Wyoming Heather (20 page)

Chapter 37

The days flew by. Heather reveled in having her friend so close.

One of the cowboys, delighted to have a reason to go into town, delivered the word that Alice’s visit would be extended. Her hired man agreed to continue being in charge of the store. That done, she was free to enjoy her convalescence. The first few days there was no enjoyment only pain. Not only her arm and head hurt, but her body cried out in protest at the rough treatment it had received.

Heather’s pain medication was effective. Alice slept and healed, and she was able to make use of the time to catch up on chores. When Alice was able, Heather wanted to take time away from the demands of the ranch.

Buster Walking Tall did come back as Whip had predicted, but not for long. He rode past Heather out by the barn, nodded at Molly as he stepped in the kitchen door, then stood silently, looking at the sleeping Alice, his face a mask. He turned away after a few minutes and, just as silently, left the ranch.

The look of disappointment on Alice’s face when Heather told her Buster had been by revealed more that any words.

Still, he had come by and that was more than could be said for Whip. Heather knew that he had to make the most of every summer day in anticipation of the Wyoming winter. It could arrive anytime from the end of August on.

The thought of winter didn’t fill Heather with the lonesome dread it had in past years. This year, she had Molly, Jesse, Toby, and, of course, Whip. Still, she asked herself, did she really have him?

Not wanting to ponder the question, she went in search of Molly and Alice. Molly had announced that this looked like a day to make fried apple turnovers, and Alice had readily agreed. The soft hum of chatter interspersed with laughter drifted from the kitchen.

Molly was in heaven having someone to visit with and admire her cooking skills. Heather wandered into the homey kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Molly stood in front of the table, her arms sprinkled with flour, explaining to Alice the fine art of making the perfect turnover.

“Yes, sir, Crab Lanterns, that’s what my aunt called them. She was from the South, and there they didn’t talk about turnovers, they talked about Crab Lanterns, the favorite being Peach Crab Lanterns. Don’t know where the name came from. No one did.” Molly stopped for a moment to acknowledge Heather, then, enjoying every minute of having an audience, went on. She rolled out the pastry, stopping every so often to grab up the flour sifter and give the table another fine dusting.

“There’s a hand to making these. You get the dough too tough, and you might as well feed the whole mess to the hogs. Speaking of hogs”—she paused, the round ball of dough in her large hands—“you might want to take a look at that sow, Heather. I think eighteen piglets are too much for her. What do you think?”

“I think you’re right. I was thinking of bringing the runt into the house and letting Jesse nurse it until it can take off on its own.”

Jesse was kneeling on a chair by Alice, her elbows resting on the table, supporting her narrow chin. She took in every word. On hearing this, her eyes shone and a smile broke across her face.

“What do you think, Jess? Think you can handle a baby pig that’s no bigger than your hand?”

Jesse nodded vehemently, leaving no doubt that she had plenty of faith in her ability.

“You’ll have to feed it every two hours, even during the night.”

The little girl pursed her lips and nodded her head slower, giving serious thought to Heather’s words.

Heather waited, hoping that, just once, something would stimulate Jesse enough that she’d break through that wall of silence and utter a word.

“I’ll take turns with you during the night, but the main responsibility will be yours. You know, Jesse, a pig makes a great pet.”

“Oh, Heather,” Alice broke in, “a pig?” And she wrinkled her nose at the imagined smell.

“Yes. A pig.” Heather laughed. “I forget what a town girl you are, Alice. I had a baby pig when I was just a little bit older than Jesse. I rescued it from being abandoned by its mother and certain death.”

“You were rescuing animals even then.” Alice chuckled.

“Anyway,” Heather went on, her voice full of mocking scorn, “Pig Baby was very special.”

Now it was Molly’s turn. “
Hmmpf
, special my foot. The only thing special about a pig is its bacon. Nice, crisp bacon.”

Heather rolled her eyes. “I’ll have you know Pig Baby was smart and clean. Pigs can be trained to potty in just one spot. A pig won’t mess where he sleeps. They really are clean animals. Pig Baby enjoyed his baths.”

Molly’s snort and Alice’s chuckle came simultaneously.

“Don’t you pay any attention to them, Jesse,” Heather said. “I’ll bring in your pig baby and Miss Alice and Molly will soon be eating their words, because”— she eyed the forgotten ball of pastry in Molly’s hand—“it doesn’t look like we’ll be eating any fried turnovers, uh, Crab Lanterns, any time soon.”

