“And asking to be fried.” Whit pulled his hat down and turned toward the draw they’d ridden through earlier. “It’s comin’ a storm, and we don’t want to be in the trees when the lightning hits. We’ll find a bunch of low rocks and hunker down opposite the storm.”
With that, he kicked Oro into a lope and the others followed. Livvy had no choice but to do the same.
A sharp rifle-like crack tossed Ranger’s head nearly into Livvy’s face, and a fiery bolt shot from the clouds. Thunder bounced off the mountain’s shoulder and rolled across the park. Whit leaned low over Oro’s neck and raced toward a granite outcropping.
As soon as their boots hit the ground, the sky ripped open. Livvy clutched the gray’s reins and pressed up against the rocks.
“Let him go.” Pop jerked his head toward Ranger. “If he spooks, he’ll run home.”
None of the men were holding their horses. Reluctantly, she tossed the leather straps over Ranger’s neck and he trotted off, ears flat in the downpour.
Another crack and Livvy flinched. She slid down, pulled her knees to her chest, and tried to squeeze her entire body beneath her hat brim. Rain pounded her hat and arms and bounced off the ground.
Bounced?
Kernel-sized hail popped out of the grass and off the rocks like buckshot. It stung right through her clothing, but there was nothing she could do. For all her childhood experience in the saddle, she’d never ridden out a storm in the open.
Whit unlashed the yellow roll behind his saddle and ran to her. He shook the slicker and spread it out like wings, then squatted next to her, covering them both with the yellow shield.
His body warmth drew her, and she pressed close against him as hail pelted the oil cloth over their heads. Glancing up, even in their near-dark confines, she could make out his grin—that boy-like smirk with the ability to fan an angry fire or stir unquestionable longing.
Oh, Lord, help her.
As the storm raged, Whit’s arm lowered until it rested on her shoulders, and even through her wet shirt his heat seeped into her. Rivulets formed around their feet and cut paths through the grass. Lightning hit close enough to strike with the thunder, leaving no gap between. Surely the horses would bolt and run, leaving them to slog home on foot in the dark.
The lion’s earlier cry shivered through her, adding to the chill of her wet clothes. Whit pulled her closer and she didn’t resist. She tugged off her soaked hat and his breath warmed her ear.
He didn’t have far to lean. In fact, he didn’t have to lean at all for his lips to brush her hair with a raspy moan.
Pounding hail drummed in her ears, or maybe it was her heartbeat. If she dared raise her face to him, she’d kiss him back. Right there beneath his slicker with Buck and her grandfather taking shelter Lord knew how close.
Oh, Lord—again—help!
As if in immediate answer to her plea, the rain stopped. Suddenly and completely. Livvy stilled and listened. Whit raised his right arm and looked out. It was over. He stood and shook out the slicker.
Livvy’s legs screamed as she straightened, but she clamped her mouth tight. No complaining, especially not when her grandfather must have suffered terribly, hunkered down in the rain. She spun in a circle. Where was he?
He hobbled out from between two rocks, his hat a floppy mess. Buck looked as bad but without the limp, and he trotted off to gather the horses that had wandered into a shimmering aspen grove. So much for being struck by lightning in the trees.
No birds sang, no cattle lowed, only the drip, drip, dripping of rain-drenched trees. The storm thinned away from the western ridge, riding an unseen current toward the lower hills and eventually the plains. All that remained of the sun was its fading trail.
They had little time to ride home before full dark.
Buck brought Ranger around, and Livvy hauled herself up. She may have never heard a mountain lion scream when she was a little girl, but the memory of what she’d been taught sent shivers up her back and into her hairline. Cougars were nocturnal beasts that preferred to do their hunting at a specific time of day.
The time of day-turned-night that was falling around them at that very moment.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Whit’s chest thundered, and it had not one thing to do with hail or lightning.
She hadn’t pulled away. Nor had she slapped him. But how would he look her in the eye now that she knew she’d tangled his spurs?
Livvy Hartman smelled sweeter than new grass on a spring morning. Even under that oil cloth after a full day’s work.
