Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  He grunted and continued to stare at her like it was all her fault. “So why are you here now?”

  She was so incensed by his unfair accusations she’d almost forgotten her reason for coming. “I’m here on behalf of Miss Walker. The Dunne gang is back.”

  The marshal rubbed his forehead. “I thought we’d seen the last of ’em. How do you know they’re back?”

  “Some of the cattle have been hair-branded,” she replied.

  He nodded. “It has the markings of the Dunnes but that don’t mean it’s them.”

  “I’m only conveying Miss Walker’s message.”

  He blew out his breath. “All right, I’ll round up some boys and we’ll take a ride out there. Have a look around.” He didn’t sound all that eager to ride out to the ranch. “Probably won’t find anything.”

  “I’ll tell Miss Walker to expect you,” she said, her voice cool. Meddling, indeed! She turned to leave. Hand on the doorknob, she glanced back at him. “I do apologize for any part I might have played in Cactus Joe’s escape, but I am surprised he got away. He didn’t have that much of a head start.”

  “Oh, I coulda caught him if I put my mind to it. But anyone caught outside of town has to be hauled all the way to Tombstone.”

  “Why Tombstone? What’s wrong with this jail?” she asked, staring at the small empty cell behind his desk.

  “After the last jailbreak, the county sheriff checked it out and said it was as flimsy as a paper bandbox. Said it wasn’t strong enough to keep a dead man from escapin’, let alone a criminal. Said anyone captured outside of town was under county jurisdiction and had to be taken to Tombstone.”

  “How many jailbreaks have you had?” she asked.

  “A dozen or so, but you can’t go by the numbers. Some folks got themselves arrested just so they could see how long it took ’em to break out. The record is three hours and seventeen minutes.”

  “I see,” she said, though in reality she didn’t. People in Cactus Patch certainly had an apathetic regard for lawlessness.

  “Now that Luke fixed the lock and reinforced the window bars the jail is sound as a cash box, but that don’t make no difference to the sheriff.” Hands behind his head, he leaned back and plopped his feet on the desk like he had nothing to do and all day to do it in.

  She narrowed her eyes. “What time shall I tell Miss Walker to expect you?”

  He looked puzzled. “What time? Oh, that’s right. The Dunne gang.”

  It was obvious the marshal had no intention of riding out to the ranch, and that was a problem. Miss Walker had given her a simple task—a test, no doubt—and Kate couldn’t afford to fail.

  She turned toward the marshal and tried to think how she would write this scene for a book. Brandon would plant his feet firmly in front of the marshal’s desk, look that marshal square in the face, and take no guff.

  Positioning herself exactly as she pictured her protagonist doing, she hung her thumbs from the waist of her skirt and lowered her voice a full octave. “Actually, there’s reason to believe it’s not the Dunne gang after all.” She glanced around as if to check for eavesdroppers before continuing. “There’s some speculation that it might be the . . . Arizona Kid.” Did such a person even exist?

  Apparently the marshal thought so. His eyes widened and he snapped to attention like a soldier awaiting orders. He rose to his feet as soon as his boots hit the floor. “This is serious.”

  Surprised and even encouraged by the change that came over him, she gave an enthusiastic nod. “Yes, I believe it is.”

  “Capturing the Arizona Kid would make the journey to Tombstone worthwhile. The sheriff might even recommend me as town marshal of Tucson or even Phoenix where the real action is. Don’t you worry none, ma’am. I’ll ride out to the ranch soon as I kin get a posse together.”

  Kate thanked him and left, barely able to keep a straight face. Outside his office, she laughed and was still laughing when she crossed the street to the post office to inquire about Ruckus’s mail.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the postmaster said. The sign on the counter read Jeb Parker. An older man with a conclave chest and a goatee, he shook his grizzled head. “No mail.” His pallid skin seemed out of place in Arizona. Apparently the man never stepped foot outdoors.

  Ruckus seemed anxious to hear from his son and she hated to disappoint him. “Would you mind checking again?” she asked.

