“I’m Tom—” He hesitated before he said, “Whitman.”
“You aren’t from here, are you, Mr. Whitman?”
He chuckled. “How can you tell?”
Rebecca laughed as well. “What are you doing in Fort Worth?”
“This is where the train stopped,” Tom replied.
Rebecca laughed again. “That’s reason enough, I suppose. Are you looking for work?”
“Well, yes, I guess I am.”
“Meet me in the lobby of the Clark Hotel tomorrow morning. Someone will be coming to fetch me from my father’s ranch. Pa is always looking for good men. I’m sure he would hire you if you are interested.”
“Hire me to do what?”
“Why, to cowboy, of course.”
“Oh. Do you think it would matter if I told l him I have never been a cowboy?”
Rebecca smiled. “Telling him you have never been a cowboy would be like telling him you have blond hair and blue eyes.”
“Oh, yes. I see what you mean.”
“It’s easy to learn to be a cowboy. Once he hears what you did for me tonight, you won’t have any trouble getting on. That is, if you want to.”
“Yes,” Tom said. “I believe I want to.”
As Rebecca lay in bed in her room at the Clark Hotel half an hour later, she wondered what had possessed her to offer a job to Tom Whitman. She had no authority to offer him a job; her father did the hiring and the firing, and he was very particular about it.
On the other hand, before she left to go to Marshall, she heard him tell Clay Ramsey that he might hire someone to replace Tony Peters, a young cowboy who had left for Nevada to tr y his hand at finding gold or silver. Rebecca had a sudden thought. What if he has already hired someone to replace Peters?
No, she was sure he had not. Her father tended to be much more methodical than to hire someone that quickly. But that same tendency of his to be methodical might also work against her, for he would not be that anxious to hire someone he knew nothing about.
Well, she would just have to talk him into it, that’s all. And surely when her father heard what Tom Whitman had done for her, he would be more than willing.
Rebecca wondered why she was so intent on getting Mr. Whitman hired? Was it because he had been her knight in shining armor, just when she needed such a hero? Or was it because he might be one of the most handsome men she had ever seen? In addition to that, there was something else about him, something she sensed more than she saw. He had a sense of poise and self-assuredness she found most intriguing.
Because Tom liked to sleep with fresh air, he had raised the window when he went to bed. He had taken a room in the same hotel as Rebecca because she had suggested the hotel to him. He was awakened by a combination of things, the sun streaming in through his open window and the sounds of commerce coming from the street below.
He could hear the sound of the clash of eras—the whir of an electric streetcar, along with the rattle and clatter of a freight wagon. From somewhere he could hear the buzz and squeal of a power saw, and the ring of steel on steel as a blacksmith worked his trade. Newspaper boys were out on the street, hawking their product.
“Paper, get the paper here! Wyoming to be admitted as state! Get your paper here!”
Tom got out of bed, shaved, then got dressed. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he frowned. He was wearing a three-piece suit, adequate dress if he wanted to apply for a job with a bank. But he was going to apply for a job as a cowboy, and his outfit would never do.
Stepping over to the window, he looked up and down Houston Street. On the opposite side, he saw the Fort Worth Mercantile Store. Leaving his suitcase in his room, he hurried downstairs, and then across the street and into the store.
A tall, thin man with a neatly trimmed mustache and garters around his sleeves stepped up to him. “Yes, sir, may help you?”
“I intend to apply for employment at a neighboring ranch,” Tom said. “And I will need clothes that are suitable for the position.”
“When you say that you are going to apply for employment, do you mean as an accountant or business manager?” the clerk asked.
“No. As a cowboy.”
The expression on the clerk’s face registered his surprise. “I beg your pardon, sir. Did you say as a cowboy?”
“Yes,” Tom said. “Why, is there a problem?”
“No, sir,” the clerk said quickly. “No problem. It is just that, well, sir, you will forgive me, but you don’t look like a cowboy.”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “That’s why I’m here. I want you to make me look like a cowboy.”
“I can sell you the appropriate attire, sir,” the clerk said. “But, in truth, you still won’t look like a cowboy.”
“Try,” Tom said.
“Yes, sir.”
It took Tom no more than fifteen minutes to buy three outfits, including boots and a hat. Paying for his purchases, he returned to the hotel, packed his suit and the two extra jeans and shirts into his suitcase, then went downstairs, checked out, and took a seat in the lobby to wait for the young woman he had met last night.
As he waited for her, he recalled the conversation he had had with his father, just before he left Boston.
“You are making a big mistake by running away,” his father had told him. “You will not be able to escape your own devils.”
“I can try,” Tom said.
“Nobody is holding it against you, Tom. You did what you thought was right.”
“I did what I thought was right? I can’t even justify what I did to myself by saying that I did what I thought was right. My wife and my child are dead, and I killed them.”
“It isn’t as if you murdered them.”
“It isn’t? How is it different? Martha and the child are still dead.”
“So you are you going to run away. Is that your answer?”
“Yes, that is my answer. I need some time to sort things out. Please try to understand that.”
