Wyoming Heather (3 page)

Chapter 6

For a rancher, Heather ate very little beef. In fact, she ate very little meat at all. Not because beef wasn’t plentiful, nor was it because hunting was poor. There were antelope and mule deer aplenty. And if she’d been so inclined, there was the bigger game of moose, elk, even bear. But she wasn’t so inclined. She wasn’t inclined at all. Much as the love of ranching ran thick through her veins, it turned mighty thin when it came to killing animals. She’d never developed the tough veneer needed to kill and butcher, even for food. Still, once a year she’d cull out a beef, and steeling herself to a day from hell, shoot the animal in the head, praying for a clean shot. But shooting the animal was only the first step down the dreaded road. There was the skinning, butchering, and preserving of meat. It took weeks before she’d breathe without smelling blood and death. Weeks before she could approach a side of beef hanging in the smoke house and cut off a flank steak. She knew she needed meat to keep up the strength required for the mountain of work she faced daily.

She still had a hindquarter in the smoke house, but with the warmer days coming, it would spoil unless she canned it. Canning wasn’t a job she minded; in fact, she enjoyed the rare time she had for such domestic chores. It wouldn’t be necessary to butcher until the cooler weather of fall. With the occasional chicken and rabbit, the beef would last.

It sounded well and good and would have been, if fate hadn’t stepped in. Heather was riding past the pond looking for strays, following a deer trail that climbed further up the mountain than she usually rode. With another herd coming, it was important she made sure all her calves wore the Circle C brand since it was inevitable that the herds would mix with strays wandering over the adjoining borders. Asking her arrogant neighbor to cut out a few wayward cattle would be bad enough. But trying to argue over the ownership of an unbranded calf would be useless. She narrowed her eyes as another unbidden thought of Whip Johnson flashed through her mind. Unbidden, but unstoppable. Try as she might, since that unsettling meeting at the riverbank, she’d found herself thinking of him and the way he looked sitting still in the saddle, his pain-filled eyes locked on her face. “Wait a minute,” Heather Campbell said aloud, “what makes you so sure his eyes were pain filled? Darn.” She shook her head, angry with herself. “Arrogant and insolent is more apt.” She slapped the reins against Patch’s neck, readying him to turn.

Patch halted part way through the turn as morning’s peace was broken by the mournful cry of an animal. Heather turned the horse in the direction of the sound. Another then another cry rent the air. Following the sound, she came upon a yearling trying unsuccessfully to pull itself up on three legs. It only took a glance for Heather to see the bone jutting through the front leg; she had no choice but to put the animal out of its misery.

She grabbed her rifle from the scabbard, gave a short command to Patch, and this time feeling no remorse, pulled the trigger. The shot rang through the clear mountain air, cleaning it of the painful cries.

For a few long minutes, she was unmoving as her body and mind dealt with the aftermath of the mercy killing. Then, the practical rancher took over the sensitive woman. “Great,” she said to the stillness, vaulting down from the horse, “now how do I get it back to the ranch to save the meat?” She bent down and swiftly cut the calf’s juggler to let the animal bleed out. Beef meant money, no matter how insurmountable a task. No rancher let a perfectly good hunk of meat rot on the ground.

“Okay, Patch,” she said, “this is one time I have to use brains because I sure as heck don’t have the brawn to quarter and lift this heifer onto your back.” Lying on the ground, the animal looked five times bigger than it had on the hoof. She closed her eyes, her mind racing and discarding various possibilities. This was one of the times Heather wished she could afford just one hired hand. Maybe, she consoled herself, maybe if her plans went her way, this time next year she’d have the extra needed to pay a man’s wages. But next year wasn’t going to solve the immediate problem.

“What would Dad do, Patch?” Many times her father drew on his academic background to help solve a ranching problem. His methods were often unconventional, but they worked. The diversion dam was one. James Campbell was a history professor at a leading university when he made the life changing decision and gave it all up for the opportunity to follow a lifelong dream and move to Wyoming, buying his own small piece. Yes, he’d done it. And done it well, despite warnings and occasional derision from friends who scoffed at the scholar whose knowledge of ranching had all come from a book. Well, the ranch was holding its own. Now it was up to Heather to keep it that way.

“A
travois
,” she proudly shouted the words, her eyes lighting up. “Yoo-hoo, I knew I could think of something!”

The Indians used a
travois
to drag loads along the ground. They’d bind a hide or weave together branches to poles then attach them to a horse or even a dog. She closed her eyes, willing herself to visualize the sketch she could only vaguely remember seeing in one of her father’s books.

“Sounds good, but the hide is still attached to the cow and I don’t have anything to cut down poles with.” She gained strength from hearing her voice. “I do know one thing, though. If I wait around, the summer sun will bloat this cow up to twice its size. As long as I’ve been given the dubious gift of meat, I don’t want it to ruin on me. I can gut it as it lays, then figure out my next step.” She wrinkled her nose at the odious prospect, but squared her shoulders and unsheathed her knife.

