“Thank you, mister, but I guess the answer is no.”
“No?” Whip’s forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “Why? You just said you were hungry.”
“I’m real hungry, mister, but I don’t eat lessen my, uh, my brother eats too. Did the offer include him?” he asked hopefully.
Whip looked away, stalling for composure. Then in a quiet voice, he answered, “Of course it does, son. Of course it does.” He turned to the child still in Shorty’s grasp.
“What about you, Stinky? Are you hungry.”
There was no answer unless you could call the widening of big blue eyes in too small a face an answer.
“Well?” Whip asked.
“He don’t talk, mister. But he’s hungry. I know that for a fact.”
Whip turned his attention back to the young boy standing bravely in the back of the wagon.
“What do you mean he don’t talk?”
“He just don’t. Reckon he’s too scared.”
“Scared?” Whip posed the question gently into the morning air.
The boy nodded. “You see, mister, nobody likes my, uh, my brother. So’s they whip him or push and shove him.”
An oath fell from Whip’s lips as the facts were related without any sign of self-pity or expectation for fairness. Things were what they were, and both boys had come to grips with that.
Whip took a couple of deep, steadying breaths as admiration filled him for the spunky child who, being dealt a bad hand, hadn’t succumbed, but had stood and fought not only for himself but for his brother.
Whip’s heart filled with compassion. “Why don’t they like him, son? Can you tell me?”
The answer came hesitant and begging for understanding. The boy looked fully at the big man, and with the wisdom children so often have and lose as they grow older, knew that before him stood someone he could trust. This man, waiting so quietly for his answer, wouldn’t hurt him or his brother, no matter his reply. His fingers reached out and, like a butterfly, skittishly touched Whip’s hand resting near his foot.
“He, uh, he can’t help it, mister.”
“Okay. It’s okay. You can tell me, son. What can’t he help?”
“He, he wets on himself. When he’s scared, which is mostly all the time, he just starts letting it run down his leg, or if’n he’s in bed, it gets soaked too. Didn’t nobody want to adopt him. He can’t talk, he’s scared, he wets himself, and he smells. You see, mister, we slept three, maybe four to a bed in the orphanage and the other kids, well”—he swallowed hard—“the other kids they’d start hitting him. Then the man would come and he’d smack him pretty hard and call him names. Sometimes they just threw him in the corner. Without blankets or nothing. That was the good times cause then I could sneak him a blanket or two when no one was paying attention. See, mister, he can’t fight, ‘cause he’s little. But I can, ‘cause I’m big.”
“So you fought his battles, didn’t you?” Not waiting for or needing an answer, Whip went on. “Why the manure? He’s pretty ripe, son.”
The boy nodded. “I know, mister. But you see, that manure keeps people away from him. Cause sometimes I’m not there to protect him. And sometimes, well, sometimes. . .”
Whip didn’t press him to continue. He knew what the boy couldn’t say. That sometimes the opponent was too big for the boy to fight off. He looked hard at the little gladiator and judged him to be no more than six, maybe seven. Too young, too small, to have taken on the burden he carried. Too young, too small, to face man’s cruelties. Yet, by darn, he’d fought back.
Whip felt a surge of pride at the pluck and determination of the boy. Then, a random thought came to the surface of his mind and from the pit of his gut. He knew another boy who had been born having to fight one enemy after another. But, he thought, I had Buster. Yeah, maybe not at first, but I had my own champion to help fight battles. Buster Walking Tall stood by me like this small boy is standing by the little one he’s calling brother.
Brothers. Whip smiled to himself. The two boys were as improbable brothers as he and Buster. Improbable because of birth, but not improbable because of fierce protectiveness and caring. One small boy with black hair, big brown eyes, and a darker skin tone. An even smaller boy with hair a pale blond, a blond that would border on white once the dirt and manure was washed away. Blond/white hair, blue eyes, long eyelashes, and fair, fair skin. At least it looked to be fair under all the filth.
“How old are you, son?”
