Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  Moose rode up with her horse in tow. He didn’t laugh. Instead, his lips puckered with exasperation.

  “Thank you,” she said, taking Decker by the reins and ignoring Moose’s reproachful expression. He shook his head and rode off without a word.

  She glared after him before mounting her horse. This time she kept her eyes on the trail in front of her, careful not to stray away from the tracks left by the others.

  She caught up to the men watering their horses by a windmill. Ruckus stood in the skimpy shade of the stiltlike tower, hands on his waist.

  “We just oiled it last month and listen to it. Sounds like a bunch of rattling chains.”

  Kate listened but it didn’t sound any different from any of the other windmills they had passed.

  Ruckus lifted an oilcan off his saddle. “Who’s going up this time?” he called.

  While Stretch, Moose, and Mexican Pete argued among themselves, Kate quickly made up her mind. Before any of the others volunteered, she snatched the oilcan from Ruckus, slung it over her shoulder, and started up the ladder.

  Ruckus yelled after her, “What in blazes do you think you’re doin’? Git down from there. You hear me? Now!”

  Ignoring him, she kept going. Teeth gritted against the sting of calloused hands on wooden rungs, she climbed. She would show Miss Walker, Moose, and the others she could do a man’s job. She would show them all. Grim determination blocked out all other thoughts as she clambered up, leaving the desert floor below. It seemed to take forever, but she kept climbing and Ruckus kept yelling for her to get down.

  By the time she reached the platform she was gasping for air. Much to her surprise, a cheer rose from below. Mexican Pete waved his hat and Stretch called out, “Hee-haw!” Even Moose had a wide grin on his face.

  Taking a moment to catch her breath, she glanced around for the rope used to tie down the windmill blades. She’d watched cowhands oil other windmills and knew what to do—at least she hoped she did. What she hadn’t anticipated was just how far away the ground looked from twenty feet up.

  Chapter 9

  Eleanor stood a distance away from the windmill they called Job and surveyed the land. Her land.

  She knew every square mile of it like she knew her own mind. Every crevice, every valley, every cactus and hill were etched into her memory like carvings in a rock. She trusted the men who worked for her, of course, but she trusted her instincts more. She was often the first to spot a broken fence or an ailing steer. She knew which of her fifty odd windmills needed oil even before the grind of dry gears brought her men on the run. She knew exactly how many gallons of water each pumped in an hour.

  She also knew her workers and their capabilities. Knew her best riders. Knew who to depend on in the face of catastrophe like the earthquake of ’87 and the torrential flash floods of ’82. Knew who to trust with numbers and figures, even money.

  What she didn’t know was what to think of the woman named Kate Tenney. Oh, she knew a broad range of things about her. Kate was a writer, but apparently not a very successful one. She was educated, had gone to a very good school, but instead of teaching or choosing a similar profession she opted for mucking out stables and fighting with cacti.

  That Tenney girl had tenacity all right. Eleanor knew that much. It had only been three weeks—a record—but still she hung on, albeit by a fine thread by the looks of her. Granted, Eleanor had instructed her men to pile it on but never had she expected them to make the woman climb twenty feet up a windmill to oil it, for goodness’ sakes. Even Eleanor had never scaled a windmill. She wasn’t afraid of much, but she disliked heights.

  She had planned to question the woman one night at supper, but so far Kate had resisted joining her in the dining room. Instead, the woman dragged herself up the stairs at the end of each workday and wasn’t heard from until morning.

  Now, Eleanor shaded her eyes against the sun. Kate had made it all the way onto the platform, her slender figure barely visible from this distance. What in heaven’s name was Ruckus thinking? More than one ranch hand had been injured by a windmill. One had fallen off a ladder and suffered back injuries. Another had his right arm chewed up by the expansive blades.

  The air was still, but the wind could start up at any moment. If Kate failed to tie down the huge blades before oiling the gears, the smallest gust of wind could cause her to be knocked to the ground.