He was in deep trouble.
Buck brought the horses round. Whit checked his cinch and retied his slicker. The sun had tucked tail and run, and there’d be no early moon. If they didn’t want to let their horses lead them, they’d best be going.
Baker looked like he’d been rode hard. In fact, he had. They all had, and on empty stomachs, not that Livvy hadn’t tried to wrangle Whit into lettin’ everybody eat. Keep their strength up, she’d said. Good thing he hadn’t given in. They could have been caught in the corral with a bunch of spooked cattle busting out, and had to come back tomorrow and chase ‘em all down again.
As it was, his tally showed they’d branded most all the new calves. ‘Course there’d always be more through the year, what with the bulls ranging wherever they pleased. But he’d keep everyone close tomorrow, stay to home. The few head they might have missed could wait until Jody got back.
If Jody got back.
But Baker, at least, needed the rest. If the old man took sick and died, Whit would blame himself the rest of his days.
Buck rode up, wet as a duck.
“You still have both irons and the rings?” Whit said.
The boy nodded and slapped his saddle. “Right here where I tied ‘em.”
Baker walked his bay in closer, and his hat flopped over his eyes. He lifted it with a finger and revealed a dripping mustache. “What are we waitin’ on?”
Whit choked down a chuckle and reined Oro around.
Thanks to his slicker, Livvy had fared better than her grandfather and Buck. His mouth lifted with pleasure at the memory of her tucked beneath his arm—and her soft yellow hair against his lips. He pulled his hat down, hoping to block her scrutiny. No sense having her think he was laughing at her.
But it wasn’t laughter that hitched his hopes for Olivia Hartman. It was anything but. He squeezed Oro into a lope and headed through the draw on the last thread of light.
By the time they reached the ranch house, the clouds had scattered and stars washed the sky to near daylight. Whit reined in, prompting Baker and Livvy to do the same. “Buck and I will take the horses.”
Baker angled a resentful glare his way, but stepped down and handed Whit the reins.
“I can unsaddle my own horse.” Livvy bowed up like she always did when her independence was threatened.
“I know you can.” Whit scowled, put gravel in his voice. “But I don’t cook so good, and I figure everyone is hungry.”
“Well, if you had let us stop and—”
The scowl must have done the trick, for she caught her words in her teeth and clamped her mouth shut. She stepped off, untied the soaked larder sack, and went to the house.
About time she did something his way without an argument.
Wet leather. Wet saddle blankets. Wet clothes, and none too warm. Whit nursed memories of the Saturday night baths he’d grumbled over as a kid. What he wouldn’t give to soak in a tub of hot water tonight.
He and Buck laid out the tack, turned the horses into the near pasture, and slopped through mud to the bunkhouse, where they changed into dry clothes for supper. After that downpour, at least their bodies were clean.
When they stepped into the kitchen, the aroma of fried potatoes, bacon, and beans hit Whit in the gut. Livvy wore her blue dress and apron but stood at the stove in her stocking feet. She caught the question on his face and grinned like Buck.
“Pop built a fire and we pu
t our boots on the hearth. Why don’t you two do the same? Socks too, if you don’t mind eating barefoot.”
Whit wasn’t so sure he wanted to smell Buck’s wool socks heating up while he ate. But dry boots sounded too good to turn down.
Baker sat in an overstuffed chair by the dining room fireplace, his stockinged feet crossed before him on the fancy carpet. Buck dropped to the floor and started yanking on his boots. Whit returned to the back door, where he knew a bootjack waited. Two smooth pulls, and he carried his sodden boots to the hearth. He’d grease them tomorrow, help keep them drier the next time he got caught in the rain.
“Supper’s on.” Livvy set the beans on the dining table, and Whit noted the fancy china plates and cups, spoons and knives already set in place. He shook his head. Didn’t take her long to get them all feeling at home.
She returned with the coffee. “Well, are you going to eat or sit by the fire?” She filled each cup and set the pot on a thick cloth.
