Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  “When you ready Señorita Walker meet you downstairs.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said. “Is there a bath—”

  The rest of her sentence was met by a closed door. Pulling off her jacket she stepped through the glass door that led to the balcony. Shaded by an overhang, the balcony stretched the length of the building, providing a panoramic view of the ranch and distant mountains.

  She grabbed hold of the iron railing, surprised to spot Mr. Adams already driving away, his dog sitting in the seat she had moments before occupied. She had assumed he would bring her trunk upstairs himself.

  Disappointed that he’d left before she had a chance to thank him, she watched until only a cloud of dust made by his wagon wheels was visible. Loneliness descended upon her like nightfall and she shuddered. The view outside her window looked every bit as forlorn as her future.

  Someone knocked on the door and she hurried to open it. A slender Mexican man dressed in white shirt and pants carried her trunk inside and set it on the floor.

  “José,” he said with a grin, pointing to himself. She wondered if this was the person spying on her earlier.

  “Pleased to meet you, José. Thank you for bringing my trunk.” When he made no move to leave, she added, “I need to unpack my things.”

  “Better wait to talk to Miss Walker. The last one vamoosed before she unpacked.” He grinned and left.

  Refusing to be discouraged and anxious to change out of her traveling clothes, she knelt on the floor and opened her trunk. The instant the lid sprung up, her mouth dropped open and she sat back on her heels. Not only had Mr. Adams fetched her belongings off the street, he had neatly folded every last garment.

  She picked up a corset and pair of lacy bloomers and held them to her bosom. She imagined his large, capable hands on the satiny fabric and delicate lace. A strange warm and worrisome current flowed through her.

  Shaken, she stood and quickly stuffed her garments in a drawer.

  Little more than an hour later, Kate walked downstairs mustering every bit of confidence she could manage. After vigorously sponging off dust and train soot, she’d changed into a plain but stylish brown skirt and tailored shirtwaist, then pinned her hair securely into a neat bun. Her appearance would pass muster for a job interview in Boston, but what was acceptable attire for being interrogated as a possible heiress?

  Rosita greeted her at the foot of the stairs and showed her to a sitting room. “Wait here.”

  The housekeeper left and Kate walked through the open archway, her footsteps bouncing off the clay tile floor. Outside, the house had looked larger than it actually was, probably because of its clean, sweeping lines.

  The room had none of the overblown fussiness of Boston parlors. A steer head with wide horns hung over the stone fireplace and seemed to gaze at her as if she were an unwelcome intruder. The walls were adorned with Indian rugs, the bold geometrical designs woven in vivid red and bright turquoise wools. The furniture, which included leather chairs and a matching davenport, was spare but substantial, more intimidating than inviting. Dark wood beams crossed the ceiling.

  Beyond a second archway was a dining room with a polished table that could easily seat twelve. Two paneled doors stood open, revealing an office complete with a large oak desk and filing cabinets. The typing machine centered on the desk surprised her. She’d sold her own typewriter to pay for travel expenses. Though she had no further use for such a machine, already she missed it.

  One parlor wall was covered with shelves holding leather-bound books. She ran her fingers along the rigid spines hoping to find a Twain, Brontë, or even a James, but every book was about cattle or the cattle business and she couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

  It wasn’t that long ago that writing was her life, but after her last book was banned for “immoral content,” her publisher quickly and firmly showed her the door. Immoral, indeed! Boston’s Watch and Ward Society deemed her love story a detriment to society and accused her of putting wanton ideas into the heads of young readers. Maybe she did go a bit overboard in taking two pages to describe a kiss, but for the most part the society’s critiques were unfair and unfounded.

  Books had helped her through an unstable and unhappy childhood. Now as then, she looked for a means of escape. She was so engrossed in reading the titles that she failed to notice the open coffin partly hidden by a potted cactus until she practically bumped into it. The body of a pale-faced man sporting a waxed mustache and dressed in a dark suit lay in the satin-lined interior, a coin on each eye, hands folded across his middle.

