Iron and Rawhide

By Lee Wonnacott

Ginger Whelihan found a much desired gorgeous widow facing the cruelty of men, nature and her own weaknesses and decided to lend a hand. As a lightning fast gunfighter and tracking bounty hunter working both sides of the law, Whelihan has lived the lone ridge wolf life using his Colt .45 and riding rawhide leather across the U.S. and Mexico. He holsters his Colts to rebuild her home and ranch after he uncovers a plot by the dishonest ranch foreman to rob the widow owner. The gunfighter turned construction worker helps her rebuild her home, her life and her womanly confidence.
Iron and Rawhide is both a character-driven action story of a man who followed the faint song in the wind to ride lonely trail from Canada to Mexico. An old enemy had dogged him for miles and months and now has the widow Hastings in his eyesight. The stories of his fearless adventures portray another side of the lean physique, dark mean eyes, stubbly growth beard and rough voiced Ginger Whelihan. Can Whelihan destroy those who would destroy him and allow his heart to be captured in Flossie’s love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Anne Wonnacott
• Release date: Oct 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781502250780

Lee Wonnacott

On any given day you can find her speeding on the Five, harassing the clerks in Wal-Mart or sitting in her car with a DoubleDouble. Her religion is the National Football League and an Oakland Raider fan since 1967. She prefers a Sheriff over a city cop, a pickup over a coupe and a Colt.45 over a 9 mm. She’s a sucker for children under three and anyone in their 90’s. She will happily put you on hold until next week. Every book she writes feels like her first one.

Book preview

Chapter 1

It was coming up on being a warm day. The crest of the hill let a little breeze flow across and the heavy limbs of the tall fir tree, allowing speckled bits of sunlight to hit the ground. Ginger Whelihan knelt on one knee, field glasses raised as he scanned the green valley below. There was no movement around the heavy boulders, no one rode out of the trees and the only things on the dusty road were birds swooping in to scratch at bugs.

The man removed his glove and opened up the canteen, letting warmish water quench his thirst. He knew he could refill from the river below if he was careful. The movement made him grimace as his fingers found and tested his sore ribs. Whelihan still had a couple of sore spots inside his mouth and he would have to rewrap that gash on his thigh at his next stop. He had won the fight but came away bruised, battered and alive.

Habit and experience made him bring up the glasses for a second look. The old stone ranch house sat low and brooding just up a rise with one end blackened with burned roof timbers. Someone had tried to burn it down at one time.  The darkened stone and sagging roof on the east end meant that its occupants were forced to make do with the remaining half of the house. The weathered two story barn two hundred yards away to the west still stood tall and upright and that meant the house fire was caused by man and not an accident.

Whelihan lowered the glasses and looked behind him when his sorrel horse nickered. The reddish brown horse grazed at tufts of grass under the tree and moved away from him step by step. He rose and stepped to the saddlebag and brought out several pieces of beef jerky, a chunk of bread and an apple. He stroked the horse’s neck and patted the muscled shoulder and took a bite of the jerky.

Whelihan had always traveled light, never weighed down with unnecessary possessions as it hindered a quick escape should the need arise. This traveling light had just saved this gunfighter from a certain bullet that would have made it impossible to see San Francisco in the winter. The tall lean man was fast with his hands and even faster drawing his Colt if the situation called for it. Whelihan grimaced as he rubbed his jaw and felt the soreness from the right hand that had caught him.

Ginger Whelihan had signed on to observe and stand guard while a wealthy land owner in Colorado transacted a rather delicate deal involving his land, the gold rights and one of the finest herd of white-face cattle Whelihan had ever seen. The cattleman had been jittery and nervous about rustlers and thieves but was downright fooled by his own cowboys who put up a revolt and tried to end his days. Two of those boys would never ride again, one was now short a couple of fingers and the last three limped off into the trees the recipients of Colt .45 bullets from Whelihan.

After the herd had been moved, the documents signed and Ginger paid his commission, he took a day and tracked the wounded men’s trail up into the trees.  They had made it about two miles and then took shelter in amongst a couple of downed trees where they died. He removed their identifications and then piled rocks, stones and tree limbs over the bodies before walking away.

Never one to flash money around, Whelihan deposited his commission into the bank in Denver and moved on. This was the first week of September and he estimated he would have a good six weeks before the winter cold would force him to find cold weather shelter. He was looking forward to the soft flesh and rounded curves of an entertaining lady by his side for the next few months. At forty five years old, he was getting a little advanced in years to be picking fights with youngsters half his age and then sleeping out under a rocky overhang to lick his wounds. Whoever lived in this little valley already had that luxury of a warm house in winter even it if came with long days, aching backs and a bountiful harvest.

It had been a good life up to this point. A man who wanted to be alone walked away from society and struck out to see the world and find his fortune. Ginger Whelihan had moved along as a loner and a drifter, and somehow trouble had followed along behind him. He had seen magnificent rivers, snowcapped mountains of great beauty and land that never seemed to end, all from the saddle in the company of his own self. And he had seen innocent lives lost, vicious criminals put into a box in the ground and others that would carry a maimed existence for the rest of their born days.