  The postmaster gave an impatient shrug to indicate he did indeed mind, but he nonetheless flipped through a stack of mail for a second time.

  “Nope. Same as before.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Leaving the post office, she bumped into a stoop-shouldered man with a long beard.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, but the man ignored her apology. Instead, he brusquely brushed past her and limped toward the post office counter.

  She’d only gotten a glimpse of his face, but he seemed strangely familiar. Odd. She was almost positive she had not met the man. Stranger still was the way the fine hairs on her arms stood up.

  Pushing the thought away, she quickly grabbed the broken windmill tailbone from her wagon and crossed the dirt-packed street to the blacksmith shop. The sooner she finished ranch business, the sooner she could take care of her own.

  The side door was ajar and she elbowed it all the way open. Surprised and more than a little annoyed to find her knees shaking, she called, “Mr. Adams?”

  The shop was empty. A fire in the forge made her hesitate before crossing to the workbench. Fire made her nervous, even after all these years. The flame of a candle or the striking of a match brought back memories she’d sooner forget.

  Only eight at the time, she had been locked out of the apartment while her mama entertained a man. She fell asleep curled into a ball in the hallway outside the door, only to be awakened by her mother’s cries for help. The sound of pounding fists through the thin walls sent chills through Kate’s small body. Knowing from experience that none of the other residents would interfere, she reached into the pocket of her frock and pulled out the matches kept there. All it took was one strike and a piece of loose wallpaper caught fire. No one was hurt in the inferno—and she saved her mama from further harm—but the flimsy wood building had burned to the ground.

  Shaking away visions of the past, she laid the windmill parts on the workbench and dug into her drawstring purse for paper and pencil to leave a note.

  A sharp, angry voice from outside startled her. It came from the side of the building. “Last night was the last time I’m bailing you out of jail. Do you hear me?” She recognized the deep baritone voice at once as belonging to Luke Adams.

  Another male voice replied, “Don’t do me any favors!”

  “Either you take that job at the Last Chance or you’re on your own. You won’t get another penny from me.”

  The argument escalated, and not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, Kate looked around for a means of escape, but the two quarrelling men blocked both the carriage and side door, trapping her inside.

  She dropped her pencil and stooped to pick it up, accidently knocking against the workbench. Something fell to the floor with a loud clank. Startled, she practically jumped out of her skin and sent the lantern flying. Kerosene splashed into the burning forge and sparks shot out, turning the pine chips on the hearth into flames. In a flash, the blaze spread across the floor devouring all the wood shavings in its path.

  Kate stared at the flames in horror. Transported to another time, another fire, she froze, her body seemingly encased in steel.

  The door banged open and Luke bolted inside. He ripped off his leather apron and threw it down on the floor, smothering the flames. He then stamped out the remaining sparks with his booted foot.

  He whirled to face her. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded. The moment the fire was out the past lost its grip on her, but she was horrified by what she’d nearly done. “Please forgive me. I never meant to start a f-fire,” she stam
mered, close to tears. “Your building could have burned down. The whole town could have gone up in flames, people could have been hurt and—”

  He held up both hands. “Whoa. Let’s not make this any worse than it was. No real damage was done.”

  She blew out her breath in relief, though she still felt bad. Now he would know she overheard the argument.

  Homer appeared at her side, tail wagging. Grateful for a reason not to have to look at the man, she stooped to run her hand through the dog’s soft fur. Homer nudged her with his cold nose and licked her hand.

  Finally, she straightened. “I was about to leave you a note.”

  White teeth flashed against his bronzed skin. “You must have been usin’ some mighty heated words.”

  Disarmed by the humorous twinkle in his eyes, she smiled back at him. She couldn’t help it. “So were you,” she said, surprising herself with Arizona-type boldness.

  His face grew somber and, hoping to lighten the mood again, she added, “Though I wasn’t anywhere near as cantankerous.”

