The Waterhole

Hi Friends! Here’s a contemporary western romance for you. Since I live in Wyoming now—The Cowboy State— I’m bringing the flavor of this culture into the story. I’ve been intrigued by an old, abandoned house nearby, a red house, the porch leaning to one side because of the fierce winds.. It sparked my imagination, so I’ve gone back in time and developed a story for it. Water has always been a cause of tension between ranchers here in the west, where water is scarce. This old house has a pond out front. In the springtime and early summer, Canada geese raise their young there. In the later summer, cattle are drawn to the pond. They tromp the ground down and drink it nearly dry and nap under the big old willow tree hanging over the pond. I hope you will enjoy The Waterhole.

The Waterhole

By Sheri Schofield

   “Well, there it is,” old man Taylor said, nodding toward the ranch house. Looking doubtfully at the young woman sitting next to him in the pick-up, he asked, “Are you sure you want to stay here, ma’am? It’s a long way from town, and with only your brother …”

   Glancing at the rancher and giving him a cheerful smile, Sylvia March nodded. “Yes. Thank you for bringing us out here. Jake and I will be fine.”

   Roy Taylor nodded. “Okay. But if you need help, remember my ranch is just two miles down the road. Come over whenever you like. The missus would love the company.”

   Jake hopped out of the truck and helped Sylvia down and lifted their bags out of the truck bed.

   “Thanks, Mr. Taylor. We appreciate the ride out here, and we’re pleased to have you for a neighbor.”

   “Take care,” Roy Taylor said. He revved his engine and drove homeward, leaving behind the two youngsters. “I can’t believe George left this place to those kids,” he muttered into his beard. “It’s not for the inexperienced, and it’s gonna take a lot of work, that’s for sure. How are they gonna manage?”

   Sylvia and Jake watched the older man drive off then turned toward the house situated next to a hill, the green prairie fields stretching out in front of it. The house was shaded across the front by porch to shield it from the sun, its red paint looking worn from wind and weather.

   Out front was a small pond, a big old cottonwood tree hanging over it. The water looked fresh with no scum on it. Mr. Taylor had said it was spring-fed. To one side of the house was a smaller structure, a bunkhouse for hired hands. In the pasture on the other side of the old wooden fence stood a barn, gray and weathered. A weed-filled corral stood next to it.

   Only two weeks earlier, Sylvia had received a letter from her great Uncle George’s lawyer. Sylvia was twenty, working as a maid at a small hotel outside Chicago, where she earned enough to rent rooms for herself and her brother at a boarding house. Jake, who was still in high school, had a job after school at a local service station fixing cars and filling gas tanks. He’d always been good at mechanics. When Dad and Mom were alive, Dad had taught him all about car engines, and Jake used that information to bring in enough money to provide food for Sylvia and himself.

   When the lawyer told her she had inherited George’s four-hundred-acre ranch, Sylvia was stunned but delighted. No more working as a maid! No more scrimping to make ends meet! She sighed with pleasure thinking of the freedom.

   “Are there any cattle or horses on the ranch?” she asked.

   “Yes. You’ve inherited a herd of sixteen red angus. You have cows, calves and a bull. There are four horses on the ranch. I’ve asked a local cowboy—Wilson—to check on things daily and make sure all the livestock have been fed. Oh, and there are chickens, too. I’ve paid them out of your inheritance to keep things running smoothly for you.”
   “Thanks you so much. But isn’t there grass for the cattle yet?”

   “Yes. But it was a long winter and just recently warmed up. The grass is new. There’ve needed hay through those last two cold months. Your uncle had a good supply for them.”  

   He hesitated then said, “It will be a lot for you to handle alone. I’d advise selling the ranch.”

   “My brother Jake will help me. We’ll be fine. I do not want to sell. We’ll manage.”

      The year was 1975, only one year after the Equal Credit Opportunity Act gave women the right to open their own bank accounts. Sylvia thought gratefully of the account her uncle’s lawyer had helped her establish at the bank in the near-by town of Gillette, Wyoming. It was only ten-thousand dollars, but it seemed like a fortune to her.