  Startled, she jumped back, hand on her chest. “Oh dear!”

  Chapter 4

  The lips of the dying man moved and Brandon leaned closer. “For God and country,” the man said before taking his very last breath.

  Kate gaped at the dead man, the pungent smell of formaldehyde making her eyes water. Nerves taut, she jumped when a cheery voice sounded from behind.

  “I see you met my ex-husband, Ralph.”

  Kate whirled about to face the tall, stately woman with steady gray eyes standing in the doorway. Kate stared at her speechless. Not only did the woman’s cavalier attitude regarding the dead man stun Kate, but never had she heard anyone so boldly admit to a failed marriage. Certainly not to a stranger. In Boston a divorce was considered shocking, if not altogether scandalous.

  “Burying him on the ranch is more than he deserves, but no one else will claim him,” the woman continued. “So what is one to do?”

  Not sure whether she was expected to answer the question or simply offer condolences, Kate inched away from the corpse with a murmured, “I’m sorry.”

  Ignoring Kate’s commiseration, the woman introduced herself. “I’m Eleanor Walker. Owner of this ranch.”

  Dressed in a divided skirt, heavy boots, and a man’s plaid shirt, she wore her gray hair pulled into a tight bun with not a single loose strand. Her wide-brimmed hat dangled between her shoulder blades, the stampede string around her neck. The huge room seemed to shrink in response to her commanding presence.

  “You must be Kate.” She held out her hand and Kate shook it. The woman’s grip was as firm as a man’s. “Or do you prefer I call you Miss Tenney?” She spoke in a brisk no-nonsense manner, her gray eyes seeming to penetrate rather than regard.

  “Kate will do.”

  “Very well, and you may call me Miss Walker.”

  It struck Kate as strange to call a previously married woman miss, but she would of course comply.

  “Do sit down,” her hostess said. “I trust you found your accommodations satisfactory.”

  “Yes, thank you. My room is lovely.” Miss Walker was every bit as intimidating as Cactus Joe, even without a weapon.

  Miss Walker took a seat and Kate sat down on a chair opposite. She held her knees together, hands tightly clasped on her lap. Keenly aware that others had come before her and failed, she met Miss Walker’s probing stare with chin held high.

  As if on cue, Rosita appeared carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She set the tray on the low table and looked at Miss Walker as if waiting for permission to pour. The younger woman’s quiet, demure manner offered a striking contrast next to Miss Walker’s broad movements and deep, vibrant voice, both of which would have been frowned upon in more civilized social circles.

  “Thank you, Rosita,” Miss Walker said. She waved the young woman away and filled both glasses herself. She handed one to Kate.

  “Thank you.” The lemonade was both cold and sweet and Kate gulped it down—something she would normally not do in polite company, but then she’d never been so thirsty nor so nervous. Miss Walker made no mention of her ill manners. Instead, she refilled Kate’s glass without comment.

  Setting the pitcher on the tray, the ranch owner sat back. “I heard you had a little excitement in town.”

  A little? “The man grabbed me and shot at my trunk,” Kate said, shuddering at the memory. When this failed to draw any
kind of sympathetic response, she added, “I’m lucky to be alive.”

  “Aren’t we all?” Miss Walker glanced at the coffin. “Or at least some of us are.” She fell silent for a moment before adding, “I apologize that no one was at the station to greet you. When my driver heard that Cactus Joe was up to his old tricks, he turned around and came back.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Kate said. “Mr. Adams was good enough to give me a ride.”

  “Then I am in his debt.” Miss Walker took a sip of her own lemonade before setting the glass on the tray, ice clinking. She looked Kate up and down, her expression registering neither approval nor disapproval.

  “You stated in your letter that you were a professional woman familiar with ranching.”

  “Yes . . .” Kate had rehearsed this interview in front of a looking glass numerous times, but Miss Walker was even more intimidating than Kate’s former editor, Mr. Conner, and everything she’d practiced went out of her head.

