“Hmm.” Miss Walker studied her with cool appraisal. “You have three months . . . no, let’s make it four. That will take you to the end of our busiest season. During that time I will expect you to prove your sincerity and capability in learning the business. I will, of course, pay you a minimum salary. If you manage to last until the end of the trial period in July, you will then be required to sign a document that, among other things, will forbid you to marry. Do you have any questions?”
Up until that moment the whole idea had seemed so far-fetched Kate hardly considered the enormity of becoming a ranch owner. In Boston, property owners enjoyed more respect and privilege than non–property owners. It was a class distinction evident even during her school years. Though she despised being treated as a second-rate citizen she never thought property ownership possible. She still couldn’t believe it.
“No questions,” she murmured. No doubt later she’d think up plenty, but for now her mind was filled with the sheer wonder of it all.
“Very well. You have a hundred and twenty days to convince me of your trustworthiness, after which I shall then teach you the business side of ranching. In five years, if I deem you’re ready, I will turn the ranch over to you. However, the deed shall remain in my name until the day I die, at which time the ranch will be yours and yours alone.”
“That is exceedingly generous,” Kate said. She still couldn’t believe such good fortune. Her mama often said that nothing good ever happened to their kind because God favored the rich, but maybe, just maybe, she was wrong. Maybe God did on occasion favor the less fortunate.
“I’m not being generous, simply practical. Speaking of which, supper will be served at six in the dining room.” Miss Walker indicated the adjacent room. “But you look exhausted, so it might be best if I have Rosita bring a tray to your room. I’ll also ask her to heat water for your bath.” She set her glass on the tray and stood.
“Breakfast is served between four and five. It’s essential that we get the work done early before the heat kicks in. I’ll see you in the morning.” Without another word, she crossed the room, turning at the doorway.
“In case you were wondering, I don’t plan on meeting my maker anytime soon. Until that day, the spinster pact is binding. Marry and you forfeit everything.”
With that she hastened from the room, leaving Kate alone with only poor dead Ralph for company.
Chapter 5
A weaker or gentler woman would have swooned upon finding herself the recipient of such good fortune. But now that her destiny was secured, she had no use for feminine wiles.
Kate couldn’t believe her luck. Just think, one day all this could be hers. Granted, the arid desert ranch was a far cry from the lush, tree-filled property she dreamed of owning, but land was land.
She had just finished arranging the last of her books on the back of the desk when a knock sounded at the door.
It was Rosita carrying her supper on a tray.
Kate stared at the large dinner plate piled high with generous portions of roast beef, gravy, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
“It’s so much,” she said. It would feed a family of four with enough left over for seconds.
“You must eat to be strong,” Rosita said. She brushed past Kate and set the tray on the desk. “Steer strong.” She lifted her arm and squeezed a muscle, and stared at Kate’s slender frame. “Workers no be weak.”
“I don’t plan on carrying a steer or even wrestling with one,” Kate said.
“That’s what last señorita said.” The housekeeper walked out of the room, leaving the door ajar, and Kate sat at her desk to eat. The meal was delicious, the meat so tender she could practically cut it with a fork. Though she hadn’t eaten since morning, she could only finish half of what was on the plate. Even that was twice as much as she normally ate.
Rosita lugged a tin washtub into the room containing a stack of clothing, a pair of well-worn boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. She set the clothing on the bed and left, returning moments later with a kettle of hot water.
“Could you tell me who else lives here in the ranch house?” Kate asked, curious about the rooms she passed on the way to her own.
“You and Miss Walker,” Rosita replied.
“That’s all?” Kate asked, surprised.
“Me and my brother José live downstairs,” Rosita said. “Sometimes señores come to buy cattle and Miss Walker let them stay overnight.”
“I see.”
Before Kate could ask any more questions, Rosita left the room, then made several trips back and forth before putting a clean towel and a bar of lye soap next to the bath.
“Ready,” she announced.
“But there’s not enough water,” Kate said. Barely three inches covered the bottom of the tin tub.
“Water valuable,” Rosita said. “More valuable than silver or copper. Tonight you guest, you get three inches. Next time you get two.” She turned to leave, muttering beneath her breath, “If there is next time.”
Alone again, Kate undressed and stepped into the tub, determined to make the most of what little water she had. She washed her hair and scrubbed herself from head to toe until her normally white skin was pink. She then reached for the pitcher of fresh water on her sink and rinsed away the soap.
Later she stood on the dark balcony brushing her damp hair and braiding it into a single plait down her back. It was a moonless night but the sky was bright with stars. The only visible light on land came from the window of the bunkhouse.
The wind had died down and the land lay still, though by no means silent. A coyote howled from the distance, calling its pack. In response a chorus of lowing cattle rumbled from within a fenced pen. Not to be outdone, a horse nickered from an adjacent corral and dogs barked. Then all was quiet. Disturbingly so.
Kate missed the city, missed the sound of clopping hooves on cobblestones, the clanging bells of horse-drawn streetcars, the mournful toot of a distant foghorn. She even missed the cries of peddlers selling their wares and the rumbling of wagon wheels. Would she ever get used to the relative silence of this strange new land?