Whelihan knelt down once again and saw movement in the distance. His glasses told him it was a young boy throwing a stick for a yellow Labrador dog. So it was a family who lived here. Just as he resigned himself to mount up and move on, another movement stopped him. There was a woman standing on the porch, her long white skirt flapping in the wind. She called out to the boy who waved and ran behind the barn and into the trees followed by the dog. The woman stepped down onto the top step, shielded her eyes and scanned the hills. Out of habit, Whelihan stepped back behind the fir tree and straightened up, held still and silent. After a moment, she returned into the house and Whelihan breathed out and looked for his horse who he could hear but not see.

He put the leather gloves into his pocket, wiped his hands against his dusty denim pants and walked down the trail to see where his horse had gone and found him nibbling at a patch of grass near the granite outcropping. Whelihan had never succumbed to the desire to stay in one place, to own land or a home. There had been one woman that he had considered having at his side for life, but circumstances had moved him on down the trail. He now looked with envy at the homestead and remembered the old man’s words.

*

Flossie Hastings frowned as she wiped her hands on the plaid cotton towel. She could almost swear there was something moving up there by that big stump. The elm and oak leaves were turning and perhaps some of them were dropping now that it was late summer and might have sidetracked her attention. She shook her head and picked up the wooden spoon to stir bubbling beef, potatoes, carrots and onions in the Dutch oven. It would be a delicious meal tonight with the soft buttermilk biscuits that sat plump and soft ready for the oven.

She had come to love the coolness of the stone ranch house. She was five foot five and a slender build with brownish red wavy hair than swung down across her lower back. Sometimes she held it back in a little bun or a pony tail. Flossie Hastings was thirty years old and a good cook, baker, sewer and knitter.

It had been a constant struggle to keep them safe and secure while building a home and ranch in solitude. All her life she had been a resourceful woman with a streak of determination and fortitude more fitting a man. She had an easy laugh and a soft touch with friends and for her seven year old son, Jake. Brought up from solid Pennsylvania stock, it she had braved hardships that would have sent her friends to their beds with a bottle of whiskey.

John Hastings had suffered a broken leg when a wagon fell off the support as he laid under it in the attempt to repair the axle.  During his recovery, John developed pneumonia and succumbed during a cold spell two years back. Flossie had started to feel overwhelmed by a son growing up without a father and her without male protection.  She was certain the ranch could produce good cattle and horses as John had assured her, but without money to make repairs and buy stock she felt bewildered.

There had been more than one night where Flossie had lain awake agonizing that something horrific would happen to her son and the pain would be too great for her to continue. Life had not prepared her for human loss and there was an ache for her dead husband. After the beautiful life they had started here together, she could not fathom selling and returning east.

Flossie had learned quite a lot in the five years together alongside her husband as they worked the ranch. But now there were not enough hours in the day and each night when she dropped exhausted into her bed she knew she had wasted too much daylight. Yet every morning, she rose and carried on so Jake would see her as someone who never gave up. John had been insistent with her about how Jake would be raised and his words echoed inside her mind.

Johns Hastings had purchased a prime ranch of two hundred acres of timber and valley grazing along with an orchard of apple, pear and plum trees. He had looked long and hard for a ranch able to sustain the Angus beef he wanted to raise, plenty of water from either a lake or river and a big enough house where he could raise his family. On the eastern side the ranch the gradual slope was thick with heavy stands of Douglas fir, Ponderosa Pine, and red oak and birch. Near the river there were dozens of older, gnarled willow trees and elm. Sandstone cliffs led up to a flat mesa and then the desert began and ran to the horizon.

Thieves and robbers had swooped in one night and took what they could find, destroyed much of what was left and then set the fire before they rode away. Flossie had carried her young son and escaped out a back window and hidden in the orchard. It was the stone walls that held off the fire from consuming the entire home. They had put up boards and blocked off the burned areas and rearranged the large living room for Jake’s bed and belongings.  It was cramped but it would have to do until she could figure out a way to make repairs.

About two hundred yards away to the west was a tall two story weathered barn with a fair sized corral in bad need of repair. The upper barn loft doors hung dangling from worn leather hinges.  The left sliding door on the front was off the track and leaned up against the structure. The right door had rusted in place and they walked around it to get into the barn. The corral rails had fallen down or were gone in places.  Two sections had been dismantled and used for another project as there were no animals now to keep penned in.

Behind the house was a garden patch with evidence of an experienced gardener in attendance.  Straight rows of vegetables stretched fifty feet down to a border edged in stones. Beyond the garden was the main reason John Hastings had fallen in love with this land. There stood an overgrown orchard of thirty apple, twenty two pear and twenty red cherry plum trees. Several seasons of fruit were stored in canning jars in the root cellar and fresh fruit sales to stores in the surrounding communities had helped the young family meet their obligations. Managing the orchard was a full time job for Flossie and as Jake grew she had a work partner of sorts to gather fruit. Closer to the house, a long water trough sat under the cottonwood, a small flower garden edged around the fence and the dusty yard stretched out to the driveway.

