The man called Feedbag hurried over. He had a black square beard that did indeed look like it belonged on the muzzle of a horse. The spurs on his boots made a strange noise when he walked and he wore bat-winged chaps.
“Grab that side,” Stretch said, pointing to the wheelchair. Feedbag cast a curious look at Molly before walking to the back of the wagon. Together he and Stretch grabbed the wheelchair, heaved it over the side of the buckboard, and set it on the ground.
Just then a horseman galloped toward them at full speed. It wasn’t until the rider dismounted that Molly realized it was a woman dressed in a divided brown skirt and man’s plaid shirt. Her gray hair in a bun, she wore a wide-brimmed Stetson and red kerchief.
Stretch whispered, “That’s Miss Walker.”
Molly withered inside. The woman looked even more intimidating than she sounded in her telegram. Molly swallowed hard and forced herself to meet the woman’s steady gaze without flinching. “I’m Molly Hatfield and—”
“I know who you are, but who is that?” She indicated Donny, still seated in the buckboard.
“My brother and—”
“I don’t recall any mention of a brother in your telegram. Furthermore, you are three days late. Anyone without regard for time has no business on a ranch.”
Stretch bobbed his head and the two men lifted the wheelchair back into the wagon with a thud.
Molly hadn’t expected to be dismissed so abruptly and without so much as an interview. After all she’d been through these last few weeks, she wasn’t about to go without a fight.
“Our train was late and that made us miss our connection. I explained all that in my latest telegram.”
The two men reached for the wheelchair and heaved it over the side of the wagon and back onto the ground.
“If you sent a second telegram, it’s probably in town waiting for one of my boys to pick it up. The telegram I did receive said nothing about your brother. Had it done so, I would have saved you the trouble of a trip.”
Warmth crept up Molly’s face. She regretted withholding information, but at the time she hadn’t known what else to do. “I apologize, but I had to bring him with me. I’m the only family he has and I’m responsible for his care.”
“And I’m responsible for two thousand head of cattle.”
“Yes, and my brother and I had occasion to meet some of them on the way here. We were almost trampled to death.”
Miss Walker cocked an eyebrow but offered no apology for her cattle’s poor behavior. “That is precisely why I need someone reliable and trustworthy. If your appearance is any indication, you not only lack those necessary virtues, you also lack judgment and good sense.”
Molly was used to being judged solely on appearances. The socalled Christian women in Dobson Creek wouldn’t even talk to her or her brother. A woman’s virtue was not only determined by behavior but also by the color of her dress. Since Molly wore bright colors and worked at a saloon, her reputation suffered on both accounts.
“I assure you I am reliable and trustworthy. I’ve supported myself and my brother for the last four years and there aren’t many women who can make such a claim.” She was only seventeen when her father died, leaving her with no visible means of support. Her looks and voice were her only assets and she used both to good advantage. “That alone should prove I’m reliable. As for my clothes, there wasn’t time to save but a few of our belongings. You probably heard about the terrible fire in Dobson Creek.”
Miss Walker gave no indication of having heard the news. “I’m sorry that you traveled all this distance for nothing. If you hurry, you can reach town before dark and catch the morning train.” She turned and stalked away and the wheelchair was promptly returned to the wagon.
Molly held her arms by her sides, fists tight. And go where? She and Donny had no family, no home, no money—nothing. Still, she’d rather live in a cave than deal with such a coldhearted woman.
She turned back to the wagon, her mind racing. Surely she could get a job at one of the saloons in town. Judging by the wailing sounds she heard while passing through Cactus Patch, they could use a singer like her. Not only did she have no intention of working for the ranch owner, she’d had her fill of cattle, thank you very much!
One look at her brother stopped her in her tracks. His face was gray and his lips blue and he didn’t breathe as much as gasp for air.
A protective surge shot through her. It was no time to think of her wounded pride. She swung around and called after the ranch owner, “That’s it? You’re sending me away just like that?”
Miss Walker turned, her cold gray eyes leveled on Molly. It was obvious she was not used to being challenged.