His father changed tactics, from challenging to persuading. “Tom, all I am asking is that you think this through. You have more potential than any student I ever taught, and I’m not saying that just because you are my son. I am saying it because it is true. Do you have any idea of the good that someone like you—a person with your skills, your talent, your education, can do?”
“I’ve seen the evil I can do when I confuse skill, talent, and education with Godlike attributes.”
His father sighed in resignation. “What time does your train leave?”
“At nine o’clock tonight.”
His father walked over to the bar and poured a glass of Scotch. He held it out toward Tom and, catching a beam of light from the electric chandelier, the amber fluid emitted a burst of gold as if the glass had captured the sun itself. “Then at least have this last, parting drink with me.”
Tom waited until his father had poured his own glass, then the two men drank to each other.
“Will you write to let me know where you are and how you are doing?”
“Not for a while,” Tom said. “I need to be away from everything that can remind me of what happened. And that means even my family.”
Surprisingly, Tom’s father smiled. “In a way, I not only don’t blame you, I envy you. I almost ran off myself, once. I was going to sail the seven seas. But my father got wind of it, and talked me out of it. I guess I wasn’t as strong as you are.”
“Nonsense, you are as strong,” Tom said. “You just never had the same devils chasing you that I do.”
Tom glanced at the big clock. It showed fifteen minutes of nine. Shouldn’t she be here by now? Had she changed her mind and already checked out? He walked over to the desk.
“Yes, sir, Mr. Whitman, may I help you?” the hotel desk clerk asked.
“Rebecca Conyers,” Tom said. “Has she checked out yet?”
The clerk checked his book. “No, sir. She is still in the hotel. Would you like me to summon her?”
; “No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll just wait here in the lobby for her.”
“Very good, sir.”
Huh, Tom thought. And here it was my belief that Westerners rose with the sun. As soon as he thought that, he realized she had gone to bed quite late, having arrived on the train in the middle of the night. At least his initial fear that she had left without meeting him was alleviated.
When Rebecca awakened that morning she was already having second thoughts about what she had done. Had she actually told a perfect stranger that she could talk her father into hiring him? And, even if she could, should she? She had arisen much later than she normally did, and as she dressed, found herself hoping he had grown tired of waiting for her and left, without accepting her offer.
However, when she went downstairs she saw him sitting in a chair in the lobby. His suitcase was on the floor beside him, but he wasn’t wearing the suit he had been wearing the night before. He was wearing denims, a blue cotton shirt, and boots. If anything, she found him more attractive, for the denims and cotton shirt took some of the polish off, giving him a more rugged appearance.
Although Tom had gotten an idea the young woman was pretty, it had been too dark to get a really good look at her. In the full light of morning he saw her for what she was—tall and willowy, with long, auburn hair and green eyes shaded by long, dark eyelashes. She was wearing a dress that showed off her gentle curves to perfection.
“Mr. Whitman,” she said. “How wonderful it is to see you this morning. I see you have decided to take me up on my offer.”
“Yes, I have. You were serious about it, weren’t you? I mean, you weren’t just making small talk?”
Rebecca paused before responding. If she wanted to back out of her offer, now was the time to do it. “I was very serious,” she heard herself saying, as if purposely speaking before she could change her mind.
“Do we have time for breakfast? If so, I would like to take you to breakfast.”
Rebecca glanced over at the clock. “Yes, I think so. And I would be glad to have breakfast with you. But you must let me pay for my own.”
“Only if it makes you feel more comfortable,” Tom said.
“Let’s sit by the window,” Rebecca suggested when they stepped into the hotel restaurant. “That way we will be able to see when Mo comes for me.”
“Mo?”
“He is one of my father’s cowboys. He is quite young.”
They settled at a table and ordered breakfast, drinking coffee and making small talk until their meals arrived. Rebecca had a poached egg and toast. Tom had two waffles, four fried eggs, a rather substantial slab of ham, and more biscuits than Rebecca could count.
“My, you must have been hungry,” Rebecca said after Tom pushed away a clean plate. “When is the last time you ate?”
“Not since supper last night,” Tom said, as if that explained his prodigious appetite. “Oh, I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”
“Not at all. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Whitman. Where are you from? What were you doing before you decided to come West?”
“Not much to tell. I’m from Boston. I’m more interested in you telling me about the ranch.”
“Oh, there’s Mo,” Rebecca said. “I won’t have to tell you about the ranch, we’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Tom picked up his suitcase and Rebecca’s, then followed her out to the buckboard.
“Hello, Mo,” Rebecca greeted.
Mo was a slender five feet nine, with brown eyes and dark hair, which he wore long and straight.
“Hello, Miss Rebecca,” Mo said with a broad smile. “It’s good to see you back home again. Ever’one at the ranch missed you. Did you have a good visit?”
“Oh, I did indeed,” Rebecca answered.
Seeing Tom standing there with the two suitcases, Mo indicated the back of the buckboard. “You can just put them there.” Turning to Rebecca, he whispered, “Uh, Miss Rebecca, you got a coin? I come into town with no money at all.”
“A coin?”
Mo nodded toward Tom. “Yes ma’am, a nickel or a dime or somethin’ on account of him carrying your luggage and all.”