The southern property of the ranch stretched out over the remaining one hundred fifty acres. Tall broad-leafed grass grew here and Flossie’s husband had spent countless hours spreading rye and blue grass seed to bulk up the grazing for the cattle. Flossie could remember seeing dozens of the black beef animals feeding in the knee-deep verdant fields. But all those head of cattle were gone to rustlers and thieves in the night who decided to take from a widowed woman and her young child.

*

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and Ginger Whelihan stood on the porch to the right side of the door and peered in with care.

I haven’t lived this long by just barging in any ole place I went, Whelihan winked to the husky bartender.

As I live and breathe, is that you, Ginger Whelihan? Bert Goldman came around the end of the bar and bear hugged the man. A big smile and a hearty handshake brought Ginger into one of his favorite watering holes in the country.

Glad to see you are still alive and still swilling liquor, my good man, Whelihan grinned.

Bobby, run over and tell Bruno that Mr. Whelihan is here and be quick about it, boy.  We don’t know when the wind will pick up and Ginger will be gone on the breeze. How long has it been, Ginger? Two, three years? the bartender grinned.

I believe it was March 1863. I was comin’ through headed to Santa Fe.  That turned out to be nice to my wallet, I’ll admit. But I’m back now and thought I’d stay a while, Ginger laid his hat and gloves on the bar, running his fingers back through his dark hair.

Things are sure to liven up around here now that you’ve rolled into town, Goldman finished polishing up the beer glasses and stacked them on the shelf behind the bar.

Goldman brought out the three little glasses and poured amber liquid into them.  Whelihan grinned.

Four, three, two, Bert had a sly grin on his face as he counted backwards.

My God!  It’s true! The wooden back door slammed against the wall and Bruno Stenson came running in and clapped Whelihan on the back with an enthusiasm that women called giddy. Stenson’s eyes crinkled up at the corner and he had a full mouth smile of joy.  Whelihan turned and bear hugged the gunsmith.

Good to see you, Bruno, Ginger pinched Bruno’s ample jowl and laughed.

Goldman slid glasses over to the men. Gentlemen, a moment in history, They all lifted in unison and tossed back the drinks.

Bert Goldman's saloon was told to be the oldest saloon in the area. It had started out as a tent alongside the next-door tent of the trading post. A little outpost in between two other places to be, it had sprouted up where there was money to be had for drinkable whiskey. The main saloon was large and spacious with tables and chairs scattered over the smooth plank floor. Another tale told was how it had been a shipbuilder who hammered together in the shiplap style of rough-sawn ten inch wood planks with a grooved overlap for strength. The years had seen gunfire in the saloon and several slugs were still embedded in the front of the bar.

Goldman had taken one look at the rundown business, once he was sober, and the business man in him was thunderstruck with the opportunity. He had run moonshine from the Carolinas to Texas and set up dozens of stills from the Montana territory to the gulf coast. Down on his luck, he had rolled into town with his last five dollars in his pocket. Nancy Williams gave him a job as bartender and Bert's six foot four size and quick eye kept the roar down and the riff raff out.  Within six months they were married and the country saloon that Nancy's father had left her started expansion under Bert's trained eye.

Now at forty years old he had become a fixture in this local area. They had built on a large room on to the back of the saloon and set up a copper still into it along with wooden storage kegs. Goldman grew with a reputation for decent whiskey, selling the wooden casks as far away as Santa Fe and San Francisco and gave plenty of hauling business to the freighters coming into Southern California. Nancy had taught him to always have a pot of chili on the back of the stove and keep the hospitality tradition of a long running card game.

Nancy Goldman had died five years back after suffering from internal maladies. Unbeknownst to Bert, Nancy’s father had put a sizable amount of money into a trust for her that was never touched and it was a starched shirted lawyer that walked into the bar one day.  While he was a successful business man with an eye for opportunity, Goldman had never had this amount of money before and it moved this man to tears.

Whelihan stiffened as he heard the swinging door ease open and his eyes shot up to the mirror behind the bar at the same time he had lifted his Colt out of the holster. Bert’s eyes got wide and he stepped back from the bar, his hands up in a defensive position.

I heard rumors that there was a no account vermin in here, a low voice spoke from the doorway.

Whelihan grinned at Goldman and winked. He turned, smiling and then leaned his tall body back against the bar.

Management only allows the best type of vermin in here, Mr. Elliot, like yourself.

Not many people would testify that they had seen Ginger Whelihan smile and even fewer could say they had ever worked with him. Henry Elliot strode over the plank floor and gripped the hand of the man who had carried Elliot on his back out of a gunfight and to safety.

Good to see you, my friend, Elliot threw an arm over Whelihan’s shoulder and hugged him.

Six foot three, black hair combed back, piercing dark eyes with black lashes. Some said that Elliot was a slender built man. For an unknown number of years Elliot brought in rustlers, thieves, and others as long as there was a bounty on their head. Others called Elliot an outlaw in his own right and even fewer called him friend.