“Six. My pa died when I turned five, and I been in the orphanage since then. Pa said my mother died when I was born.”
The innocent response gave Whip the answer he already knew. There was no way this six-year-old could have a little brother.
“Uh huh. Then how old’s your brother?”
Whip wished he could take back the question when he saw the frightened look on the child’s face. Like any cornered animal, he prepared to fight for his very life.
“Don’t remember, mister.” His hands turned into fists where they hung stiffly by his side. “Well, ‘spect my brother and I will be headin’ on out. If we could trouble you for them pancakes we’d, I’d, be willing to work for them. My brother can’t ‘cause he’s little, but I can ‘cause I’m big.”
“You don’t owe me anything for breakfast, son.”
“Don’t take no handouts. We’ll eat, then I’ll work, then we’ll leave.”
The hands slowly uncurled, and the boy jumped down from the wagon. He stood there for a long moment, slowly looking up at Whip.
“Say, mister. You don’t happen to need an extra worker, do you? I’m strong and I don’t eat much. Neither does my brother,” he added as an afterthought.
In the days that followed, Whip would wonder at whatever had possessed him to give the answer he did.
“You know, I sure do.”
“You do?” the boy asked, his voice wonder filled.
“Yep. Got too much work here for me and the boys. Lots to do before winter. I sure could use someone of your size and strength.”
Inches grew around the boy’s small chest. Worry and fear vanished and shoulders squared.
“My brother, too?”
“Your brother, too.”
Whip glanced over at the smelly child still in Shorty’s grasp and saw the look on his ranch hand’s face. All he could do was shrug his shoulders. Two kids. Two boys, babies really. Two orphans no one wanted. One six years old and the other probably no more than three with, from the looks and smell of him, as many years of filth encrusted on his body. Bathing would be a fierce fight, one he wasn’t sure he was up to because he knew, without a doubt, he’d have to take on the big brother.
“Shorty,” he said, his voice dry. “Take both these boys to the bunk house for breakfast. Tell Cookie to give them as much as they want.”
“Okay, boss,” Shorty said, his mouth in a wide grin. “Right away.”
“And, Shorty,” Whip called after the three, “just as soon as you turn them over to Cookie, ride like hell on over to the Circle C and tell Heather to come quick. Tell her I need her. No. Tell her I really need her.”
Chapter 22
“Of course I’ll come, Shorty. Slow down. What’s happened?” With her heart in her throat, Heather asked, “Is it Whip? Is he hurt?” She held her breath waiting for the answer.
“No, Ma’am. Nothing like that.” The shy cowboy looked everywhere but at her.
Heather stood by the cracked board of the corral, mending tools close at hand. She was wearing her usual work clothes of pants, shirt, boots, and, in this case, leather gloves. The fact that everything looked so right on her slim body was not something she was aware of. It was, however, something Shorty was aware of. The owner of the Circle C was one of the prettiest women Shorty had ever seen.
Hat in his hand, fingers nervously fumbling the brim around and around, he found his boots easier to look at. And when he did manage to raise his eyes and risk a glance at her face, the few freckles dancing across her sm
all nose mesmerized him. And if he made it past the tiny freckles, the long lashes fanning her startlingly green eyes made blood rush to his face and his tongue-tie in a knot.
“He, he just said for me to ride fast as he, uh, begging your pardon, Ma’am, he said to ride fast and tell you to come right now, he needs you.”
“Is someone or an animal injured, in pain, hurt, sick?”
“No, ma’am, nothing like that. Course, them kids looks thin and that smelly one is puny. Downright puny.”
“Did you say kids, Shorty?”
“Uh, yes’m, I did.” He glanced up, then back to his boots.
“What kids? Or I should say, whose kids? Shorty, look at me. What and whose kids?”
“Well now, Ma’am, I don’t rightly know whose. I think I know whose now. Although, I’m not for certain. Whip can answer your questions, Ma’am. Could we just go? I know he needs you in a powerful hurry. In fact, he said he really needs you.”
