Dusty Britches

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  “What went on here?” the sheriff asked.

  “I can explain,” Rose said. She released the dead man’s face, brushing the tears from her cheeks. She stood and walked toward him.

  “Ryder!” Hank demanded. Still Ryder and Dusty continued to ignore anyone’s presence but their own. “Ryder!” Hank reached down and pulled hard at the waist of Ryder’s pants, tugging at him to get off of his daughter and tell him what had happened.

  With a heavy sigh, Ryder released Dusty and struggled to his feet. He pulled Dusty to her feet as well, and Hank grimaced at the amount of blood covering them both.

  “Boy, you do beat all,” Hank mumbled as he studied the wound on Ryder’s arm. “And the way you’re eatin’ up Dusty here…you got anythin’ to talk to me about?” Hank frowned and then smiled at the young man. Ryder shook his head and smiled, still out of breath from the fight—or the passion. Hank didn’t seem sure which. “All this aside, that is,” he added, looking around at the dead men and blood.

  “Well, sir,” Ryder said, “I have to marry your daughter.”

  Hank quirked an eyebrow. “You have to marry my daughter?”

  Ryder smiled and shook his head. “You know what I mean. I want to marry her. I don’t have to marry her…yet.”

  Dusty gasped, and Hank burst into laughter at the look of astonishment on his daughter’s face. “You have at it, boy! It’s been too long a-comin’! A long, long time!” As Hank turned and looked to his own adorable wife-to-be, perched up on her bay mare and dressed in vermillion, his attention was drawn to Feller, helping Becca down from her horse. “Feller!” he called.

  “Yes, boss,” Feller nodded.

  “You got somethin’ to say here?”

  Feller cleared his throat nervously. “I don’t have to marry your daughter yet either. But…”

  Hank laughed. He looked back to where Ruff and Titch were helping Guthrie and the sheriff tie up the two men they’d caught running off as they approached.

  “Good thing I only got two daughters, Raynetta! My hands are droppin’ like flies!” He pulled Raynetta from her saddle and gathered her in his arms, quenching his own thirst for the kiss of the woman he loved.

  “Boss…your family is somethin’ else,” Guthrie sighed, pausing as he looked at the scene around him—dead men, blood, and people of all ages—in love.

  Epilogue

  “You be careful gettin’ that turkey out of the oven, honey!” Raynetta Hunter mothered her daughter Becca.

  “Oh, Mama! You worry too much,” Becca said. She smiled as she carefully took the turkey from the oven to baste it.

  Angelina Maddox stood in the doorway of the parlor watching Becca and her mother work on the turkey. Angelina had brought the pies, rolls, and potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner. She was glad her dinner preparations were finished, for now she could stand back and watch the two women she loved most in the world bustling around in the kitchen—listen to the low, masculine voices of the men she loved most as they sat talking in the parlor.

  “What you boys thinkin’ you’ll have to pay to start your herd come spring?” she heard her father ask.

  “Too much!” Ryder chuckled.

  “Dang right,” Feller agreed. “I ain’t leavin’ though. ’Til Becca’s had the baby, I ain’t goin’ for cattle.”

  “Me neither. I worry about Raynetta. She’s so small,” Hank mumbled. “All of a sudden I’m rememberin’ how downright scary havin’ babies is. Raynetta’s hopin’ for a boy. But I hope she’s carryin’ another girl. I like ’em.”

  Dusty turned and smiled at her father. He winked at her. Ryder saw her attention was not on the kitchen at that moment. He rose from his chair and sauntered seductively to where she stood in the doorway dividing the two rooms. Putting his hands caressively at her waist, he gazed down upon her with a mischievous grin—silently telling her only the present company was keeping him from ravishing her.

  “Well, I guess I can hire on enough hands to drive home Feller’s cattle and mine come spring. Ol’ Leroy’s ranch cost a bit…but it can be done,” Ryder told the men, though his eyes saw only his wife.

  “Sorry ’bout that, Ryder…but I can’t leave Becca,” Feller apologized.

  Ryder bent down and whispered in Dusty’s ear, “I love you.” He kissed her neck several times, causing her to flinch from the delicious tickle.