  “You wrote that you’re a college-educated woman, but I’m not clear as to your profession.”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Yes, you do write lovely letters.”

  “A professional writer,” she said to clarify, though it was no longer entirely accurate. After the scathing review of her last book and its subsequent ban in Boston, she was currently unemployed.

  “I’ve published several novels under my pseudonym, K. Mattson.” She hesitated. “Some people have a rather jaundiced eye toward certain . . . literary endeavors.” Especially when they involve affairs of the heart. “For that reason I prefer to keep my former occupation confidential.”

  Miss Walker’s gaze sharpened. “Are you saying that you write . . . wrote potboilers?”

  The question was pointed enough to raise the dead, but a quick glance at the coffin assured Kate that it hadn’t.

  “I prefer to call them novels,” Kate explained. “Dime novels.”

  The woman had looked unflappable until that moment. Now she looked downright appalled. “And you think writing these . . . dime novels makes you knowledgeable about running a ranch?”

  “Most of my stories take place on a cattle ranch,” Kate explained. “That’s because I . . . grew up listening to tales about the West. I enjoyed hearing the stories one man told about working on the King Ranch in Texas. He helped drive cattle to Kansas.”

  What she failed to say, didn’t want to say, was that the stories were told by tramps gathered around a bonfire behind the apartment where she lived with her mama. Some were war veterans, others failed gold miners—all were society dropouts. As a child, she liked to climb out onto the roof and hide behind the chimney to listen. Their lively stories fired Kate’s imagination like nothing else ever did.

  “You heard these tales in Boston?” Miss Walker made it sound like Boston was located somewhere in the Boer Republics rather than the States. “I hope you don’t believe everything you heard. It’s my experience that most people have no idea about life in the West. As for cattle drives . . .” She made a dismissing gesture. “Long and costly drives have gone the way of hoop skirts. Now we simply drive the cattle a short distance to the Willcox stockades and train depot.”

  “I know ranching has changed, but it was those stories that inspired me to write my books.”

  “So why aren’t you writing?” Miss Walker asked.

  “It’s difficult for a woman to earn her living by writing,” Kate said. At least that much was true. “That’s why I’m here.”

  After her publisher refused to publish more of her books, she applied for a job at both the Boston Evening Globe and Traveler, but no one was willing to hire a disgraced writer.

  Anxious to prove her competence, Kate hastened to add, “I’m quite good at bookkeeping and budgeting and—”

  Miss Walker interrupted her with a wave of her hand. “We’ll get to all that. First things first. We’re in the middle of calving season and it will soon be April. How are you at calving and branding?”

  Kate blinked. Branding. It never occurred to her that she would actually have to work with the animals. “Don’t you employ cowhands to do that?”

  “Of course I do. But how do you expect to know if the job is done right if you don’t know how to do it yourself?”

  Kate moistened her lips. “I’ve never actually worked with cattle but like I told you, I do know a little something about the workings of a ranch.”

  Miss Walker frowned. “The only way to learn ranching is through tenacity and hands-on experience. You can’t learn ranching secondhand. Nor can you learn it from books.” She waved toward her extensive library. “But even experience isn’t enough if you don’t have a real passion for the land. It must be in your blood. Do you have anything that qualifies you to run a ranch?”

  “I . . . I believe so.”

  “Believe, Miss Tenney, or know?”

  Miss Tenney. If the sudden formality hadn’t already convinced Kate that she was about to be dismissed, the railroad watch Miss Walker pulled out of her pocket most certainly did.

  “I’m extremely tenacious,” Kate said, determined to rise to the challenge. She would never have survived her childhood had she not been strong-willed.

  “I’m a fast learner and I’m trustworthy. I’m also honest and hardworking.” She continued to recite her qualities as one might recite a list of groceries to a clerk in a mercantile store, but nothing she said pried the skeptical look off Miss Walker’s face.