“Shorty, I’m not moving until I get a few answers. Now, Whip sent you to tell me to come right away, but it’s not an emergency. Is that correct?”
“Yes’m.”
“And it has something to do with kids, right? And you don’t know, and therefore I don’t know, whose kids they are, correct?”
“Well, not exactly, Ma’am. I reckon as to how they are Whip’s kids now.” A plea for understanding rose in his voice.
“Whip’s kids?” Her voice was loud, smoked with a slowly building anger.
“Yes’m.”
“Whip’s kids,” she repeated to herself. “Shorty.” She took a breath for patience. “The last thing I knew, Whip was headed for town to get supplies. Did he bring the kids back with him?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” Shorty smiled. Now they were getting somewhere. Now maybe they could get riding.
“There are two of them, both boys?”
Shorty nodded.
How old is the oldest boy, Shorty?”
“I-I couldn’t say for sure but I believe six, Ma’am.”
“Six.” Heather felt her stomach fall. Whip had been gone about six years so that would make having a six-year old son entirely possible. But he had withheld this and then, when he couldn’t hide it any longer, he had the nerve to send a ranch hand for her and ask, no demand, she come at once. Come right away, he really needed her. I’ll bet he needs me, she thought, gritting her teeth.
“And the other boy, how old is he?”
“Well, just making a guess, I’d say about three. Hard to tell with him, Ma’am, he’s mighty dirty.”
“Dirty? Whip’s other boy is dirty?”
“Yes, Ma’am. Smells terrible, too.” Shorty laughed. “Whip calls him Stinky.”
“Stinky?” Two red spears of heat dashed across Heather’s cheekbones. “He calls his three-year-old boy Stinky?”
“Yes’m.” Shorty risked a puzzled glance at Heather’s face. It was obvious the pretty owner of the Circle C wasn’t seeing any humor in the story.
“It’s the manure, Ma’am. He’s got manure on him and stink, whew, he stinks something fierce. I was holding him arm’s length waiting for Whip to give the go for me to make my Indian owl call so’s they would come to get the boy.” He risked a glance at Heather, then wished with all his might he hadn’t. She looked madder than a wet hen, but maybe with a few more words and a few more minutes, he’d be able to change that.
“See, he, Whip, that is, told me to take Stinky out to the woods and make my owl call so the Indians would come and make short work of him. Stinky. Make short work of Stinky. He was trying to scare him and the older boy cause . . .” His words slowed to a stop. He didn’t need to look at Heather’s face. Her angrily tapping boot told him she just wasn’t understanding. Maybe if told some more of the morning’s happenings.
“It’s like, uh, Whip was gonna feed ‘em, and then let them go to pick up those gold nuggets laying around the river, but the nuggets were all gone. The older boy figured he’d pick him up a few. He said they was as hungry as bears.” Shorty looked up, a shy smile on his face. A smile that turned to dust like the bottom of a dried up riverbed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and at that moment, he decided his boots needed more studying than ever.
“Shorty,” Heather gritted out the name. “Don’t say another word. Not another.” With jerky movements she peeled off her gloves and slapped at the dust on her pants then turned on her heel. Giving the beet red cowboy a scathing look, she stomped over to the house, slammed the door and disappeared inside only to return in a few minutes, her rifle in her hands. Still not saying anything or even looking at the miserable man, she went into the barn.
“Shorty,” she called a few minutes later from the barn door. “You gonna stand there looking at those dumb boots, or are you going to get on your horse and ride?”
“Ride, Ma’am?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Ride.” She led her saddled horse out until she was alongside Shorty’s. She jammed her rifle into the scabbard and, putting her toe in the stirrup, lithely swung her body into the saddle. “Ride. You do know how to ride, don’t you?”
“Yes’m, I surely do. Ma’am, I’m right sorry I made you so mad. I’m not good with words.” And to prove his point the next ones were mumbled until Heather had to lean forward in the saddle to hear them. “’Specially when talking to a pretty woman like you are. I mean no disrespect, Ma’am, but you are real easy on the eyes. I’d be a fool not to notice that. I can explain again about the boys if you’d like.” Hopefully, he looked up.