Another glass was brought forth and all these men familiar with each other’s exploits drank in honor. It was not often that this group was assembled in daylight, let alone in public for more than ten minutes. Stories were told around the table, whiskey was poured and good friends caught up with each other.

So, Ginger, do you ever come across any cannon out there? Elliot’s mouth hung open and Goldman put the glass back down on the table that he was about to sip starring at the gunsmith.

It had been a long standing tradition of Whelihan to crate up and ship any identifiable weapons to the firearm emporium that was Stenson’s Gun Shop. Every so often a freight wagon would pull up and any number of wooden crates would be unloaded on the front steps. Stenson did his magic and new, renovated firearms became displayed in his cases and hung on his walls. Several different militias came visiting from time to time to purchase the firearms for their ventures. Ginger Whelihan never wanted for a gun.

Cannon? What the heck do you want with a cannon, Bruno? Bert looked incredulous.

Stenson took a sip of his drink and then with a relaxed smile said, I don’t have one. There followed a spirited discussion about the merits of cannon and how modern day warfare might have moved on past the use of the devices. Henry Elliot leaned back in his chair and adjusted his shirt cuffs, I know where there are cannon. Bert Goldman put his head in his hands and shook it, and groaned.

But you men would have to travel by wagon for five hundred fifty miles, sneak past a dozen army officers and just might break your backs.  Because those cannon are heavy, Elliot rolled and lit a cigarette and looked at them. Whelihan tried to laugh into his fist.  Stenson was the only one with big puppy dog eyes that would ever consider such a crazy plan. It was closer to nine o’clock when Whelihan brought up the burned stone ranch house and lush valley he had passed.

John Hasting’s place, Goldman nodded.

His widow, Flossie and their son, Jake, live there still.  She comes into town every so often to stock up on basic supplies. She is a true redhead beauty with voluptuous charms and a razor wit. She might try to scratch behind your ears, Whelihan, like she does that yellow lab of hers, Goldman laughed.

Whelihan rubbed his chin, Well, I’m looking for work. Maybe she’d trade room and board for helping around the place.  I did see where a good part of that ranch house was burned a while back.  And the barn and corral could use some work. But on the other hand, trouble seems to follow me around just like it always has done. She might not want a ruffian no account like me around. Whelihan lifted his glass in a cheer and the other men matched him and downed their liquor.

That used to be a big beautiful ranch house in its day. The stone for the walls came from a quarry up by Four Wagon Bridge and I think it was Phineas Rideout that laid it all.  He told us one time that it was big enough to be the command center for a fort, Stenson walked over behind the bar and poured himself a white ceramic mug of steaming hot coffee.

I’ve overheard Addie Watley talk about Mrs. Hastings as a widow lives out there all alone, with a ranch foreman. She’s got to have iron for a backbone and rawhide for a heart to go it alone out there, Stenson looked thoughtful. Ginger, if you go out there, I’ll give you a couple of things I know she could put to good use. Flossie Hastings could use all the help she can get.

Goldman turned his little glass around in a circle, John’s hired hand, Eddie Mason, tends the cattle now, or what is left of them. About a year ago, rustlers came in and took most of the herd. She’s got maybe twenty head left and a couple of horses, chickens and I think there is a goat out there.

I still think it was mighty suspicious that Eddie was tied up without a sound on the porch and not a sound when they took those cattle. He just sort of threw up his hands without any anger or outrage. It was like he just didn’t care that the cattle were gone. And you know, Angus are quick to rile up and well, there is just somethin’ odd there, Goldman raised his eyebrows and twirled the metal spoon around.

Dawn is always after me to bring a couple boxes of those apples and pears, too.  She claims those are sweeter than the others around the county, Henry Elliot turned his glass over and over on the table. Maybe I’ll have to make a trip out there, too.

Henry Elliot stood up. Dawn and I would be happy to have you over for lunch tomorrow, if you are going to be here that long, Ginger. I think she might have some things to take out to Flossie, too. The men clapped each other’s shoulders and shook hands.

I’ll stop by, Henry.  I’d like to kiss the woman that put a lasso around one of the fastest guns in the west. They chucked and Elliot waved as he walked out the door.

*

Flossie rocked in the old creaking chair and stared out at the dusty road. It was still too early in the day for the postman to ride in, but she had hope and a cup of coffee to keep her company. The rush of a few crows tumbled out of the cottonwoods on the hill drew her attention and she grinned to herself as she watched them rile each other with caws and cackles.

Two newspapers, three magazines, a business letter from a farm implement company and one rather soiled and rumpled letter from her brother in Philadelphia had ridden in with the letter carrier.

My Dear Flossie:

I apologize for my tardy letter.  I have been busy and neglected writing to you and others, and I feel just terrible about this!  I have it in my mind that you live dozens of miles from your nearest neighbor and that you don’t see another human being for days at a time, except your young son.

