Dusty Britches

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  Raynetta smiled understandingly at the girl, yet Dusty did not favor the look of pity accompanying her smile.

  “You best be gettin’ on, Miss Raynetta,” Hank said as he sauntered toward them. “That team may be a bit skiddish yet, and I think somebody oughta go with ya…make sure you get there safe.”

  “All right, Hank. I’d appreciate it,” Miss Raynetta agreed.

  Dusty frowned and looked to Miss Raynetta, puzzled. Hadn’t she just said she didn’t need a man’s help?

  “Ryder says he’d be more’n happy to see ya home,” Hank offered.

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Miss Raynetta seemed disappointed. Dusty wondered how she could possibly be disappointed that it was Ryder who was going to go with her. After all, she’d implied she found him attractive.

  “Ryder,” her father shouted. “Take ol’ Red with ya outta the corral. I figure he ain’t been ridden much since I’ve been gone.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ryder called, rising from his place near the fire and heading toward the corral.

  Dusty watched him go—watched him walk—noticed the way his shoulders moved in rhythm with the rest of his body. Ryder Maddox didn’t walk, she remembered then. He swaggered. And as her mind began to linger—began to drift back to the days when life was happy, full of adventure and flirting and dreams—she stood.

  “I’m done in, Daddy,” she managed to say. “I have to turn in if I’m gonna be up to feed this bunch breakfast in the mornin’.”

  “All right, darlin’,” Hank said, hugging his daughter. He kissed her adoringly on one cheek.

  “Good night, Miss Raynetta,” Dusty offered. In the next moment, she fled.

  Hank watched his daughter walk away—the ache in his heart for her own pain almost unendurable.

  “You done good by your girl in bringin’ that boy back, Hank,” Raynetta told him. “She needs to close that book and start over.”

  “I know,” Hank admitted. “I just worry that…that the book is too good…too interesting…too perfect for her to let go of.”

  “Closin’ a book don’t mean ya burn it, Hank. It just means ya can start readin’ it again…that’s all.”

  Hank smiled down at Raynetta. “You’re a wise woman, Miss Raynetta McCarthy. A wise woman indeed.”

  Raynetta smiled up at him. “You’d be surprised at how unwise I truly am, Hank,” she told him.

  Hank shook his head. “I doubt that. But it is unwise for ya to keep yourself out this late. You make sure Ryder gets ya home safe, and don’t stay away so long this time. You’re welcome here any minute of the day.”

  “Thank you, Hank,” Raynetta mumbled.

  Hank Hunter watched the wagon leave, Ryder at the lines and Raynetta at his side in her racy purple dress. She was a beauty, that Raynetta McCarthy—as cute as she’d always been. She didn’t look all that much different from when he’d been a young cowhand himself on her daddy’s farm. Hank stood watching them go, wondering why a little gal as pretty as Raynetta had never married.

  He looked back toward the house. He watched as the light in Dusty’s room got brighter, indicating she’d lit her lamp and turned it up. His heart ached for her. And yet, at the same time, he was angry with her. Why had she let life beat her down so? It never truly seemed to be part of her nature. That yellow Cash Richardson! He’d like to wring that boy’s neck! It hadn’t been the same with Ryder. Dusty was fourteen, and the ranch was in trouble. But Cash!

  Hank turned back to the pit. Feller was still cleaning up, Becca alongside him as ever. The other hands all looked done in.

  “You boys get bunked in for the night. It’s been a long, long day, and tomorrow ain’t gonna be any shorter,” he announced. “Leave it for tomorrow, Feller,” he said. “It ain’t gonna run away while we sleep.”

  Becca walked to him, smiling as ever, and threw her arms around his waist. “I’m so glad you’re back, Daddy,” she said as she leaned up, kissing him soundly on the cheek.

  “Me too, darlin’,” he chuckled. “Now you get to bed. It’s late. Dusty’ll need some help with breakfast in the mornin’.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said, releasing him and heading toward the house.

  Hank looked up into the night sky. A million stars winked back at him, and he inhaled deeply of the clear night air.

  “What more could a man ask for, Feller?” he sighed as Feller walked over, folded his arms across his chest, and looked up into the same dazzling sky. “Two purty daughters, hard work, land, air, and the sky. What more could a man want?”

