Branding the Wrangler's Heart

by Davalynn Spencer

  * * *

  Whit made Jody Perkins ride next to him on the way to the ranch. Maverick trotted drag, unaware of the insulting position and grinning as if happy to be included at all.

  Jody sat his horse like a seed-corn sack, slump shouldered and sullen. Three times before they cleared town Whit convinced himself not to whip the stuffing out of the boy. Buck and Baker would more than likely see to that.

  Jody had to keep reining in the black. It was determined to lead. During those times he checked the horse with quick jerks on the reins, Whit studied the pride-busted boy. Was he mad at being found in the calaboose or was he mad that the Denver crew and Sheriff Price hadn’t let him ride with them to Pueblo? Price had convinced the local magistrate to lock up the boy to keep him from following.

  Whit snorted. Jody Perkins didn’t know how lucky he was.

  A heavy sun hung in the late-afternoon sky by the time they made the ranch road. The boy hadn’t said two words and that suited Whit just fine. He had other things on his mind.

  If he didn’t care so much for his horse and the black, he’d over-and-under it all the way home. His scalp itched and it wasn’t due to his pa’s trough water. It was deeper. His blood simmered with warning. Danger stalked, yet when he checked their surroundings he found nothing suspicious. And Oro gave no sign that predators lurked. Even Maverick was unaffected, though his carefree countenance could simply mean he had as much sense as Jody Perkins and wouldn’t know a mad bear if one slapped him on the rump.

  Whit reached for his Winchester, slid it partway from the scabbard, slid it back in. He did the same with the Colt on his hip, made sure the pull was smooth and unhindered. He flexed his right hand and the gesture drew a worried glance from Jody.

  Served him right.

  Whit’s nerves bunched in his legs and his back and he urged Oro into an easy lope. Another half hour and they should see the barn roof and the rimrock across the valley.

  Rimrock. The word rippled through his arms and down his back. He was more nervous than a prairie dog at a badger picnic.

  Watch her, Lord. Please, watch out for Livvy until I get there. Keep her safe.

  Until he got there? What an arrogant prayer—as if he had more say-so than the Almighty. Maybe there was a bite of truth in Livvy’s stinging reprimands. He needed to trust the Lord more and stop thinking everything depended on his doings. But that’d be a whole lot easier if he could see Livvy from where he sat atop his good horse.

  When they loped into the yard, the place was deserted. No Buck, no Baker, no Livvy. No lights in the house and the sun had pulled itself behind the first peaks. Before long it would tuck tail and run for cover of night.

  “Check the house for Buck and Livvy,” he told Jody. “I’ll check the corral and pasture.”

  The boy hit the ground running, apparently charged by the urgency in Whit’s voice.

  Whit loped to the barn and around to the back pasture. Baker’s gray was gone. Either Whit’s boss or his bride-to-be was out riding.

  Jody ran out the kitchen door and halfway to the barn before he yelled, “Neither one’s here. Just the boss.”

  Buck’s horse was in the barn. That left Livvy out alone. Hurt? Trapped? Lost?

  The yelling drew Buck from the bunkhouse, barefoot and shirtless. Whit slid Oro to a stop before him and tossed him the Colt. “Fire this three times if Livvy rides in.” Buck held the gun as if it were hot iron and nodded so fast Whit thought his head would fly off.

  He whirled Oro around and dug in his spurs. The buckskin lunged forward and landed on the gallop, straight for the shadowy red rimrock.

  Baker’s gray caught the last of daylight as Whit neared the meadow’s edge. He pulled to a trot, saw the horse’s reins dragging as it grazed. At Whit’s approach it jerked its head up and rumbled a greeting.

  Livvy was nowhere.

  Had she fallen? Had Ranger thrown her into some spot Whit couldn’t see in the fading light? Or was she off climbing the outcroppings, getting herself in a fix?

  And then he saw her yellow hair. She stood a hundred feet beyond the gray, against a bank of cottonwood trees, as still as stone, looking down. Every fiber in Whit’s body wanted to run to her and sweep her into his arms, but his instincts told him to look closer.

  Only the cottonwood leaves moved, fluttering in the early-evening breeze. And a long golden rope that whipped soundlessly from side to side atop a small pile of boulders.

  Whit’s blood froze in his veins. A shout formed in his throat but he checked it.

  He drew out the rifle, cocked the hammer and took aim. The gray’s ear swiveled at the metallic click. Livvy didn’t move.

  Daylight faded by degrees. He hadn’t warned Livvy about riding out alone at dusk. How could he have been so careless? Why hadn’t he hunted that cat down when he had the chance?

  Regret dug its rowels deep. Oh, Lord, please protect her.