The red paint looked worn.    Now the two of them stood looking out over their land. Dark red cattle dotted the nearby hills feeding on the new grass of spring.

   “We can do this, Jake.”

   “You bet. We’ll make a go of it. If Great-Uncle George could manage it at his age, we should be able to do it.”

   “Well, let’s go inside and see what’s there.” She picked up her suitcase and headed for the house. Jake followed with his own luggage.

   The place was clean except for a light film of dust which had settled over everything since Uncle George had passed. Sylvia was grateful. The house wasn’t small and cleaning it would have taken a lot of time. Dust was an easy challenge for her, though.

   “Looks like there’s three bedrooms. Which one do you want, Jake?”
   “You go first. It’s your inheritance.” He grinned and bowed, sweeping his felt cap before him.

   Sylvia moved toward the bedrooms, examining each one, and settling on the one with the double bed and rosebud wallpaper.

  Jake laughed. “Perfect. You chose the one room I’d never want! I’ll take the blue room at the end of the hall.”

   “I wonder if there’s any food in the house?” She walked back into the kitchen and searched the cupboards. There was a large pantry with canned goods. “This should last us a while.”

  “Hello the house!” came a call from outside.

   Sylvia stepped out through the open doorway. The old man sitting on the bay horse looked very much like her idea of a cowboy. His hat shaded his face, so she couldn’t see him well.

   “Hello. Are you our new neighbor?”

   “You could say that. I’m Andy Wilson from the Bar W down the road from here. I’ve been watching over your ranch until you could get here. I was passin’ by and saw your door was open, so I thought I’d better check if everything’s all right here.”

   “Thank you, Mr. Wilson. Won’t you come in?”

   “Call me Andy.” He swung down from his horse, tied it to the rail in front of the house and came over. He smiled and removed his hat. “I’ve told you my name. What’s yours?”

   “I’m Sylvia March.” Hearing Jake behind her, she introduced him. “This is my kid brother, Jake.”

   “Howdy.” The old cowboy held out his hand to Sylvia first, then to Jake. “Glad to meet you both. My ranch is just over the hills a ways.” He pointed northeast. Here’s my phone number. If you need anything, just holler.” He fished a piece of paper with his contact information from his shirt pocket and handed it to Sylvia.

   “Thank you, Andy. Won’t you come in? We just arrived, but I think I saw some tea and coffee in the cupboard.”

   Andy nodded. “Thanks. It will give us a chance to get acquainted.”

   Quickly, Sylvia dusted the table and chairs with a dishtowel. “It’s a little dusty.”

   “Yes. Wyoming is like that. Lots of wind. Lots of dust.”

   Over coffee Andy asked, “Where are you all from?”

   “Chicago area,” Sylvia said. “Before that, our family owned a farm out in the country. But when our folks passed away, Jake and I moved to a town near the city for work.”

   “So you’ve had some experience with livestock.” Andy nodded his approval. You’ll have a good idea about what needs to be done.”

   “Yes, but we never had this much to manage before. Our farm was only forty acres. We had a couple of cows, some sheep, a few chickens, and some pigs. Mom had a small garden, too. We earned enough to live on, but not a lot left over. When our parents died, we had to sell the farm to pay expenses.” She looked down and sighed.

   “I think you’ll manage fine. And when you need to move cattle, just let me know, and I’ll help. If you have questions, feel free to call me.”

   “Thanks, Andy.”

   “You may have a little trouble from one of the other ranchers. Carl Miller and your Uncle George were disputing a waterhole over the hill from here. George’s property line went right through one end of the waterhole, so he fenced it. But in summer, the side Miller owned dried up. That meant his cattle can’t get to water. He has another watering hole, but it isn’t enough for his cattle, so he had to pump water for them from his well. That well isn’t adequate for both humans and cattle, so he had to limit the size of his herd considerably. Miller has asked your uncle to share the waterhole, but George didn’t want to do that. He was a real stickler for boundaries. Miller finally gave up and handed the ranch over to his son Ross. I’m sure you’ll have the same conflict with him. I can’t see any good solution. If you let him use the waterhole, he might want more than his share. Buy too many cattle and crowd yours off.” Andy shrugged.