  “Love of a good woman, maybe?” Feller mumbled.

  Hank looked to Feller, puzzled. “Already had that myself, boy. I figure it’s way past your turn though.”

  Feller chuckled. “Yep. I guess I ain’t the lovable kind.” Feller looked to Hank and added, “But you…ain’t nothin’ would please Elly more than to be up there in heaven and a-lookin’ down to see you havin’ someone to love again, Hank.”

  Hank smiled at the memory of his little wife. He’d loved her more than life itself. It had nearly killed him to lose her. He often wondered if he would’ve just shriveled up and died alongside Elly—if it hadn’t been for his girls.

  “You’re a fine one to talk, Feller. Got all the advice in the world for everybody but yourself, don’t ya?”

  “Yep,” Feller admitted.

  Hank watched the stars twinkling. He liked knowing Elly was safe with the angels. And the thought struck him again—Raynetta McCarthy was a sweet-looking little gal.

  

  Dusty sat on the bed brushing out her hair when Becca knocked on the door. “Can I come in, Dust?” she asked, entering without waiting for a response.

  “Becca, what’re ya knockin’ for?” Dusty asked, trying to sound irritated. “You’re gonna come in whether or not I’m buck naked!”

  Instantly, Becca was sitting on the bed next to Dusty—eyes as wide as supper dishes and as curious as any old maid gossip. “How do you feel, Dust?” she asked.

  “What are ya talkin’ about, Becca? I swear you send me into fits.” Dusty knew darn well what Becca was talking about. But the fact was—she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “I nearly fainted dead away when he turned around and I saw who it was! How can you be so calm? He’s…he’s fantastic! More fantastic than he was when he was here before! How can ya sit there so calm and—”

  “Because I am calm,” Dusty lied. “That was so long ago, Becca. I can hardly remember what all went on.”

  Becca’s smile and excitement were squelched—completely. She slowly stood, hurt and disappointment evident on her pretty face. “Why do you lie?” she asked. “Why do you shut me out? You’re my sister—my only sister and the only person I can talk to! And you slam the door on me at every turn.”

  “Becca, I’m sorry,” Dusty began. She had been cold, unfeeling, rude. She regretted it—as she always did when she did it.

  “No,” Becca whispered. “Nevermind. I’m tired of tryin’, Dusty. I’m tired of never havin’ anybody to talk to.”

  “You talk all the time, Becca. You got every man on the ranch eatin’ outta your hand. What do ya need me for?” Dusty was building up the wall again—the strong, impenetrable wall, the wall keeping her from feeling.

  “What do I need you for?” Becca asked, completely dejected. “After all, you ain’t Mama. You don’t have to listen to my concerns, my fears…my heartache. Now do you?” She turned and began to leave.

  “What could you possibly know about heartache?” Dusty asked. Emotion caused her voice to falter, betraying her feelings.

  Becca turned looking back at her, the all-too-familiar tears already streaming over her cheeks. “A lot more than ya think, Dusty. Don’t think you own the only broken heart in the world.” She left, slamming the door behind her.

  Dusty released a heavy sigh and fought back her own tears. Then, shaking her head with discouragement, she blew out the flame in her lamp and crawled into bed. The night was un
usually warm, and she felt uncomfortable even with the weightlessness of the cotton nightgown she wore. She closed her eyes, intent on sleep. It had been a long day, and breakfast came early.

  But as she lay in bed, all she could see in her mind’s eye was that danged Ryder Maddox. The way he smiled, the way he walked, the smooth, deep intonation of his voice—the way he put on his hat, the way he rolled up his shirtsleeves. The boy had become a man, but the man had retained so many things belonging to the boy. He’s beautiful, she thought, angrily turning to her side and hugging her pillow.

  She tried to force her mind onto other roads of contemplation. Miss Raynetta’s purple dress had been quite lovely. What a sight she had been—screeching at the top of her lungs atop her runaway wagon! Dusty smiled at the thought and scolded herself for finding any amusement in the woman’s misfortune. And then the memory of Ryder Maddox “saving” Dusty’s own “bacon,” as he had put it, snuck in. In that brief moment when he’d grabbed her and thrown her out of harm’s way, her heart had leapt with delight at his touch! And then he’d remarked about the dirt mark on the back of her skirts. How dare he! she thought. He most definitely must’ve been looking at her seat in order to notice such a thing.

