Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series)

by Margaret Brownley

  “You can’t blame me for trying.” He crooked his elbow and she slipped her arm through his. Together they strolled along Allen toward Fourth Street.

  He picked up the conversation. “It’s not just eastern investors you’re battling, it’s changing times. I’m not sure that you’re willing to be swept along with the tide.”

  “Some change is good,” she said. “If it wasn’t for the railroad, we’d still be making those long, weary cattle drives to Kansas.”

  “I suspect railroads will be the least of it. The new doctor in town is convinced that hooves are in danger of being replaced by rubber tires.”

  “Nonsense. No one in his right mind would choose rubber over steak.”

  He chuckled. “I was talking about horses,” he said. “Speaking of steak, I could use a good sirloin about now. I have it on the best authority that the Can Can serves only the finest meat.”

  Eleanor smiled. She wouldn’t think of eating anywhere that didn’t serve Last Chance beef.

  They reached the Can Can on the corner of Fourth. A billboard outside read “Fresh oysters and game in season.” Humph. She would have to talk to the manager about advertising oysters over her beef.

  Seemingly unaware of her annoyance, Robert held the door open for her. Eleanor stepped inside. Hampshire and his cronies were seated at a corner table, each nose buried in a bill of fare.

  “Would you rather we eat elsewhere?” Robert asked.

  “Certainly not,” Eleanor said. “If we’re lucky, my presence will ruin his appetite.”

  “It’s your appetite I’m worried about,” Robert said.

  “Good, because I’m famished.”

  Chapter 14

  Molly wasn’t an expert on horses, but even she knew this particular mustang was special. Its silky hide was pure black, and at fifteen and a half hands he stood taller than most other mustangs. He ran with lightning speed around the corral, hooves barely touching the ground, mane flowing, tail high. The steed practically breathed fire.

  Brodie had been trying to capture him for months and made no attempt to hide his pride at success. “And I didn’t resort to no creasing,” he said. He had no patience for mustangers who shot horses in the neck. If done right, it would stun them without causing serious injury, but Brodie was still against it, insisting that “creasing should be outlawed.”

  Molly agreed. “So how did you catch him?”

  He glanced at her. “How do you think I caught him? I walked him down. Didn’t let him stop for a second. Most horses can be walked down in several hours, but not this fella. Took me two days and two nights. By then he was so tired he practically begged me to capture him.”

  She couldn’t imagine the stallion begging. Nor could she imagine anyone walking that length of time. Brodie was one tough bird.

  “Watch his every move,” Brodie said. “Every shift of the eye, twitch of the ear, flip of the tail means something.”

  Molly watched, but either the signs were too subtle to be seen at the horse’s current speed or nonexistent. She switched the whip from her right hand to the left.

  “Keep him going!” Brodie shouted.

  Heart pounding, Molly snapped her whip and it whizzed through the air before hitting the ground. The horse circled past her with pounding hooves, his breath scalding the air.

  “That’s the way!”

  The horse circled back. Molly readied her whip but it slipped from her gloved hand. She made a grab for it but the horse saw his chance and took it. Instead of making the turn, he plunged straight at her, ears pinned back, teeth bared.

  Molly froze, legs rigid, mouth dry.

  Brodie threw himself between her and the maddened horse, his whip snapping through the air. The horse reared back, its powerful hooves missing her by inches.

  Brodie grabbed hold of the mustang’s lead rope and tied him to the fence.

  Shaken, Molly ran her gloved hands down the sides of her split skirt to still her shaking body. Her heart was pounding so hard she could barely breathe. “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  Brodie whirled around to face her, his face red. “Sorry? What good is that gonna do?” Brodie threw down his whip. “If the boss lady makes you her new heiress, she won’t be needing me.” He stalked away.

  She watched him walk away, tears scorching her eyes. She felt terrible. But it wasn’t just the horse, it was everything. Exhaustion dogged her day and night. Every bone in her body ached and her hands were so sore she could hardly hold her hairbrush, let alone the whip. Even wearing gloves didn’t help.

  Caring for her brother and keeping up with the ranch work was harder than she ever imagined.

  Swiping away a wayward tear, she marched to the windmill. She tossed her gloves aside and plunged her hands into the depths of the barrel, then splashed cold water on her face.

  That’s it. She’d had enough! Tomorrow she would ride into town and try to talk a saloon owner into hiring her. Then she’d quit this impossible job. The decision brought no relief. The thought of spending her nights in smoke-filled saloons with a bunch of inebriated men sickened her.

  She leaned against the fence and prayed. God, help me, hold me, tell me what You want me to do. Send me a sign.

  She squeezed her eyes tight. She always felt better when she sang. If only she could remember the words to the hymn Mr. Washington sang in church. Something about a chariot . . .

  Sighing, she hummed “Little Brown Jug.” The cheerful little drinking song was mild compared to some songs she knew. Still . . . she opened her eyes to make sure no one could hear her.

  “Ha, ha, ha, you and me, little brown jug, don’t I love thee!” Normally singing made her feel better but not today. She still had a night cough and her voice sounded like she’d swallowed a mouthful of pebbles. What saloon owner would hire her now?

