Wyoming Heather (4 page)

Chapter 8

The muscles rippled across Whip’s back as the shirt tightened with each pull of the rope. He made look effortless what would have taken every ounce and more of Heather’s diminishing strength. She watched him, feeling inadequate.

Satisfied that the calf was high enough off the ground, Whip took a long knife out of a rawhide bound scabbard. “Any particular side?” He flashed a grin in her direction.

“What?”

He’d caught her staring at him and made no effort to hide his pleasure. “I said, do you have any particular preference which side of the beef you start skinning?”

“No,” she muttered, “one’s the same as the other.” She drew her knife and grabbed a fistful of hide, pulled it away from the flesh.

Both of them were silent, concentrating on the job at hand. When the hide lay crumpled at their feet, they both stepped back and looked at the completed task, circling the beef like warriors circling an opponent. Both examined the other’s side for a nick or cut into the red meat. Nothing. Both sides had been perfectly skinned.

“Nice job.”

“Yeah,” Heather acknowledged, then grudgingly added, “you, too.”

“You darned right, but I knew my side would be perfect. I just wasn’t so sure about yours.”

“Mr. Johnson,” Heather warned, “you’re like a cow that gives a good bucket of milk, then kicks it over.”

Whip threw back his head and laughed, all sternness and pain chased from his face.

Heather drew in her breath. The man was more than handsome. He was, well darn it, he was nothing short of gorgeous, if a man could be called gorgeous.

“Speaking of milk, I like it in my coffee. Cream if you have it.”

“What coffee?” she asked. This man seemed to have an uncanny ability to keep her off balance. She never knew what was going to bounce out of that mouth of his.

“Why, the coffee you’ll be serving me with supper.”

“Mr. Johnson, I haven’t invited you to supper and, what’s more, I don’t intend to.”

“Well, damn,” he said, “that’s a shame. I was just going to suggest you go on into that nice house of yours and fix us both something to eat while I finish quartering and carrying this beef to your smoke house. Course, if you’d rather carry the beef . . .”

He let the sentence dangle like the worm at the end of a hook.

Giving an exaggerated sigh, Heather turned on her heel. No, she wouldn’t rather carry the beef, and he knew that perfectly well. He’d played her all right. Supper it would be.

“It won’t be fancy,” she muttered over her shoulder. “Leftover beans and biscuits.”

“Baking powder biscuits?” His voice followed her across the yard and up the steps to her house. “I’m real partial to baking powder biscuits. Be sure you make plenty. I’m more’n hungry, I’m famished.” He chuckled at the sound of her angry oath and then the slamming of the door.

Whip wasn’t kidding. He ate like the famished man he said he was. Of course, Heather did her fair share at depleting the meal set out on the oilcloth-covered table. Still, she was no match for the big man as he smeared fresh butter across yet another biscuit.

Heather folded her hands under her chin and watched him. He looked up and smiled. Unguarded, her stomach did a funny flip, then righted itself. It was an unexpected and never before experienced sensation. She didn’t like it, not one little bit.

“How many of those you going to eat?”

“Enough I get my fill. I haven’t had biscuits this light and fluffy since—” He stopped, and pain flashed through his blue eyes, turning them cold and distant. “Well, since a long time,” he finished lamely. “A mighty long time. You’re a good cook, Heather.”

“Yeah, well don’t get used to it. There’s no reason we’ll be sharing many meals, Mr. Johnson.” Heather knew she was being uncharacteristically rude to a guest, but the feelings he invoked scared her, and words just popped from her mouth. She vacillated between wanting to do him bodily harm, and wanting to make him smile or chuckle again so she could see the change it brought to his face.

“Well, now there is reason to,” he said, laying his knife and fork neatly across his plate, and pushing his chair back. He picked up his coffee, and, taking a big gulp, waited for her to pick up the gauntlet he’d just thrown down.

He didn’t have long to wait. Heather pounced on his words like a tabby cat on a mouse. “What possible reason could there be, Mr. Johnson, for you and I to ever have a meal together again? We are not friends. In fact, you could say we are, well . . .  ”She paused, at loss for words.

“Enemies?” The word hung between them.

“Well, no,” she faltered, “not exactly enemies.”

“Neighbors?”

“Well, yes, Mr. Johnson, you know we’re neighbors. But-but not friendly neighbors. We’re not neighbors like I’m neighbors with the Harrisons.” She glanced up at him, seeing the dimple again as he held in his laughter. The darned man was deliberately goading her.

“Stop it right now, Mr. Johnson. You know exactly what I mean.”

“Well, yes, I do, Miss Heather Campbell. It’s hard to be neighborly like you are with the Harrisons.” He paused. “When one of you is a thief.”

“A thief! Darn you, Whip Johnson. Who are you calling a thief?”

“Why you, of course, Heather. A water-stealing thief. Now you’ve got to admit, that’s down right un-neighborly, taking a man’s water when he’s not around to say yes or no.” Rubbing one tanned finger against the side of his nose as he slightly closed his eyes, long lashes fanning tanned cheeks, he gave every impression of someone thinking serious and dire thoughts. “Would you say that would be a punishable offense, Heather?” His eyes snapped open, pinning her with their intensity. “Punishable as in against the law?”