  Eleanor held her breath until Kate waved to the men below, signaling that the blades had been properly stabilized.

  This particular windmill had been nothing but trouble since Eleanor purchased it. She had replaced the old wooden windmills with new steel ones following the terrible ’91–’92 drought after she had lost nearly half her cattle. It had been one thing after another ever since, which is why Ruckus called this particular troublesome one Job, after some fellow in the Bible.

  Wooden windmills were so much easier to repair, but the newer steel ones required the services of Adams Blacksmithing. Not only was that an added expense, but it meant the windmill was out of service for a day or two while Luke Adams fixed it. However, Eleanor’s biggest complaint about steel mills was the constant need for lubrication.

  The sound of a horse’s hooves drew Eleanor’s attention away from the windmill.

  Robert Stackman rode up on his bay and greeted her with a lift of his straw hat. Dressed in striped trousers, his one concession to the heat was the absence of a jacket, though he still wore a buttoned vest. His stark white shirt had a fashionable high collar better suited for cooler weather.

  “Eleanor.” He dismounted and tied his horse to a stake next to Eleanor’s roan. “Your foreman told me I’d find you here.”

  She took her eyes off Kate just long enough to give him a sideways glance. They were a good five miles from the ranch house. “What is so urgent?” she asked. “It’s not the first of the month, is it?”

  He grinned at her. “Not quite. It’s April tenth. I came to wish you a happy birthday.”

  She groaned. It seemed like the time between birthdays grew shorter each year. It was one of the drawbacks of aging.

  “Let me think. How old are you?” he continued, knowing full well it was a sensitive subject with her. “Forty-eight? Fifty?”

  “You know very well I’m sixty-six. Five years older than you.” What a nuisance it was, growing older. Not that she felt her age, of course, or at least not that she was willing to admit. Still, there was something about birthdays that made one take stock and reflect, even if the last thing she wanted to do was think of the past. It was hard enough thinking of the future, which was shrinking at an alarming pace.

  “I hope you’re not holding our age difference against me,” he said.

  “You make it hard not to,” she replied. He wore his years well. Too well.

  “Shall we get on with it, then?”

  “Oh, Robert. Must we?”

  He shrugged. “It’s your birthday.”

  He picked out a clear sandy spot and knelt on one knee. He pulled off his hat and held it to his chest. Most men his age would be at least half bald, but not him. His silver hair was just as full and lush as that of a much younger man.

  She rolled her eyes and glanced at the windmill, but the ranch hands all had their backs toward them and were focused on Kate high above their heads. Still, someone might turn and look their way.

  Eleanor gazed down at Robert. “Must you be so dramatic?”

  “It’s my proposal. I can be as dramatic as I please.”

  “Very well. If you insist.”

  He cleared his throat and his pale blue eyes held hers. “Will you, Eleanor Walker, do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Each year on her birthday he proposed marriage, and each year she turned him down—and for good reason. Both her father and ex-husband had put the ranch in jeopardy. Her father had mortgaged it to pay off his gambling debts. However much she was tempted to marry Robert, she would never do so. Arizona Territory community property laws wou
ld make Robert half owner of her ranch. Her painful divorce taught her the folly of shared ownership and she had no intention of making the same mistake twice.

  “How long have we been doing this, Robert?”

  “Fourteen, fifteen years,” he said. “But like I’ve told you many times through those years, I’m a patient man.”

  “I’m not sure that patient is the right word,” she said. “In any case, the answer is no.” No surprises there.

  Robert was nothing if not a shrewd businessman. Landownership meant profit to him, nothing more. He was a banker through and through. He had no ardor for land, no passion for anything but cold, hard cash. He knew nothing about ranching. Had never stayed up all night with a sick cow or rescued a lost calf. He had no feeling for cattle except how much per pound they would bring at market.

