Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  “If you don’t think about kissing me, then I guess there’s no reason for you to be so jumpy around me. ’Less you’re worried about makin’ that Brandon fellow jealous.”

  She stared at him for a moment before recovering from her surprise. “How . . . how do you know about Brandon?”

  “That day you arrived and I carried you into my shop. You were half out of your wits and you mistook me for Brandon. Is he a beau or something?”

  She shook her head. “He’s . . . nobody. I made him up for one of my stories. He doesn’t exist.”

  Luke scratched his head. “You made him up?”

  “It’s what writers do,” she said. “Haven’t you ever made up anyone? Even as a child? An imaginary playmate, perhaps?”

  “No, ma’am. I figure the world’s crowded enough without makin’ up people.”

  “Yes, well . . .”

  “So if this Brandon fella doesn’t exist, and you don’t think about kissing me, I reckon that means you have no reason to be nervous around me, right?”

  “Right,” she said.

  He hesitated and she feared he would pursue the subject. “I’m not much of a reader but I sure would like to read somethin’ you wrote. Maybe somethin’ with that Brandon fella.”

  Relieved to talk about something else, she said, “I’m afraid it wouldn’t be to your liking.” Secretly, it pleased her that he’d asked.

  “Because it’s literary?” he asked, his voice oddly distant and taut.

  She laughed. “Not according to my critics.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “It’s a good thing critics weren’t around when God created the world.”

  “I agree.” Her gaze bounced off his lips and she felt her cheeks grow warm. Why did he have to mention kissing? Glancing past him she spotted Miss Walker watching from a distance.

  “I . . . I better get back to work.” She turned and walked away as fast as she could without running, but it was a long time before she could breathe normally again.

  Luke beat the red-hot metal with a hammer, the sound ringing in his ears. Twe-rink, twe-rink, twank. Blacksmithing was physically demanding work and normally he welcomed the manual labor required to shape iron into something usable. Today no amount of pounding relieved his tension. Nor did it get his mind off Kate Tenney.

  Flipping the metal over with his tongs he tapped the end. Behind him the forge burned brightly and the mechanical fan emitted a steady hum. Homer was outside but kept poking his nose through the open door as if sensing his master’s ill temper.

  A vision of blue eyes came to mind and Luke pounded harder. She didn’t think about kissing him—least that’s what she said. Could’ve fooled him. He never could figure out the way a woman’s mind worked, but she sure did look like she wanted to be kissed.

  She also said her writing wouldn’t be to his liking. Why didn’t she just come out and say what she really meant? He didn’t have enough book learning to understand what she wrote.

  He pounded harder still.

  Not that he cared. It was probably some scholarly tome filled with ten-dollar words that only college professors and Greek scholars could understand.

  This time he pounded so hard that pieces of hot iron flew off his anvil.

  Chapter 18

  Many a form bit the dust and a gasp of horror rose to her lips. Then, thinking that Brandon was among the wounded, she fell back in a dead faint.

  Kate sat on her horse watching what looked like sheer chaos. It was the first day of branding and Ruckus didn’t mince words. “Once the action begins, stay out of the way!”

  It wasn’t what Kate wanted to hear. “How am I going to learn if I don’t practice?”

  Ruckus made a face. “Practicin’ brandin’ makes as much sense as practicin’ for a hangin’. You either do it or you don’t.”

  The air vibrated with expectation. Men on horses, some from neighboring ranches, waited for the signal to start. Ruckus called some of the older men “use-ta wases.” The younger men he called green hands.

  O.T. and Miss Walker had their heads together, their expressions serious.

  “What are they waiting for?” Kate had to lift her voice to be heard above the bawling calves separated from their mothers.

  Ruckus pointed to the north where dark clouds rolled over distant mountains. Already a few clouds had broken away from the pack to blot out the overhead sun.

  “They’re worried about rain. You can’t brand a wet calf. Not if you want to read the brand.”

  “You’ve been praying too hard, Ruckus,” she called.

  Feedbag and Upbeat laughed and Ruckus chuckled.