  Miss Walker stared at her watch for a moment before pocketing it. “This is all very well and good and you do write a persuasive letter. But so far you’ve failed to convince me that a privileged upbringing such as yours qualifies you for ranching.”

  Kate jumped to her feet. “Privileged! Privileged? I’ve worked for everything I have. I earned my education by scrubbing floors, cleaning privies, and—”

  Mortified, she covered her mouth with her hand. All her weeks of careful planning had been wasted in one careless, unguarded moment.

  Expecting Miss Walker to order her out of the house, she was surprised when the woman gestured for her to sit down.

  “I see there’s more to you than meets the eye,” Miss Walker said, and this time her face reflected the first signs of approval. “That’s good. I don’t know if mucking out stables is comparable to cleaning privies, but we’ll know soon enough. We can’t let you around cattle until we get the city smell off you, and nothing accomplishes that faster than a good mucking. I’ll also ask Ruckus to find a horse for you. You do ride, of course?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Excellent. What about work clothes?”

  Kate glanced down at her skirt. These were her work clothes. “I’m afraid these are all I have.”

  “Hmm.” Miss Walker tapped her chin with her finger. “You’re about my size. Not quite as tall but I think I have some garments that will fit. I’ll have Rosita bring them to your room.”

  Miss Walker rubbed her hands together. She had large calloused hands the color of leather. It was hard to know how old she was. She had a timeless quality that seemed to make age irrelevant. Her lively eyes, more blue now than gray, watched from a well-lined and well-tanned face, but her body was as supple as that of a young girl.

  As if to guess her thoughts, Eleanor said, “I’m sixty-five years old. That’s young for a saguaro, which can live for 150 years, but as far as I know no ranch owner could last that long. Nor would anyone want to.”

  Her actual age surprised Kate. In Boston, people—especially women—tended to look old in their forties.

  “You do understand that if I decide to make you my heiress you will be required to sign a document stating that you will forever remain single.”

  “Yes, you explained that quite thoroughly in your letter.”

  Miss Walker regarded her with narrowed eyes. “You’re young and attractive. Why would you agree to forego marriage? Do you not wish to raise a family?”

  “It’s a bit late for that, I’m
afraid. I’m twenty-nine.” Far past the marrying age deemed proper by Boston society.

  The older woman rolled her eyes. “Ancient,” she said, her voice edged with irony.

  Kate folded her hands on her lap and debated how much or how little to say. She sensed the ranch owner would see right through the vague answers she had prepared.

  “Back in the States an educated woman is thought to be a liability in the home.” Some critics had even gone so far as to say that educated women were not “real” women, and therefore incapable of loving a man, let alone bearing his children.

  “You won’t find things any different outside the States, I’m afraid,” Miss Walker said. “Some men around here don’t know what to do with a woman who has an intelligent thought of her own. And that includes you, Ralph,” she added, addressing the dead man.

  “But that’s the least of it,” the ranch owner continued. “You will work hard, harder than you’ve ever worked in your life. You and the land must become one. Its pulse will be your pulse, its heart yours. It will require everything you have to give—and then some. No man alive can compete with such a demanding lover.”

  Kate flushed. Never had she heard anyone refer to land as a lover. In Boston most men were happy with a mere couple of acres, just enough to raise a milk cow or two and cultivate a vegetable garden.

  “I’m not afraid of hard work,” she said, hiding her soft hands in the folds of her skirt. She often put in twelve or more hours a day working on her stories. True, it wasn’t physical labor, but writing a book was hard work and, at times, even grueling.

  “If that does indeed turn out to be true, you’ll be greatly rewarded for your efforts. Nothing in this world is permanent except for land. It will always be there for you. The question is, will you always be here for the ranch? If things go wrong—as they always do—will you walk away? Abandon ship, so to speak?”

  “I’m fully prepared to prove myself worthy of your trust and generosity,” Kate said. She would do anything—crawl to the ends of the world if necessary—for stability and permanence in her life. “I’ll work hard and learn everything I can about ranching. I’ll . . . I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”