   “That’s good to know,” Jake said, speaking for the first time. “What’s this Miller look like?”

   “He’s on the tall side. Dark hair. About twenty-five, I think. Usually rides a big gray horse. I got nothing against him, but that waterhole could be a problem.”

   Jake nodded. “We appreciate the warning.”

   After Andy left, they went out to the pasture to check on livestock. One of the horses, a bay mare that was feeding among the cattle raised its head. After a minute, it ambled over to the fence.

   Jake ran a hand along its neck and started talking to it.

   The other three horses came over to greet them too. Choosing a roan mare for herself, Sylvia led the horse to the barn and saddled up. Jake did the same.

   “Let’s check out our ranch. I’m going to change into my ranch clothes and boots.”

   A few minutes later, Sylvia and Jake mounted up and rode out to see their inheritance. “I especially want to see that waterhole,” Sylvia said.

   “Andy said it’s over that hill,” Jake pointed and kneed his horse forward.

   A few minutes later, they reined in their horses on top of the hill. Below them, a  wide, shallow pond glistened in the sunlight.

   “Looks like a run-off pond. On our way out on the train, I heard the land here is bentonite, a kind of clay. It expands a lot when wet. After a rain, the clay traps the water on the surface for the animals to drink. But in the summer, when there’s not a lot of rain, the ponds mostly dry up. Unless they’re deep.”

   “I see the problem, Jake. That end Uncle George fenced off looks pretty shallow, and it’s not very large.”

   “What are we gonna do about it?”

   “Well, we need to pray about it. God will show us what we should do.”

   “Good idea, Sis. I guess God’s ways aren’t often man’s ways. It’s better to know what he wants us to do.”

   “Let’s follow the fence line and see the rest of the ranch.”

   A teenage girl stopped by the next day while Jake was tinkering with Uncle George’s pick-up.

   “Hey there,” she called.

   Jake lifted his head from the engine and blushed. A girl with wavy blonde hair and blue eyes grinned at him. She tipped her cowboy hat back so it dangled by the cord.

   “Hey there yourself,” Jake said, smiling broadly. “Who might you be?”
   “I’m Sandi Jenkins. I live about three miles from here.” She pointed west. “My folks own the J-Bar. You must be Jake. Wilson stopped by and told us about you and your sister.”

   “So you came by to check us out?”
   “Of course.” Her eyes twinkled. “Are you some kind of mechanic?”
   “I’m whatever it takes to get the coon.”

   “Good. It’s gonna take that kind of spirit to keep this place running. At least that’s what my dad says.” Sandi dismounted and came over to where Jake was wiping the grease from his hands.

   “Glad to meet you, Sandi. Say, do you know where the high school is?”

   “Sure. It’s in town. Dad drives me in every day during the school year, except when there’s a big snow and we can’t get through. Then we wait for the snowplow, and Dad drives me in. Unless the school is shut down. We could take you too, if you want a ride.”

   “Thanks. That’s good to know.”

   “What year are you?”

   “I’m going to be a senior this year. How about you?”

   “I’m a senior, too. We’ll be in most of the same classes. Except for home economics. The guys take shop while us girls take home ec.”

   “It was the same where we used to live—out near Chicago.”

   “Have you and your sis heard from your neighbor Ross Miller yet?”

   “No. But we’ve heard a little about him. What can you tell me?”

   “Well, he’s a determined man, but nice. Kinda quiet. His dad and your uncle used to argue over the use of that big pond on your property—and partly on Ross’s. When his dad retired, he left the ranch and the problem to Ross to solve. What are you all going to do about it?”

   “I don’t know yet. Sis said we should pray about it and find out what God wants.”

   “I like that. Sounds more pleasant than what has been going on for years.”

   “Hey, Ross,” Matt McCoy called from his truck window as he stopped alongside the road.

   Ross Miller was at his mailbox collecting the day’s delivery. “Hey, Matt. What’s up?”