  She remembered the first time she’d ever seen Ryder Maddox. At first she fought the memory overtaking her mind and senses. But then, as she always inevitably did, she let it wash over her like a warm summer rain. Closing her eyes and trying to control her tears and quickened breath, she remembered it all.

  She had been ten years old that spring. Ten. Becca was eight. They had been playing down by the creek, and Angelina Hunter, in her infinite ability to stumble into a mess, had fallen in the water and soaked her dress. Well, naturally, she simply took it off and hung it over a tree branch while they continued their play. It had been such a fun day. Angelina and Becca had hauled their small tea table out to the creek. Their daddy had made the little table and matching chairs for them for Christmas several years before so they could have their imaginary tea parties together. That day the table was set under the big willow growing on the bank of the creek, and Angelina and Becca had spent all afternoon “entertaining” imaginary guests. Oh, the fun they’d had pretending buttercups were corn freshly cut off the cob, that willow leaves were greens! And they’d made the most marvelous mud pies that day; they’d flopped out of the tiny pie tins holding their shape perfectly. Furthermore, the girls had been set upon by imaginary renegade Indians. Of course, their imaginary cowboy beaus had saved their lives! All too soon, the sun was telling Angelina it was late afternoon, nearly time for the hands to be coming in for supper.

  “I don’t want to drag the table all the way back to the house, Angelina,” Becca whined.

  “But we can’t leave it out, Becca! It might rain tonight, and then it would be ruined,” Angelina explained.

  “I’ll take the chairs if you drag the table,” Becca offered finally.

  “Becca! You’re such a baby!” Angelina took hold of the table, pulling it along behind her as she walked toward the house. In her irritation with having to go in for the evening and having no help dragging the tea table home, Angelina had completely forgotten she’d left her dress and petticoats behind. The mirth was blatantly evident on her daddy’s face as she and Becca approached looking like something the cat dragged in.

  “Well! You girls been havin’ tea today?” Hank Hunter asked.

  “Oh, Daddy!” Becca exclaimed. “We’ve been havin’ all kinds a stories!”

  “And now Becca made me drag the table home all on my own!” Angelina complained.

  At that moment, one of the table legs bumped into an old tree root sticking out of the ground. Irritated, Angelina turned around and pulled hard on the table. It bumped up over the tree root and gave a bit but caught immediately on another exposed root. The sudden jerk of the table stopping cold after she’d pulled so hard caused Angelina to lose her grip and sit down flat in the dirt.

  Of course, her father, Feller Lance, and several other hands burst into laughter as Angelina stood up and dusted the seat of her bloomers, only then realizing she’d forgotten to put her dress back on. Now she stood for all the world to see in just her underthings.

  “Humph!” Angelina breathed as she haughtily stood up and tugged on the table again. But again the table leg cleared the tree root only to hook itself on another, and Angelina was again rear-end down in the dirt.

  “Well, now, little Miss Dusty Britches,” someone said. And Angelina looked up into the face of the handsomest boy she’d ever laid eyes on. “Looks to me like you could use a hand,” he said, grinning mischievously at her. He offered his hand to her.

  Tentatively, Angelina placed her hand in his. He pulled her to her feet and dusted off the seat of her bloomers. Reaching down and picking up the table, he carried it toward the house.

  Angelina ran to catch up with him. “You’re new,” she stated.

  “Yes, I am. Come in just this afternoon, and your daddy hired me on. My name’s Ryder Maddox,” he said. He set the small table down on the back porch and offered her his hand again.

  “Angelina Hunter,” Angelina said, taking his hand and shaking it firmly.

  “Really?” the young cowboy chuckled, bending over and kissing the back of Angelina’s hand quickly with a wink. “I thought your name was Dusty Britches.”

