Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  “I’m just saying that Sam prefers old things to new.” Lula-Belle patted her on the arm. “So you haven’t a thing to worry about.”

  Bessie only wished it was that simple. “I’m telling you he’s up to something, and I intend to find out who she is!” And then I’ll kill her.

  Shocked that she would consider such a thing in church of all places, she rolled her eyes to the cross overhead. Pious thoughts, pious thoughts.

  “Find out who who is?”

  “Mercy, Lula-Belle. Who do you think I’m talking about? The other woman, of course.” She tapped her chin with the tip of her finger. “We haven’t had a social event since Christmas. Maybe it’s time we had another one.”

  Lula-Belle pulled a lace handkerchief from a mutton-legged sleeve. “You think Sam’s interested in another woman and you’re going to throw a party?”

  “Not a party. A barn dance. And I will invite every woman in town. You’ll let me use your barn, won’t you?” Lula-Belle’s barn was larger than the one she and Sam had, and seldom used. “Knowing Sam, he’ll give himself away and I’ll know exactly what he’s been up to.”

  “I don’t know, Bess.” Lula-Belle dabbed at her nose with a corner of her handkerchief and shook her head, the feather and flowers on her hat bopping up and down. “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

  “Oh, butter corn! You never have a good feeling about anything. Trust me, this is a brilliant plan.”

  Upon spotting Miss Tenney walking up the steps of the church with Ruckus and his wife, Bessie nudged her sister and gave her head a slight toss. How pretty Kate Tenney looked in her rust-colored skirt and matching cape. She wore a fashionable flat hat adorned with flowers and ribbons but, thankfully, no ostrich feathers.

  “That poor, poor girl. Can you imagine being held captive all that time? Yet here she is in church already.” No whimpering or feeling sorry for herself. If Bessie didn’t already know that Miss Tenney was the right woman for Luke, she knew it now.

  “Where else would she be? It’s Sunday,” Lula-Belle said, tucking her handkerchief into her sleeve.

  Bessie rolled her eyes. How could anyone be so utterly thickheaded? Oh dear, here I go again. Pious thoughts, pious thoughts.

  “Getting back to the barn dance . . .” Something suddenly occurred to her and a smile inched across her face. Nothing was more satisfying than killing two birds with a single well-aimed stone. “I will, of course, invite Miss Tenney.”

  Lula-Belle gasped. “You think Sam’s interested in Miss Tenney?”

  Bessie threw up her hands. Her sister was absolutely hopeless. “Miss Tenney I’m inviting for Luke.”

  The organ let out a deep, solemn call to worship and Lula-Belle tugged on her arm. “Come on, we’ll be late.”

  She shuffled away, but Bessie didn’t move. Of all the ridiculous ideas. Sam and Miss Tenney? Why, the woman was young enough to be his daughter. And everyone knew Sam preferred the old to the new.

  She frowned. At least that’s what she’d always thought.

  Moments later Bessie took her place in the church pew between her sister and Sam. It was a good choice, not too far in front, not too far back. Best of all, it allowed her to keep an eye on Miss Tenney, who, either by choice or good fortune, sat directly across the aisle from Luke.

  The choir director stood in front of the congregation. “Please rise.”

  The organ groaned, voices lifted, and Luke glanced across the aisle.

  Bessie elbowed her sister and nodded her head toward the couple. “He’s looking at her.”

  Lula-Belle lifted her head to stare over her hymnal at their nephew, her voice cracking as she reached for a high note.

  The hymn ended and the last gasping organ chord faded away. Feet shuffled as churchgoers took their seats, and Bessie glanced at her husband. He looked straight ahead without so much as a wandering eye, which only fueled her suspicions that much more. A restless man by nature, Sam wasn’t usually so attentive. He generally fidgeted and let his gaze wander during worship.

  The preacher took his place behind the lectern. Dressed in black trousers and a long duster, open to reveal a white shirt and string tie, his top hat rose above a ruddy square face.

  “I’m sure you’ve all heard of the daring Frenchman known the world over as Charles Blondin,” he began, his voice booming.

