Wyoming Heather

WYOMING HEATHER

DEANN SMALLWOOD

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

WYOMING HEATHER

Copyright©2013

DEANN SMALLWOOD

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-
194-3

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

To the wild, wacky, and wonderful Smallwood family.  Yes, all of you. You have the amazing ability to laugh when you are sad, cry when you are happy, and talk non-stop. You are each other’s strength and I value each and every one of you. I love that you accept me and my quirks. I also love that I am part of the clan. Floyd, hope you admire Buster Walking Tall as much as I do and don’t mind my taking liberties with your nickname.

To our own special Heather, lover and healer of animals. Honey, I had fun putting you on a ranch in Wyoming. I also had fun giving you Whip. You were my inspiration for this book. Grams loves you.

And last but by no means least, to my husband, Marvin. You are and always will be the wind beneath my wings.

In loving memory of my beloved angel, Jesse, my special little daughter dog.

Acknowledgements

Many thanks to my family that listens to me talk writing non-stop.

Love to my two Yorkies that spend hours in Mom’s office while I write. Two pillows and a window to watch for cats helps.

Love and thanks to my husband that brings me sandwiches, coffee, and encouragement.

Thank you to my copy editor, Janet Zupan. You are my strength and my port in any storm.

And a special thank you to my granddaughter, Sharon, for her patience as she helps Grams with computer problems. Love you, hon.

Chapter 1

No lantern shown in the window to welcome him home. The cabin looked gray in the moonlight. Gray and ghost-like in the shadow of the mountains and the full moon. The corral was empty, poles missing. The barn door hung to one side, held in place by a single leather hinge.

Whip Johnson leaned back in his saddle, shifting his weary body. His hand rested on his right thigh, his fingers absently circling the indentation of puckered flesh. The wound pulsed, the imbedded piece of lead seemed to seek out and rub against bone.

The saddle creaked as he leaned forward and patted the buckskin’s neck, his eyes never ceasing in their vigilance. He took a deep breath, drawing in the land, the mountains, and the pungent smell of sagebrush. The faded chambray shirt pulled tight across his back. He sat tall in the saddle, every six-foot three inches of him hard muscle. Close to his hand, gripping the reins, a rifle rested in the scabbard. Nestled against his right hip was a holster, the butt of the pistol tilted at an angle for easy drawing. Like the man, they looked used. His long, tanned fingers left the warmth of the buckskin then rose and tiredly rubbed across his jaw, the day’s growth of whiskers rasping in the quiet of the night.

He nudged his horse forward. To the far left of him, a jagged bolt of light creased the top of the mountain, momentarily chasing away the gray as thunder rolled, faint and distant. He inhaled deeply. No moisture in the air, the threat of rain only a promise, a teasing whore withholding what the land needed.

Swinging wearily from the saddle, he looped the reins over the hitching post in front of the cabin. He nudged the door open with the toe of his boot. His keen hearing picked up the sound of something scuttling across the hard packed floor. A varmint, most likely a pack rat, had moved in during his absence.

A musty odor met him as he slowly walked into the room. Thumbing his nail across the head of a match, he held it in front of him, the shadows falling back from the flickering light. Nothing much had changed, yet everything had, since he’d last seen the room five years ago. All that was left of the furniture was a wobbly table holding a chipped enamel basin, and the old Monarch stove. Too heavy to move, it had remained in the corner where he’d placed it the day he’d brought it home from Cheyenne.

The match burned his fingers. He blew it out, and then crossed to a lamp set on the plank shelf above the table. He shook it and, hearing the liquid slosh in the glass base, smiled, the sternness momentarily eased from his face. The chimney was black from use, but the wick was still in place and after some urging caught. He carefully sat it down on the table and took a longer look at the room. The chinking in the logs was still tight, the roof solid, the glass in the small window intact. The cabin had weathered the five years better than he had.

