,” he said in a confiding tone, “there’s not a darn thing wrong with sassy. Nope. Not a darn thing.” He left the two with their mouths open, watching him stride toward the back of the store and his waiting wagon.
Chapter 19
“Don’t wiggle.” The whisper in the night was muffled by the canvass tarp.
“You can’t be crying!” The voice continued scolding as if its strength alone would stop the tears. “We gotta be quiet and still. He find us now and we’re gonners.” The sound of quiet sniffling was met with more admonitions.
“You ain’t no baby. Stop being one. Told you I’d take care of you and I will. I’m big and strong.”
A small hiccup and a shuddering sob heralded the effort the crier made to follow the orders of the “big and strong” person.
“Wipe your nose on your sleeve. Here,” the voice continued. “You can hold my hand this once.” Canvass mounds moved ever so slightly.
“Here’s the plan one more time. We got to do it just right. You listening?”
Silence.
“Okay. We’ll hitch us a ride on this here wagon until we’re out of town. When I think it’s safe, we’ll jump. I’ll have your hand, but you have to jump clear off the back. It’s a far ways to the ground. Won’t be hard for me ‘cause I’m bigger and my legs are longer. Yours aren’t, so I guess I’ll just have to help you.” He gave an exaggerated sigh of weighty responsibility.
“Once we hit the ground, we gotta run fast, and mebbe for a long ways least until I say it’s safe. No stopping no matter how tired you are until I say so. Understand?”
The speaker went on, not deterred by lack of response.
“It’s dark out there, but that’s probably best. I ain’t scared of no dark.” His voice quavered. “But a little thing like you is. Might be bears. Shhh, I said might be. I gotta think of everything. Don’tcha see? So just in case there’s wild animals, I have to find us a place to spend the night. Maybe an empty cave or a hollow tree. We gotta be watchin’ fer Indians too.”
With these last words the sniffling and sobs started anew.
“Goldarn it! You are a baby. No wonder no one wanted you. You stop now, I don’t mean to scare you, but I gotta think of these things so I’ll be prepared. I’ll bet you’ve wet your pants again. Have you?”
No answer.
“Well, don’t. They’s all we got even if we had to smear horse hockey all over them and you. ‘Member, you don’t let anyone give you no bath. You fight like Billy hell if anyone tries. We’re lucky that stupid Tom traded his pants for my shooter. Boy was he dumb. He didn’t even see it was nicked.”
The night took back the silence as the speaker grew quiet reflecting on Tom and his ignorance, oblivious to the smell emanating from his companion.
“Now about them Indians. I can fight ‘em, but a little thing like you can’t. I’ll keep my eyes out for them, and I got real good ears. I can hear a beetle crawl. You probably can’t, but I can.
“Once we get to the creek, we’ll start hunting for gold. We don’t need much, just enough to make us rich. We’ll buy us a house and we won’t have to wait for anyone to choose us. We’ll both have our own bedrooms and our own beds.” The words came slower and were accompanied by a loud yawn. “We’ll have lots’a food and nobody, nobody will ever hit us again. And we’ll stay together. You can’t make all that happen ‘cause you probably don’t even know what gold is. But I can, ‘cause I do.”
Another yawn punctuated the words.
“I know you’re hungry. I am, too, but not as bad cause I’m bigger. We’ll have to eat berries for a while. You can’t find them, but I can. I can find them.” The voice wound down to a stop like the broken spring on a clock.
Movement ceased.
All was still. The night kept watch, and no secret was disclosed when some time later the wagon gave a lurch. Reins cracked, and the wagon full of supplies and castaways rolled out of the town, headed for the Powder River Ranch.
Whip was anxious to get home. It took him by surprise to realize that after all this time he’d begun to think of the ranch as home again.
The miles rolled along without Whip noticing them or the night shrouded countryside. His mind raced, replaying his time in town, the conversations, and all he’d purchased. He’d gotten everything his crew had ordered, and then some.
His hand went up to his shirt pocket, fingers tracing the outline of a small tin. Belgium chocolates. If the candy inside tasted as good as the tin looked, then he couldn’t go wrong. It was the color of brass but rubbed to a soft shine. A woman’s face was carved into the lid, her hair pulled back into curls with a ribbon drifting down her neck to the top of her shoulder. That was all. Just her profile, but it was enough to give the viewer a glimpse of elegance and beauty. When the candy was gone, it would be a box for keepsakes.