  Next to Bessie, Murphy folded his arms and muttered an unholy word beneath his breath.

  Her sister jabbed her husband with her elbow and gave him a stern look.

  Looking properly chastised, Murphy muttered, “Another Blondin analogy.”

  The preacher continued, “He walked across the Niagara Falls on a tightrope not once, not twice, but many times. He even walked blindfolded. During one crossing he carried a stove on his back. He stopped halfway across the chasm to make breakfast for himself, much to the amazement of onlookers.”

  Miss Tenney looked across the aisle at Luke and the two exchanged a quick glance before turning their heads to face the front of the church.

  Bessie glanced at Sam, but his gaze remained glued upon the preacher. Any suspicion that Miss Tenney might possibly be the woman who had turned Sam’s head was immediately put to rest.

  The preacher continued to drone on about the amazing Blondin, during which time Luke glanced at Miss Tenney at least a half dozen times.

  Bessie knew this because she counted. Obviously, the two were meant for each other. All they needed was a little shove in the right direction—and a barn dance seemed like the perfect place to plan some strategic moves.

  She glanced up at Sam. She wasn’t above shoving him too—over a cliff, if necessary. God forgive her. Pious thoughts, pious thoughts.

  The preacher paused, indicating he was about to get to the point of his story, and a collective sigh rippled through the congregation.

  “When Blondin asked the Prince of Wales if he could carry him across the Niagara Falls on his back, the prince declined. Even though Blondin had proven his ability to successfully cross the falls numerous times, the prince did not trust him.” The preacher paused for effect and in a softer voice asked, “Who would you trust enough to carry you over the falls? Your wife? Your husband?”

  Bessie glanced at Sam, whose gaze locked with hers. Sucking in her breath, she quickly pulled her gaze away and stared straight ahead.

  The preacher closed the Bible and stared out over the congregation. “Or would you put your trust in God?”

  In the past, Bessie would have answered that query with a resounding yes. It would never occur to her not to trust God. But knowing her husband was interested in someone else changed everything. Her entire life had been turned upside down and she no longer knew whom to trust. Her marriage on the line, she now questioned everyone and everything. As much as she hated to admit it, she even questioned the heavenly Father. Pious thoughts, pious thoughts.

  Kate had a difficult time relating to the preacher’s sermon. Trust God? She didn’t trust anyone, let alone God. Knowing that Luke sat only a few feet away, she couldn’t even trust herself.

  I won’t look at him, I won’t.

  But she did look—but only because she sensed him looking at her. She heaved a sigh and focused her eyes directly in front of her.

  “Who do you trust?” the preacher asked again.

  Not Luke, not anyone.

  She hadn’t wanted to come to church today, but Ruckus insisted it would do her a world of good. “You can’t let Cactus Joe turn you into a hermit. Me and the boys will watch out for you. Don’t you worry none about that.”

  As good as his word, he stuck by her side. He made Wishbone and Feedbag sit in the pew behind her. Stretch sat in front, blocking the view of the altar from anyone unfortunate enough to sit behind him.

  She wouldn’t be a bit surprised to find Cactus Joe in church dressed in one of his disguises. Would she be able to pick him out? She glanced over her shoulder to study the row of faces behind her. In so doing she inadvertently met
Luke’s eyes. Heart skipping a beat, she quickly averted her eyes. An infant wailed and was immediately carried outside. The owner of the general merchandise store, Mr. Green, sat with his arms crossed, nose on his chest, snoring.

  Ruckus patted her on the arm, drawing her gaze from the back of the church to the pulpit. His concern touched her. Before coming to Cactus Patch, she’d never known anyone to worry about her welfare. Not even her mother had done that.

  In many ways Ruckus was an enigma. He’d rant at her or any other ranch hand who earned his disfavor, but he was never cruel or unkind. His wife, Sylvia, seemed genuinely fond of him. A pleasant woman with a full-rounded figure and dimpled smile, she held her husband’s hand and gazed at him on occasion with loving eyes. Never had Kate known a couple so devoted to each other and who had stayed together so long. Did Sylvia worry about Ruckus taking off? Abandoning her? Tossing her aside like an empty tin can?

