Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  The outlaw yanked her closer, slamming her against his chest. “Shut up.”

  “Let her go, Cactus Joe,” someone called from atop the Golden Star Saloon.

  “Come and get her, Marshal,” her captor hollered back. He fired another shot, this time aiming at the roof.

  Mercy. If she was writing this scene, her heroine would have a weapon in her boot and the courage to use it, but at the moment she lacked both. Since her high-button shoes contained nothing more than two sore feet, the man named Cactus Joe had little to fear from her.

  Pointing his gun at the saloon, he moved backward to the opposite side of the street, pulling her with him. He reeked of whiskey, tobacco, and sweat. Fear knotted inside her. Her body shook so hard that at first she thought the jingling sound was her rattling bones instead of his spurs.

  He walked faster now, dragging her along with him.

  “You . . . you have no right to make me a party to your n-nefarious ways,” she stammered.

  “I hate to disappoint you, lady, but we ain’t goin’ to no party.”

  He forced her down an alley and behind the buildings toward two horses. No—one horse. Her eyes were playing tricks on her. She felt dizzy, faint, her legs weightless. Her head began to swim and she swayed. With a muttered curse the outlaw shoved her away. She fell forward, hitting the ground hard.

  Momentarily stunned, she fought her way through the thickening fog. Confusion surrounded her. Running feet. Shouts. The pounding of horses’ hooves. She raised herself up on both hands but was blinded by the sun.

  She had no idea how long she lay there, unable to move. Finally a shadow swept over her, mercifully blocking out the relentless dazzling light.

  “Ma’am?”

  Chapter 2

  The woman wasn’t injured as far as Luke Adams could tell, but she was definitely dry as a bone. He helped her to her feet, but she started to crumble to the ground again. One hand behind her back, he slid an arm beneath her legs and lifted her off the ground with a quick swoop. She felt light, almost weightless in his arms, as he carried her into his blacksmith shop.

  His wolf dog, Homer, greeted him at the door, tail between his legs. Part Mexican gray wolf, the dog had pointed ears and long legs and tail. Homer had dived for cover during the initial round of gunfire and that’s where he'd pretty much stayed. Now he regarded Luke as if seeking reassurance, the dim light turning his amber eyes almost yellow.

  “It’s all right, boy. She’s not going to hurt you.”

  A quick glance toward the darkened forge told him his younger brother, Michael, had taken off the moment Luke stepped outside. His brother hadn’t completed the simplest task Luke had assigned him. The unopened can of Neatsfoot oil meant the leather bellows had not been lubricated. Michael hadn’t even calked the wood to keep the bellows from losing pressure.

  Luke shook his head. The boy would be the death of him yet. Twenty years old and his brother still acted like a kid, taking no responsibility for himself or anything else. Biting back annoyance, Luke eased the woman onto the wooden workbench. First things first. He’d deal with Michael later.

  He held her up with one arm while pushing away a broken wagon wheel with the other. He then laid her down gently, cushioning her head with a folded leather apron.

  He gave her a quick once-over, his lips pursed in an appreciative though silent whistle.

  Even with her alarmingly pale skin, she was a pretty woman. Mighty pretty. Her oval face came to a dainty point beneath a soft-curving mouth. She had a perfectly straight nose, lush eyelashes that swept across soft rounded cheekbones, and a smooth forehead.

  Pulling his gaze away from her arresting features, he glanced down the length of her slender figure. Still no sign of injuries. Quickly drawing his attention back to her face, he was alarmed by her shallow breathing. He wasn’t a doctor, but he knew heat sickness when he saw it. He also knew he needed to cool her down, quick.

  Tugging at the ribbons beneath her chin, he removed the hatpin from the felt crown of her hat. In his haste, he dislodged the pins holding her bun in place and a cascade of damp blond curls fell across his bench.

  He held her upward so as to remove her capelike jacket. Working her arms out of the sleeves, he tossed it aside. Fumbling with the tiny pearl buttons at her throat, he undid the top of her bodice and eased her down again. Now to cool her off.