Bedding his horse in the barn, he made himself walk back out the sagging door. He’d wait until morning. Then he’d take as much time as he wanted to look it over. Right now the cabin floor was beckoning. He took the rope off his bedroll and rolled it out. Lowering his body, he pulled the worn quilt over him. The last conscious thought he had was that of his pistol resting beside him; in easy reach should he need it.

Chapter 2

Heather brushed the dirt from the front of her pants. Rising, she gave the rope a practiced jerk and freed the calf’s hoofs, releasing the bawling animal to find its mother. Her mouth was dry, her clothes filthy. She was wearing not only the dust of the land, but hair and blood from the calves she’d spent the morning branding. Hair, blood, and dust.

Some perfume
,
she thought with disdain.
I’m a real lady
. Still, a part of her burst with pride as she surveyed the small herd of calves and cows milling in the field. She was halfway through with the branding and dog-tired. In some ways it was a blessing the herd was small. In other ways, like money, it was bad. Bad, and darn worrisome.

Arching her back, she gave a groan as she straightened out the kink from bending over the smoldering embers of the branding fire. She’d been warned a woman her size wasn’t made for roping, throwing, and holding down a bawling, squirming calf while applying a hot iron to its hind quarter. Well, she’d proved them wrong. Of course, she’d had help and her gaze wandered warmly to the sturdy cutting horse standing there, patiently waiting for her to mount and throw her lariat over yet another calf.

“Patch, you’re worth two men.” The horse’s ears pitched forward at hearing her voice.

She limped over to him and put her head down between his ears. She inhaled the clean, horse smell, appreciating it over the odors she’d breathed all day. “I was right to name you Patch,” she whispered. “You sure do own a patch of my heart.” She picked up the reins and led the gleaming black over to a bucket of water. Reaching into the saddlebags, she pulled out a wrapped bundle. Last night’s chicken and this morning’s biscuits looked like a small feast. She made short work of the meal and washed it down with tepid water from her canteen. Wiping her forehead with her arm, she glanced around. The tiredness dropped away as her eyes roamed possessively over her land.

The Circle C Ranch wasn’t much if you measured it by size. But what it was, was paid for. She owned every last acre, every blade of grass. For a moment a wave of sadness swept her, filling her with regret that her mother and father hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy it with her, the land they had all worked so hard on. She’d lost them both two years ago, her mother going first, then followed two months later by her father. Her mother went to pneumonia and her father to a drowning accident as he tried to cross a river swollen with spring run-off. She’d defied the dire predictions and warnings of her friends and stayed on the ranch, working it from dawn until well after dusk. Two years of growing tougher and wiser. Two years of working like a man until she’d forgotten what it was like not to. Now this year, with the sale of her beef, she should have enough put by to weather any storm.

Yes,
she thought as she swung herself back into the saddle,
the Circle C has everything.
Everything but water. Tomorrow,
she nudged Patch toward another calf,
I’d better ride Powder River way and see if the diversion dam Dad built needs any repairs after the long winter.

The pond, fed by the dam, was full, but Heather knew that come summer when the rains slowed down, the pond would start drying up. It depended on the river to keep it full. Without the pond, there would be no water for the cattle. She had the small spring behind the house for domestic use and for watering the garden. But in the hot months of July and August, it, too, slowed to a trickle. She’d become an expert at making a canteen of water last all day. The only extravagance she allowed herself was a full pot for her daily coffee. Even then there were times when she had to make that pot stretch into the next day. Summer months, she made the ride to the Powder at least once a week checking the dam and indulging in a bath under the shade of the huge cottonwoods. The rest of the time, a‘spit’ bath, as her mother had called it, sufficed.

She shook her head again in frustration that her father hadn’t seen to it that some of his land took in the Powder River. Well, he hadn’t, and it didn’t. Thankfully, it was close and able to be diverted. She’d just have to keep praying that whoever owned that portion of riverbank never returned to make trouble over the small dam.