  “Ryder can’t go for the cattle,” Dusty announced. “We’ll all have to depend on Guthrie, Titch, or Ruff to go.”

  Ryder smiled and kissed her again. “Dusty gets cold at night,” he explained with a wink to Feller.

  The men chuckled, and their merriment caught the attention of Becca and Raynetta.

  “What’s goin’ on in here?” Raynetta asked, drying her hands on her apron. Dusty noted how green Becca looked and wondered if she’d be able to even enjoy her Thanksgiving dinner. She wondered if either of them would be able to eat and keep it down. The way they’d both been lately, she doubted it. And even though her own stomach was upset, she smiled.

  “Dusty don’t want to let Ryder go for cattle come spring,” Hank answered.

  “Well, of course not!” Raynetta exclaimed. She squeezed Ryder’s arm lovingly. “She’s gonna have a new brother or sister and a niece or nephew to help look after. She’ll be plum worn out if Ryder’s gone!”

  “It’s really not so much that, Mama,” Dusty corrected, hardly able to contain her smile. “I just want to make sure Ryder’s here when his own baby’s born.” She squirmed with delight—blissful in her husband’s arms. Ryder’s smile faded; he even paled a little as he understood what Dusty was saying.

  “My own baby?” he whispered. She nodded.

  Hank whooped and hollered, and Feller chuckled as Becca and Raynetta linked hands and began skipping around the kitchen. Dusty giggled with gladness as Ryder’s hands left her waist and rested on her tummy. When he looked up at her, she was astonished by the tears in his eyes. She thought maybe she should’ve chosen a more private moment to reveal her secret to him.

  “Ryder?” she whispered as the others began to talk excitedly about how wonderful it would be to have three new babies in the family all at once.

  “Aw, he’s all right, Dusty,” Hank chuckled. “He’s just been afraid Kenna Jones plopped down too hard in his lap one time too many!”

  With that, Ryder’s smile returned. Dusty saw the glow of wonder in his eyes as he looked at her. Still, he seemed quite melancholy.

  “What’s the matter, Ryder?” she asked.

  “I just…” he stammered. He looked about at the relatives Dusty knew he adored. The next moment, he swept her up in his arms and carried her down the hall toward her old bedroom. “You all go about your business, you hear?” he called over his shoulder. Becca and Raynetta giggled; Feller and Hank chuckled.

  Once he’d carried her into the bedroom and kicked the door closed behind them, he laid her gently on the bed, covering her body with his own.

  “What is it?” she asked him again as moisture filled his beautiful eyes.

  “Just for a moment…I was thinkin’ how adorable you were that first day I ever saw you a-draggin’ that little old table over them tree roots. And I was thinkin’ of how hard it must’ve been for your daddy to be givin’ you over to me. And now…”

  “And now I’m havin’ your baby?” she softly asked him.

  “Yeah,” he breathed, his smile that of perfect joy. “What if you’d married Cash? What if I hadn’t seen your daddy on that drive? And what if Wesley…”

  “And what if somebody comes in here?” she teased. Dusty reached up, smoothing the worry from his brow, trailing her fingertips lovingly over his lips.

  “Naw,” he chuckled. “They know better.” He brushed the hair from her face, and Dusty felt the tears leaving her eyes to travel over her temples.

  “What, sugar? Now you’re all soppy too.” His smile was beautiful—the most beloved sight in all the world to her.

  “I love you, Ryder,”
she whispered as he brushed her cheek affectionately with his own.

  As Ryder’s wonderfully capable hands lovingly caressed her tummy where their baby grew, he kissed her—the kiss that would forever send her heart racing—the kiss assuring her of his boundless, eternal love for her.

  “I love you,” he breathed. Moments later, his mouth wandered down her cheek to tarry at her neck. The tears cascaded from Angelina’s eyes as she realized again the absolutely benevolent magnitude of her dreams forever coming true—when he whispered, “My little Dusty Britches.”

  Author’s Note

  I can’t quite put my finger on why Dusty Britches seems to be such a favorite—not only to me but to my friends as well. Perhaps it’s simply the final realization and triumph of vanquishing unrequited love—of it being quite fully requited at long last! (When unrequited love is no longer unrequited, is it called “requited love”? Hmm…I may have to research.) Or perhaps it’s the fact two other love stories intertwine with Dusty and Ryder’s—Feller and Becca’s and Hank and Raynetta’s.