Pop grunted as he shoved out of his chair and moved to the head of the table like an old bull favoring a new injury. Buck was a two-year-old coming into his own, rangy and full of himself. Livvy shone like a yellow filly with her hair hanging down her back, still damp from the rain. Whit—he just wanted to wrap his hands in that mane and hold on tight.
He coughed to clear his throat and head and took his place to Baker’s right, catching the man’s quick nod indicating an order for Whit to say grace. Guess it naturally fell to him as a preacher’s son. Baker had been calling on him to do so more often.
“Lord, You are mighty good to us. Thank You again for keeping us all safe in the storm. Give us strength from this good meal. Amen.”
“Amen” echoed round the table, and Livvy served heaping helpings of beans and bacon and biscuits. Happiness hovered over her like a plum tree in full bloom, and she had a smile for each man as she set his plate before him. She served Whit last and her cheeks pinked as she glanced at him.
“Thank you.” Whit shoved his longing down to his damp socks and turned his attention to the full plate.
“We goin’ back tomorrow?” Buck tossed the question out between two bites.
“No.” Whit took control before Baker could intervene. “My tally book says we’re near done with only a handful left to check. We can finish when Jody gets back. I figure we all need to rest tomorrow, but there’s plenty to do if you’re lookin’ to stay busy. Fence to mend and hay… Well, the hay has to dry out before we can cut it.”
He slid a look at Baker, who worked on his food and kept his eyes down but not his voice.
“Buck, you mend the garden fence with that roll of wire I brought back from town. Whit can soap tack, fix what needs fixin’ in the near pasture, and check on the widow Overton.” He lifted his gaze to Livvy. “You need anything in town?”
She laid her spoon aside and dabbed her perfectly clean mouth with a napkin, but Baker spoke before she had a chance.
“Take the wagon in tomorrow and get what you need.”
“We are nearly out of coffee and a few other things. And I’ll get another bottle of liniment from Doc Mason.”
“You know I have an account at Whitaker’s.”
She gave her grandfather a loving look that almost made Whit jealous.
“I can get the mail too.” She picked up her coffee and held it before her as if debating a proposition. “If I leave enough food prepared, do you think you could get by without me for a day?”
A sound protest jumped into Whit’s throat, ready to bust out of his mouth in a loud, “No!”
Baker leaned back against his chair and considered Livvy’s request a moment. “And what takes a whole day in town?”
She set her cup easy in its saucer and dropped her hands to her lap. “I want to stop and see Martha Hutton.” Her face flushed a bit but she pressed on, keeping her eyes fixed on her grandfather.
“When Whit and I were in town last, Mrs. Hutton said I could stop by any time. I’d like to take her up on that. For a visit.”
Whit would go with her.
Baker smiled for the first time in several days. “I think that is a fine idea, Livvy. You need other women’s company. Stay the night. I’d rather you not drive back alone near dark, and the three of us can hold this place together in the meantime.”
But if Whit went with her … the three of us?
Her smile ravished the fire’s light and kindled anxiety in Whit’s middle. Livvy gone? For an entire day and night?
~
Gratitude flooded Livvy’s heart for her grandfather’s generous understanding, but her thoughts raced at the sudden shock plastered across Whit’s face. He’d blanched white as her apron and looked like he’d swallowed a boiled egg whole.
Surely it was his eyes she felt following her as she refilled coffee cups and cleared her dishes to the kitchen. She had to get away from his scrutiny. She had to breathe. The tension between them had somehow shifted, and it was—well—stifling. She prayed that her grandfather and Buck didn’t pick up on it.
Of course Buck didn’t pick up anything that didn’t go into his mouth, so she was safe there.
But Pop was not easily duped. Not that she was sneaking around or doing anything she shouldn’t. Her neck warmed at the memory of riding out the storm beneath Whit’s slicker.
Too much heat, that’s what it was. She opened the back window and let the night air rush in, cool and fresh after the storm. A hesitant moon edged above the rimrock, and she shuddered remembering the lion lurking there. Lonely, Whit had called it. That meant only one thing in the animal world. Her neck flamed again. Goodness—could she not think of anything without flaring like a wind-driven wildfire?