   “Did you hear about the new owner of old George March’s ranch?”

   Ross stiffened. “What’s he like?”

   “He’s not a he. He’s a she,” Matt said, grinning. “I saw her working in the garden yesterday.”

   “A woman? How could a woman run a ranch like that?” Ross looked startled.

   “Her brother’s helping her.”

   “Okay. Have you met them?”

   “No. But she’s good-looking. Dark hair. Nice shape.”

   “I see. Well, thanks for telling me.”

   “No problem.” Matt grinned wickedly. “I wonder what she’ll say when you ask if you can use that waterhole?”

   Ross looked away. “Maybe she’ll be neighborly and share.”

   “I wouldn’t bet on it. Sandi Jenkins met her brother. Says she’s the religious type. Supposedly, the gal is praying about that waterhole. Better watch out!” He laughed and headed down the road.

   Ross stood there for a good minute, a frown on his brows. He had nothing against religion. He liked going to church himself. Prayer was part of his life. But he wondered. He’d seen many cases of someone praying for something they wanted without consideration for other people. Was this woman like that? Or was she a genuine believer serving God?

   “I guess I’d better get to work on that waterhole before finding that out,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll start digging tomorrow.”

   The next day, Ross packed his pick and shovel, waders, plus a jug of water and a couple of hearty sandwiches on the back of his packhorse. Mounting his big gray gelding and leading the packhorse, he headed for the pond.

   Dismounting and picketing the two horses, he unloaded the tools and donned his waters. He went to work where the fence crossed the pond, chipping away at the bank and throwing the dirt and mud away from the water. It was going to be long, hard work, but if he could get his end of the pond deepened and the edges moved out a ways, the pond would collect more water. Maybe there would be enough to get through the long, hot months.

   The next morning, he headed out early to put in an hour or so of digging before returning to the ranch. Dismounting near the pond, he started to picket his horses when he noticed a roan mare picketed across the fence line.

   The evening before, Sylvia had ridden out alone to check on the cattle and to take another look at the pond. Sitting on a rock overlooking the water, she noticed the fresh diggings across the fence.

   This morning, as she sat on her horse there thinking about the situation, a young man on a horse came over the hill from the Miller place. Behind him was a pack horse with a pick and shovel showing. He pulled up to the small end of the fenced pond and dismounted, then unloaded the tools.

   “Hello there,” she called, waving and dismounting. She ground-hitched her horse and walked over to the fence where it met the pond and smiled at the young man. “I’m Sylvia March. Are you Ross Miller?”

   The young man walked over to the fence, stunned at seeing a woman there. “Yes, I’m Ross Miller. Are you …”

   “I’m George Hyde’s niece.” She held out her hand.

   Ross, at a loss for words, reached out and shook the small but firm hand.

   “I understand we both inherited a feud over this pond.” She cocked her head to the side, her dark curls framing her face where they escaped the long braid wrapped around her head like a crown. Her clear blue eyes looked up into his.

   Ross cleared his throat and looked away. “I guess we did.”

   “I’ve been wondering what to do about it. I see you have an idea?”

   “Um—uh—well I thought I’d dig my end of the pond a little longer to catch more water.”

   “That’s great! Let me help.” Sylvia lifted strand of barbed wire and tried to slip through, but it was strung tight and caught her shirt.

   “Let me help,” Ross said, freeing her shirt and holding the wires for her.

   Once on the other side, Sylvia headed for the tools.

   “I think I can manage the shovel if you will loosen the dirt up with your pick.”

   “Ma’am, this is heavy work!” he protested. “I can’t let you do this.”

   “Sure you can. I’m stronger than I look.” She grinned up at him.

   He started to protest again, but Sylvia held her gloved hand up to stop him. “Now Ross Miller, let’s work together on this and put an end to that foolish feud. There’s no reason to fight over it.”

   Bemused, Ross reached for his pick. “Come on then.” He led the way to where the fence divided the pond and began loosening it with the pick. After he’d loosened up a fair portion, Sylvia dug in with the shovel and tossed the loose dirt out.

   After an hour, Ross stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I think that’s enough for one day.”