  Ryder had taken to calling her Dusty Britches from the very first moment they met. It caught on like a house afire, and it wasn’t more than a few days until even her mama was calling her Dusty. And now, resenting the fact that insipid tears had soaked her pillowcase, Dusty turned over and stared out the window. She watched the breeze billow the light curtains into her room. What a day that had been. Such fun she and Becca had—and her life had changed forever! She hadn’t known it at the time, but that had been the most pivotal day of her life. Ryder was a gold-strike of a boy! Tall, handsome as heaven, smart, a hard worker, witty, kind, polite—there had been nothing like him to be seen before or since.

  Dusty remembered how all the girls from town would find excuses to follow her home from school every day that next fall. The older girls in town were complete ninnies—fawning all over Ryder at every social he attended—but he’d always been Dusty’s boy. He’d do anything she asked, within reason, and some things without. Like the time she begged him to help her know what it was like to fly—Ryder had helped Dusty with the rigging in the hayloft. What a fit her mama had when she came home from town to find Dusty swinging this way and that—in and out of the hayloft—swinging from a harness and some ropes Dusty and Ryder had rigged. And who was it that always wiped her tears, when he’d find her out by the creek crying about something someone had said to tease her or some other thing that had made her sad? And when she was thirteen and at the harvest social in town, who was it that had asked her for a dance when no one else would? Ryder Maddox, of course—like some handsome prince in an old fairy tale book.

  She remembered how heartbroken she was at finding Ryder and Jenny Morris flirting on the porch swing of the Morris’s house at Jenny’s sister’s wedding. But even then, when Dusty had fled the scene in tears, Ryder left Jenny on the porch swing to seek out Dusty and reassure her that someday, when she’d grown up, he’d catch her out by the old creek and spark with her a bit. He, in his masculine naivety, hadn’t realized she’d believed him—hadn’t realized she’d dreamed it would really happen. Then came the droughts, and the ranch began failing.

  Sighing heavily, Dusty closed her eyes and let the low hum of the cowboys’ voices in the bunkhouse drift in, comforting her somewhat. Oh, how she hoped Becca would never fall for a cowboy—really fall for one. Becca flirted mercilessly with them all—enjoyed far too much attention from every ranch hand in the county. But she’d never fallen in love, and Dusty hoped when she did—for it was destined to happen—Dusty hoped Becca wouldn’t be hurt like she had been.

  Poor, sweet Becca. Guilt washed over Dusty and caused her to weep all the more. She’d tre
ated her sister so miserably all day long! Dusty covered her face with her hands to silence her crying. She only cried in bed now. For so long she’d cried when anyone even looked at her. Now her tears were few and very far between, but Becca hadn’t deserved the treatment Dusty had handed down to her a short time before.

  “What is wrong with me?” she cried out in a whisper. “I’m mean, cold…selfish!” A vision of Becca’s face, hurt and rejected in expression, printed itself in her mind. “Please, God,” Dusty prayed in a whisper. “I don’t want to be like this. Help me! Heal me!” And then she added, “Why did you lead him back here?”

  That night even the low hum of the cowboys and ranch hands settling into the bunkhouse couldn’t comfort her—for, above all the rest, one very familiar, very beloved voice was all she could hear. She finally fell asleep with an ache in her heart that seemed more unendurable than ever before.

  Chapter Three

  It was still dark when Dusty awoke. It was a bit earlier than she’d planned to start the day, even for her. Still, something had awakened her, and she knew herself well enough to admit she’d never get back to sleep. Even if she did, she’d feel worse getting up in half an hour after dozing again. She pushed the covers aside and stretched for long moments. Breathing deeply of the morning air, she relished the smell of dust, the creek, the trees, and pasture grasses. Her eyes widened, however, when she realized just what had awakened her.

  “Are you pretendin’ tonight, little darlin’,” came the first line of the familiar tune. Frantically, Dusty kicked the rest of her covers off, leaping out of bed and racing to the window. She looked out into the darkness of early morning. There was a lantern on in the barn. She could see its glow through the open door.

  Pretendin’ I’m your Prince Charmin’,

  Though I’m nothin’ but a cowboy…a-ridin’ for the brand?

  Are you pretendin’ I’m a gentleman…a-askin’ for your hand?

  Well, I’ll kiss you tonight, little darlin’.