  In his haste to reach the water pump, he kicked a newly minted horseshoe across the floor, and Homer dived beneath the workbench.

  Some protector. “Chicken.”

  The dog responded with a halfhearted bark and Luke chuckled. “You sound like a burro with a bad cold.”

  Quickly priming the pump, he filled a clean drinking glass and metal basin.

  Setting both on the workbench next to the woman’s side, he soaked a cloth and trickled water along her forehead. Pushing her golden hair away from her face, he dabbed the cloth across her pale, smooth skin.

  Worried that she still hadn’t responded, he dumped the basin of water onto her chest, soaking her lace-trimmed shirtwaist. Her eyes fluttered for a moment and she moaned.

  “There you go,” he said in relief. Cooling her down was only the first step. He now had to get water into her, pronto.

  He slid his arm beneath her neck and lifted her head. He raised the glass to her lips and she took a sip.

  “Come on,” he urged. This time her lashes flew up, revealing eyes the same color as her bright blue jacket that he’d tossed aside. She drank a little—nowhere near enough—but he didn’t want to force too much down at first.

  A quick glance into her eyes was like diving into a pool of cool water. Yep. She was mighty pretty. Something stirred inside.

  Her very presence made the blackened walls of his shop seem less dingy and dark. It was as if the second floor of the building had suddenly blown off, letting in streams of bright sunlight to the first floor.

  Other than his two aunts, women didn’t generally step foot in his establishment. Certainly no one dressed as fancy as this one. Her garments told him she was from back east somewhere, Boston maybe, or New York. One of those big cities.

  So what was a lady like her doing in a place like Cactus Patch? The town had settled down in the last few years, but the recent discovery of silver in the nearby mountains had stirred things up again, bringing all sorts of travelers to town.

  He made her drink little sips at a time. After she’d emptied the glass, he hastened to refill it. She drank the second and third glass with little prodding. She murmured something and he leaned closer.

  “Brandon,” she said, looking straight at him. A shadow of a smile touched her lips. “Brandon.”

  He was still wondering who Brandon was when she shook her head and blinked. “Are . . . are you real?”

  He pulled back. No one had ever asked him that before. She appeared lucid but looks could be deceiving. “Yep, I’m real,” he said for want of another answer. “How do you feel?”

  She frowned for a moment before answering. “My . . . my head . . . I feel discombobulated.”

  He scratched his head. Discom—what? Sounded like something a man hanging from a gallows might say. “I reckon too much sun will do that to you.”

  He left her side to refill her glass. She cried out and he swung around, spilling water all over his leather apron. “Ma’am?”

  She sat upright, eyes rounded. Color had returned to her face and her cheeks flamed red.

  She clutched the gap at her neckline like she was protecting a bank vault or cash box. Yep, she was an easterner, all right.

  “My clothes are wet.”

  “Sorry, ma’am. Had to cool you down fast.”

  Her gaze darted around before settling on him. “Thank you. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

  “No trouble, ma’am.” Truth was he felt sorry for her. She looked scared half out of her wits. Not that he could blame her. She had probably never before encountered the likes of Cactus Joe. Welcome to Arizona, lad
y.

  “Name’s Luke Adams, but you can call me Luke.” He gestured toward his gray-white dog. “That there is Homer.”

  Upon hearing his name, the wolf dog flicked his ears but his head remained on crossed paws. The woman let down her guard just enough to give Luke the faintest smile, but she still protected her neckline.

  “Homer, after the Greek philosopher and poet?” She pronounced his dog’s name as Homah.

  “I don’t know nothin’ about a Greek philosopher,” he said. “I call him Homer ’cause he can find his way home no matter where he’s at. I was once lost in the desert but Homer got me back safely.” He paused for a moment. “You haven’t told me your name.”

  She observed him through lowered lashes. “Miss Tenney. Miss Kate Tenney.” She glanced toward the door as if measuring the distance before turning her gaze back to him, her face shadowed with wary regard.