  Secretly, I imagine Hank and Raynetta to be my good friends Joel and Rhonda—although they’ve been married for 17,511 years and have six children. Joel is a cutie, and Rhonda has big brown eyes and loves to wear red. Becca and Feller live only in my mind, yet to me they are as real as anyone else—and I adore them!

  Then again, it might be the fact so many little details of Dusty Britches are mirrored moments from my own life…

  Incident #1: The Singing Ranch Hand. I was seven years old—our handsome hired hand, Dale, milking the cows at three and four in the morning, singing “Make Believe” from Showboat, his gorgeous Howard Keel–type voice wafting from the milk barn, over the clear morning air, and in through my bedroom window. How romantic! (Whimsical short about this incident follows this Author’s Note!)

  Incident #2: Old Man Leroy/Lace in Belt. Leroy, my friend’s dad—a very intimidating man—once came upon my older dream-boy mercilessly flirting with me, my older dream-boy’s metal belt loops having gotten caught with my belt buckle whilst he’d gathered me into a romantic embrace and proceeded to verbally seduce me in the hallway at church. Maybe I could write a short essay on this titled, “How Your Most Romantic Moment at Age Fourteen Can Best Be Ruined by Humiliating Circumstances.”

  Incident #3: Pack ’Em In. Based on the age-old game “Sardines,” which I played as a teenager and always enjoyed—especially the time one of my long-lasting crushes captured me out in the tall grasses in the field behind his house and, of course, stole a kiss! Initials of Romantic Culprit Boy: W.M.—City of Incident: Albuquerque—Age of Delighted Victim: Twelve—Weather Conditions When Tête-à-Tête Was Perpetrated: Warm Summer’s Eve.

  Incident #4: Dusty Stuffing Hankies in Her Bosom. Based on the antics a cherished friend of mine (who will, of course, remain nameless) when we were twelve. She once told me the “hankie-stuffing incident” worked out much better in Dusty Britches than it had in real life! Implements Used Instead of Hankies: Kleenex Tissues—In Profusion.

  …to list a few.

  Still, in truth, I think Ryder and Dusty endear the story to me. (I mean, Ryder is a good kisser, and that does count for a lot. I mean, let’s just be honest with ourselves, shall we?) Yet it’s the journey—Dusty battling to overcome her fear and heartache, Ryder risking his life to be with her—maybe that’s why the story speaks to me so deeply.

  In any regard, it’s important to me that you know Dusty Britches is real! Fiction, yes—but in my mind all the characters are there! I see their faces, hear their voices. The story plays out in my head as vividly as any of the aforementioned incidents of my real life—sometimes even more vividly!

  So whatever my reasons are for the story of Dusty Britches meaning so much to me (important or not), I hope it brings you joy—smiles, goose bumps, giggles, sighs, tears, and hope! My wish is when you read or reread this book, you find yourself transported into the story—that your heart is lightened and your optimism fortified when you close it—that you can hear Ryder singing in the barn in the early morning hours and feel Dusty’s joy when she realizes her “unrequited love” was always entirely “requited.”

  And now I give you:

  “Oh, Those Glorious, Bygone, Early-Morning, Cow-Milking Hours of Romance”

  The mornings were dark in Downey, Idaho—especially at 4:00 am when our hired hand, Dale, was out milking the cows. Yet I loved those wee morning hours—just lying in my warm little bed and listening—listening to the rhythmic pulses of the milking machines milking the cows and the other comforting, beloved sounds of morning—early birds, the breeze. Yet most of all, it was listening to Dale I relished.

  Dale was sixteen years old—a real man by my seven-year-old standards—and as handsome as anyone I had ever known (since Huckleberry Finn, of course). He was so kind to me—so entirely chivalrous. I remember lying on the front room floor next to him. We’d lie there—side-by-side—just eating grilled-cheese sandwiches and watching TV. I’ll tell you this: grilled-cheese sandwiches and black-and-white TV—that man knew how to treat a woman!