“Well, it ain’t my fault you get me all bumfuzzled listening to you go on about pigs. As I was saying, Alice, you gotta roll this out to a nice round shape ‘bout the size of the bottom of that bowl.” Deftly, she demonstrated. “I ain’t never had no fresh peach turnovers, but I surely do admire apple ones. I like them better out of fresh, sweet apples, but since ours aren’t ripe yet, these dried ones will do nicely.”

She pulled another bowl to her and scooped out a couple tablespoons of the fragrant apple, sugar and cinnamon concoction, placing it in the middle of the round. Then, she dipped her pudgy fingers into another, smaller bowl of water and moistened the edges of the round. She finished by folding it in half, pressing the edges together with the tines of a fork dipped into flour.

“Gotta seal it up nice and tight so the filling won’t drip out when we fry it.” She performed this same dance with several more rounds, then carried the filled pan over to the stove.

“Now you step back, honey,” Molly said to Jesse, who had followed the tantalizing rounds and the woman to where a pan of hot grease sizzled. “Don’t want any of this grease to splatter on you.”

“Alice.” Molly went on with the instructions while her hands were gently dropping the sealed halves into the sizzling grease. “The grease has to be just right. Not hot enough, and the pies soak it up. Too hot and they turn out dark, burnt. Gotta be just right. See?” She held up a golden confection, a bubble of sweet filling oozing from the sealed edge. She took the rest of the pies out of the grease, and placed them on a white dishcloth in the middle of the table. All of them were golden orbs. The kitchen filled with a mouth-watering aroma of fresh apple turnovers, or Crab Lanterns, in this case.

“We aren’t through yet. Jesse, come here, this’ll be your job.” She handed the girl a cup of white sugar. “Yours is a very important job, honey. Your hands still clean?”

Jesse looked at them, then held them up for Molly’s inspection.

Molly laughed. “Well, I expect they’ll do. A little dirt never killed anybody I know of.” At the child’s look of dismay, she quickly amended, “But I sure don’t see even a spec of dirt on yours. Nope, not a spec. Here.” She put the cup in Jesse’s hand. “You take a pinch of that sugar and sprinkle it on those pies while they’re hot. I got more to roll out. Hurry now, you don’t want them to cool, less the sugar won’t stick.”

Jesse fell to her task, and Alice helped by steadying pie or cup as needed.

Heather snuck one of the finished pies and headed for the door.

“You best let that cool, Heather. That filling will burn your gizzard.”

“Molly, I swear you’ve eyes in the back of your head.” Heather’s voice was filled with love and laughter for the stout woman that had taken on not only Jesse and Toby, but her, too.

“I’ll be out in the barn if any of you need me or,” she said, looking longingly at the hot pie in her hand, “if anyone wants me to sample another of those burnt pies.”

“Burnt pies?” Molly’s voice thundered. “Not in my kitchen.”

Heather left, laughing.

The rescued runt pig nestled in a small box of straw waiting to be taken into the house to Jesse’s bottle of milk. Heather had nursed several animals and knew what lay ahead in the days to come. Being a surrogate mother was work.

She had just finished laying a fresh layer of straw in the pen when someone rode into the yard. She brushed the straw off her pants and went outside to investigate. Her heart told her who it was before her eyes sent the message. Whip.

A smile creasing her face, she walked toward him.

“You must have smelled Molly’s fried pies all the way to the Powder River,” she teased.

He had his back to her as he stepped down from his horse.

There was no teasing in his eyes or smile on his face as he walked toward her.

“What’s the matter, Whip?” Fear clutched her at the unreadable expression on the man’s face. “Is Toby okay?”

“What? Yeah, sure, Toby’s fine. Why?”

“You look so upset, mad, I don’t know.” She broke off the words, the sentence unfinished.

“Sorry, Heather. I don’t mean to scare you.” He smiled down at her, his eyes dark and shaded by the brim of his hat, the serious expression still on his face.

“I was out riding the fence line when I come across something I sure didn’t expect to find.”

Heather waited, knowing Whip would elaborate in his own time and in his own way.

“Not too far from where we had picnicked a few weeks ago, I found one of your steers butchered.” Whip didn’t tell her he’d been looking for footprints as well as for fence that needed mending.

“Butchered?” Heather asked, disbelievingly.