  “Mighty pleased to meet you, Miss Tenney,” he said, as gently as his deep baritone voice would allow. “You gave me a scare there. It might not be a bad idea to check in with Doc Masterson.”

  “Th-That won’t be necessary,” she stammered. She moistened her trembling lips. “I feel much improved. Thank you. I’m most grateful for your help.” She studied him with rounded eyes before adding, “That man shot my trunk and my belongings are scattered all over the street.”

  He couldn’t help but sympathize. He only wished she’d stop looking at him like something that should be locked up or buried. Not that he blamed her. After what she’d gone through it was only natural she would distrust him. Still, it bothered him, took him back to another time and place. He was only twelve when his childhood friend had drowned in the rain-swollen Gila River. “Trust me,” Luke had yelled, tossing his friend a rope. But Jamie hadn’t trusted Luke enough to let go of the tree trunk and grab hold of the lifeline.

  Surprised to find himself suddenly face-to-face with a memory he’d sooner forget, he shook his head. Not the same thing. Miss Tenney wasn’t drowning and the only lifeline he offered was water and sympathy. Still, he had the strangest feeling that the lady was caught up in floodwaters of another kind. Startled by the image, he shook his head. It wasn’t like him to have such dark thoughts. The argument with his brother that morning must have upset him more than he knew.

  “M-My belongings . . .”

  “I’ll get your things,” he said, hoping that if he left her alone for a moment she would settle down a mite, relax even. “Give you a chance to rest a bit.”

  “No!”

  The strength of her voice surprised him. She still looked fragile but nothing, apparently, was wrong with her lungs. “No need to fret yourself, ma’am. I’ve already seen a lady’s”—what do women call those things?—“under-riggin’s.”

  She gave him an unflinching stare. “Please accept my apologies.” She took a deep breath. “It’s been a horrendous day. And then to be assailed by that abominable man . . . I’m sure you can understand that . . . that I’m not quite myself.”

  That explained why she had mistaken him for someone else. That Brandon fellow sure was a lucky guy, though not particularly smart. No man in his right mind would allow a lady like Miss Tenney to travel to Arizona Territory by herself.

  “There were two women in the mercantile,” she said. “They weren’t hurt, but they must be terribly upset.”

  “If they’re locals they’ll get over it.” Since Miss Tenney still looked anxious or nervous or both, he added, “If it makes you feel any better I don’t think Cactus Joe meant to do you any harm, ma’am. He just wanted to use you to escape.”

  Her eyes widened. “He had a gun. He could have dragged me away, kept me hostage, and had his way with me. He could have used me for his reprehensible purposes, or left me in the desert without food or water. I could have ended up dead or . . . or worse.”

  He planted his hands on hips, not sure what to say. What could be worse than death? Whatever it was he didn’t want to know.

  “That man’s as slippery as a greased hog, that’s for sure,” he said at last. “But he’s more of a nuisance than a threat. Maybe this time his luck will run out and the marshal will capture him.”

  If he was a betting man he’d put his money on Cactus Joe. The desert favored outlaws, and most local lawmen knew little if anything about tracking criminals through rugged terrain. Some, like Marshal Morris, didn’t even try. Not like John Slaughter, former sheriff of Cochise County, known as the meanest good guy who ever lived. The man brought law and order to the area during his two terms. What a pity he’d retired.

  Miss Tenney pinned up her hair and reached for her hat. “The man should be incarcerated for the rest of his life.”

  “Here in Arizona Territory, the worse that can happen to him is a good hangin’.”

  She gave him an odd look. “Yes, well . . .”

  “I’ll go and get your things.” He backed toward the door. “If there’s anything else you need, just holler.”

  “Wait. There is one more thing. Could you tell me how to get to the Last Chance Ranch?”

  “Last Chance—”

  He should have known. A parade of women had passed through Cactus Patch in recent months, hoping to be chosen as Eleanor Walker’s heiress in the unlikely event she should die. So far none of the applicants had lasted more than a few days—a week tops. Ranching was hard work. Judging by Miss Tenney’s lily-white hands and delicate frame, she knew little if anything about manual labor. He gave her maybe twenty-four hours before the old lady sent her packing as she had the others.

