Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  “Oh no,” she said. Miss Newcomb would never approve such a thing. “It was sidesaddle.”

  His eyes popped open. “Are you telling me you ain’t been on a real saddle?”

  Her heart sank. “I . . . I . . .” Miss Newcomb had strictly forbidden anyone to do anything as gauche or unladylike as to ride astride. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Does the boss lady know this?”

  “We never discussed the saddle,” she said, quickly adding, “but I’m a fast learner. I learned to type in less than two weeks and I could recite Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’ from memory after only two days.”

  Doubt settled in every crevice of his face, even the pockmark at the corner of his eye.

  “Far as I know, neither one of them skills will matter much to a horse. Won’t matter much to the cattle either.”

  He pulled a clean red bandanna from a box and tossed it to her. “Wear it at all times. Next to a hat it’s the most useful article of clothin’ you’ll ever own.”

  “Does it come in any other color?” she asked, tying it around her neck.

  “I reckon you can have any color you want long as it’s red. If you git shot you don’t want the other fella seeing blood. Puts you at a disadvantage.”

  Her mouth fell open. If she got shot? She studied his face for some sign of humor but he looked serious as a monk.

  He walked over to an iron saddle stand. “This here is what I call a real saddle,” he said, stabbing it with his finger. “If you know what’s good for you, you best get to know it like you know the back of your hand.” He patted the saddle before continuing. “First thing you do is move everythin’ out of the way.”

  He demonstrated by folding the cinches and breast collar on top of the saddle. Naming each part as he worked, he hooked the right stirrup over the horn. He tossed her a colorful blanket before lifting the saddle with both hands and starting for the door.

  She followed him to a brown gelding that stood far taller than any of the Morgan horses she’d ridden back in Boston.

  The horse pricked his ears at the sight of the saddle, forefoot stomping.

  “This here is Decker,” Ruckus said.

  “After the English author, Thomas Dekker?” she asked.

  Ruckus looked at her cockeyed. “Decker because it’s the bottom of the deck as far as workhorses go. It’s the smallest horse we have and also the slowest.”

  She gulped. This was the smallest horse?

  Ruckus chuckled. “Don’t look so worried. He’s also pretty gentle. Just let him know who’s boss and you’ll be fine.” He nodded toward the blanket in her hand.

  Taking her cue she placed the blanket onto the gelding’s back and ran her hand along his long slick neck.

  “First you place the saddle gently on the horse like so,” Ruckus drawled. “Don’t thump it down or you’ll startle him. Tighten up the front cinch first. Next you lower all the trimmin’s, making sure everything hangs down nice and neat.”

  He dropped the cinches and breast collar in place. He then showed her how to lace the latigo through the cinch ring. “You gotta make sure the back cinch is buckled over the belly, like so.”

  When the horse was saddled, he demonstrated how to take the saddle off. “Now you try it,” he said.

  “You want me to saddle the horse?” she asked.

  “I don’t see anythin’ else around here needs saddling,” he said. “Do you?”

  Ignoring his comment she bent to pick up the saddle. It was heavier than she imagined, weighing at least thirty or forty pounds. It took every bit of strength she had to lift it high enough to place on the horse’s back. After that it was a series of missteps and errors, but she finally got all the straps connected.

  “I reckon you’re as ready as you’re ever gonna be,” he muttered. “Just remember God forgives.” He waved his outstretched hand side to side like a rocking boat. “Horses not so much.” He patted Decker’s rump. “Time to ride. The thing to remember is not to spook him. Let yourself into the saddle nice and easy.” He mounted and dismounted the horse himself before handing her the reins.

  Kate braced herself with a deep breath. The horse blew through its velvety nose but otherwise looked calm enough. She held the reins tight in her left hand and grabbed the cantle with her right. Shoving her left foot into the stirrup, she bounced off her right foot.

  “Nice and easy,” Ruckus repeated.

  She bounced up and down several times without leaving the ground. Finally, Ruckus put his hand on her behind. Of all the . . .