“Have you the slightest idea what it takes to be a rancher? It takes tenacity and hard work. This land will demand everything you have to give and then some. It means sleepless nights and endless days. It means fighting droughts, flash floods, cattle rustlers, and unstable markets. It means doing the impossible on a regular basis. What have you ever done to make me think you can succeed against such odds?”
What had she done? What had she done! “I ran into a burning building to save my brother when no one else would,” she replied.
“I commend you, but that hardly qualifies you to run a ranch.”
Molly’s heart squeezed and she thought fast. Her brother’s welfare depended on her. “I was a dance hall girl in Dobson Creek,” she said with a resolute nod.
A look of disbelief suffused Miss Walker’s face. “A dance hall girl? You mean you sang and—”
“Danced,” Molly said. That was all she did, which was why she got so little pay.
Miss Walker heaved herself to her full height. “And how does singing and . . . dancing prove that you have the tenacity for ranching?”
Molly forced herself to breathe. “I worked at the saloon for four years and”—she glanced at the two men listening, their expressions eager with interest—”and I still managed to keep my virtue.” It was true, no matter what those old gossips said.
Miss Walker stared at her for a moment before laughing, her head thrown back like the lid of a coffeepot. Even Stretch and Feedbag joined in.
“That’s a good one,” Feedbag said, punctuating his guffaws by slapping his thigh.
Molly couldn’t tell by Miss Walker’s amusement if she’d scored any points. The two men, however, must have thought things had turned in her favor, for they reached into the wagon for the wheelchair.
Miss Walker stopped laughing, but her dubious expression didn’t give Molly much hope. “How old are you?” she asked, her voice abrupt.
“Twenty-one.”
“You do know from my telegram that I would require you to sign a document forbidding marriage.”
Stretch and Feedbag held the wheelchair between them, waiting for Molly’s reply.
“I do.”
Miss Walker arched a brow. “You strike me as a woman who is”—she raked her gaze up and down the length of Molly’s form—”appealing to men, virtue or no virtue. You certainly dress provocatively enough. So why would you agree to sign a document forbidding you to marry?”
Molly had no trouble answering that question. “A woman caring for a crippled brother has no chance of landing a husband. The moment a man finds out about Donny, he runs the other way.”
“I see.” Miss Walker glanced at Donny before turning her gaze back to Molly. “And I assume you know this for a fact?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve had twenty-two marriage proposals in all. Soon as I told them about Donny, every last man took off like a mule with his tail on fire. Didn’t matter if they were young or old, none of them wanted the added responsibility.”
Miss Walker pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “Your loyalty to your brother is commendable.”
“I’ll be equally loyal to you and the ranch. All I ask is that you give me a chance.”
Miss Walker scrutinized her. “How do you propose to take care of your brother and keep
up your duties?”
“Donny only needs help getting in and out of bed. He’s quite capable of taking care of himself throughout the day.” That wasn’t true—God forgive her—but she didn’t dare reveal the full extent of Donny’s needed care. At least not yet.
Donny nodded in agreement and Molly felt a tug of her heartstrings. Though he was very much against coming to the ranch, no one would ever guess it by his beseeching expression.
Miss Walker studied Donny for a moment and brushed a wayward strand of hair away from her face. “I’ll probably regret this, but I’ll let you stay.”
“Thank you, I—”
“I don’t want thanks—I want blood and sweat.” The ranch owner’s gaze slid the length of Molly like a dressmaker measuring for clothes. “I generally give candidates a set time period to prove themselves. I’ll give you till mid-September to show me you’re as capable of learning the ranching business as you are at protecting your virtue.”
One of the men laughed but Miss Walker ignored him. “If by some . . . miracle . . . you succeed, we’ll discuss the terms of our agreement. Until that time you’ll be paid less than the normal salary to make up for your brother’s room and board.”
The wheelchair landed on the ground with a thud and both men brushed their hands together. Stretch grabbed the valise and set it next to the chair.