The sun was higher in the sky when Heather leaned back on her heels and arched her back. The area around her was littered with various viscera. Her hands were bloody. Cutting into the carcass, she’d breathed a small prayer that her knife would be true and she wouldn’t make the incision deep enough to perforate a bowel. She’d done that once on a deer, and if it hadn’t been for her father’s stern warning of the consequences should she give in to the weaker impulse, she would have walked away from the needed meat. But this time her hand was steady and the long incision had been made with skill coming from practice and determination.

Her back hurt something fierce from pulling on the firmly attached innards. Gnats, drawn by the fresh blood, buzzed around her eyes and sweat dotted brow. Unable to use her hands to brush them away, she shook her head or rubbed her face against her shoulder. Not only were they irritating, but their bites were painful. She hated to think what her face would look like after the tenacious little insects had eaten their fill.

She’d practically had to crawl inside the cow as she cut and pulled. Satisfied that she’d removed everything, she grabbed a handful of grass and wiped the now hollow carcass, cleaning it as best she could without water. Slowly she rose to her feet and using the toe of her boot scuffed up some dry dirt. Grabbing up a handful of the clean prairie soil, she rubbed it into her hands then wiped the excess down the front of her pants. While they weren’t clean, at least the blood was covered.

She leaned her back wearily against a tree looking at the animal on the ground. The problem of how to get the calf back to the ranch hadn’t been magically solved. It was still there staring at her, waiting for a solution. Then it came to her. She moved away from the tree, the tiredness forgotten. Her mind raced. She nodded as each segment of the dilemma was reviewed and affirmed. The head was the heaviest part of the animal. If she tied a rope on it and dragged it behind her horse, it would catch on every dang bush and rock.
But,
she thought to herself, smiling,
if I use the principle of force and resistance, I can change that.

Force and resistance
. Her father used to mutter those two words when faced with a task bigger than he. “We use our brains, Heather,” he’d tell her, his Scottish accent thickening. “We’re a canny lot, us Scots, and stubborn to boot. We can find our way around and through most any conundrum.” The child Heather puzzled over the meaning of many of her father’s words. The adult Heather appreciated them as well as the man who easily let roll them off his tongue.

“Okay, Father. Force and resistance. If I tie the rope around the feet of the cow, then Patch will be dragging it against the grain of the fur. Resistance. But if I tie the rope around the head and then made a small
travois
or sled to raise the heavy head, it might just slide over any obstacle. With the trees around here, I can cut a couple lower limbs and make my sled. If I cut off the calf’s legs right at the knee joints, I’ll lighten the load considerably. Yes, sir,” she said, smiling, borrowing her father’s Scottish burr, “we Scots are indeed a canny lot.”

Chapter 7

The sun slid closer to the mountain when an exhausted Heather led Patch into the ranch yard. She’d walked the distance, leading him, guiding him, as they picked their way off the mountain. Still, no matter how careful she was or how sure-footed Patch was, she was sure they’d managed to hook and catch the travois on every sagebrush and rock in Wyoming.

The welcoming cabin and barn gave her a burst of energy she hoped would last long enough to see her through the monumental task ahead. But the relief was short lived. Standing as big as
if-you-please
, back and booted foot resting against the wall of her porch, hat tilted back off his head, was the angular shape of her unpleasant neighbor.

“Ma’am,” he said, in a mocking drawl, “you always drag a beef behind you? Made you a real nice path.” He nodded back toward the way she’d come. “Probably not a rock left on it. Sure kicked up some dust, though. I could see you from a mile off.” He shrugged. “Course, my beef have legs on them so I don’t have to drag them around. You ever thought of—”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Heather dropped the rope and fell down on the porch. She braced her back against the porch beam, laid her weary head back, closed her eyes and wiped the sleeve of her shirt across her dirt-streaked forehead. She was sweaty, itchy, and tired as hell.

“Mr. Johnson, you’re unwanted, unwelcome, and trespassing. Get off my porch. Get off my property. Get out of my sight. I haven’t got enough energy to look at you, much less to fight with you over a few darn drops of water.”

“Few drops? Hell, woman! You call that creek you’ve diverted into your pond a few drops?” He was just getting started, fueled by her sharp tongue and nasty attitude, when the exhausted look on Heather’s face as she forced herself to her feet stopped the words at his lips. She swayed slightly, then steeled herself and walked purposefully toward her patiently waiting horse and its cumbersome load.

As if he wasn’t worthy of notice, she turned her back on him, and, picking up the lead rope, headed for the barn. She’d only gone a few feet when Whip caught up to her. If she had allowed herself to look at him, she’d have seen nothing but admiration for the gritty woman. But she didn’t. And when he spoke, there was no hint of that admiration. Instead, he put even more of the mocking drawl into his words. “You’re going to have to skin that beef, you know.”