“Good grief, no. If you stand there explaining much more of that story, I may have to shoot you to put you out of your misery.” Her voice softened as she grinned at the look on Shorty’s face.
“I’m just funning you, Shorty. Now get on your horse and let’s go see what that lying—”She bit back the word she knew would shock Shorty if it fell from her lips. “Uh, while we go see what Whip wants.” Then she muttered the words that made Shorty’s face turn white.
“Course, I may have to shoot him. A liar’s a liar whether it’s by word or by omission. And the way I see it now, Whip Johnson’s the biggest liar in these part.”
She kicked her horse in the flanks and without waiting to see if Shorty followed, took off in the direction of the Powder River Ranch and the unsuspecting Whip.
Chapter 23
There were two very different emotions playing in the air when Heather rode into the Powder River Ranch yard. She was feeling angry, hurt, and betrayed. Whip felt relieved, relieved, and relieved.
He smiled from ear-to-ear and called out a “Hello.” He walked eagerly forward to meet her as she dismounted from her horse.
“Heather,” he said to her back as she hung the reins over the pommel. “I really want to thank you for coming so quick. Don’t know what the heck to do, darned if I do. I’ve never been in a predicament quite like this one.”
“No, I’ll bet you haven’t,” Heather said frostily, still not looking at the man.
A tiny frown wrinkled between his eyes then was gone in an instant. He’d only imagined her coolness.
“Damn. This has been some morning. Kids screaming, ranch hands running around half-naked, coffee spilt. It’s been a real brouhaha. And stink. I can’t begin to tell you how bad one of them smells. Horse manure rubbed all over him along with who knows what else. Since the crack of dawn it’s been one thing after another. I haven’t even had my breakfast.” Whip delivered all this in one breath.
“Oh, that’s too bad. No breakfast either. How terrible for you.” Heather’s voice was syrupy sweet.
“Yeah. Spilt my first cup of coffee and haven’t had a minute to get another. First cup of coffee is important.” He shook his head, “Darn important.” He was totally oblivious to the scowling and too sweet response of the woman facing him.
Heather pushed away the quick spurt of pity she felt for the bewildered man. Of course he was upset. He evidently didn’t expect his children to be dropped on him this way. Well, she
wouldn’t give him any pity. It was his decision or fault that he had two boys with no obvious wife or mother to help in their care.
“Where’s their mother?”
“Darned if I know. One’s mother is dead, died at birth. The other’s . . . who knows?”
Heather’s eyes widened at his apparent lack of knowledge or interest in the woman who had given birth to his sons. She felt her hand curl into a fist as she held herself in.
“I can tell you, Heather, I sure don’t need this. I’d put those two back on the train if I could. I’m trying to get a ranch together and having two boys underfoot sure wasn’t in my plans. Did I tell you one wets all over himself? Well, he does. That’s the stinky one.” He shook his head. “I call him Stinky. Come to think of it, I don’t know their names or even if they have one.”
“You don’t know the boys’ names or even if they have one?” Emerald fire shot from her eyes. “You don’t know their names?” she asked again through gritted teeth.
“Nope. The way the one smells, Stinky’s a good name for him. Maybe after I get some coffee, I’ll ask the older one. He’ll probably know both their names.”
Two things happened: Heather lost control and Whip landed on his butt.
“OW!!” Whip looked up at Heather standing over him, her fists still curled. He rubbed his hand gingerly over his jaw. He blinked his eyes hard and shook his head. “Good Lord, woman. Why’d you do that?”
“Don’t you get up, Mr. Whip Johnson, or so help me I’ll hit you again.”
“Well now, Heather,” he said, reaching for the hat lying in the dust beside him, “I’m not entirely stupid, although I admit I sure didn’t see that coming.” He gingerly put his hat on his head. “Mind telling me just why you suddenly felt the need to break my jaw?”
“It’s not broken. It’s probably as hard as your head.”
Wyoming Heather Page 11
