Big Sky Cowboy. Linda Ford
A farm near Bar Crossing, Montana
Summer, 1889
Squee.
What was that awful noise?
Wyatt Williams eased back on his reins and glanced over his shoulder to his brother, Lonnie. The sixteen-year-old shrank back as if he wished to disappear into the saddle.
Squee. Squee.
The sound came again, rending the air and filling it with tension.
Wyatt stared at the farm ahead. From where he sat he had a good view of the place. A pretty little house with a bay window and a little veranda faced the road. A tumble of flowers in every hue of the rainbow surrounded the house. A garden as precise as a ruler ran from the river to the trees at the back of the lot. There were several tidy buildings, some pens and the naked skeleton of a barn.
Wyatt considered his brother and the mare he led. Fanny was heavy with foal. The weeks of moving had taxed her strength. He couldn’t push her farther.
His gaze went past Lonnie and the horse. He couldn’t see the other mares that he hoped to start a new ranch with, but he knew they were tied securely down by the water. He only wanted permission from the farmer to camp by the river until Fanny foaled, and she and the newborn grew strong enough to resume their journey. Plus their supplies were running low and he hoped to restock here. He could ride to the nearby town for what he needed, but it seemed unnecessary. Wyatt studied the sign nailed to the gatepost.
For Sale—Eggs, Milk, Cheese, Garden Stuff.
His mouth watered. Fresh food had never sounded so good.
“Wait here,” he told Lonnie, and rode forward.
From around one of the outbuildings came a squealing pig with a floppy-eared, big-footed dog barking at its tail.
A young woman skidded around the corner, blond braids flying. “You get back here, you little trouble-maker.” She dived for it, catching the animal for about ten seconds before it slipped away, squealing righteous indignation and leaving the gal in the dirt.
Wyatt drew to a halt and grinned.
The woman picked herself up and shook a finger at the dog. “Grub, enough. I’ll never catch the crazy pig with you barking and chasing after it.”
Wyatt took Grub to be the dog’s name, for it stopped and yapped and then turned back to pig chasing, which seemed to be the sport of the day. The young woman took off after them. The pig veered from side to side. She pounced on it again, but it wasn’t about to be captured. It wriggled free and headed in Wyatt’s direction.
His horse snorted.
“Rooster, you never mind. He’s just a wee oinker.” Wyatt reached for his lariat, swung a lazy loop and dropped it over the pig’s head.
The little pig yanked on the rope, trying to get free. The squeals that erupted about deafened Wyatt and, he guessed, anyone within a hundred yards.
The gal blinked at Wyatt. “I just about had him.” Her brown eyes challenged him. Seemed she didn’t care to have someone interfere in her work.
Her attitude tickled Wyatt clear to the pit of his stomach. He grinned. “You’re welcome.”
She planted her hands on her hips. The flash in her eyes told him how hard it was for her to maintain her annoyed look.
He tipped his head toward the pig, who continued to fight the rope and put up an awful fuss. “Ma’am, if you don’t mind me suggesting it, why not let me lead the pig to his pen.” Though he guessed “lead” was only a wish.
She nodded decisively. “No doubt that would be wise. Come along, then.” She moved toward an enclosure while Wyatt dragged and tugged and generally fought his way after her, Rooster snorting his protest at the indignity.
She held the pen gate open. Wyatt dismounted and pushed the pig through the space she gave him, then slipped off the rope. Five other little pigs rushed forward, joining in the melee. An old, fat sow huffed over to them.
The young woman sighed and wiped her hand across her brow, leaving a streak of dirt to match the three on her dress.
The dog sat on his haunches watching the pig.
Wyatt gave the dog further study. “Does he always wear a grin?”
“A grinning dog and a crying pig. Who’d believe it?” The girl hooted with laughter.
Wyatt couldn’t remember when he’d last heard such a freeing sound. His grin widened, went deep into his heart.
She calmed her chuckles, though her quivering lips warned him it might resume at any moment.
From behind him came a strange sound. He jerked around to see the source. Lonnie had moved close enough to see and hear, and he laughed, too. A sound almost foreign to Wyatt’s ears.
Lonnie noticed Wyatt watching and immediately sobered.
Oh, how Wyatt wished his brother would stop being so tense around him. Lonnie was even more jumpy around strangers, and yet...
Wyatt looked at the woman before him. Had her laughter drawn Lonnie forward? He shifted his gaze toward the pigs. Was it the animals that attracted Lonnie?
Whatever it was, Wyatt was grateful.
“I don’t believe I’ve seen you around before.” The pretty young woman drew his attention back to her.
“Nope. Name’s Wyatt Williams. This is my brother, Lonnie.”
“Pleased to meet you both. I’m Cora Bell. What can I do for you?”
“My mare needs to rest.” He indicated Fanny. “The rest of my animals are down at the river. We want permission to stay there until she’s ready to travel again. We could use some supplies, as well. I saw your sign on the gate and thought...”
“I can certainly sell you anything we have. You’ll need to talk to Pa about your animals, though. Come along.”
He dismounted, handed Rooster’s reins to Lonnie and strode after her.
She led him to a small outbuilding and stepped inside. He followed into the dim interior.
“Pa, I brought you company.”
A man emerged from behind a stack of wood pieces, old barrel hoops and broken wagon wheels. He wiped his greasy hands on a stained rag.
Cora introduced the pair.
Mr. Bell held out a soiled hand. “Pleased to meet you. What brings you to our part of the country?”
Wyatt repeated his request. “I’ll only stay until my mare and her foal are ready to travel, then I’ll be on my way.”
“Got someplace to be, do you?”
Mr. Bell likely only meant to make conversation, but the question made Wyatt face the fact that he didn’t know where they were going. How far would they have to in order to get away from their past? How far before Lonnie could forget their abusive father? How far before people would forget Wyatt had gone to jail for beating up the old man?
Not that he’d done it. Lonnie, sensitive and quiet, had snapped one day and turned on their father. Knowing his brother would never survive in jail, Wyatt had confessed to the crime. Now, a year later, he was out. Of course, no