As much as she longed to fall across her bed, she needed work to keep her mind on more suitable thoughts. And she had plenty of it to do before leaving tomorrow. Another roast in the oven, fresh bread. She’d sweeten the deal by leaving Annie Hutton’s apple butter on the kitchen table for the men to enjoy in her absence. A small price to pay for a day in town and a chance to visit with other women. Hutton women.
Oh dear.
She busied herself as the men filed out and off to bed, and she finally settled into the mundane chores that required little if any conscious thought—washing dishes and preparing food. An entire day with Annie and Marti Hutton held as much anticipation for her now as Christmas morning had as a child.
With the Dutch oven banked in coals, and bread dough rising on the counter, Livvy dragged herself to bed, too tired to pack but mentally going over what to gather in the morning. Her back and legs ached from the less than customary movements required in branding. She longed to soak in Mama Ruth’s fancy copper tub, but Livvy was too tired to drag it out and wait for enough water to boil for even a tepid bath, much less a hot one. Her pitcher and basin would have to meet her needs.
In the morning she startled awake, only mildly surprised that she’d fallen asleep across her bed still wearing her house dress and apron. The mantle clock struck five. Daylight teased at her window and birds warbled out a welcome. She hurried to the kitchen, where she checked the roast, set water to boiling, and put three loaves of bread in the oven.
After her morning bathing ritual, she chose a fresh dress and buttoned on her Sunday shoes. Spending longer that usual on her hair, she coiled it tightly at the base of her neck and laid out her best bonnet.
The aroma of baking bread drew her back to the kitchen to thump the brown loaves with a finger. Perfect. She smiled, pleased with her culinary skills and aching only slightly from her recently acquired wrangling talents.
In her excitement she’d forgotten to gather eggs. She hurried to her room, where she changed shoes, then rushed outside with the basket on her arm. Thanks goodness Buck would be mending the garden fence. Deer had ravaged her radishes and kale—even nibbled the rhubarb. At least they’d left the herbs and lavender alone.
Did they eat columbines, those lovely purple flowers she’d first seen during the picnic lunch she�
��d packed for the crew? Her pulse quickened at the memory, and she ushered her wandering thoughts along to the henhouse.
A dozen eggs would feed the men this morning, and she left three beneath a brooding hen. She must mention the cross old thing at breakfast so whoever gathered eggs tomorrow would leave her be.
Ha! As if the men cared to gather eggs in Livvy’s absence.
At the kitchen pump, she rinsed the eggs, then arranged them on a towel. The coffee began to boil and she moved the pot a bit and spooned bacon grease into the big skillet. Fresh bread and eggs and coffee should fill everyone. With a sudden change of heart, she whisked the apple butter off the table and hid it behind the egg basket. Let them find it after she left rather than finish it off first thing this morning.
When her grandfather shuffled through the dining room, she cracked the first eggs into the skillet.
“Smells mighty good in here.” His mustache hitched as he came to the stove and reached for the coffee. “Like it did when your grandmother started the day with her fine cooking.”
Again, Livvy’s heart swelled at his compliment. She had come all this way to help, and she took pride in knowing that she had succeeded. Surely that kind of pride was not a sin. Even the woman in Proverbs 31 knew that her work was good.
He dropped a couple of coins in her apron pocket. “Give those to Doc Mason for Tad’s care. And if the boy’s up to it, bring him back with you and we’ll get him home.”
“That’s very generous of you, Pop, but are you sure you will be all right today and this evening without me?”
His gray eyes twinkled as he sipped from a stoneware mug. “I will do just fine. But I won’t hazard a guess where Whit is concerned. I dare say he might pine away while you’re gone.”
Livvy’s sudden gasp brought a chuckle, and Pop made his way to the kitchen table, where he sat and extended his leg.
She turned to the eggs popping in the too-hot grease and pulled the skillet away.
“Don’t be so surprised, Livvy, girl. That boy is already roped and snubbed. No other reason explains him spreading his slicker over you in a storm fit to drown a goose when he could have kept it for himself.”
Straight to My Heart Page 10