Miss Walker hadn’t seemed to notice the wheelchair rising up and down like a barometer in changing weather. “I feel it fair to warn you that only one previous candidate lasted for more than a week. Most barely made it through the first couple of days.”
Molly refused to be discouraged. She knew nothing about cattle, but life on a ranch couldn’t be any harder than living in a mining town.
Miss Walker’s gaze settled on Molly’s velvet slippers, now covered in dust. “Do you have anything remotely similar to ranch attire?”
Molly glanced down at her gown. It was the most fashionable one she owned, but next to the ranch owner’s practical garb it looked downright dowdy. “I’m afraid most of my clothes were lost in the fire.”
“I’ll see what I can rustle up. Meanwhile, your room is waiting. I’ll have my housekeeper prepare a room for your brother.” She glanced at Stretch. “See that the horse and wagon are returned to the livery stable.” With that Miss Walker strode toward the ranch house, her jingling spurs sounding like a death knell.
Molly waited for the two ranch hands to lift Donny into his wheelchair. The man named Stretch pushed the wheelchair through the courtyard and he and Feedbag hauled it onto the shaded verandah and into the house. A young Mexican woman greeted them, eyeing Molly up and down.
“My name is Molly.” She pronounced each word precisely. She guessed the housekeeper was somewhere in her teens.
“Rosita,” the woman replied, pointing to herself.
Relieved that the woman seemed to understand English, a dozen questions leaped to mind, but they could wait till later. She turned to the two men.
“Thank you.”
“Glad to help,” Stretch said. He and Feedbag left and Molly took in her surroundings. The entry hall opened to a large spacious room.
Compared to their tent home, the house was quite grand with its red tile floor, stone fireplace, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. A stuffed steer head hung over the mantel and Indian rugs adorned the adobe walls.
Donny gazed longingly at the overstuffed bookshelves.
“This way,” Rosita said. She started down a small hallway and then waited for Molly to follow with the wheelchair. Though the doorway was wider than average, the chair caught on the jamb, leaving a dent in the wood. Molly wiggled the chair back and forth until she was able to push it through.
Donny’s room was in the same wing as the kitchen. It was a small room, obviously meant to be used by a cook or housekeeper. A single window faced the front of the house, shaded by the roof overhang. There were no stairs to worry about and for that Molly was grateful.
After settling Donny in his room and giving him his medicine, Molly followed the Mexican housekeeper upstairs to the second floor. The woman led the way to the end of the hall. Molly’s room was considerably larger than Donny’s and opened onto a lovely balcony that stretched the length of the house.
The cheerful room was furnished with a single bed, chest of drawers, washstand, and desk. Molly ran her hand across the bed, absorbing the smooth softness of the quilt. She couldn’t imagine sleeping in such luxury.
Molly’s spirits rose for the first time since the fire. Suddenly aware that the housekeeper stood staring at her, Molly smiled.
“Have you worked here long?”
Rosita gave a curt nod. “Long enough.” Her formal manner and stiff voice seemed designed to discourage unnecessary conversation. She pointed to the garments on the bed. “Miss Walker sent clothes. I’ll fetch hot bath.”
A hot bath? That was a luxury Molly hadn’t counted on. Back home she managed to heat water for a bath with hot rocks, but if she was in a hurry, she settled for the cold stream that ran outside their tent.
Even more amazing were the indoor privies, one near Donny’s room and the other just down the hall from hers. She imagined this was how kings lived, not ranchers.
“A bath would be most—”
The housekeeper left the room, slamming the door shut with a bang and leaving Molly’s sentence half-finished.
Molly shrugged. No matter. She glanced around, unable to believe her good luck. She touched the walls, the floor, the door leading to the balcony. She never thought to live in a house with plaster walls, wooden floors, and glass doors and windows. Strangest of all was having a room to herself. A blanket strung across the tent from a rope was the only privacy she’d ever known. She wasn’t sure she liked being so far away from Donny, though. What if he needed her in the middle of the night? Or his asthma grew worse?