“Yeah. It was a fresh kill, maybe one, two days old. Flies pretty thick on the innards. No maggots hatched out yet.”

“You said butchered. You meant killed, didn’t you? Wolves?”

Whip shook his head and absently picked a straw from Heather’s hair, his fingers lingering on the soft waves. “Man.”

The one word sent fingers of fear and worry through her. “Man? But, but how can that be? Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. Wolves don’t take just the hindquarters and leave the rest to rot in the sun. And wolves sure don’t put a 45 slug into their kill’s head, then cut a steer’s throat to bleed it out.”

Heather looked away and slowly walked over to the porch. She sat down heavily on the step.

Whip followed and sat beside her, their denim-covered legs inches apart. They were products of this land, the rough-hewn man and the work-hardened woman. Both silent, they considered the intrusion into their lives. Both knew that the act was filled with portents of lurking evil. No one up to any good would butcher a rancher’s beef, much less leave most of it to rot. It was an act of defiance. Somebody had seen the beef and helped themselves to whatever they wanted and be damned with right or wrong.

Heather didn’t like the patch of fear growing inside her. Her land, her ranch, had been violated. A despicable act had been carried out, and the person capable of such an act would, in all likelihood, think nothing of doing it again.
Who? Why?
Heather hadn’t seen any strangers. She hadn’t seen anyone except riders in the distance, and those she recognized as belonging to the Powder River Ranch.

Whip rose to his feet. “I’m riding back to the ranch. Buster and I’ll see if we can pick up a trail. The ground around there’s packed pretty hard, but we may get lucky. Heather, I don’t need to tell you to watch your back. It may be the work of a down-on-his luck drifter. If that’s the case, he’s long gone.”

“And it may not be.” She spoke the words both of them were thinking.

“No, it may not be.” He turned to walk away.

“Whip, Molly has hot apple turnovers in there.” She motioned with her head. “Can I send some back with you for Buster and Toby?”

“Well now, Heather, it would be bad manners for me to say no, now wouldn’t it?” A smile worked its way across his lean face, chasing away a few of the serious lines at the corner of his mouth. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. They remained saturated with anger and intent. He didn’t like this. First, the footprint by the river. Now, the butchered carcass. Someone was hanging out in the hills bordering Heather’s property and his. Someone who didn’t want to be seen. Someone that was tinged with the smell of danger.

Whip didn’t want to read more meaning into the act than there was. But every ounce of his lawman’s experience told him that whoever it was epitomized a dark cloud on the horizon.

Chapter 38

It was later in the week when Whip stopped by to tell her that he and Buster had lost the tracks as they headed into the river. Still, Whip assured her it would only be a matter of time before they picked up the trail. He cautioned Heather again to be watchful and wary of strangers.

Alice asked him if he could spare one of the hands to drive her back to town. Her arm was healing nicely, the bump on her head had reabsorbed, and the bruises on her body were fading to yellow. As much as she hated to leave the Circle C and Heather, she fretted about being away from the store so long.

Heather reluctantly agreed to let her friend go, but only on the provision she take Molly with her for a few days just to get her settled back in, and to make sure she didn’t over do.

Molly was more than willing to go, looking forward to some good visits and someone else’s cooking. Heather was glad she hadn’t shared Whip’s news about the dead steer with the two women. They would make such a fuss about leaving her alone on the ranch. It wasn’t like she’d never been alone before. And, this time, she wouldn’t truly be alone. She would have Jesse.

Molly offered to take the little girl with her, but Jesse adamantly shook her head. She was too busy looking after the piglet and Pup to be away for even a few days. Besides, Heather wouldn’t be going, and that was all the reason she needed for wanting to stay.

On the morning they were to leave, Buster Walking Tall rode into the yard and informed Alice and Molly he would accompany them to town. He offered no explanation why he was going instead of one of the hands. And no one questioned his decision, especially not Alice, whose face took on a special glow at the news.

Heather looked from one to another, knowing that if these two special people decided to recognize the growing bond between them, their lives would be fraught with problems and possible heartache. Their love would be questioned and ridiculed. And yet, she knew in her heart of hearts they were well suited. She also knew that both had the inner strength to conquer any obstacle life put in their paths.