He must be growing like a weed now. He’ll be coming up on eight years soon and I’ll have to start thinking about what we have back here in Philadelphia that he might like out there in California. My own daughter is growing and I fear one day that I’ll come home and she’ll introduce me to her intended fiancé and my heart will fail right there on the spot!

Lily sends her love and a request that you write more often.  She read your last letter a dozen times and told all her friends about how you are carving out a home and a living in the wilds of the west.  I am afraid she tends to romanticize things but it is innocent and I’d rather she have an image of what it could be like than what we see printed in the local newspaper.

I was curious if you ever get any venison. The neighbor went hunting a few weeks ago and brought us a large cut of deer meat that was so tender and delicious. Perhaps the deer in your neck of the woods are much bigger and bolder than the ones and it takes more than just a gun to kill them. I laugh thinking of the pictures I’ve seen of that tyrannosaur dinosaurs.

I want to hear about your plans for the orchard.  There is a professor at the college in town that talks about how to graft different strains of apple trees together to get sweeter, bigger apples.  If I can find articles on that, I’ll send them to you. It might interest you.

I have not heard from our sister in New Orleans of late.  That family of hers must keep her bustling about morning, noon and night.  I cannot fathom what to do with six children and for such a sweet, gentle child, she turned into a cross between a drill sergeant and a police officer. I write letters to her but I maybe get one reply every three months. Maybe if I wrote to the children, one of them would pick up a pencil and get a sentence or two back to me.

The nights are getting cooler and I fear our autumn is headed toward winter once more.  Please remember to have the bee keeper come and put the hives into a winter blanket with straw and such.  You don’t want those bees freezing. You would have no pollination of your fruit trees and might get half of what you should. Also, perhaps someone from your church could climb up on the roof and put a stack hat on your fireplace chimney to keep out the winter rain and snow. I’m laughing as I write because I’m sure you have plenty to do without me drawing up a list of tasks.

I love you and miss you, my sister. Please take good care of yourself and sweet Jake.  I hope to see you again someday.

With love from your brother,

Marshall Faraday

Flossie lowered the pages onto her lap as she stared out over the waving grass. The image of dark curly hair failing forward over his broad forehead and those deep, dark eyes were all she could remember of her older brother. In her next letter she told herself that she would ask for a family picture.

It seemed like a lifetime ago when she would put on a pretty dress and walk with her mother into town and sit to have tea on the patio at the hotel. Her fingers trailed over the faded muslin skirt she wore and tried to remember the taffeta and crinoline finery but the memoires were not there. She had traded the smooth silks for cotton plaid and wool long coats and high leather boots. She had traded a sheltered life for the wilds of the western horizon with the man she adored. Her finger traces the carved design on the arm of the rocker and she leaned back with a little sigh.

She read the letter from her sister for the fourth time.

"My dearest Flossie,

I hope my letter finds you and Jake safe and healthy. While I don’t have any idea of the hardships you suffer or the tribulations you undergo, I have faith that you will come through them just fine.  I keep telling myself that I am going to come visit you and bring my family out so you can meet your nieces and nephews,"

Flossie scanned the rest of the writing and chuckled to herself after reading a paragraph.

A lady friend of Maryland’s came back to Philadelphia last week from living for three years in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Evidently, she has become quite accomplished in handling and training horses. I am not sure how that talent improves her chances of a good marriage here. You have without a doubt gained some knowledge of that fruit orchard and could teach me a thing or two about my pitiful three apple trees. We have picked maybe a dozen apples in all so we must be doing something wrong.

The echo of hooves reached her and she watched the road as a sorrel horse and rider towing a pack horse started up the grade from the lower valley.

Mom!  There is someone coming! Jake ran from the barn and leaped up onto the porch with excitement. Flossie folded the letter and tucked it into her pocket as she stood up and walked down the steps to the yard.

The rider stopped about fifty yards back from the house and dismounted. The man wore washed out, torn jeans and a faded light blue buttoned up shirt. Ginger Whelihan took off his hat and wiped his face with his bandana.

Good afternoon, Ma’am. My name is Whelihan and I’ve brought you a few things from a couple of friends of yours in Bradford, Whelihan scanned from the barn, the house and off to the trees.

Good afternoon, Mr. Whelihan. I am Flossie Hastings and this is my son, Jake, Flossie tousled the boys hair and he smiled.

Flossie saw a lean, hard face that seemed to have all the toughness of well-worn leather and was tempered by seasons on the road. His deep set eyes were surrounded by tan creases that made people think twice about crossing his path. He carried the broad shoulders and chest above slim hips found in many western men with long legs.

Please come in, Mr. Whelihan. You can tie your horses up over by the tree.  There is a hitching rail there and a water trough for them, Flossie shielded her eyes from the brilliant sun with her hand.

Thank you, Ma’am, that’s right kind of you, Whelihan slapped his hat against his thigh and pulled on the reins leading the animals to the water. The sheltering branches of an old cottonwood provided shade to the side yard and part of the house.

Jake, help Mr. Whelihan with his packages and things now, Flossie nudged Jake to help. Jake grinned and bounded down the steps, trotting over to the horses.