  “Next time I’ll be more specific about the timing.”

  Stretch said, “At least it’s not as hot as it was last year at this time. It was so hot, the hens laid hard-boiled eggs.”

  Kate shook her head and grinned. Stretch never ran out of tall tales.

  O.T. and Miss Walker moved away from each other and mounted their horses.

  “Is it time to start?” Kate asked.

  “Not yet,” Ruckus said. “The boss lady gets to down the first calf. It’s a Last Chance tradition.”

  Kate could feel the tension in the air as all eyes remained on the boss lady.

  Miss Walker sat tall in her saddle. From a distance she looked like one of the cowhands, giving no clue to gender or age. She rode her roan around the corral once before racing to the center, rope coiled over her head. Arm circling, she whipped her rope through the air with amazing speed and force, catching a calf by both hind feet. Twisting her lariat around the horn of her saddle, Miss Walker dragged the bawling calf up to the blazing bonfire.

  Kate’s mouth dropped open in admiration. “I never would have believed that a sexagenarian could do such a thing.”

  Feedbag’s eyes widened. “The boss lady’s a sex . . . ?” He sputtered and his face got all red. He glanced at Miss Walker with awe. “I always knew she was a force to be reckoned with.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean . . .”

  A loud bawling drowned out the rest of her sentence. The roped calf struggled fiercely, its cries answered by its anxious mother on the opposite side of the fence.

  One of the cowpunchers looked between the calf’s legs and yelled, “Bull!”

  The red-hot branding iron was pressed into the animal’s side, leaving a distinctive mark only three inches high. “That smells awful,” she cried, waving her hand in front of her nose.

  Ruckus grinned. “That’s what we call branding smoke. You’ll get used to it.”

  It was all done in a blink of the eye.

  She leaned over her saddle horn. “The brand is so small. I can hardly read it.”

  “By the time the little fella’s full-grown, it’ll be a foot high,” Ruckus explained. “We used to brand the entire side of a steer, but then we got complaints from leather makers. I guess there was no call for Last Chance boots or saddles.”

  Wishbone was the tally keeper. He made a mark on his tally sheet and called out, “One calf.”

  The instant Miss Walker’s honorary calf had been counted and let go, O.T. yelled, “Let’s get rolling.” He waved his hat over his head. “Last year we branded three hundred calves in four hours. Let’s see what we can do this year.”

  “Here we go,” Ruckus called. “Go!”

  Kate was mesmerized by the thunderous mass of horns and hooves in front of her. The smell of hot branding irons, sweaty horseflesh, heated cowhide, and dust made it hard to breathe, and her eyes watered. The air rang with bleating calves, bellowing steer, and exuberant shouts of men.

  At first it seemed like chaos but, like everything in the desert, nothing was as it seemed. Branding required precision and timing—like a carefully choreographed dance.

  Feedbag ran by her on foot. He threw his right arm around a steer’s neck and seized the animal’s left horn with his left hand. The beast ran and Feedbag’s legs touched the ground in flying leaps—and at one point his legs even flew straig
ht out. It looked like the steer was about to claim victory when at last the animal lost its balance and fell on its side.

  Feedbag was the only bulldogger of the bunch. The other ranch hands preferred to rope the calves from atop their horses.

  After nearly three hours, Ruckus called out to her, “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Surprised, Kate sucked in her breath. She had practiced for days, but roping a single calf in an otherwise empty corral was a whole lot different from working in a chaotic pen of thundering horses, panicked calves, and shouting men. Still, she was too caught up in the excitement not to try. Just as long as she didn’t fall off her horse.

  She tied the end of her rope to the horn of her saddle, just as Ruckus had taught her. Failing to do so could result in the loss of a thumb. Picking out her target she pressed her heels into her horse’s sides and took off. Lariat circling overhead, she timed her toss but still came up empty. She yanked the rope back and tried again.

  On the fourth or fifth—or maybe it was the tenth or twelfth—try she caught a calf by a hind leg, or heel as Ruckus called it.

  “I did it!” she yelled in astonishment.