  His finger hugged the trigger as he sighted left of the boulder that hid the cat’s body. Only the movement of its tail betrayed its position. If he shot too soon he’d miss. If he shot too late—

  Slowly, calmly, Livvy raised her head and looked at him. She knew.

  Don’t run, Livvy, darlin’. Don’t run. How he loved her! Helplessness burned a hole through his heart as she turned. Her gasp reached his ears as her hands reached her face.

  The cat leaped. Whit fired.

  The rifle’s report bounced off the rimrock and set Ranger to prancing. Whit kicked Oro into a run and jerked up next to Livvy on the ground beneath the lion.

  He jumped down, never taking his aim off the cat. Stretched Livvy’s length, its tongue lolled across her hair. Blood soaked her blouse.

  Neither of them moved.

  He kicked at a plate-size back paw. No response.

  “Livvy.” The word scraped up his throat, dragging his soul with it.

  Keeping his finger on the trigger, he stooped beside her, laid a hand on the lion to feel for its breath. Satisfied the animal was dead, he knelt and rolled the cat off Livvy and his heart stopped.

  Her chest barely rose with each shallow breath. Red cuts swelled on the back of her hands where claws had slashed, and the stripes widened and spilled into rivulets that ran down her arms.

  He choked out her name and lifted her to him. Once against his chest, she melted in his embrace and began to sob from behind her hands.

  “You came. 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.

  Gently, he lifted the fingers of one hand, 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 Livvy 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 going to put you on Oro. I’ll sit behind you and lead Ranger back.” He looked deep into her shining eyes, so round and terror filled. “Are you sure you can sit the saddle?”

  She nodded slowly, determined. “Yes,” she whispered. “I can do it.”

  Chapter 20

  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 anno
yingly 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.

  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. “Resting” once again with her legs extended on the dining room settee, she adjusted her skirt, flexing her fingers to force the stiffness from them.

  Her hands would always be scarred. When she’d held them unbandaged before the mirror, side by side as they had been that day against her face, the red swath of three razorlike 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 to check on the pantry.

  Every morning for a week Buck had faithfully delivered a basketful of warm eggs. But the morning he discovered hatchlings peeking beneath the old red hen, he 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 and his eyes twinkled.

  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. Pop and Buck had worn him out, and he’d no doubt think twice before he lit out after any more hired guns.

  Livvy 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 fate as hers, but from a well-aimed fork.

  She chuckled at the memory, ready 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.” He raised a bushy brow. “Denver did have a court order, you know. Proved they had the right-of-way through the gorge.”

  No, she did not know, but it sounded about right that a bunch of roughs on both sides had worked 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.” He lumbered back to his study and returned with an envelope.

  “This was in the mail you brought. 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?”

  With a jerk of his mustache and 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?

  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 crushing 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, inflamed by his forward remark. “Really. Such language.”

  Whit strode across the floral carpet to the settee and bent to scoop her up.

  She resisted. “My legs work just fine.”

  Bent so close to her, he lifted one brow in an unspoken comment. Livvy flushed, certain she matched the burgundy cushion beneath her. She laid the letter aside and slipped a bandaged hand in the crook of Whit’s arm as he straightened. “A walk would be lovely.”

  They exited the front door and strolled toward the barn. The fresh air invigorated her, reminded her that life existed beyond the confines of the ranch house. Reminded her of the beautiful, living country surrounding it.

  Whit led her to a rough bench against the barn, shaded now in the afternoon light. He sat beside her, linked his left arm with 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. His pulse pounded against her wrist and probed a vein in his neck, hammering a heavy counterpoint to her own running heartbeat.

  “I love you, Olivia Hartman.”

  The husky voice rippled through her. “Well, I’d say it’s about time you figured that out.”

  His eyes darkened, narrowed as he searched her face.

  She touched his rough chin. “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 with innocence. “Do you have one in mind?”

  He growled deep in his chest and slitted his eyes. She shivered in delight and laid her hand on his arm, holding his dangerous gaze.

  “Will you marry me?”

  She closed her eyes, relishing his words, words she had wondered if she’d ever hear. “With pleasure, Mr. Hutton.”

  She leaned toward him, expecting a kiss that never came, then scolded 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 to trace the imprinted dirt with her finger, a spark of joy flaring in her breast. “But we—you—have no cattle. Why do we need a brand?”

  Gently he raised her and with his hands grasping her arms, leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. He pulled back and his breath warmed her face. “I bought out the widow Overton and your grandfather staked us on the land. We have our own herd now, our own place.”

  Peering into those stormy depths, she could feel the hail beating against her reason. “You—you had this made before you even asked me?” She stiffened at the realization. “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. 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 heatedly, 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. Forever.

  * * * * *

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  ISBN-13: 9781460332160

  BRANDING THE WRANGLER’S HEART

  Copyright © 2014 by Davalynn Spencer

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