   “Okay. Let’s work on it again tomorrow.”

   “If you insist,” he grinned. “I surely like this solution to our feud, ma’am.”

   “It’s Sylvia.”

   “Okay. I didn’t want to presume.”

   The local ranchers and ranch hands were disappointed not to see fireworks between the two young people. Life on the prairie had so few entertainments.

   When the ponds in the area began drying up in the hot months, the pond Ross and Sylvia shared held enough water to get their cattle through. Occasional rains added to their supply.

   “Ross, I think I ought to put in a windmill near the pond and see if we can make sure of good water supply year-round. What do you think?”

   “It’s a mighty expensive project, Sylvie.”

   “Uncle George left me some operating money. Do you know anyone who could drill a well and put up a windmill?”

   Before the dryest part of summer arrived, the windmill was pumping good water into the pond.  

   Though the neighbors couldn’t see it, they’d noticed the equipment being hauled out to the pond. They could guess what that meant.

   Ross was looking relaxed and happy the next time Matt drove by for a gossip in late September. The rains had come, damping down the dry land.

   “So tell me, Ross. Just what has been happening out at that pond? Did you put a well out there?”

   “No, I didn’t. Sylvie did.” He smiled with satisfaction.

   “’Sylvie?’” Matt stared at Ross. “She lets you call her Sylvie?”

   “Sure does,” Ross grinned.

   “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.” He shook his head. “How’d you get her to do that?”

   “Wasn’t my idea. She thought of it all by herself.”

   “But that’s expensive, man!”

   “It is. But it seems that her uncle left her enough money to improve the place.”

   “Nice. Uh, how are you two getting along?”

   “Finer than frog’s hair.”

   “You don’t say!”

   What Ross didn’t tell Matt was that he had bought a diamond ring. It was sitting in the drawer next to his bed. That evening as he headed for Sylvie’s place, that ring was in his pocket.

   Sylvie had cooked a hearty meal for Ross and Jake. Afterward, when Jake had gone out to finish up a chore and Ross had helped Sylvie with the dishes, he asked, “Sylvie, how about a moonlight ride out to the pond?”

   He stacked the dishes in the cupboard and put the dish towel neatly on the rack.

   Drying her hands, Sylvia smiled at him and said, “I’d like that, Ross.”

   Hand in hand, they walked out to the corral and saddled their horses. Fifteen minutes later, they sat looking out over their work with satisfaction. The cattle had drunk their fill and had bedded down for the night. An owl swept across the sky looking for mice. In the distance, a coyote yapped at the rising moon.

   Dismounting, Ross and Sylvia picketed their horses and walked toward the pond, their fingers linked. When they reached the edge, Ross turned to face Sylvia, whose eyes were fastened on his. He drew her close and kissed her gently.

   “Sylvie, I love you,” he breathed against her hair. “We make a great team, don’t you think?”

   “Yes, Ross.”

   “Will you marry me, Sylvie?”

   Sylvia laughed softly. “Yes. I’d be delighted to, Ross. I’ve been working on my wedding dress for a month now.”

   Ross whooped and swung her in a circle. Things were looking up.

   Two days later, Ross and Sylvia took the fence around the watering hole down.

   Three weeks later, there was a wedding at the ranch. Everyone was invited. Standing under the bright, harvest moon, with tiki torches surrounding the seated guests, Ross and Sylvia pledged their hearts and lives to each other.

   As the groom kissed the bride, Jake set off the fireworks. All agreed this was definitely the best conclusion to the feud.

   Leaning over to the young lady sitting next to him, Matt said quietly, “Sandi, I don’t suppose you and I could set off some fireworks of our own someday?”

   Sandi pressed her lips together, a twinkle in her eye, and said, “Miracles have been known to happen.”

I hope you have enjoyed The Waterhole. On a personal note, my new book Sunflower Love, is now available on this website (www.sherischofield.com) under adult books. It is a collection of country stories featuring elk, deer, porcupines, geese, and other wildlife, which serve to illustrate Bible truths. A fair number of the stories are funny, too.