How do you do, Mr. Whelihan, my name is Jake Hastings, Jake held out his hand to the tall man with wide shoulders and slim hips.

The pleasure is mine, Jake Hastings, Whelihan’s rough and calloused fingers clasped the boy’s smaller hand. Ginger nodded as he shook hands with the boy.

Whelihan untied the tow horse from his sorrel and loosened the ties to the four bags that hung from the pack saddle. He eased those down on to the ground and nodded for Jake to take them. Ginger chuckled to himself as he watched the slight boy tote the heavy bag up to the house.

Flossie had set a large glass of lemonade onto the small table on the porch along with a couple of cookies on a small tray.

We don’t get much company, Mr. Whelihan. I think the last visitor we had was, who, Jake? Flossie wrinkled up her brow, looking at Jake.

It was Mr. Cushing, the junk man, Jake nodded. He came through Friday before last and stopped for a while.

Mike Cushing? I haven’t seen him in years. Well, it’s good to know he is still alive, Whelihan untied leather straps and untangled ropes as he unloaded wrapped brown paper parcels into a stack on the porch.

Do you know Mr. Cushing, Mr. Whelihan?

Yes, I do. In fact, I’ve traded with him in Santa Fe, Yuma, Los Angeles and up into the Imperial Valley from time to time, Whelihan gazed at the woman watching her poke and prod the parcels.

Dawn White sent some fabrics and sewing things for you. I think if I hadn’t stopped her she would have loaded up the entire pack saddle, Ma’am, Whelihan patted the large parcel.

Whelihan lifted up one wrapped parcel, and you, Jake, this one here is from Mr. Stenson just for you.  He told me how you like puzzles and wanted you to have a good one, jangling metal sounds came from the wrapped parcel when Jake shook it, grinning.

Please drink your lemonade Mr. Whelihan, while we get these things into the house, Flossie smiled as she carried packs by their strings into the ranch house.

Whelihan bit into an oatmeal cookie and studied the yard. The porch was broad at fifteen feet and about twenty feet wide down to the corner of the house where it continued on to the back door. There with a sloping roof with an eight foot ceiling that would shed rain fast. Sturdy posts and rails guarded the edge and ten inch plank boards ran from the house out to the edge of the steps. Ginger noticed that when he walked across the porch none of the boards creaked. The house had been built to last and it would have been a handsome home if the fire had not touched it.

The corral still stood but over half the fence posts and rails were gone. Creeping vines had curled their way up around the posts. An old buckboard sat alongside the barn with grass grown up around it and the right rear axle rested on a block of wood.

Flossie brought out two glasses of lemonade to the table and sat down on a wooden chair. Jake took a glass and went to sit on the steps while he munched on a cookie.

I was headed into Los Angeles for the winter and I wanted to stop and see acquaintances in Bradford and Williams Creek. I was talking with them and I mentioned that I had come through your valley last week and they explained about the trouble you’ve been having of late, Whelihan paused a moment, taking a drink of his lemonade.

It has been kind of difficult for us, Mr. Whelihan. But we have managed so far, Flossie saw the green and gold flecks in his eyes and the black stubble that almost hid a small white scar on his left jaw running up to his ear.

Well, I’ve picked up some carpentry and fencing skills over the years and I was thinkin’ I could put them to good use here, if you wouldn’t mind me and my horse stayin’ out in your barn, Whelihan had become still and leveled his gaze at the pretty woman to watch her reaction. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jake looking from him over to his mother, who was still chewing on the cookie.

That is a mighty tempting offer, Mr. Whelihan, and as you can see, we do need the help. I’m afraid with all the work that needs to be done here, you’ll not make it to Los Angeles for the winter, Flossie moved her gaze from him and off to the rails, then to Jake and then to the grass in the valley beyond.

Whelihan noticed that Flossie had sat up a little straighter, had pressed her legs together and was crossing her ankles as she smoothed down her skirt. Past experience told him that she wanted to take him up on his offer, but there was something that was keeping her from going ahead.

Bert Goldman in Bradford said that your ranch foreman, I believe his name is Eddie Mason, well, that maybe he just needs a couple extra hands for a few days, Whelihan noticed that Jake was nodding in agreement waiting for his mother to speak. Ginger admired the discipline in the young boy to not interrupt adults when they were speaking.

There seems to be more than a few things around here that Eddie could use some help with. We still need a barn for the hay and a corral for managing the few head that we do have, Mr. Whelihan. The sad truth of the matter is that I don’t have the money to buy the lumber, nails and things it would take to make these repairs, Flossie stood up and walked down to the far end of the porch and leaned her hand on the post.

Eddie sells the fruit we harvest to folks in Williams Creek and Bradford, but it just doesn’t make enough to buy the things we need to start making repairs, the knuckles of her hand were white.

Sometimes it’s not the money that buys what is needed, Mrs. Hastings, it is the willingness of the trader to find the right bargain, Ginger leaned over and rolled down the cuff of his pant leg and let ashes scatter down into the plants around the porch. Jake watched the man with steady brown eyes.