Alice said they were imported. And when Whip saw the price, he believed it. He’d gulped, then wanting to escape Alice’s speculative look, had almost walked away without the purchase. But he didn’t. He avoided her eyes as he added them to his growing pile. And from the moment he placed them carefully in his shirt pocket, he began looking forward to, and anticipating, the giving and smile on a certain someone’s face. A certain sassy someone’s face.
He made the trip home with a desire for the night to end and tomorrow to come.
When the wagon topped a hill, he surveyed the buildings below. His. Was it his imagination or did the moon seem brighter as it lay in the sky suspended over the cabin and outbuildings? A few clouds feathered across the sky. Lacy fingers across the moon, not diminishing its warm glow.
A breeze toyed with the wavy hair along his neck. He pushed his hat
back and lifted his face to the night air. There was a faint scent of moisture, but the number of stars in the sky belied that possibility.
He braced his leg against the wagon front and gently clicked a command to the tired horse. “You ease on down this hill now. We’re almost home, and I don’t want any of them barrels or feed sacks shifting back there. Easy does it.”
Creaking of wheels greeted his command as the wagon moved forward. A scent of manure wafted on the wind and it seemed to come from the back of the wagon. Couldn’t be, though. He’d cleaned the wagon himself and all the goods inside were new and clean. He concentrated on the slow, easy pace down the winding road to the ranch.
He stopped in front of the cabin, having decided to do no more than necessary tonight before dropping his tired body into the waiting bed. He’d unharness the horse, take it to the barn, rub it down and give it some oats. Unloading the wagon would wait until light of day.
In no time all, chores were accomplished. A lantern flickered from inside the cabin, then went out. The cicadas shrill was nature’s lullaby as Whip slept the sleep of satisfaction. The ranch slept in the moonlight. And, in the wagon, the little inhabitants slept, too. Theirs was the sleep of innocence.
Chapter 20
Heather carefully went over the books again. She’d sat at her father’s desk since Whip left, adding and re-adding figures. Finally, she pushed the financial registers to the back of the desk and stood up, arching her back. She walked over to the window. Pushing aside the lace curtains that had been her mother’s pride and joy, she gazed out over the fields, green with spring’s growth of hay.
Elation and sadness fought for supremacy as she took in the land that was now hers. She bit back the sadness, refusing to give it reign on such a beautiful day. But still, fragments had broken off and occupied a part of her being, a part she tried to close off, a part that recognized that the land she loved, the Circle C, was hers and hers alone. It was the alone that hurt. She’d never wanted to be any place else but the Circle C, but not alone. She missed her parents. She missed sharing. And, lately, she’d felt that aloneness more than ever before.
She glanced back at the books she’d just closed after making a final entry, and elation nibbled at the sadness, demanding recognition. Yes. She was financially secure. More than secure. The ranch was showing a profit.
For the first time, Heather knew freedom from worry. Worry that beef prices would drop. Worry that a Wyoming blizzard would swoop in and take back with it a portion of her herd. Worry that a problem would present itself, one a lone woman couldn’t handle. She’d heard the expression, shooting from the hip, and acknowledged that was exactly what she’d been doing the last few years. She’d gotten up each day apprehensive of what the day would bring. Would it bring a problem too big or too complex for her to face alone?
And it had. Each day had arrived with its own unique worry and challenge. But, and she smiled, she’d met each one head on. The proof of every win was reflected in the black figures lining the columns of the registers.
Heather went into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. A memory of one of her first “challenges” had surfaced. She went back to the window, cup in hand, and looked out. This time she wasn’t seeing the new hay field, she was remembering this particularly challenging problem, one that had reduced her to tears and left her doubting her ability to exist in a man’s world.
Thinking back now, she could laugh at the situation. Laugh and wonder why it had presented itself as such a catastrophe. In the whole scheme of things, it was a minor incident certainly not worthy of the heavy darkness of spirit it produced. If she had known then that there would be others much more demanding of her ability and wisdom, others much more threatening, she wondered if she would have gone on.
Yes, she would have. Even in retrospect, the thought made her back straighten and her chin tilt up. Of course, she would have gone on. There was never any question of that. She had gone on to meet each day’s challenge, and she would continue to do so. And the challenge of being so alone, well, she would meet that one too.
She took a sip of the strong coffee and gave in to reliving that traumatic, yet hilarious, challenge.
Her father had built a Rumford fireplace in the living room, dominating one wall and the focal point of the room. It was a favorite place for the family to gather on cold, stormy winter nights. It was a place to read by, to share the day’s happenings by, and a place to dream by.