“Oh, we don’t need to tip him, Mo. His name is Tom, and he’s with me. He’ll be comin’ out to the ranch with us.”
“He’s with you? Good Lord, Miss Rebecca, you didn’t go to Marshall and get yourself married up or somethin’, did you?” Mo asked.
Rebecca laughed out loud. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Sorry I didn’t bring the trap,” Mo said to Tom. “This here buckboard only has one seat. That means you’ll have to ride in the back.”
“That’s not a problem,” Tom said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. It’s not all that comfortable back there and we’re half an hour from the ranch.”
Tom set the luggage in the back of the buckboard, then put his hand on the side and vaulted over.
“Damn,” Mo said. “I haven’t ever seen anybody do that. You must be a pretty strong fella.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Rebecca said.
CHAPTER TWO
Live Oaks Ranch
Just north of Fort Worth, 120,000 acres of gently rolling grassland and scores of year-round streams and creeks made Live Oaks Ranch ideal for cattle ranching. Two dozen cowboys were parttime employees, and another two dozen were full-time. Those who weren’t married lived in long, low bunkhouses, painted white with red roofs. At least ten of the permanent employees who were married lived in small houses painted green with red roofs, adjacent to the bunkhouses. There was also a cookhouse large enough to feed the single men, a barn, a machine shed, a granary, and a large stable. The dominating feature of the ranch was what the cowboys called “The Big House.” It was a stucco-sided example of Spanish Colonial Revival, with an arcaded portico on the southeast corner, stained-glass windows, and an elaborate arched entryway.
Inside the parlor of the Big House, the owner of Live Oaks, Rebecca’s father, was standing by the fireplace. Big Ben Conyers was aptly named, for he was six feet seven inches tall and weighed 330 pounds. Rebecca had just introduced Tom to him, explaining how he had come to her aid when she had been accosted by two cowboys.
“I thank you very much for that, Mr. Whitman.” Big Ben shook Tom’s hand. “There are many who would have just turned away.”
“I’m glad I happened to be there at that time,” Tom replied.
“Mr. Whitman is looking for a job, Pa,” Rebecca said. “I know that Tony Peters left a couple weeks ago, and when Mo picked me up this morning, he told me you hadn’t replaced him.”
“I don’t know, honey. Tony was an experienced cowboy,” Big Ben said.
“Nobody is experienced when they first start,” Rebecca said, making Big Ben laugh.
“I can’t deny that,” he said. “Where are you from, Mr. Whitman?”
“I’m from Boston, sir.”
“Boston, is it? Can you ride a horse?”
For several years Tom had belonged to a fox hunting club. Uunlike the quarter horses, bred for speed in short stretches that were commonly seen out West, fox-hunting thoroughbreds were often crossed with heavier breeds for endurance and solidity. They were taller and more muscular, and were trained to run long distances, since most hunts lasted for an entire day. They were also bred to jump a variety of fences and ditches. Tom was, in fact, a champion when it came to riding to the hounds.
The sport got mixed reactions, from those who felt sorry for the fox, to those who thought it was a foolish indulgence, to those who did not understand the skill and stamina such an endeavor required.
“Yes, sir, I can ride a horse,” he said.
“You don’t mind if I give you a little test just to see how well you can ride, do you?” Big Ben asked.
“Pa, that’s not fair,” Rebecca said. “You know our horses aren’t like the ones he is used to riding. At least give him a few days to get used to them.”
“I don’t have
a few days, Rebecca. I have two hundred square miles of ranch to run, and a herd of cattle to manage. I need someone who can go to work immediately. Now, maybe you’re right, everyone has to get experience somewhere, so I’m willing to give him time to learn his way around the ranch. But if he can’t even ride a horse, I mean a Western horse, then it’s going to take more time than I can spare.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitman,” Rebecca said. “If you don’t want to take Pa’s test, you don’t have to. We’ll all understand.”
“I’d like to take the test,” Tom said.
“Good for you,” Big Ben said. “Come on outside, let me see what you can do.”
A tall, gangly young man with ash-blond hair and a spray of freckles came up to them. “Hello, Sis. I heard you were back.”
“Did you stay stay out of trouble while I was gone?” Rebecca asked. Then she introduced the boy. “Mr. Whitman, this is my brother, Dalton.”
“Are you going to work for Pa?” Dalton asked.
“I hope to.”
“Then I won’t be calling you Mr. Whitman. What’s your first name?”
“Dalton!” Rebecca said.
“I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Dalton said. “I’m just friends with all the cowboys, that’s all.”
“My name is Tom. And I would be happy to be your friend.”
“Yes, well, don’t the two of you get to be best friends too fast,” Big Ben said. “First I have to know if Tom can ride well enough to be a cowboy. Clay!” Big Ben called.
A man stepped out of the machine shed. “Yes, sir, Mr. Conyers?”
“Get over here, Clay, I’ve someone I want you to meet.” To Tom, Big Ben added, “Clay is the ranch foreman. I’ll leave the final word as to whether or not I hire you up to him.”
“Good enough,” Tom said.
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