She wished the same could be said of Whip and her. But the obstacle in their path remained hidden. It was known only to Whip, and he made no effort to share or enlighten her. In fact, it seemed to Heather he was deliberately keeping his distance. The last few times he had come to the Circle C had been on business. She made excuses to herself, and some she almost believed. Almost. Perhaps it was time to accept that all there would ever be between them was the two children they shared. She shoved the thought away and smiled as she waved goodbye to Buster and her two dear friends.

“Well, Jesse,” she said as she took the little girl’s hand, “how about you and me making a couple new brooms? I’m getting tired of hearing Molly complain about sweeping with a stick instead of a broom. I’ve got some dried broomcorn from last year stored in the barn. It needs to be made up before the bristles start curling.”

Jesse smiled and, hand-in-hand, they strolled into the cool barn. Neither one felt the stranger’s eyes on them, watching their every movement, sheltered from their view by a large boulder. He was close enough to watch with a menacing curl to his lips, yet far enough away to avoid sharing his presence.

Inside the barn Heather took the cured stalks from a shelf where they had been laid to dry late last summer when she’d harvested the broomcorn. She’d watched the corn grow and cut the stalks when the seed heads were still green, knowing that this made the sturdiest broom. Broomcorn looked a lot like regular corn but the leaves were narrower and topped by bushy clusters of seed heads. When it was ready, Heather had bent the stalks down two to three feet below the seed heads then let them hang in the field for several days to dry. When the tassels were thoroughly dry, they would spring back into shape when gently bent. Then they were ready to be made into a broom.

She’d use the handle her father had carved from a yellow birch sapling. Her mother had used the same handle and Heather touched it with a reverence, reliving fond memories. She imagined she was putting her hands where once her mother’s had gripped the smooth wood.

Jesse helped her pick out thirty or so equal-sized lengths of the broomcorn. Heather then took the currycomb and combed out the seeds. Her hands flew, sure and confident, as she passed on to Jesse the skill of shaving and binding the stalk to the handle, making sure the stalks were wrapped snugly. She bound them two more times and trimmed the tassel ends to equal lengths. When finished, she hung the broom by the leather loop her father had put through a hole in the handle. Then she and Jesse stepped back to admire their work. It would last, and Heather knew Molly would be more than pleased.

The remainder of the day was taken up with the usual chores that make up life on a ranch. Heather’s helper worked diligently by her side. And that evening, Jesse was smothering yawns and blinking to keep her eyes open.

“Well, Jesse, shall we call it a day? I’ll bet your Pig Baby is hungry and looking for his bottle. You know, we may just be able to start him on some ground mash and warm milk in a few days. You’ve done such a good job, he’s getting nice and healthy. Fat would be a better word, don’t you think?” Heather chuckled at Jesse’s smile and nod of head.

“We’ll turn in early tonight because tomorrow you and I have some riding to do. I want to look over the pastureland closest to the river to see if there’s enough feed for cattle. If I keep rotating them I should have plenty of grass to fatten up the steers before they are driven to market. I’m lucky I only have to get them to Cheyenne and the railway there. You know, Jess, this should be a good year. I hope to get top dollar for my beef.” She patted the non-communicative child on the head, knowing that Jesse probably understood little of what she was saying. Still, she took pleasure in having someone to share her thoughts with.

“Think you’re up to a ride?”

Jesse nodded, the smile of anticipation on her face broken by a small yawn. She rubbed her hands across her tired eyes.

“Come on, honey. Let’s get some supper in you and tuck you into bed. I’ll finish up the chores and turn in myself. Maybe after we look the pasture over we’ll swing by the Powder River Ranch and bring Toby back with us. He’s been gone long enough, don’t you think?”
And maybe
, Heather thought,
I’ll see Whip
. That thought made her smile on and off throughout the night.

Morning came early for Heather. She loved this time of day when the day’s work held its breath, and the first cup of coffee tasted better than anything ever would. The first sip, the first cup held between her hands, the steam curling into the cool morning air. She closed her eyes and breathed in the sweet nectar of contentment.

While Jesse slept on, Heather packed a few sandwiches just in case the child got hungry before they returned home. The ride to the pasture was further from her ranch than Whip’s. It was a familiar trail, one the kids rode by on their way to the Powder River Ranch to spend the day. Of course, Toby always rode his own horse, but Jesse was content to ride in front of whoever had come to collect them. That was how she would ride today, in front of Heather, holding the reins in her small hands, guided by Heather’s larger, more capable ones.