A sudden burst of laughter rippled through the night air, followed by the whiney sound of a fiddle. The gaiety of cowhands in the bunkhouse offered a stark contrast to the silence of the main house. She cast an anxious glance at the glass doors that led to other rooms, but all were dark.
Loneliness was not new to her and had dogged her all through childhood. Thinking her mother loose, neighbors treated Kate like an outcast, refusing to let their children play with her. Even in school she was considered an outsider—a nobody. Her family owned no property and therefore had no status in life.
A strange yearning for which she had no name rose up inside. Sighing, she withdrew from the balcony and sat at the desk. She opened her leather-bound notebook and dipped her pen into the inkwell.
The scratching sound of her pen against paper soothed and comforted her as she wrote.
Hidden in the darkness, Brandon hunkered beneath the window and watched her. She stood perfectly still but he could sense her distress, sense her loneliness, and he longed to go to her, but to do so would put her life in danger . . .
She stared down at what she had written before ripping the page from her notebook. Balling it, she tossed the paper into the wastepaper basket next to the desk. After the fiasco with her last book, her career as a writer was over. The respect she’d hoped to gain from the literary world eluded her, but that no longer mattered.
She stood to look at herself in the mirror, extending her hand as if greeting a rich cattle buyer from the east. “How do you do. I’m Miss Tenney, owner of the Last Chance Ranch.”
She smiled. She liked the sound of that. If only those judgmental neighbors and snobbish classmates could see her now.
She woke to the sound of a crowing rooster and buried her head under her pillow. Moments later she reluctantly rolled out of bed to the tinny hammering of the mechanical alarm clock. Yawning, she qu
ickly dressed in Miss Walker’s divided skirt and a plain white shirtwaist. The denim skirt was a tad too long but the peg-heeled boots were a perfect fit, though they took a little getting used to.
The dining room empty, she helped herself to coffee and bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy from the buffet. Worried that she might be late, she hardly tasted her food as she gobbled it down.
She had barely opened the front door before Rosita chased her outside, shaking a feather duster at her. “Hurry, flies.” Kate stumbled onto the porch, the door slamming behind her.
Outside the sky was silver with streaks of yellow, pink, and red. The sun had yet to rise and it was surprisingly cold. Never had she experienced such a wide temperature swing between day and night as she did here in the desert. She should have donned a wrap.
With no one around, she circled the ranch house to the back, wanting to explore. A rooster eyed her from its perch on a white wooden fence before throwing back its head and letting out a loud crow.
A screened-in area directly behind the house held a clothesline strung with pieces of drying meat. A series of small boxy buildings were located off the southernmost U of the main house, which she guessed contained the kitchen and maybe even José’s and Rosita’s quarters. One building was a washhouse, complete with large metal tubs, ironing tables, and sadirons. She followed a well-worn dirt path to an icehouse. A short distance away was a granary and a smokehouse with stone chimney.
A vegetable garden spread between the buildings like a carpet, a scarecrow rising from its midst. She walked over for a closer look. A series of irrigation ditches crisscrossed the garden and the soil looked wet. Little signs read Lettuce, Carrots, Peas, and Onions.
Impressed with everything she had seen so far, she turned to watch two men lift caged chickens and a goat into the back of a wagon. The goat butted its head against a wooden side. The chickens clucked furiously, feathers flying about like snow flurries. A third man appeared from behind a barn leading a steer by a rope. Kate had never seen such a huge beast. It took both men to tie the animal to the back of the wagon. Once the animals were secured, the men drove off pulling the steer behind.
José walked out of the milk house carrying a bucket in both hands. Seeing her, he frowned and shook his head. “You better hurry,” he said. He tossed a nod toward the front of the house. “Late not good.”
Nervous about meeting the others, she ignored his warning. “You have milk cows too?” she asked, glancing at the milk sloshing over the sides of the buckets.
He grinned. “Last ranch I worked at had no milk cows. We had beef but no milk. Señorita Walker has everything.”
“Where are they taking those animals?” she asked, pointing to the back of the departing wagon.
José put his finger to his lips. “That secret,” he said.
“Why can’t you tell me?” she asked.
“Señorita Walker said no tell. Now go. You be late.”
This time she ran, her feet wobbling in her unfamiliar boots. Chickens clucked and scattered out of her path as she made her way to the front of the house and hurried to the main barn. The hem of her divided skirt flapped against her boots with a slapping sound.
She rounded a corner of the main barn and was surprised to see a group of men standing in a circle. All had lean, well-muscled frames, their faces weathered from countless hours in the saddle beneath the hot Arizona sun. All but one wore dark pants rolled at the cuffs, unbuttoned vests, and bright red bandannas. The sleeves of the collarless shirts were rolled up and held in place with twisted wire garters.
Gun holsters looped with cartridges sagged loosely down each man’s side. Each wore peg-heeled boots similar to hers, but with silver spurs.
One of the men motioned to her and she hurried over to the circle.
He lifted his hat in greeting. “You must be Miss Tennis,” he drawled.
“Tenney,” she said.
“They call me Ruckus.” A crooked nose matched his crooked grin and his horseshoe mustache drooped below his chin.