  And Dale could sing! He had a singing voice to put any girl who loved old MGM musicals to thinking on Howard Keel or Gordon MacRae! (Mostly Howard Keel.) Every morning, as he herded the cows to the milking barn for milking, hooked them up to the milking machines, and set everything in motion, Dale would sing. Oh, the songs he sang. Beautiful songs! Romantic songs! And my very favorite—“Make Believe” from the MGM 1950s movie musical Showboat. Sooooooooo utterly romantic!

  I would lie there in my little bed in our farmhouse in Downey (the one with the crooked outhouse out back) and listen to Dale singing “Make Believe.” It was magical! In those sweet morning hours when my dreams were still lingering, it was the very stuff of fairy tales. Dale’s voice would drift softly to me—echoing on the breeze—the lovely morning breeze, so fragrant with the scents of farm life—and I would listen and dream and smile and sigh, longing for evening when Dale and I would share grilled-cheese sandwiches in front of the TV—longing for the next wee hours of the morning when Dale would sing and I would listen—and sigh—and daydream—and smile—and get butterflies in my stomach!

  Sitting here now, I wonder—are the cool morning breezes, so sweetly caressed with Dale’s rendition of “Make Believe”—is that the reason I still love the early morning hours so much?

  Marcia Lynn McClure

  And now, enjoy the first chapter of Weathered Too Young

  by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “I sure could use the help,” the rather frail-looking, elderly woman began, “but I’m afraid I just can’t afford to pay ya…not just now with summer endin’ and winter just around the corner. Things slow to a crawl in my shop in winter.”

  Lark couldn’t keep the breathy sigh of disappointment from escaping her lungs.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” the woman said. “Truly.”

  “Oh…no worries,” Lark said—though, in truth, her own worries were profound.

  Still, she studied the older woman a moment—her silvery hair, the deep wrinkles life had carved upon her pretty face. She was a kind woman—Lark was certain she was. Kind and truthful.

  The bell hanging on the door of the quaint little seamstress shop jingled, and the woman glanced up.

  “Hey there, Hadley,” she greeted, smiling.

  Lark turned to see a dusty cowboy remove his hat. She’d seen him before—earlier that morning when she’d been in the general store inquiring about the possibility of working there. He was young—perhaps only a year or two older than Lark—with light brown hair and blue eyes. Handsome too.

  “Mornin’, Mrs. Jenkins,” the cowboy said. “I’m in need of a new Sunday shirt. Mrs. Jones says I ain’t fit to step one foot before the Lord in the one I been wearin’. And all us boys runnin’ cattle for Mr. Jones…well, Mrs. Jones insists on Sunday church-goin’.”

  “Of course, Hadley,” Mrs. Jenkins giggled, her blue
eyes transforming into half-moons as she smiled. “I’ll be right with ya.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jenkins,” Lark said, forcing a grateful smile. “I’ll let you help this young man. We certainly can’t have him missing services.”

  “Certainly not,” Mrs. Jenkins said, still smiling. “I really am sorry, honey,” she added.

  “Oh, it’s nothing to concern yourself over,” Lark assured her, even despite the growing sense of panic that was rising within her.

  “I’ve got a shirt in the back that’ll suit you just fine, Hadley,” Mrs. Jenkins said then. “You hold on there. I’ll just be a minute.”

  As Mrs. Jenkins disappeared into the back room of her small seamstress’s shop, Lark exhaled a heavy sigh of discouragement. Time was running short. Summer was waning, and though the weather was still kind and the nights yet warm, autumn and winter were not far away. She had to find some means of earning a wage—had to find some place to wait out the winter.

  Tucking a tired strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, she tried to remain calm. Yet the growling hunger in the pit of her stomach only added to her anxiety.

  “Excuse me, miss,” the young cowboy said, startling her from her worrisome thoughts.

  “Yes?” she asked, again forcing a smile.

  “I…I couldn’t help but notice that yer lookin’ for work over at the general store…and I’m guessin’ here too,” he began. “And I wouldn’t want to stick my nose in where I shouldn’t, but…are ya only lookin’ for sewin’ and mendin’ and such? Or might somethin’ else do for ya?”

  When she saw the young cowboy’s eyebrows rise in astonishment, however, Lark blushed, adding, “I’m willing to do anything honorable, that is.”

  “Cookin’? Cleanin’ and warshin’?” the man asked.