  “That was my brother you heard me arguing with.” His frown contradicted his concerned voice. “The boy’s headed for a whole peck of trouble. He has a job here if he wants it, but he’d rather gamble and rest a boot on a brass rail than do an honest day’s work.”

  Not having any siblings of her own, she could only imagine what it was like to have a troubled one. “It must be difficult dealing with insubordination, especially with a family member.”

  He frowned and scratched his head as if trying to figure her out. “I don’t know what’s it gonna take to straighten him out.” He studied her. “I see you decided not to quit after all.”

  She smiled at the memory of the two of them sitting in the mud. “I guess I’m too obstinate to quit. I also like the ranch too much to give up.”

  He studied her but said nothing. “How’s Decker? He still givin’ you trouble?”

  “Not so much anymore. My main problem is learning to ride a cutting horse.”

  “Ruckus hired anyone yet to take care of the shoeing and windmills?”

  She shook her head. “He’s still looking.”

  “Glad to hear that. I want my brother to go out there and talk to him about it. Would be good for him. Keep him out of trouble in town.” He picked up the two pieces of tailbone she’d set on his workbench and held them together. “Zechariah,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “This is from the Zechariah windmill.” He glanced at her. “Just like the prophet, this windmill can predict the future, or at least a coming storm.”

  She tilted her head. She was an educated woman with a college degree. She knew Shakespeare’s plays inside and out, and had studied the works of ancient philosophers—none of which did her any good on the ranch. The one book she had little or no knowledge of was the Bible. Yet Ruckus constantly referred to scripture, if not altogether quoting it, and she was embarrassed by her ignorance.

  “The Last Chance has more than fifty windmills. Can you really look at a single piece of metal and determine its source?”

  He shrugged like it was nothing. “I notch each piece so I know where it belongs. Kind of like marking the ear of a steer.” He grabbed a broom and swept up the ashes. He was obviously a man who liked order. “If you hang around for a while I’ll have old Zac here ready in no time.”

  “I do need to stop at the general store,” she said.

  “It’ll be ready by the time you’re done with your errands.”

  She hesitated. “I hope things work out with your brother.”

  He looked up from his sweeping. “Me too.”

  Her gaze locked with his. “About the fire . . .”

  He stood the broom on end in the corner. “No harm done. I had no use for those wood chips.” He turned to face her.

  Pulse skittering, she looked away. It sickened her to think he’d found her staring at the fire unable to move. What must he think of her? And what did it matter what he thought?

  She cleared her throat. “I’ll . . . I’ll be back shortly,” she said.

  She didn’t expect him to follow her outside, but he did. She walked away as quickly as she could without running, but no amount of distance could erase the worrisome hold he had over her.

  The air still scented with her sweet fragrance, Luke watched her cross the street. Once she left his shop she walked toward the general merchandise store with quick, confident strides. He was taken with the way she moved, the way her hips swayed gracefully from side to side, the way she swung her arms. He liked pretty much everything about her looks.

  He’d never seen anyone look so scared of fire. It was a good thing she hadn’t been around in ’87, the year an earthquake shook the area. The fire that followed the temblor pretty much destroyed everything in its path, including the Last Chance Ranch and most of the town.

  However, it wasn’t Kate’s fear of fire that worried him. It was the way she stiffened whenever he came near. At times he swore he saw mistrust in her eyes. What had he done to make her so wary of him? Was it because he had seen her under-riggin’s? Was that it?

  Or was he simply imagining it? He wasn’t good at picking up on other people’s feelings. Aunt Bessie complained that a body would have to fall down dead before Luke knew anything was wrong. So why this sudden awareness? Why did he weigh Kate Tenney’s every nuance as if each sigh or quick smile held some special meaning?

  Whatever the reason, it bothered him. It bothered him a lot. He had no personal interest in her. Couldn’t. She was an educated woman and he was a simple smithy with little book learning. So why waste so much time thinking about someone altogether in another class? It made no sense.