“That’s ’cause he raises the roof with his snoring,” one man added. “Been that way ever since he met up with a fist coming the other way.”
His comment was followed by a round of laughter. It seemed like a jovial group, and Kate found herself relaxing for the first time since arriving in Cactus Patch.
“That there is Stretch,” Ruckus said, pointing to the tallest man of the lot.
Stretch raised a hand in greeting, his tan hat contrasting with his dark eyes, black curly hair, and pencil-thin mustache.
“Don’t take anythin’ he says seriously as his tales are as tall as he is.” Ruckus pointed to the man next to Stretch. “And that funny-looking man behind the bush is Feedbag.”
The “bush” was a square black beard that did indeed look like it belonged on a horse’s muzzle.
“Howdy, ma’am,” Feedbag said in a froggy croak, followed by a well-aimed stream of tobacco.
Ruckus went around the circle introducing each man in turn by his “barn” name. The names provided an astute, even comical description of the men, making them easy to remember. Wishbone’s legs curved outward from the knee down. Moose’s ears stood out like the handles of a sugar bowl. Upbeat grinned at her, his white teeth flashing against his ebony skin.
Mexican Pete whipped off his straw hat and bowed. “Señorita.” While the other men were beltless, he wore a red sash tied around his middle.
The man in the odd short pants was called Dook. Since he spoke with a thick British accent, Kate assumed his name was the western version of Duke.
The last man Ruckus introduced was the ranch foreman named O.T., short for Old Timer. The man was probably in his forties, but he was clearly the oldest of the bunch. He stood straight as a soldier, his gaze never seeming to settle on any one person or thing, yet Kate was certain he missed nothing.
“Listen up, men,” O.T. said. “In case you haven’t noticed, Miss Tenney here is what you call a lady. Put a lid on your can of cuss words and keep it there. Is that clear?”
Feedbag lifted his hat and ran a finger though his jet-black hair. “How long we gotta watch our language this time?”
“For as long as she’s here,” O.T. replied.
“Ah, shucks,” Feedbag groaned, putting his hat back on. “She could be here as long as a day or two.”
“Don’t forget one lasted as long as a week,” one of the other men added.
Wishbone nodded. “Yeah, and I can’t work as fast when I have to watch what comes out of my mouth.”
“That’s your problem,” O.T. said. He removed his hat and held it to his chest. “And since you’re the one with the problem, you can do the honors.”
Much to Kate’s surprise, the men all took off their hats and bowed their heads in prayer. Head lowered, she allowed her gaze to travel from man to man. The last thing she expected to see was a bunch of rough men praying.
Wishbone held his hat in both hands. “God, the Father, thank you for your many blessings and don’t forgit to send rain. And if you ain’t sendin’ rain to us, don’t go sendin’ it to no other ranches neither.”
Kate covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers. She’d never heard anyone speak to God with such informality. It was nothing like the stuffy, drawn-out prayers she was forced to endure while attending Miss Newcomb’s Academy for Young Women.
An “amen” chorus went around the circle and the men stomped away in different directions.
Ruckus remained, regarding her with a frown. “You all right, ma’am?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” And because he continued to study her, she added, “He prayed for rain.”
He arched his eyebrows as if surprised by the comment. “Every day. That’s part of our job. Part of your job too.”
Her gaze wandered across the dry land. “It looks like your prayers haven’t been answered in a while.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes God answers our prayers slow as wet gunpowder, but sooner or later he g
ets around to it.” Ruckus made a face. “Some chuckleheaded politicians don’t wanna wait on God. One got a crazy notion to explode dynamite over Texas to make rain. Nine thousand dollars went up in smoke just like that.” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate. “They shot the feathers off a bunch of startled birds but they didn’t make no rain. Only the Forever Man can do that.”
“The Forever Man?” she asked.
He grinned. “We all have our barn names. So why not God?” He signaled the end of the conversation with a nod of his head. “The boss lady says I’m to make a rancher out of you.” He looked her up and down and shook his head, his mustache seeming to droop another notch lower. “I reckon we’ll see a whole lotta rain before I succeed.” He turned and walked away. “Time to get to work.”
Not knowing what else to do, she followed him. He spoke slowly, drawing out each word like one would draw out a sigh, but he walked with quick, long strides and it was all she could do to keep up.
He led her to the side of the barn. “Mexican or Western?” he asked.
She glanced at his profile. Was he joking? Mexican? With her blond hair? “I’m American,” she said with more than a little patriotic pride. “Born and raised in Boston.”
“God, give me strength,” he muttered. He yanked a door open and led her into a dim room. “I’m talkin’ about saddles.”
“Oh,” she said, cheeks flaming. Biting her lower lip she glanced around. Never had she seen so many saddles in one place.
He pushed his hat to the back of his head and regarded her as he might a wayward child. “You do ride, right?”
“Yes,” she said. She took riding lessons at Miss Newcomb’s Academy, though she never was much good at it. Living in Boston with its hansom cabs and horse-drawn streetcars made horseback riding a luxury more than a necessity.
“So what saddle did you use?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me it was English.”
Dawn Comes Early Page 5