  A poke in the back startled her. Swinging around, she found herself face-to-face with the little blind colt Donny had named Orbit.

  “Hello there,” she said, reaching over the fence to stroke his velvety soft nose. He bobbed his head up and down and pawed the ground as if to approve.

  No one could tell by looking into his eyes that he was blind. He looked physically normal, and if it hadn’t been for his odd behavior at times, she would never have guessed he was different in any way.

  “You must have heard me singing,” she said.

  This little black horse had reached out to her and she felt an immediate kinship with him.

  The colt’s mother stood across the way watching. After a while she flipped her tail and whinnied. Orbit swung around, kicked up his back heels, and joyfully bounded toward the anxious mare.

  Something Brodie said echoed in her mind. “Horses can teach us a whole lot more than we can teach them.”

  She would never forget her terror when that stallion had raced toward her. Now she knew how it felt to have one’s legs fail. Was that how Donny felt during the fire? Or even on a daily basis?

  Regret washed over her. Only that morning she had yelled at him for dawdling. Was that the lesson she was meant to learn from the wild stallion? To be more patient?

  And the colt— Is this the sign I prayed for? What am I to learn from this little blind horse? Please, God, help me understand . . .

  On Tuesday afternoon, Caleb drove to the ranch and found Donny in his room, reading.

  “Ah, there you are,” he said cheerfully, knocking on the halfopen door. Magic didn’t wait for an invitation. Already the dog had weaseled his way onto Donny’s lap, his pink tongue all over Donny’s face. The drawn curtains at the single window let in little light, but enough to see that Donny enjoyed the attention.

  “Not good to read in the dark,” Caleb said. Crossing to the window, he yanked open the curtains and the bright light pushed the gloom to the walls. He raised the heavy sash to let in fresh air before returning to Donny’s side. He lifted Magic off Donny’s lap and the dog curled up on the floor for a nap, tuckered out, no doubt, from all that face-licking.
r />   “Did your sister tell you that I’d like to work with you? That is, if you’ll let me.”

  Donny eyed him with a wary look. “She said something.”

  Something? That didn’t sound too promising. “Good. We’ll start slowly.” He pulled a chair in front of Donny’s and sat.

  Donny leveled Caleb with dark, glittering eyes. “What good will it do? I’m helpless,” he grumbled. “Can’t you see?”

  Caleb studied him. What had happened since Sunday to put Donny on the defensive? “You’re not helpless. You need help. That’s a big difference. Everyone needs help. God made us that way to keep us connected to one another.”

  The youth glowered at him. “You don’t need help.”

  “As a doctor, I probably need more help than anyone. I need help from other doctors, from scientists, from medicine, but mostly from God.”

  Donny folded his arms and frowned. “It’s not the same thing.”

  “We can sit arguing about it or we can get to work. Your choice.”

  Donny obviously didn’t know what to make of him, and that was good. Kept him off balance and less resistant. “Have it your way.”

  Donny sat limp as a rag doll as Caleb examined him from head to toe. As expected, Donny had a very limited range of motion in his legs, but it was his undeveloped chest and arm muscles that worried Caleb most. Until Donny built up those muscles, he would never be able to care for himself. But first he had to gain the boy’s trust.

  “Tell me about yourself. What do you like to do? Where do you like to go?”

  Donny made a rude sound with his lips. “I can’t do anything or go anywhere. I’m crippled.”

  “You’re not crippled. Your legs don’t work,” Caleb said matterof-factly, as if they were talking about something as mundane as the weather. “You just have to learn to do things a bit differently.” He glanced at the stack of science books on the bedside table. Most of them had to do with astronomy.

  “You don’t need legs to study the sky. Or be an astronomer and discover another planet.” Both hands on Donny’s right foot, he flexed it up and down. “You can do anything you want with your hands, and your brain can take you anywhere you want to go.”

  Donny glared at him, his face red. “You’re nothing but a snake oil doctor. Just like my sister said you were!”

  “Molly said that, did she?” A memory of flashing green eyes and a pretty pink mouth came to mind, but he quickly shrugged it away. “So tell me, what’s the hardest part of being in a wheelchair?”

  “People acting as if I’m not there,” he said, staring down at his pale legs.

  “I’d hate that too,” Caleb said.

  “Actually, I hate it more when people do stare at me. They don’t do it much,” Donny said. “They mostly stare at my sister.”

  Caleb nodded. That Molly was something, all right. Even he couldn’t help but stare at her. Just thinking about their first encounter made him smile. He was lucky she shot Bertha instead of him. Suddenly aware that Donny was giving him an odd look, Caleb cleared his throat.

  He quickly finished his examination and handed Donny a piece of pipe ten inches in length. Donny seemed embarrassed about his legs. For that reason Caleb decided to work on his arms first so he would be less self-conscious.

  “Raise it over your head like this.” He demonstrated before handing Donny the pipe. “It’ll build up the muscles in your arms and shoulders.”

  “I’m not doing that. I can’t!” Donny threw the pipe down. Magic lifted his head off his paws and watched the lead bar roll across the tile floor.