No answer.

“Well?”

“I know.”

“It can’t wait.”

“I know.”

“You know how?”

Again, no answer.

Not a muscle moved in her face. Her body was stiff with disdain for the probing questions and persistence of the know-it-all by her side.

“Sure you do,” he answered. “If you know how to gut a beef, you know how to skin one. You have a block and tackle?”

“My, aren’t we just full of questions?” she snapped. “Yes, Mr. Johnson, I have a block and tackle.” Heather was proud of the nasty in her voice, darn proud.

“Good, we’ll need one.”

She stopped so short that Patch’s nose nudged her back and pushed her forward. Catching her balance, she gave Whip a questioning glare. “We?”

It was his turn to return the favor and not answer.

“We?” she demanded again, angered at the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. The dratted man was clearly enjoying himself.

“Mmmm, hmmm.” His tongue ran over his lips as he waited for her response. Dirty and smelly she might be, but she was all woman. And darned if she wasn’t even prettier when she was mad. And she was mad all right.

“There is no ‘we’, Mr. Johnson.” She bit short each word.

“There’d better be, and it’s Whip.”

“Whip? How nice,” she said sarcastically. “Where did you get a name like Whip, Mr. Johnson?”

“From my Momma.” He waited a full minute before going on, knowing he was playing with fire. “I was a big baby and she took one look at me and decided I probably could whip my weight in coyotes.” His mouth curved into a smile and a devilish dimple surfaced. “So, Miss Campbell, Whip it was, and Whip it still is. Now it’s my turn, since we’re exchanging pleasantries.”

“Huh,” she snorted.

He went on as though unaware of her interruption. “I’d be pleased to know your first name. It would be right neighborly, now wouldn’t it?”

She sighed to let him know her patience was thin. Being neighborly wasn’t at the top of her list.

“Heather.”

“Well, now that’s very pretty. Where’d you get a name like Heather?” He parroted her earlier question.

“From my father.” She paused, daring him to comment. When he didn’t, against her will she heard herself say, “Do you know what heather is, Mr. Johnson? No, I suppose not.” She went on, not giving him time to answer. “It’s a plant that has small, purple-pink flowers on it. They’re shaped like a bell.” Her voice had lowered, anger and tiredness, momentarily forgotten. “It grows in Scotland. My father loved the fields of heather and he missed them sorely when he moved to America.”

She was unaware of how her voice and face softened as she mentioned her father and this special memory. “He longed to see and smell the heather again. That there was no heather blessing Wyoming was the only negative comment he had about his chosen home. When I was born, he named me Heather, saying that as long as I lived, he’d have his heather about him. He’d be content and happy because now Wyoming had everything he needed.” She stopped, amazed that she’d shared so much. It wasn’t like her to be so free with her words or emotions. Darn him. He really did bring out the worst in her.

“As I said, Mr. Johnson, there is no ‘we’.”

“Yeah, and like I said, there’d better be.” His voice was softer than before. More than her words, her eyes and face had showed how alone she was and how much she missed her father. Still, he knew better than to let her know he was aware of this. Her pride sustained her.

“Why?” The word came out louder than she’d intended. Damn, but the man was getting under her skin. She was too tired and dirty to stand here jawing. Her patience had run out several rocks, bushes, and snags ago.

“Cause unless you like skinning beef by moonlight, you’d better make it a ‘we’ and take my help. Now stop being so pig-headed and get that block and tackle. We’ll throw a rope over the barn beam and tie the other end onto my horse. Yours has done enough work dragging this carcass around.” Without waiting for an answer, he left her standing. His stride was sure, and with cat-like grace, he covered the distance to his horse.

She watched him retreat and wished to tell him to go straight to hell. She wanted to tell him she was perfectly capable of attaching the hooks of a block and tackle through the tendons of the beef’s knee joints. She was perfectly capable of securing the block and tackle pulley over the barn rafters, and, with Patch walking forward, they would raise the cow high enough for skinning and quartering. She was perfectly capable. Perfectly capable, Mr. Whip. Perfectly.
Yeah,
a voice in her head mocked.
You sure are. Both you and Patch are exhausted. You couldn’t wrestle a pissant. Take his help. Don’t be stupid. Take it and be darned grateful for the offer. You don’t have to like it or him, but grit your teeth and do it.

She didn’t have a choice. Whip had seen the weariness of both woman and horse. Oh, he had no doubt that, if he hadn’t been there, she would have skinned the beef if it killed her. Moonlight or not. He’d looked the place over while waiting for her, and what he saw was well maintained. Corrals were up, fences secure, house and barn sturdy and well built. A nice spread all right. There had to be times she faced insurmountable tasks, but by the looks of the place, you wouldn’t know it.

She had guts, he had to give her that. Guts, determination, spunk, and a smart mouth. A smart, kissable mouth. Now where had that thought come from? He grinned to himself. Where?