  Pushing her thoughts away, she concentrated on the sermon.

  The ranch. That was all she wanted, needed. She loved working there, loved seeing the cattle thrive. Ruckus suggested she was chasing the wind but he was wrong. She chased after a dream that would one day become reality.

  Miss Kate Tenney, owner of the Last Chance Ranch. She liked the sound of that. Liked knowing that no one would ever look down on her again.

  She smiled. With this thought firmly in place she managed to ignore Luke for the remainder of the sermon, but it took a whole lot of effort on her part—and maybe a little help from above.

  Chapter 27

  Since her estrangement from Brandon her misery was consummate, and she struggled against the depths of despair with every bit of obstinacy she possessed.

  Three days later Kate found an envelope on her desk addressed to her. Inside was an invitation to a summer barn dance. The purpose of the dance was to raise reward money for the capture of Cactus Joe. A handwritten note at the bottom of the card read, Dear Miss Tenney, We do so hope you can attend. It was signed Aunt Bessie.

  Aunt? No one in Boston would dare sign an invitation to a mere acquaintance with such informality. Kate tossed the invitation aside. It was a worthy cause and Cactus Joe would be so pleased. The town finally took him seriously as an outlaw, though she doubted anyone would compare him to Jesse James.

  She had no intention of going to the dance, of course. No doubt Luke would attend and the less she saw of him the better. Still, the dance did stir the muse. She couldn’t help it. Since her kidnapping, she had not been able to stop writing. It wasn’t that she had a compelling need to resume her writing career. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  Rather, in writing Cactus Joe’s story, she had inadvertently tapped into her own. Though she had never been able to write about her inner pain, she found she could easily write about his. In writing about Cactus Joe’s deserting father, she was able to pour her own anger into each sentence.

  “How odd that an absent parent could create both a void and a presence in one’s life,” she wrote. “Neither of which was possible to escape.”

  Sitting at the typewriter in Cactus Joe’s cabin had lit a fire in her and sometimes, like now, it felt like the words in her head would consume her if she didn’t put them on paper. She lived for the moment she could sneak away from her chores to jot down a note or two. At the end of each day she escaped to her room to spread her notes across her bed and plan her night’s work.

  Anxious to get started she opened the door to her room and strained her ears. Miss Walker’s muted voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs. Though Kate couldn’t make out the words, she knew it was Miss Walker’s habit to give last-minute instructions to the staff before retiring.

  Heart racing with excitement, Kate closed the door. Soon the household would retire for the night, leaving her free to sit at the desk in Miss Walker’s office and type her story on the Remington writing machine.

  Her body still ached from long hours on horseback, but her creative mind overcame any physical exhaustion. And it would only be for a short time. Once she had completed Cactus Joe’s story and put her own demons to rest, she would hang up her pen for good and concentrate solely on the ranch. For now, however, she enjoyed the process of putting words on paper and gained great satisfaction from watching a scant few pages grow into a hundred or more.

  Impatient to get started, she sat at the desk in her own room and dipped her pen into the inkwell. He gazed at her from across the crowded room and it was as if no one else existed. The fiddlers played a romantic melody and Luke started toward her . . .

  She stared at what she had written. Luke? Where did that come from? She dipped the nib of her pen into the ink and scratched out Luke and wrote Cactus Joe. She then read what she wrote and grimaced. Cactus Joe was not a romantic character by any means.

  After jabbing the pen into its holder, she ripped the page from her notebook and scrunched it into a ball. Tossing it across the room, she watched it bounce off the wall before falling to the floor. That’s when she noticed that someone had slipped something beneath her door.

  She hurried across the room to see what it was. Several pages were clipped together and it appeared to be a story. Clutching the manuscript in her hand, she shot out of her room and ran down the hall to the stairwell just in time to see the front door close below.

  She hurried down the stairs and rushed outside. “Michael!” She could barely make out his dark form, but she sensed she had his attention. “I can’t wait to read what you wrote.”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want,” he said.