  Donny’s body shook but whether from anger, frustration, or fear it was hard to say.

  Caleb waited for Donny to calm down. Fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes passed and neither spoke. A breeze wafted through the windows, filling the room with a hint of sage. The curtains fluttered like the wings of a butterfly, but Donny remained motionless.

  Finally, Caleb stood, picked the iron pipe off the floor, and set it next to the stack of books.

  “Okay, you have a choice to make. Either you work with me or you don’t. If you choose not to, then the chair you’re sitting in will be your prison. If you work with me, that same chair will be your friend and will help you do whatever you want to do.”

  “I don’t want to do anything.”

  “Not even go to the observatory in Flagstaff?”

  Defiance crossed Donny’s face. “How am I going to get there, eh?” He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me that.”

  “I plan on traveling to Flagstaff myself one day, but I’m not taking any prisoners.”

  Donny’s face stilled but he said nothing and Caleb gathered his black leather case and headed for the door.

  “Before you go . . .”

  Hand on the doorknob, Caleb waited.

  “Close the curtains.”

  Caleb released the doorknob and crossed to the window. “I still come to the ranch from time to time to check on Miss Walker’s horse.” It was no longer necessary, but he enjoyed the ride to the ranch and didn’t want to consider that Molly was the real attraction. “If you change your mind, open the curtains and I’ll know. If I see the curtains closed, I won’t bother you.”

  He walked out of the room, shutting the door softly behind him. Okay, God, don’t hold back. Step in whenever You’re ready and help me here.

  Chapter 15

  Eleanor stomped into the house and hurried toward her office.

  Surprised to find the crippled boy in the main room trying to reach for a hefty tome in her extensive library, she reached over his head for the book and handed it to him. “I’m afraid you’ll find that dull reading. It’s all about cattle.”

  “Cattle are pretty interesting,” he replied. “I read all the books on the lower shelf.”

  That was a surprise. To her knowledge, no one had ever touched her books—certainly none of the many hopefuls who had answered her advertisement for an heiress.

  “Have you now?”

  His forehead wrinkled as if he feared he had done something wrong. “Did . . . did you know that eight pair of boots can be made from a single cowhide?”

  Eleanor pulled off her leather gloves. “Good for a boot maker to know.”

  “And a single steer produces a hundred pounds of fat. That’s a lot of candles.”

  “Is there a point to all this?”

  He gnawed on his lower lip. “Meat doesn’t even make up half of a steer’s weight.”

  Eleanor slapped her gloves into the palm of her hand. “As far as I know, no one has figured out how to raise boneless cattle.”

  “According to what I read, the beef industry is expected to decline in the twentieth century.”

  The boy was losing her interest fast. “Now you sound like my banker.”

  “Yes, but there are other ways to make money,” he said eagerly. “Beef tallow is already used for lubricating locomotives, and soon the fat will be used to make medicine and fuel, even glue and lady’s paint.” The boy studied her with eyes the same green color as his sister’s. “It doesn’t seem fair that you do all the work and someone else makes most of the profit.”

  “What happens after I sell my cattle is of no concern to me.”

  “It would be if you owned a meat packing house,” he said.

  The suggestion surprised her. During all the hours she’d spent discussing this very subject with Robert and her foreman, no one ever suggested the idea of the ranch owning its own packing house. She wasn’t certain of the practicality or even if it was something to consider at her age, but she was impressed that one so young came up with the idea.

  “What’s your name?” Her abruptness of voice sent a shadow of worry across his face. If she wasn’t so old she might consider working on her curt manner of speaking, but why bother at this late date? People eventually got used to her ways and no doubt this boy would too.

  “My name is Donald but everyone calls me Donny.”

  “Donald it shall be. My main problem
at the moment is other ranchers overstocking the land. That’s what I have to think about.”

  “I’ll think about it too.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Will you now? Very well then. I’ll let you get on with your thinking.” She started toward her office.

  “If you could look down from the sky, cattle would look like stars,” he called after her.

  She stopped at the threshold, hand on the door frame, and looked over her shoulder. “Stars?”

  He shrugged. “You’d have to look at the earth from way up in the sky. Higher than a hawk.”

  “I imagine so.”

  “You might even be able to pick out a constellation, like the big dipper. But not if the cattle are all crammed together.”

  Eleanor arched a brow. “Yes, I can see where that might be a problem.”

  “Cattle should be spaced like stars. According to my calculations, one steer per sixty acres should last through a drought.”

  Eleanor laughed. Something about the boy was most appealing. “Surely you’re not asking for a job?”

  He practically shook with enthusiasm. “I’m good with figures, especially the ones with dollar signs. I even know how to calculate the distance to the sun.”

  “I’m sure some people will find that information most useful.” She hesitated.

  “If your sister works out”—doubtful at best—”perhaps we can find something for you to do.”

  An eager look brightened his face. “I’d . . . I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.”

  “Very well then.” She walked into her office and closed the door. Cattle are like stars? Constellations? She shook her head. The idea wasn’t any crazier than promising a wheelchair-bound boy a job.

  Hampshire had called her a doddering fool. Good heavens. Perhaps he was right.