  Finding herself suddenly astride the enormous animal, she grabbed the reins tightly, heart pounding, and was afraid to breathe. Seated upon a horse clothespin-style didn’t seem natural.

  “Get down and try again,” Ruckus said.

  Getting off the horse wasn’t any easier than getting on, but she was determined to prove she could do it. Once both feet were on the ground she sprang up and down to give herself momentum. Ruckus moved toward her. In her haste to keep him from touching her again, she bounced up with such force she settled into the saddle with a thud.

  Startled, Decker arched his back, kicked up his back legs, and took off running.

  “Ohhhhhhhhhhh,” she cried. Her hat flew off and she flopped around in the saddle like a rag doll, gripping on to the reins for dear life. “He-e-e-elp!”

  Chapter 6

  Eleanor stared at the white pine coffin, her divided skirt flapping against the top of her boots in the early morning breeze. The first warm rays of the sun trickled down the mountain like melted butter over freshly baked rolls. Though this was her favorite time of day, she never grew tired of watching the ever-changing colors of the desert as the sun journeyed across the sky.

  The only sound breaking the silence was O.T. digging her ex-husband’s grave. His real name was Chip Mason, but she called him O.T. like the others did. He’d worked at the ranch for fifteen years, a record. Working on a cattle ranch was hard work and most cowmen didn’t last for more than seven or eight years, ten tops.

  At age twenty O.T. had managed to escape a Texas hanging for killing a man, which to this day he claimed was self-defense. For some reason Eleanor believed him. She’d given him a chance to prove himself by working hard and staying out of trouble, and he had done exactly that many times over.

  A compact man with a weathered, clean-shaven face, he was the best wrangler who ever worked at the ranch. He never met a challenge he didn’t like, and she had a corral of former wild horses to prove it. More than one rancher tried to steal him away by offering higher wages, but fortunately O.T. was more loyal than ambitious. Or maybe he was just grateful that she had given him a job when he was down on his luck.

  Even at age thirty-five O.T.’s movements were quick and strong, whether dealing with horses or cowboys or, in this case, digging a grave. Alternating between slamming the spade of his shovel into the ground and tossing soil over his shoulder, he worked steadily. Even so, it seemed to take forever to dig through the hard, arid ground.

  While he worked, Eleanor glanced at the weathered crosses that marked the graves of her parents, Harold and Mary Walker. But it was the smaller cross that gave her pause and brought a lump to her throat. After all these years it still hurt. Drat!

  She’d battled droughts, floods, Indians, rustlers, and cattle fever without so much as a blink of the eye. Only four years ago she lost nearly half her cattle in that terrible drought. Five years before that she was forced to rebuild the ranch house and outbuildings after the original ones were destroyed in the ’87 earthquake and subsequent fire.

  Oh yes, she’d seen and done it all. So why, then, did the sight of the little white cross tear her apart after all this time? It was Ralph’s fault for making her come to the little cemetery—a place she tried to avoid except on rare occasions.

  Irritated that a man to whom she owed nothing, let alone a decent burial, had imposed his death upon her, she impatiently tapped her foot. She had work to do, cattle that needed tendin
g, calves to pull, books to balance, fences to repair.

  She also had to oversee the training of that new woman, though she didn’t hold much hope that any of it would pay off. A writer. Great guns, what would be next?

  So far six women had answered her advertisement, each progressively worse than the one before. First there was the teacher—what was her name—Marcy something, who fainted at the mere sight of a scorpion. Then the Irish girl who broke out in hives the moment she got near a horse. Of course none were as bad as the woman she found rolling in the hay with one of the cowpunchers.

  Still, something about this latest candidate intrigued her. Kate Tenney let down her guard for only a moment, but Eleanor saw a little bit of herself in the flashing blue eyes and combative stance. The woman had secrets, no doubt, but she also had backbone.

  A cloud of dust signaled a visitor and her thoughts scattered like frightened cattle. Who would travel way out here at this ungodly hour of the morning?