  “I want to,” she said. “I do . . .”

  “I’m no good at spelling and I never figured out the difference between a colon and semicolon.”

  “I’ll help you with those.”

  “You will?”

  She couldn’t make out his face in the dark, but she could hear the pleasure in his voice.

  “Yes, but only if your story has merit.”

  “How will you know that?”

  “Oh, I’ll know,” she said. “Readers always know such things.” She thought for a moment. “I’ll read your story, Michael, on one condition. No more being late in the morning or leaving a gate open or neglecting to put in an honest day’s work.”

  “That’s three conditions.”

  She grinned. “I know you can count. Now let’s see if you can write.”

  Eleanor stood in the shadows of the dining room, listening. It was nearly eleven and the only sound that broke the late-night silence was the peck, peck, pecking of the typewriter. How the girl managed to stay up till all hours typing and still do her chores was nothing short of a miracle.

  Eleanor let out a sigh of envy. Ah, the energy of youth . . .

  She leaned against the wall, eyes closed, and prayed. She hadn’t prayed in years and now here she was, turning to God for a second time in less than a week. Keep this under your hat, God. I don’t want my men to think I’m growing soft in my old age, but just between you and me, I’m mighty glad that you brought Kate back. You did good. Real good.

  After Kate had disappeared, Robert had accused Eleanor of using the girl to replace her long-dead daughter. She’d brushed away his concerns as a bunch of hogwash, but now she wondered if he might be right. When Kate disappeared, it felt like losing Rebecca all over again.

  Now she had another worry. If the passionate pounding of typewriter keys was any indication, Kate’s heart and soul did not belong to the ranch, no matter how much she insisted that they did. The ranch demanded one’s all, and nothing must be allowed to interfere. Not marriage, not family, and certainly not such frivolous pastimes as writing.

  Something had to be done and done fast. The future of the ranch depended on it.

  Luke stared at his aunt’s invitation, not sure what to make of it. “Hmm.”

  Kate’s kidnapping had been the main topic of conversation for days and the town was in an uproar. Guards had been posted outside the schoolhouse and women were never left
unescorted. Some townspeople had even gone so far as to have Luke make bolts for doors that had never been locked.

  As much as he approved of his aunt’s fund-raising idea, Luke doubted crime fighting was her true motivation. The question was, what was she really up to? Did it have anything to do with his uncle’s suspicion that she was interested in Postmaster Parker?

  At first Luke had dismissed his uncle’s concerns. The idea that his aunt would look at another man seemed too ridiculous to consider. But the tension between his aunt and uncle at last Sunday’s dinner worried him. Now he didn’t know what to think.

  Luke folded the invitation and shoved it into his shirt pocket. He felt a fierce need to protect his family. On the night of the dance he’d keep an eye on things, make sure that Parker stayed away from his aunt.

  He wondered if Kate would attend. He was pretty sure she would. Since the funds raised would help capture her kidnapper, it didn’t seem likely that she would stay away.

  The last thought raised his spirits. He didn’t want it to, but it did. No matter how hard he tried not to think about her, he couldn’t help himself. Trying to forget Kate was like bending steel with bare hands.

  He wanted to see her again. Had actually ridden out to the Last Chance again to talk to her, but she was out on the range and he never did find her. The ranch. It was all about the ranch with her. Still, he hadn’t imagined the way she kissed him or the way she looked at him in church.

  “You want to see me?”

  Luke had been so deep in thought he hadn’t known his brother had entered the shop until he spoke.

  Homer greeted Michael with a wagging tail and eagerly took the piece of dried meat from his hand.

  “What have I done this time?” Michael looked worse than usual, his clothes and hair unkempt, his chin covered with a scraggly beard. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a month of Sundays.

  “Nothing,” Luke said. If anything he was pleased that Michael had managed to hold on to his ranch job as long as he had. Maybe there was hope for him yet. “How are things going at the ranch?” He really wanted to ask about Kate, but he didn’t want to rouse Michael’s suspicions.