  If he thought it financially wise to do so, he would sell his half of the ranch in a flash. Not only would that break her heart, it would make her hate him. Turning down his proposal had as much to do with preserving their friendship as protecting her property.

  Her answer hung between them for several moments before he rose and brushed the sand off his trouser leg. “Same time, same place next year.”

  “Same answer.”

  He replaced his hat, his eyes shadowed by the yellow straw brim.

  “Just thought I’d save you the effort,” she said. It couldn’t be pleasant being turned down as much as he had been.

  “A lot can happen in a year. Who knows? You might even believe me when I tell you that the cattle business is past its prime.”

  “People will always eat beef,” she said. “And mine is the best.” Hereford beef with its fatty marbling was certainly more tender and tasty than the leaner longhorn beeves, which is why most Texas cattlemen had made the switch in recent years.

  “I can’t argue with you there.” He grabbed the reins of his horse and mounted. “Happy birthday, Eleanor,” he said, touching a finger to the brim of his hat.

  No sooner had Robert ridden away than Ruckus came galloping up on his horse.

  “Job’s workin’ again. Just needed some oil, is all,” he said.

  “Excellent.” Keeping the fifty-some windmills in good working order was a full-time job. “But really, Ruckus? Sending Miss Tenney to do the task? You know how dangerous it is even for experienced men.”

  “I had no say in the matter,” he said. “She took it upon herself to climb it.”

  Eleanor raised her eyebrows. “A brave one, isn’t she?”

  “Foolhardy, more like it,” Ruckus growled.

  She didn’t blame him for being irritated. The qualities Ruckus looked for in a new ranch hand were not the same as required in an heiress. Still, she trusted his judgment.

  “It’s been what? Three weeks. She’s lasted a lot longer than any of the others. Do you think she’s got a feel for the land?”

  “She feels the land, all right. Every blasted time she falls off her horse.”

  “Hmm.” Oh yes, the woman had tenacity. The question was, would it be enough? “Tell Miss Tenney I shall expect her for dinner at six.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Make certain she understands that it’s an order.” She sniffed. “I think it’s time I got to know her better, don’t you?”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  Eleanor watched him ride away. Her motive for wanting Kate to join her for dinner had to do with ranch business, nothing more. It had absolutely nothing to do with her birthday and not wanting to eat dinner alone yet again.

  Chapter 10

  Brandon pointed two guns at Miss Hattie’s tormentor. “Touch a hair of her head and you’ll answer to me.”

  The man of ill fame backed away and the grateful woman sprang up with frenzied joy. “My hero.”

  Of all the foolhardy, idiotic, stupid”—Ruckus sputtered so much he could hardly get the words out—“dumb things to do.”

  Kate stood outside the barn while he ranted and raved, his crooked nose practically in her face.

  He had been at it for the last several minutes and she figured sooner or later he would run out of steam. He’d waited until they returned to the ranch and they were alone to voice his displeasure, first at climbing the windmill, then for almost shooting him in the foot with a shotgun. Now he grabbed the weapon out of her hands and slid it onto his saddle.

  She stood facing him, fists at her sides. Nothing she did satisfied him, and she had just about had enough. Her body ached and she was tired to the bone. All she wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for forty-eight hours straight.

  He tossed her a rope. “It’s time you earned your keep.”

  Red flashed before her eyes. What did he think she’d been trying to do?

  She threw the rope on the ground and crossed her arms. “I’m tired and I don’t want to do any more!”

  Ruckus leaned so close that had his nose been less crooked it would have collided with hers. “By the time I get back you better be able to nail that fence post with that there rope,” he said brusquely. He turned and stalked away, then stopped. “The boss lady expects you for dinner tonight.” He glanced at her over his shoulder with knitted brow. “And if you know what’s good for you, you better tighten your fiddle strings. Right now you look like something the cat’s dragged in and that ain’t gonna score no points with Miz Walker.” Shaking his head, he walked away.