  “Ride your rope!” Ruckus yelled back, the urgency in his voice telling her there was no time for celebration.

  She rode toward the calf, taking the slack out of the rope so that Ruckus could wrestle the struggling critter to the ground, pin it on its back, and wrap the calf’s legs with pigging rope.

  Ruckus looked up at her. “I’d never thought to hear myself say this, but congratulations. You’re now officially one of the boys.”

  She grinned back at him, surprised at how good those words made her feel. After weeks of hard work her efforts had finally begun to pay off. She might just make it as a rancher after all.

  Bessie barged into Lula-Belle’s house without so much as a knock on the door. Mercy, she didn’t have time for such amenities, not this of all days.

  She found Lula-Belle in the kitchen pulling a pie out of the oven. Bessie threw up her hands in disgust. On a day that was clearly about to break ninety degrees even with the threat of rain, the woman was not only baking, she wore a knitted wool shawl. It made Bessie hot just looking at her.

  “What are you doing here so early?” Lula-Belle asked, though it was well past noon. She set the pie on the counter to cool. “What is it? Are you ill? Is something wrong with Sam?”

  “No, nothing is wrong with Sam. At least nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  Lula-Belle ran her hands down her gingham apron and frowned. “Are you sure? It’s not his heart, is it?”

  Bessie touched her head and groaned. “Mercy, why do you always think the worst?”

  Lula-Belle took Bessie by the arm and dragged her out of the kitchen and made her sit. “If it’s not Sam, who is it? Do tell me.” Lula-Belle sank onto the cushion by her side.

  Bessie lowered her voice, though it was not necessary since they were the only two in the house. “Two weeks ago I bumped into José in town and he told me the most amazing thing.” She glanced around to make sure they were still alone. “He overheard Kate Tenney say that she once wrote dime novels.”

  A houseboy at the ranch, José provided an endless source of juicy gossip, but none quite as delicious as this latest tidbit.

  Lula-Belle sat back and looked confused or, at the very least, unimpressed. “Kate is a writer?”

  “Apparently not a successful one. However, I thought it my duty to read one of her books. You know, to see what kind of woman she really is. Picking out a wife for Luke is too important to go by appearances alone. Fortunately, I was lucky to get hold of the one banned in Boston.”

  Lula-Belle gasped. “Her books were banned?” Eyes rounded, she covered her open mouth with her fingertips.

  “Only in Boston,” Bessie assured her. “You know how prudish they are there.”

  Lula-Belle’s eyes practically popped out of her head. “You read a banned potboiler?”

  Her sister’s shocked expression came as no surprise. It was a well-known fact that no decent Christian woman would read such trash.

  “It was my duty,” Bessie explained. She looked toward heaven. “God forgive me, but there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Luke. Michael too.”

  She pulled a paperback book out of her pocketbook. Miss Hattie’s Dilemma was written across the cover in big bold letters.

  Lula-Belle leaned back as if the mere presence of the book could corrupt her fine sensibilities.

  Bessie riffled through the book until she found the right page. “Listen to this.”

  “Oh my stars,” Lula-Belle gasped. Her springy curls were practically doing handstands. “You’re not going to read it aloud.”

  Bessie gave her a stern look. “Only the good part.” She cleared her voice and began to read like she was auditioning for a part in a play. “‘Brandon took her in his arms and captured her trembling lips. Ripples of desire shot through her body and’”—Bessie paused for effect—“‘curled her toes.’” She snapped the book shut. It was hard to believe that the mere mention of something as commonplace as toes could cause an entire book to be banned.

  Lula-Belle obviously was not of the same mind. Indeed, she couldn’t have looked more incredulous had Bessie sprouted orange and black spots and turned into a gila monster.

  “Now I ask you. Did Murphy ever make your toes curl during a kiss?”

  Lula-Belle’s face turned scarlet and her hand fluttered nervously to her lap. “For goodness’ sakes, Bessie, what are you talking about? Curling toes?”

  Bessie gave a self-righteous nod. “I thought so.”