  The horseman drew near and she folded her arms across her chest. She should have known. It was Wells Fargo banker Robert Stackman. On her more amicable days she considered him a friend and confidant. This was not one of those days.

  He dismounted and staked his horse to a metal spike. A tall man in his early sixties, his sharp, analytical mind was hidden behind a calm, unhurried exterior. If his impeccable dark trousers, white shirt, vest, and bow tie didn’t instill confidence in his banking clients, his mild, confident manner certainly did. He pulled off his black felt hat, revealing a full head of silver hair as neatly trimmed as his mustache and goatee.

  “What are you doing here, Robert?” she asked, pretending not to know. “Is it the first of the month already?” Forced to take out a loan to rebuild following the earthquake, she’d gone from being relatively debt-free to owing a great deal of money, all on the whim of nature.

  “I thought you might like company.” He nodded toward the casket. “It’s not every day that one buries a husband.”

  “Ex,” she said. “And I wouldn’t have to bury him had he not been so inconsiderate as to die on my property.” Even in death the man caused her trouble. “How did you know?”

  “Doc Masterson came into the bank yesterday.”

  Her lips puckered with annoyance. Apparently the death of an ex-spouse did not rate doctor/patient confidentiality.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I thought you and your ex weren’t on speaking terms.”

  “We weren’t,” she said. She hadn’t seen Ralph since the divorce some twenty years earlier. To say that she was shocked when he showed up on her doorstep would be an understatement. She hardly recognized him. He was once the most handsome man in all of Arizona Territory, but time had not been kind to him. He’d worn his years like a soldier wore his battle wounds. He’d looked old, bent over—a mere shadow of his former dashing self.

  “He came to apologize.” Arizona Territory followed the Mexican “Community of Acquests and Gains” law, dividing property equally between husband and wife. Following their divorce, he’d made her buy his half at twice the amount it was worth. It was the second time she’d been forced to purchase her own property. The first time was when the United States acquired the land from Mexico and refused to acknowledge the original deed. It took her years to repay the first loan but even longer to repay the second because of the ’70s depression.

  Her ex-husband’s apology when it finally did come was too little, too late, and she ordered him off her property. Only he never got any farther than the bottom of her verandah steps before he dropped down, dead.

  “Did you forgive him?” Robert asked.

  “My word!” she exclaimed, hands on her chest. “What would ever make you think such a thing?”

  “I figure something must have caused his heart to stop,” he replied.

  She gave her head a righteous nod. “Rest assured I’m completely blameless for his death.”

  “What a pity. It would have done you good to practice a little forgiveness.” He reached into his saddlebags and pulled out a well-worn Bible. “Do you mind if I do the honors?”

  “Oh really, Robert. Must we?”

  “Everyone deserves a proper burial.”

  She supposed he was right. In any case he didn’t wait for her approval before he began to read the Twenty-Third Psalm. “The LORD is my shepherd . . .”

  No sooner had he finished the psalm and started on the “Our Father” when the galloping sound of a horse’s hooves and a woman’s high-pitched screams pierced the air.

  “Heeee-lp!”

  Eleanor spun around just in time to see Decker race by, his rider holding on with both hands and flopping around like wash on a windy day.

  Irritated by the intrusion, Eleanor threw up her hands. Could the girl not even control an old nag? “For goodness’ sakes, O.T. Do something.”

  But already her foreman had thrown down his shovel and was running toward his own horse. With one smooth move he swung into the saddle. “Gid-up!” he shouted, and horse and rider leaped forward.

  Robert stared after him, his eyes rounded. “Good gracious, who is that woman?”

  Eleanor shook her head. Whatever had made her believe that someone who wrote purple prose could learn ranching? “Her name is Kate Tenney, and I do believe I made a dreadful mistake.”

  Kate and the horse parted company before O.T. could reach her. The horse went north and Kate went south. Landing on top of a prickly pear cactus, she screamed bloody murder.

  Robert groaned, “That poor girl!”