“Get out! Get out from under my table. Get out of my house. How dare you call me a thief and threaten me in my own home?” Heather’s hands curled into fists as she leaned across the table.

“Now, calm down, Heather. I didn’t threaten you. I called you a thief, and you are.” He held up a hand as though to stop her from leaping across the table and putting those fingers around his throat. She wouldn’t mind squeezing the life out of him, and instead of making him angry, he was delighted with the fire inside this woman. “I simply asked you if you thought it was a punishable offense. Now if you’ll sit down and try to act like the lady you aren’t, I might be willing to work out a compromise.”

Heather’s nostrils flared. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, trying to get control of herself. No one had ever made her this angry. Yes, they’d diverted the water from the river that ran through his land. Yes, they’d done it without asking, but darn it, he wasn’t there to ask. But that didn’t make her family thieves. Heather sank slowly into her chair wishing for her father’s cool head and steadying advice. He’d have the words needed to reason and explain the diversion to Whip Johnson. And he would have done it without losing his temper. She swallowed hard. Okay, if her father were here, what would he do? What would he say to her? She licked her lips.

“Mister Johnson,” she started.

“Whip,” he interrupted.

Oh, Lord, this was going to be harder than hard
. Whip Johnson seemed to be determined to make her crawl.

“Whip,” she said sarcastically, “we did divert the water running through your land.”

“You sure did.”

Take a deep breath, don’t let him rile you,
she silently admonished. “Now, my ranch depends on that water for survival. What I’m diverting won’t be missed by you.”

“Might be,” he said laconically. “I have a large herd due any day now. We have a hot summer, I’m going to need all the water the Powder River offers. Say,” he said as he reached for another biscuit, “you don’t mind if I help myself to another, do you, neighbor?”

“No, help yourself, neighbor,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Mr. Johnson, Whip,” she said, forestalling his admonition. “I have lived here four years now and have never seen the Powder River run dry. I think you know that’s a mighty slim possibility.”

“Slim, but possible.”

“Oh!” she exploded. “Just what do you want for your measly water? Blood?”

“Nope. Just some neighborly consideration.”

“And just what do you call neighborly consideration, Whip?” Her tongue curled around his name.

“Well, now, I’ll have to give that some thought. I think a home-cooked meal once a week or so would be a start. You mind if I let you know as we go along and the considerations come to me?”

Not waiting for an answer, he pushed his chair back and reached for his hat. “Thank you for the meal, Heather. It was truly the best I’ve had in a long time.” Gone was the teasing, exasperating man replaced by yet another. “I’d forgotten what sharing a home-cooked meal with a pretty woman was like. It’s like a beautiful sunset at the end of a day. Not necessary to life, but necessary to living. I’ll be in touch.” He put his hat on his head and, before she could think of a response, he was out the door leaving her sitting there.

“Pretty,” she whispered to the empty room. “Well, Whip Johnson, you sure do know how to have the last word. Pretty.”

She slowly gathered the dishes and walked over to the dishpan. All thoughts of being a thief and what other considerations he might dream up were forgotten. She had just experienced a beautiful sunset at the end of her day.

Chapter 9

Heather placed the canvas wrapped meat in one saddlebag and a loaf of warm bread wrapped in a dishcloth in the other. She put her foot in the stirrup and with the ease born of years of riding, settled herself into the saddle, reaching forward and patting Patch’s neck, then turning toward the Powder River.

As good as it would feel, she wasn’t going for a swim or a bath. Her destination was the Powder River Ranch. The beef in the saddlebags was only a portion of the hind-quarter she felt she owed Whip Johnson for his help yesterday. And the fresh-baked bread was a peace offering. It certainly wasn’t an excuse to see the exasperating man again. Absolutely not.

As she approached the ranch, Heather could see signs that the deserted cabin, barn, and corrals were coming back to life. She pulled Patch up short at the next rise and sat surveying the ranch below. Gloved hand resting on the saddle horn and her hat shading her face, she seemed as much a part of the environment as the trees and prairie grass. She’d taken extra time braiding her riotous mass of auburn hair. The braid lay down her back reaching to the waistband of her split skirt. But the extra time was in no way meant to impress Whip Johnson. She had no interest in the man other than getting his cooperation for allowing the diversion dam to remain on his property. If a neat appearance and a loaf of bread helped that along, then all the better.

The wind blew softly against her face, bringing with it the perfume of the prairie, subtle blends of new grass, sunshine, willows, sagebrush, the river, and the Indian Paintbrushes growing profusely among the tufts. Intense vermilion embraced this wide country that she called home. A mischievous breeze teased her hair, releasing several strands from the heavy braid.

Lost in thought, she scanned this untamed land, her eyes deepening to a green that rivaled the willows lining Whip’s portion of the Powder River. This was her land, full of harshness, yet beautiful. A sense of well-being and gratitude filled her. She belonged here. She belonged on her ranch. She was a part of the Wyoming Territory. She knew exactly what the explorer, John Fremont, meant when he said it seemed as, “nature had collected all her beauties together in one chosen place.” Her father had loved that quote, and often, standing on their porch, coffee cups in hand as they greeted the morning, one or the other would quietly repeat it. Yes, she belonged here; and if she got lonesome, which of course she didn’t a voice inside her protested, she could make the ride into town and spend the night with any one of several friends. But she never stayed long. The Circle C needed her. Her animals needed her.