  Chapter 16

  Bessie grabbed her sister by her knitted shawl and yanked her back inside the general store.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Shh.” Bessie hastened to the window and ducked behind a display of Log Cabin syrup, as if the slender stack could hide her generous proportions.

  “Look over there. What do you see?”

  “Oh dear, it’s not Cactus Joe again is it?”

  “No, no, thank heavens,” Bessie assured her.

  Lula-Belle craned her neck to look out the wavy paned window. Shorter than her sister, she rose on tiptoe. “I see our nephew.”

  Bessie folded her arms across her ample bosom and nodded in satisfaction. “And what is he doing?”

  “He’s standing outside his shop doing nothing.”

  Bessie threw up her arms. Could her sister bury her head any deeper in the sand? How could she not understand the meaning of this momentous occasion? It’s what the family hoped would happen.

  “He’s watching that woman,” Bessie said, trying not to let her irritation with her sister show.

  “What woman?”

  Just then, the door of the shop opened to a chorus of jingling bells and Kate Tenney stepped inside and walked right by them. Since Bessie and her sister were now hunkered behind two large sacks of flour and a barrel of pickles, she obviously didn’t see them.

  “That woman,” Aunt Bessie whispered, barely able to contain her delight. “She’s the one that Cactus Joe grabbed, remember?”

  She should have known. Luke was interested. All that talk about the woman not being his type and not speaking his language—hogwash, all of it.

  Lula-Belle whispered back, “Why do you suppose he was watching her?”

  “Why do you think?” Bessie said. Mercy. Did she have to spell out everything? “He’s sweet on her.”

  It was about time the poor boy found a wife. The good Lord said it wasn’t right for a man to be alone and, at age thirty, Luke had been alone long enough. A firm believer in order, she couldn’t set to work looking for a wife for Michael until after his older brother, Luke, was married or, at the very least, betrothed.

  “But he said—”

  “I know very well what he said, but actions speak louder than words.” Bessie straightened and mo
seyed on over to the counter where Miss Tenney stood waiting for Mr. Green to fill her order.

  She was pretty all right, even if a mite too thin. Some good home cooking would take care of that. Her blond hair was gathered into a tight bun beneath her wide-brimmed hat. Delicate brows arched over long-lashed blue eyes. Her plain blue skirt and lace-trimmed waistcoat emphasized a small waist, narrow hips, and a pleasing bosom. Of course Luke was interested. A man would have to be blind not to be.

  Mr. Green returned with several bars of Pears soap and added them to the growing pile on the counter. “Anything else?” he asked, addressing the woman.

  “I’d also like a box of bonbons,” she said. “Those are my favorite.”

  “They’re everyone’s favorite,” Mr. Green said, reaching for a box of the foil-covered chocolates. He was a compact man whose spectacles magnified his eyes to twice their normal size. He reminded Bessie of a lizard, and his unfortunate habit of sticking his tongue in and out of his mouth did nothing to dispel that notion.

  His pointy nose twitched as he began punching numbers into the National Brass cash register, a new addition to his shop and one that met with Bessie’s disapproval. What a crying shame that people were too lazy to add things up in their heads like the good Lord intended.

  “Do you want me to add these to Miss Walker’s account, Miss Tenney?” he asked.

  “No, I’ll pay for them myself,” Miss Tenney said, digging into her drawstring purse.

  Aunt Bessie exchanged a glance with her sister. Miss Walker’s name never failed to strike a chord of curiosity in Bessie even when her nephew wasn’t involved. The ranch owner’s antics were legendary, which made her the main topic of conversation at any and all town gatherings.

  Lula-Belle whispered, “Do you suppose she’s one of Miss Walker’s relatives?”

  Bessie rolled her eyes. Her sister was hopeless. “Miss Walker doesn’t have any relatives.” At least none that she was willing to acknowledge. Supposedly she had a brother, but according to rumors the two were on bad terms and hadn’t spoken in years.