  Eleanor thought of the unpleasant task ahead and sighed. Cactus run-ins were not that unusual, especially for greenies unfamiliar with the desert. Normally, the job of plucking out barbs was left to one of the ranch hands. She could well imagine how her men would love putting their hands on the likes of Kate Tenney. Eleanor would allow nothing of the sort to happen, of course, which meant she had no choice but to take on the tedious task herself.

  “Robert, finish your prayer and whatever else you think befitting a funeral while I fetch my medical kit. Just don’t sing. You’ll scare the cattle.”

  The door to Kate’s room flew open without as much as a knock. Miss Walker breezed in all businesslike carrying a small basket.

  Gasping, Kate held a towel in front of her naked body with one hand and wiped away her tears with the other. She pranced from foot to foot but nothing relieved the burning, itching, and agonizing sting. Her entire backside all the way down to her knees felt like it was on fire. A glance in the mirror earlier had revealed red welts as ugly as they were painful.

  Initially, Miss Walker had pulled the longer thorns from her arms and legs. She then ordered Kate to her room to undress. Now the ranch owner lifted a large needle out of her basket and wielded it in the air. “Bend over.”

  Kate stared at the needle but didn’t move.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, forget your modesty. You can’t remove the thorns by yourself. If I see something I haven’t seen before I’ll throw a boot at it.”

  Face ablaze, Kate turned. As humiliating as it was to stand in front of the ranch owner stark naked, she would do anything to stop the pain. She let the towel drop and leaned over the back of her wooden desk chair.

  Miss Walker immediately got to work. She picked what thorns she could by hand and dug out others with the sewing needle.

  Tears rolled down Kate’s cheeks, and despite her best efforts to hold her tongue she couldn’t help but cry out on occasion, “Ouch!”

  “Do keep still,” Miss Walker ordered, her voice lacking any sort of sympathy or compassion.

  “It hurts.”

  “Of course it hurts. They don’t call it the devil’s tongue for nothing.” Miss Walker lifted her voice. “Rosita! What’s taking so long?”

  The bedroom door flung open, and Rosita scurried across the room and handed a small basin to Miss Walker. Her eyes grew wide as she glanced at Kate’s bare bottom. She then turned and hurried from the room as if running away from a c
ontagious disease.

  “This will get the hairy spines out,” Miss Walker explained, pouring something that felt wet and cold on her back and legs.

  “What horrible plants. What terrible, horrible plants,” Kate wailed.

  “If you think this is bad, wait till you meet up with a jumping cholla,” Miss Walker said. “I swear that thing can jump out and grab you as you pass by.”

  Kate groaned at the thought. Jumping plants? What would be next?

  “In any case, the prickly pear is a useful plant,” Miss Walker continued. Having finished plastering Kate’s back and arms with some sort of paste, she walked to the washstand and poured water from the pitcher into the basin. “The juice has many medicinal qualities and Indians use it to purify water. The fruit is quite good, actually. A few prickly spines seem like a small price to pay for such a useful plant, wouldn’t you say?” She washed and dried her hands.

  For an answer Kate moaned. The glue on her back began to harden and her skin felt taut, but the coolness had relieved some of the itching, or at least made it bearable.

  After several moments, Miss Walker peeled off the glue and tossed the papery strips into the wastebasket. She then proceeded to apply a poultice to Kate’s skin.

  “This is an old family recipe made from dried bread crumbs and sweet oil,” she explained. After she had completed the task, she said, “That should do it. It’ll feel uncomfortable for a day or two, but I think we got them all.”

  Kate grabbed the towel and held it up in front of her. “Thank you,” she murmured. Now that the worst was over, she feared Miss Walker would tell her to pack her bags and leave.

  Instead, Miss Walker gathered up her supplies and started for the door. “Get dressed. There’s work to be done. We’ve got to get ready to start pulling calves.” With that she was gone, leaving only the sound of her footsteps fading away.

  Kate stared at the closed door. That’s it? Get to work? No time off to recover? She frowned. And what an odd term, pulling calves. What could it possibly mean? How does one pull a calf?