She couldn’t help admire the ranch spread below her. The cabin was nothing. It looked much the way it always had, except maybe less lonely. But the barn and outbuildings were different. They looked stronger, in better repair. Fences were mended, corrals had new poles. Whip Johnson had placed his priority and his able hand where it was most needed.

Heather smiled. That was exactly what she would have done. A herd of cattle was coming. Then, hopefully before winter, there would be time to worry about the cabin.

She knew every inch of this ranch because it had stood empty and silent for so long that Heather had begun to think of it as her own. She’d ride over when she had time and occasionally eat her lunch at the pond or in the shade of the barn. With a reluctance she didn’t understand, she rarely went into the cabin. It was empty in a way that made lonely cry. By the same token, she left the grave on the knoll to its lonesome vigil. The cabin and knoll were private, not to be intruded.

The ranch lazed in the morning sun. A small, underground stream meandered along one edge of pasture. A bee hummed past her face, and across the field a prairie dog stood up on its hind legs and whistled, catching sight of the woman then disappearing into its hole within seconds. Heather enjoyed watching the small animals as they called to one another. They were a neighborly bunch and preferred to dwell in towns. Yet, while she enjoyed them, she also knew what stepping in one of their tunnels could do to a horse.

Everything had its place here, where nature was king. If the trespasser expected to make a life here, he or she would have to accept and bend to the land, the animals, and the hardships.

Heather took in a deep lungful of the summer air and wondered, not for the first time, what in the heck was she doing on Whip Johnson’s land. Why had she given into the urge to come when so much work waited for her on the Circle C? Sure, she could justify the ride over by telling herself it was only right she bring him some of the meat he’d helped butcher. And the bread? Well, the bread was a peace offering. She’d been pretty rude yesterday. She cringed remembering some of the things she’d said, but darn it, he was out of line too, wasn’t he?

She was lost in thought, debating if she should turn Patch around and go back to her ranch where she belonged and forget about peace offerings, when Patch’s ears pointed forward, quivering in the air. A low drawl reached her.

“Adding trespassing to stealing, Heather? Or are you here to borrow a cup of water?”

Startled, Heather gave a sharp pull on the reins jerking Patch’s head

“You! Whip Johnson you have a disgusting habit of sneaking up on people.”

“Now, Heather. It’s not sneaking when you come across uninvited people on your own land is it?” His smile was disarming, filled with devilish delight. Her eyes flashed with the same emerald green he’d remembered all the way home and just before falling off to sleep. They penetrated his mind and the ice around his heart. He’d have to be cautious.

“I won’t dignify that question with an answer. For four years I’ve ridden this ranch. Now, after a few run-ins with you, I’m not sure it wasn’t better off abandoned.”

Whip threw back his head and laughed. Darn but it felt good to laugh, and a light entered his darkness. He looked at the scowl on the woman’s face and chuckled. Teasing Heather Campbell might just become a habit.

“Well now, I’m real sorry we’ve gotten off to another bad start. Would you like me to turn around, then ride back up this rise singing so you won’t be caught sitting there daydreaming? We could start all over.”

“I wasn’t daydreaming,” Heather sputtered, then caught herself realizing she’d walked right in to yet another one of Whip Johnson’s jabs. Well, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he rankled her. She’d be polite and neighborly, just like planned. She’d come over to the Powder River Ranch to do the right thing, and damned if she wouldn’t, even if it killed her.

“Whip,” and she put on her sweetest smile, “I do want to be a good neighbor. So,” and she reached into a saddle bag, “I brought you over a loaf of bread fresh baked this morning. And, if you’ll give me a hand, I have several thick steaks from the calf you helped me with. They need to be cooked, or put in a springhouse if you’ve got one. I figure I owe you a hind quarter for all your help, but I left it in the smoke house until you’re ready for it.” She glanced at the expression on his face, and knew he was fully aware of her nervousness and his ability to shatter her composure.

“Homemade bread. No! Homemade light bread. I don’t know how many years it’s been since I’ve had a slice, much less a loaf, of bread.” Without being aware of it, he glanced at the knoll behind the house. A trace of nostalgia and longing entered his voice.

“Family, Whip?” Heather asked softly.

He nodded his head, not looking at her. “Wife,” his voice hoarse.

“I’m sorry,” she reached over and touched his arm.

He flinched, surprised by her touch. It was the first time someone had physically reached out to him. It was the first time he’d shared that one, pain-filled word with anyone.

Heather rested her hand on the pommel of the saddle and let the quiet of the land enfold them. The minutes were still. Then, she smiled softly. “Want to ride over to your pond? I’ve trespassed and spent some stolen time on its banks. Even did some wading.

He turned his eyes to her. They were the soft blue of the Wyoming sky. With a nod, he lightly touched his heels to the buckskin’s flank.