What do you mean, Mr. Whelihan?

You’ve got fine stands of timber that can be milled into posts, boards, shakes and shingles. I know where there is a milling machine that will handle those felled trees up on the hill. How about you and Jake go out into the orchard and bring in four crates of apples and pears while I walk around and take inventory on the supplies for repairs.  I know a man who might be willing to trade with me and I know that Dawn White would enjoy some of those apples, Ma’am, Whelihan watched the wavy auburn tendril around her cheek dance in the light breeze.

Flossie turned and leaned back against the porch rail. Well, what do you think, Jake?  Would you be willing to follow Mr. Whelihan around and hand him tools and things while he gets things fixed up for us?

Could we fix the roof on the house first so I could get my own room again? The seven year old bounced up and ran over to his mother and tugged on her skirt hopeful. I don’t like sleeping in the living room all the time. Anyone coming in or going out always wakes me up. Flossie smiled to her son and hugged him in her arms. Whelihan could see a strong bond between mother and son.

Whelihan averted his eyes and looked out at the corral, Perhaps you would like to talk this over with Eddie first, Ma’am?

Flossie brought up her eyes and looked back down the porch to Whelihan. If there was ever a woman that had made up her mind, Whelihan realized then that she wasn’t about to be stopped.

No.  Eddie left for Beatrice two days ago and he hasn’t been back yet and I have no idea when he will be back. You would be on your own getting things done, Mr. Whelihan.  Well, with the help of Jake and I, at the very least, Flossie took Jake’s hand and brought him back over to Ginger. She held out her hand to shake his.

Four crates of fruit, Mr. Whelihan, and we work until the supplies run out and then we’ll take stock.  What do you say?

Ginger was caught off guard but managed to get to his feet and take off his hat as he reached for her hand. There were streaks of red through her brown hair and he noticed for the first time tiny flecks of green and gray in her blue eyes. Her white teeth shown in her smile and her handshake was firm in his. After he let go, Jake reached to shake his hand and Ginger winked to the boy, smiling.

Come on, Jake. We got work to do before it gets dark, her eyes crinkled up at the corners and she went down the steps. An hour later, the crates were packed onto the saddle and Whelihan waved as he started toward the road. Flossie took a deep breath and a glimmer of hope sprang inside her.

*

It was early the next morning when Jake stood at the door, Mom, there are some limbs on the apple and pear trees that are broken that weren’t the other day.  Someone has been out in those trees. You should come look. I was out there on Tuesday looking for any apples fallen to the ground like you told me and there was no broken limbs then. The young boy dangled his boot off this toes. He watched as Flossie sat down and pulled on her boots.

Jake showed his mother the damaged trees. Together they dragged the broken limbs over to the edge of the orchard. There were only ten fruit crates stacked where there should be two dozen.

Have you been using the fruit crates for something, Jake?  You should bring them back if you are, Flossie looked down the fence line then at Jake.

No, we need those crates here for the fruit. They aren’t any good for anything else, Jake pointed to the indentation in the soil where a stack of the crates used to sit.

Look at these footprints over here, Jake knelt down and showed Flossie the adult-sized boot print.

Somebody is coming in here and taking our fruit and crates and damaging the trees. People are taking things that don’t belong to them. I hate the idea of sitting out in the orchard at night with a gun, but if we have to, I will do it, Flossie frowned. Jake was silent as he watched his mother. The boy stood up and wiped his hands together to slough off the dirt before shoving his hands into his pockets.

*

The first part of September this year had been filled with warm and comfortable days with nights that needed no blankets. The gentle rolling hills to the south had just started showing a big of fall leaf color. Soon the red, gold and burnished copper color would be scattered surrounding them as autumn set in.

The scent of honeysuckle, wild rose and jasmine mixed in with wheat grass and lilies in the wind. Hummingbirds flitted in and out of blossoms and bees hovered over the clover in the meadow. The weeping willow tree at the bend in the river leaned out over the water and gave a hiding place to the fish under the surface to jump at insects hovering above. Farther up, a gnarled ancient cottonwood dropped it leaves out into the stream. Only the evergreen Douglas fir trees kept their verdant needles on the upper hills.

Flossie had started embroidery on a set of pillowcases for Jake’s bed of jumping fish in a pool of water lilies with a hummingbird. The evenings were nice enough for her to sit with the colored threads out on the porch while she watched Jake play with the dog.

After sunset they sat together enjoying fresh caught fish, cooked carrots, fresh baked bread and Flossie’s latest attempt at apple turnovers. Wrapped up in a quilt they waited on the porch for shooting stars and guessed about how far that star had traveled in space to have them see it on its journey. It had been a never-ending search to find the star constellations as shown in the one book Jake had on the heavens.

*

Dawn White had cooed and fussed over the apples and Flint Carlson was happy to offer stock to Whelihan for the ranch repairs. A still-warm baked pear cobbler and apple cobbler convinced Newton Cutter to start cutting out nails.