Before they started on the trip, Heather wanted to check on the Arabian mare. The banker from town had brought her here, worried about the horse’s feet and possible lameness. He was planning on putting the animal down and told Heather she was his last hope. Heather had been watching the animal closely, puzzled by what appeared to be lameness first thing in the morning, but disappearing as the animal walked or ran throughout the day.

The next morning, however, the lameness would return. This had been the pattern for the past week, and Heather was beginning to despair of finding the answer, much less the cure. She had spent some time last night reading through her resource books, hoping to stumble onto something that would shed light on this particular ailment. When the words had begun to blur before her eyes, she closed the book and went to bed, no closer to a solution than when she’d started.

She had also used one of her father’s reference books to learn what she could about Arabians. She knew they were an expensive animal, highly prized for their endurance and disposition. The banker had bought her as a birthday gift for his only daughter and feared that not only would his investment be lost, but his daughter’s beloved animal might be, too.

Heather was enthralled by what she read. The Arabian was one of the oldest breeds of horses and could be dated back to biblical times. It was said King Solomon had been given an Arabian mare by the Queen of Sheba.

They were originally desert horses and were often kept in their owners’ tents at night with the family and children to keep them from being stolen. Their excellent disposition and gentleness with children was credited to this practice.

She doubted that the banker would go that far, but she did know the Arabian was becoming more and more popular. Mr. Schrift had admitted he’d purchased it with the hope of breeding Arabians in order to preserve their bloodline as a pure desert horse. While all this sounded good and noble, Heather suspected Mr. Schrift saw the money to be made and, quite frankly, enjoyed the prestige of owning such a fine breed of animal.

She went over to the corral where she kept the mare separated from the other horses. The horse threw her head up and whinnied a greeting. The distinctive head, arched neck, and high-carried tail told Heather that this little lady was proud of her linage and was well pleased with herself.

Her coat gleamed in the sun, a mantle of gray, so thick and rich, she couldn’t help but run her hand over the velvet sleekness. But under the luxurious coat, the mare’s skin was black, the true sign of a pure Arabian. They were said to have the black skin to protect them from the rays of the desert sun.

But to Heather it didn’t matter whether or not the saucy lady was a pure Arabian or a simple cow horse. She would work just as hard to find a cure.

The horse stood about fourteen hands high. Its stature made it the perfect size for the young lady it had been purchased for. Heather didn’t think she could bear seeing such a proud beauty destroyed. She wanted more than anything to find the reason for the elusive lameness.

The horse limped over to where Heather stood. The banker had told her he first thought the limp was the result of being in a stony pasture and developing a stone bruise. But it had long since been out of the pasture with no discernible results.

Stone bruise
, Heather thought.
Why did those words ring a bell?
Then she had it. There was a disease of horses called Ring Bone. But the main cause was faulty conformation.

Heather entered the corral and slowly ran her hand down the mare’s legs. There was nothing wrong with her conformation. She was a beautiful animal from tail to mane.

Heather stepped back. What was it that niggled at the back of her brain?
What?
Then she had it, and a smile broke over her face.

“Little lady,” she whispered into the horse’s ear. The horse stilled, its ears pointed forward as though listening to every word Heather uttered. “Another cause of Ring Bone, according to my resource book, is by a young animal running in stony pastures. It’s not common, but it is a possibility. I think we just may have the answer to your problem.”

She felt lighthearted as she left the corral and went into the tack shed by the barn, coming back out with her hands full.

She lifted up the lame foot. She took scissors from her back pocket and began to clip away the hair from around the top of the hoof. When finished, she placed the foot back on the ground saying a silent thank you that the mare was so inclined to please. She opened the lid to a small tin of salve and breathed in the unmistakable aroma of turpentine and pine tar. She made the concoction herself by mixing turpentine, pine tar, iodine, lard, and a couple other herbs known for their healing properties.

Heather spent about twenty minutes rubbing in the salve. She’d repeat the routine every other day while also keeping the animal as quiet as possible. Tonight, after today’s ride, she’d research a little further for more suggestions to speed the healing. She straightened her back, repacked the items, and took them back to the tack shed. She was on the right track. She just knew it. That inner voice whispered a calming reinforcement that the horse would heal to full recovery.

It was time to wake Jesse. Time to take their lunch and head for the pasture.

Heather filled with a warm glow as she opened the kitchen door. All was well in her world. More than . . . Well, it was perfect.