  “So you’re another one,” he said. The idea of women traipsing across the country in hopes of convincing an old lady to turn over her spread to them struck him as odd, maybe even distasteful.

  She looked momentarily confused. “Another what?”

  “Another woman who thinks runnin’ a cattle ranch is as easy as making a pie.”

  She stiffened as if donning a suit of invisible armor. “I know that ranching is hard work.”

  Hard didn’t even begin to describe it, but he wasn’t about to argue with her. Cactus Joe was no match for what awaited her on that ranch. “Is Miss Walker expectin’ you?”

  “She is. Someone was supposed to pick me up from the train station.”

  “Most everyone took off when the shootin’ began,” he said. “That probably includes your driver.”

  She tilted her head. “But not you.”

  He shrugged. “I have work to do.” He indicated a wagon with a missing wheel. It belonged to Old Travis, a local farmer who couldn’t afford to be without his only means of driving produce to the market for very long. “Like I said, Cactus Joe is a nuisance but not much else.”

  She looked unconvinced. “If that’s true, then where is everyone? Except for the two women I told you about, the town looks deserted.”

  “Around here folks jump at the chance not to work on a hot day. Whenever Cactus Joe comes to town it’s kinda like a holiday.”

  Her eyes widened. “I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. Does . . . does he come to town often?”

  “Often enough to wear out his welcome,” he said.

  She gave her head a slight toss, buttoned her shirtwaist, and put on her hat. Her bodice was still wet and the feathers on her hat drooped, but she sure did look businesslike all of a sudden.

  “How do I arrange transportation to the ranch?” she asked.

  “Normally I would tell you to rent a rig from the livery, but Hopper—that’s the owner—took off when he heard the first shot. I’m sure someone will come and get you. Eventually. Meanwhile, you can stay at the hotel.” No sooner had he said it than he changed his mind. The hotel was no place for a lady, especially one as pretty as this one.

  “Tell you what. I’ll drive you to the ranch myself.”

  “That’s very kind of you to offer, but I don’t want to cause you further inconvenience,” she said.

  “You won’t. My wagon’s out back. All I have to do is hitch my
horse to it and we can be on our way.” If his lazy, good-for-nothing brother hadn’t taken off, Luke would have made him drive her to the ranch.

  She shivered. “You don’t think we’ll run into that awful man, do you?”

  “Cactus Joe?” He shook his head. “He’s probably in the next county by now, if not the next territory.”

  A shadow of relief crossed her face. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”

  “It’s my pleasure, ma’am.” The moment he grabbed his leather hat, Homer lifted his head, ears forward. “Come on, boy. Let’s give the lady some privacy.”

  Homer jumped to his feet, wagging his tail, but made no move toward the door.

  “The dog’s a chicken,” he said, and Miss Tenney laughed. It was a tight little sound, but it was still the nicest sound he’d heard in a week of Sundays. He clapped his hands twice and this time Homer followed him outside.

  The sun dazzled him as he walked up the alley, but no more than the sight that greeted him when he turned the corner and spotted the lady’s fancy under-riggin’s strewn upon the dirt-packed road.

  Chapter 3

  She stared into Brandon’s velvet brown eyes and her heart gave a wild flutter . . . “You saved me, you saved me . . .”

  Kate chased away the words running through her head. The man sitting on the wagon seat next to her had blue eyes, not brown, though he certainly was every bit as handsome as Brandon, the hero in her latest novel. Mr. Adams had a rugged square face, an indented chin, and a straight, narrow nose. Brown hair curled from beneath his leather hat, and a wayward lock swept across his forehead.

  He had wide shoulders that tapered down to a trim waist. The rolled-up sleeves of his boiled shirt revealed the full length of his powerful arms.

  Even more disconcerting than his likeness to her fictional character was the womanly way he made her feel each time he turned his blue eyes in her direction. Between her encounter with the outlaw and her imminent meeting with Miss Walker, she didn’t need Luke Adams to add to her anxiety. But add he did.