As with everything, her father had researched building the fireplace before he’d tackled the job. He was quite impressed with Rumford’s findings, in particular, the fact that a wide, shallow firebox would allow the maximum amount of heat to radiate into a room. He’d analyzed, planned, and drawn scale models. He’d even gone so far as to mix natural cement by burning a mixture of lime and clay, a failed experiment because the mixture was inconsistent and the properties varied.
He gave up on this cement as being too unstable and had ordered cement from England called Portland cement. It was so called because its color resembled the stone quarried on the Isle of Portland off the British coast.
He’d read of this discovery by Joseph Aspdin from Leeds, England, who had produced the mixture on his kitchen stove, grinding it into a powder to create cement. This enterprising young man appealed to James Campbell, and although he’d started the fireplace using his own natural mixture of cement, he put the remaining bricks aside and waited for the English cement to arrive.
What Heather was to later discover, much to her dismay, was her father had apparently laid most of the firebox floor with bricks mortared by that earlier natural mixture.
It was her first summer alone, and she was sweeping out the floor of the fireplace when particles and hunks of a white, powdery substance began to come up from between and around the bricks. The more she swept, the more the powder and dust filled the air. Finally, when the dust settled, there was no more cement. In fact, there was no more firebox floor. Bricks lay side-by-side and the slightest nudge would separate them.
Although the incident was a few years past, Heather could remember the overwhelming sense of despair and helplessness as she picked up one brick after another. She stood facing an empty opening that had been the floor for the many logs of wood that had brightened her winter days. The cheery fireplace was ruined. Because of her.
She dropped to the floor, cradled her head in her arms and gave in to more than a few minutes of despair and self-pity. Then with the same can-do and I-will spirit that was to become her pattern of coping with everything at the Circle C, she got to her feet, wiped her sleeve across her eyes, gritted her teeth, and set about to fix the fireplace. Unfortunately, it was easier to make the decision than to accomplish the task.
Having the correct type of cement wasn’t a concern this time. She had the cement, and the tools. She just didn’t have the slightest idea of how to use them.
She stood in the barn, a book of her father’s notes in one hand, a trowel in the other, mixing white powdery cement, sand, and water in a tub, when a buggy drove into the yard.
She swiped a strand of errant hair out of her eyes, leaving a white streak across her face, which mingled quite well with the soot and ash from the fireplace. Wiping her hands down the front of her shirt and pants, she went out to see who had pulled a stylish buggy to a stop in front of the barn door. She closed her eyes and gave an internal groan and muttered some very unladylike words. If she hadn’t been so stupid as to frame the doorway where she was sure to have been seen, she would have hidden behind the stack of hay and prayed for deliverance.
The visitors simply couldn’t have been worse. Perched on the black surrey seat were two well-meaning church ladies. She knew them well. They were taking a Sunday drive to check up on the poor, helpless girl silly enough to think she could run a ranch on her own.
Heather could not believe her bad luck. Maud and Clara Samuelson. Maud and Clara were spinster sisters that more charitable people might call well
meaning. Heather recognized them as being blunt, opinionated, and downright nosy. They were bossy, forceful, outspoken, and a few more expletives she probably shouldn’t know.
Not only was she caught looking like a wraith, but she was wearing a pair of her father’s trousers cut down to fit her slim figure. Men’s pants were frowned upon by Maud and Clara, and men’s pants on the Sabbath were unthinkable. Her hair was straggly, her face dirty, her shirt torn, a couple of buttons missing, and the mannish trousers were indecently tight.
Heather felt certain part of the agenda for today’s visit was to snoop and see if she was keeping her mother’s house as clean and tidy as her mother had. She wasn’t. Not even close.
Between calving, fixing fences, cleaning manure filled corrals and barns, and doctoring animals, she had neglected any housework. It wasn’t her favorite thing to do on the best of days. And when necessary, she quieted that wee, small voice of a conscience by assuring herself no one would be seeing the two days worth of dishes piled in the sink. And certainly no one would see she hadn’t made her bed when she’d crawled out of it before dawn that morning.
There were her father’s books piled on every available surface. Several of the bricks she’d taken from the fireplace floor were lying around the living room. Of course, they were black with soot as evidenced by the tracks left on the hardwood floor, a floor no longer as polished and shiny as it had been when her mother was the homemaker.
Wyoming Heather Page 9