I’ll eat anything that comes from her hands, Cutter contented chewed on a bite of cobbler. She is a beauty, isn’t she?

Whelihan raised an eyebrow at the young blacksmith, Come on over to Chick’s and we’ll have a beer and go over a list of things that I think will be needed. Whelihan nodded.  Wood and Cutter shut the doors to the blacksmith shop and walked down across the square chattering.

Whelihan stepped into the saloon followed by Cutter and Wood and saw Henry Elliot at the end of the bar talking with Chick. Ladies and gentleman, Mr. Whelihan graces us with his presence, Elliot winked and Whelihan grinned and did a mock bow.  Chick Miller poured three beers and set them up on the bar.

Pete Sherwood sat at a corner table with two other men nursing drinks. Bleary eyes turned to look at the tall lean man with the mean eyes who just walked in.

What kind of a hotshot is he that you gotta announce him, Elliot?  You his flunky now? Sherwood snickered and the men sitting with the cowboy stifled their laughter.

Henry Elliot eyed the loud mouthed cowboy, Just leave me out of this, Sherwood.  You ain’t no match for Whelihan. He’ll wipe the floor with you so just finish your drink and get out. Elliot grinned and took a drink.

You’re not helping matters any, Elliot, Whelihan shook his head.

Chick Miller shouted from atop a wood box behind the bar, Everyone pick up your glasses and get out of the way. Any women might want to leave now lest they see a man’s bare backside. Men laughed and pushed tables back against the walls and stood up on them. The ladies were hanging over the stair balcony giggling.

Yvette, keep the girls up there while the janitor takes out the riff raff. Whelihan glared at him.

You don’t wanna know the fee I charge for taking out the riff raff, Miller, Whelihan tried to be stern but started chuckling.

Whelihan leaned on the bar and shook his head, Some people are just thick headed, that’s all. Maybe they were born this way or maybe they were dropped on their heads as babies. He took a drink of the beer and everyone laughed.

Miller’s eyes got big and Ginger tensed his chest and arms as he knew Sherwood was now stupid enough to touch him. Pete pushed in on Whelihan left shoulder hard and tried to spin around the tall man, but Ginger was ready and stomped down hard on his left foot.  Sherwood howled in pain and tried to limp away.

Newton Cutter sidestepped around to the end of the bar and Thomas Wood took refuge up on a chair near the piano.

Sherwood pivoted and swung a right hand, but Whelihan moved right and sidestepped it. He slammed an open hand slap against the back of Sherwood’s greasy head as he stumbled by and the patrons roared in laughter. Pete caught himself and a look of fuming rage glazed over his eyes. He lifted his hands and took a couple of steps to the left. Whelihan grinned and went up on his toes, both hands falling down to his sides. He came at Whelihan with a haymaker punch and Ginger blocked it, before punching his right temple and Pete went down on one knee.

Now, Ginger, don’t hurt him too bad, he just might have a job to go to tomorrow and his boss is gonna want to know why he ain’t pretty anymore, Elliot held up his glass and everyone drank to the toast.

Sherwood shook his head to clear his eyes, he tried to lunge up in a bear hug and Whelihan tripped him and he went sprawling. Ginger grabbed Sherwood by the coat and heaved him towards the door and Pete went down on his hands and knees. Ginger’s snakeskin boot shoved Sherwood out of the saloon and halfway down the porch steps. The other two men downed their drinks and went outside to pick up Sherwood.

Whelihan walked back to the bar and wiped his hands on the towel. You’ll get my bill by Friday and I don’t take payments, Miller, Ginger wiped his face and took a drink of cold beer. Tables were pushed back to their original positions and men came down off the chairs.  Thomas Wood was busy testing the softness of some red and black lace covering one of the ladies that had come downstairs.

It doesn’t matter where you go, Whelihan, someone always takes a swing at you.  How does that even happen? It’s like you have a sign on your back inviting them to try it, Cutter leaned his elbows on the bar and sipped the whiskey.

Now leave the man alone, Cutter.  He’s got sore ribs and he can’t stand up good no more because of all the hours of quenching the desires of a certain lady at Highland Acres Ranch, Wood snickered.

Wait.  He’s got sore ribs? Maybe I could win a fight against him, Cutter stood up and flexed his muscles like a weight lifter, grinning. Whelihan stared at the back wall and shook his head.

I hurt him, my horse won’t get new shoes til next week when Doc Baines says he can go back to work.  And I ain’t having that. I got places to go, Whelihan leaned on the bar and drank the beer.

Chick Miller looked indignant. Wait, wait, you wanna give us some details on those desires you’ve been tending to, Mr. Whelihan? They all leaned in closer to hear.

Well, Ginger thought about his words. She does this little movement with her tongue. Everyone groaned and put their heads in their hands with their eyes closed. Whelihan chuckled and drank his beer.

Eighteen miles to the east the woman with the tongue sat reading a letter from a dear friend.

Dearest Flossie:

I hope you and your little family are well. I think about you most weeks whenever I pass by the Watson General Store.  I remember how we loved those little candies from the containers up on the