  “I’m not even sure I want my toes to curl. I’m ticklish. Besides, what has this got to do with Luke and Kate Tenney? Are you saying that she’s not the right woman for him?”

  “Oh, she’s the right woman for him, all right.” Bessie waved the book as if it were absolute proof. “Make no mistake about that, but I’m not talking about Luke or even Michael.”

  “Then what are you talking about?”

  “Us. You and me. It’s time we lit a fire under our husbands. There’s got to be more to life than loose skin and bald heads. Just because passion hadn’t been invented when we were young is no reason we can’t enjoy it now. Why should the young have all the fun?”

  Lula-Belle made a funny choking sound. “Passion was invented?”

  “Of course it was. How else can you explain its sudden appearance? Did you ever hear about it when we were young?”

  “No, but . . . but who would invent such a thing?”

  “How am I supposed to know? Howe, Edison, Bell . . . What difference does it make? If they can send words through miles of high-strung wires who’s to say what else they can do?”

  “Oh my!” Lula-Belle pressed her fingertips against her mouth again. “Maybe we should stay away from the telegraph.”

  “Nonsense. A little passion would do you a world of good. Maybe then you wouldn’t need to wear that tiresome shawl all the time.”

  “I don’t know, Bessie. This don’t sound right to me. Sam and Murphy are set in their ways. They’re not gonna take kindly to having to worry about our toes.”

  “Oh, they’ll worry about them all right. We’ll make certain of that.” She stabbed Miss Hattie’s Dilemma with her finger. “We have this to guide us. It tells us everything we need to know about capturing a man’s heart. For example”—she thumbed through the book—“on page ninety-nine it says, ‘She brushed her hair until it shone and it fell down her back in glorious waves.’”

  Bessie peered at her sister’s tight corkscrew curls and grimaced. “Never mind that. There are other ways we can make ourselves appear more attractive.”

  “What you’re planning on doing don’t sound normal. There’s a reason why men’s hair and women’s assets fall when they reach a certain age. God don’t want us worrying about our toes in our twilight years.”

  “Poppycock. Why do you think God invented night? It’s so we older folks
can enjoy the benefits of youth without seeing how awful we look.” Bessie closed the potboiler and stood. “According to this book, perfume and satin unmentionables will do the trick. Green’s General Store won’t have what we need, so we’ll have to order from Montgomery Ward.”

  “I don’t know, Bessie. I don’t want anyone to think I’m one of those . . . you know . . . painted ladies.”

  Bessie rolled her eyes. “You should be so lucky.” She argued with her sister for the better part of an hour, but Lula-Belle refused to even consider changing her ways.

  At last Bessie threw up her hands in disgust. If Lula-Belle chose to live a passionless life, that was her business. Bessie had no intention of letting her sister hold her back. She stood and took her leave. If she hurried, she could mail in her order to Montgomery Ward before the post office closed.

  Chapter 19

  What could they possibly do to her should she dare set foot in their den? Take advantage of her helplessness? Surely not!

  Kate stood on the verandah of the ranch house, too wound up to sleep. Already Miss Walker and the house staff had retired for the night and the house was dark. It had been an exhausting but satisfying week. O.T. had been right about the Dunne gang. Some calves had been hair-branded, but Ruckus ordered everyone to “pick ’em out and brand ’em right.” And that’s what they’d done.

  Now that the Last Chance “LC” brand had been seared into every calf’s hide, the rustlers’ plan had been halted, if not altogether stopped. No thanks to the marshal, who nosed around but lost interest upon discovering it was the Dunne gang and not the “Arizona Kid” responsible for the misdeeds.

  Time had gone fast and already it was May. Kate couldn’t believe that nearly six weeks had shot by since she’d first arrived on the ranch. She’d actually helped with the branding, though the other ranch hands had lassoed dozens if not hundreds of calves to her scant one.

  She gazed at the sky, the stars hidden by clouds. The air felt thick with the promise of rain. She still felt a rosy glow from roping her first calf. The ranch that had once seemed so bleak was now filled with endless possibilities and, for the first time ever, her future seemed bright. Maybe Ruckus would make a rancher out of her yet.