  Watching his retreating back, she chewed on her bottom lip and felt a sinking feeling. Why now, after all this time, did the ranch owner want to have dinner with her? Was it to send her packing?

  The day had gone from bad to worse. How she regretted lashing out at Ruckus. True, he demanded much from her, but sometimes she had the distinct feeling he was secretly on her side. Of course that was before she nearly shot him in the foot.

  Still, he was her only ally. If anyone could convince Miss Walker to let her stay, it was Ruckus. Somehow she had to find a way to get back in his good graces.

  She snatched up the rope and heaved a sigh. She had practiced for a week solid and the only thing she’d managed to nail was thin air.

  Determined not to let a length of rope get the best of her, she tied her lariat loop exactly as Ruckus had taught her. She then coiled the rope and swung the noose overhead, eyes on the fence post not ten feet in front of her. Somehow the free end of the rope got tangled around her foot and she lost control of the noose. Instead of landing on the fence post as she planned, it dropped over the head of her grazing horse.

  Startled, Decker glanced around with frenzied eyes, kicked up his heels, and bounded around the pasture, dragging her on the ground behind him.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” He pulled her halfway around the corral before her foot broke free of the rope and she let go. Sprawled belly-down in the mud, she gasped for air.

  “I have to say, ma’am, that was some mighty fancy roping.”

  Startled by the male voice, she lifted her head. Luke Adams sat on his horse staring down at her from the other side of the fence.

  Embarrassed to be seen like that she was momentarily tongue-tied, which only added to her dismay. She had suffered more indignities than she could imagine, but having Mr. Adams of all people see her sprawled on the ground was the worst indignity of all.

  “I never saw anyone lasso a horse backward like that.” When she made no reply, his forehead creased in concern. “Are you all right?”

  No, she was not all right. She was covered in mud and felt like a fool. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She sat up and, holding her arms out, stared down at her muddied clothes.

  “I quit!”

  “I didn’t figure you as a quitter.” His mouth twitched with amusement. “I figured you’d get fired, but I didn’t figure you’d quit.”

  She glared at him. “You thought I’d get fired?”

  He dismounted and tied his horse to the fence. Telling Homer to stay, he then climbed over the wooden barrier and knelt by her side. Pulling the bandanna from around hi
s neck, he leaned toward her.

  She jerked back so quickly mud splashed all over his trousers. Before she had a chance to apologize, he splashed her back and laughed.

  “So you think this is funny, do you?” She picked up a handful of dirt, but before she could throw it at him, he waved his bandanna in surrender.

  “I give up,” he said, his eyes filled with humor.

  “Chicken.” She tossed the dirt down and brushed her hands together.

  He gave her a lopsided grin that made her heart turn over. “You’d better smile when you say that.”

  She was smiling. She couldn’t help it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your clothes. I’ve had a hard morning. It’s been one disaster after another.”

  “It can’t be all that bad. It looks to me like you’re gainin’ ground,” he said, referring to her mud-covered clothes.

  Laughing at his joke, she shook her head. “I don’t know that Ruckus sees it that way.”

  She tilted her head to the side. “I never got a chance to thank you for your kindness on the day I arrived.” She had meant to write him a note, but for some reason could never figure out quite what to say.

  “No need to thank me, ma’am. I reckon anyone would have done the same.”

  He moved closer and she tensed, her playful mood evaporating as quickly as a soap bubble.

  His forehead creased in a frown. “I’m not going to hurt you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I know that,” she said. It was a lie, of course. She knew nothing of the sort. Every man she’d ever known had given her reason not to trust him, the sole exceptions being fictional men, the ones she’d written about—men who sprang from her imagination or maybe from the depths of her heart.

  He dabbed her nose gently before moving his cloth down to her chin. The nearness of him made her heart pound and she closed her eyes. Perhaps if she didn’t look at him, his presence wouldn’t seem so overwhelming.