Pushing her worries away, she opened her valise and lifted out a scarlet frock.
Even as a child she insisted upon wearing bright clothes and refused to wear the sedate hues her mother favored. Her father flinched whenever he saw her coming, raising his hands in front of his face as if to ward off a bright light.
“You look like a peacock,” he’d say fondly. Or “Put a star on top and you’d pass as a Christmas tree.” But he always sided with her whenever her mother complained, calling her his little sunshine.
“When a man spends his days in a mine, he welcomes a bit of color,” he’d say.
“I can understand a bit of color,” her mother would reply, “but does she have to wear all the colors at once?”
What neither parent had known, had no way of knowing, was that her flashy clothes, and later her makeup and hearty voice, had all been cultivated to protect her brother. No one stared at him with pitying eyes when she was around. No one stared at him at all. People were too busy staring at her.
It had been hard at first. By nature she was reserved—shy. But she’d soon found out that if you pretended to be someone else long enough, you eventually forgot who you were. It was for the best, really. As Donny’s protector and caretaker, she didn’t have time to be anything else.
Chapter 6
Cactus Patch buzzed with news of Miss Walker’s newest “heiress,” and that infuriated Bessie Adams. She’d practically knocked herself out these past few weeks planning her nephew’s wedding and not a single person she’d encountered in town mentioned it—not one. Not even the customers gathered in Mr. Green’s mercantile early that Wednesday morning.
Incensed, Bessie strolled down an aisle checking out the produce, basket on her arm. Now that the nice new doctor was boarding with her and Sam, the list of needed groceries had almost doubled, but her mind was on her nephew’s upcoming nuptials.
The wedding of Luke Adams to Kate Tenney would be the event of the decade. The town had never known anything like it. Every lamppost, every wooden sign, every door on Main Street had been decorated with large white ribbon bows. Bessie spent hours writing invit
ations, planning the food, overseeing the bride’s dress, and explaining to her thickheaded nephew and groom-to-be why all this fuss was necessary.
It wasn’t every day that a man got married. Seeing Luke properly wed fulfilled the promise made on her sister’s deathbed to care for her two orphaned boys.
Bessie picked up a head of lettuce and gave it an expert squeeze. Mr. Green called over to her.
“What do you say, Bessie? Wanna bet?” He shook a cardboard box of money. “How long do you think Miz Walker’s latest heiress will last this time?”
“I’ll give her forty-eight hours,” Harvey Trotter said. A farmer by trade, he wore overalls and a large straw hat the same color as his sun-streaked hair. Puffing on his stogie, he plopped a coin on the counter and Mr. Green wrote down the amount.
Bessie grimaced in disapproval. Trotter had a wife and six children and could ill afford such folly.
Saloon owner Randy Sprocket made a face. Thumbs hooked around his suspenders, he shook his head. “Nah. She’s got a brother in a wheelchair. She ain’t gonna last a day.”
“Did you say wheelchair?” Hargrove was the owner of the local ice plant and Bessie never saw him when he wasn’t dressed for winter. Today he wore a heavy flannel shirt. In this heat!
“Saw him with my own two eyes,” Sprocket said. “She paid the Miller twins money to lift him and his wheelchair into a wagon at the livery.”
“In that case, I change my mind,” the ice man said. “I’m only giving her till noon.”
Mr. Green noted the change on his tally and called over to Bessie. “Come on, Bess. Winner takes all. What do you bet?”
Bessie sniffed and placed a firm head of lettuce in her basket, which brought a nod of approval from farmer Trotter. “I’m not a gambler.” The nerve of him suggesting such a thing to a fine Christian woman like herself.
“Anyone who’s married is a gambler,” Hargrove said. “Since you’re the town matchmaker, that not only makes you a gambler but a dealer as well.”
This brought a frown to Bessie’s face and a round of laughter from the others. Bessie’s temper snapped and she squeezed a tomato until it practically turned to ketchup. In all her sixty-something years she had not so much as touched a deck of cards.
Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) Page 4
