Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  Laughter exploded from the bunkhouse. The men were in good spirits. No doubt Stretch was regaling them with another tall tale.

  Kate envied the camaraderie they shared, and though she tried her best to fit in she longed for female companionship. Of course, that didn’t mean she was anxious to join Miss Walker again for supper anytime soon. The woman made her nervous. Kate couldn’t begin to guess what thoughts prevailed behind Miss Walker’s steady gray eyes.

  “You’re one of the boys.”

  She smiled at the memory. She left the verandah and hurried through the darkened courtyard to the bunkhouse. A flash of lightning pranced along the distant mountains, but still no rain.

  The bunkhouse door ajar, the ranch hands were gathered around a long wooden table, all eyes on Stretch who sat at the head.

  Mexican Pete held both hands to his chest, a lovesick expression on his broad face. He acted like Romeo declaring his love to Juliet. His antics were met with jovial laughter.

  “Read more,” Feedbag begged.

  Stretch looked down at the book in his hands. “It gets better. Listen to this. ‘Her lips quivered with anticipation as Brandon brushed a gentle kiss along her forehead.’”

  Recognizing her own writing, Kate’s mouth dropped open and heat flooded her face. How did they get hold of her book? She would have left right then and there had the Englishman Dook not tossed a nod in her direction, signaling her presence to the others.

  Stretch fell silent and all eyes turned toward the door where she stood. No one moved or said a word. You’re one of the boys.

  She threw back her shoulders and forced a smile. If she really was one of the boys then she best start acting like it. She marched over to Stretch and took the book out of his hand.

  “Allow me.”

  She opened the book to the first page and began to read. If they wanted a K. Matson book, she would give them one. Only she would read the book from the very beginning. Random paragraphs sounded absurd when taken out of context. Let them laugh if they must, but at least they would do it to her face and not behind her back.

  And so she read.

  No one moved, although Feedbag tittered at one point. She lifted her gaze and he immediately sank lower in his chair, the face behind his squared black beard all serious.

  Mexican Pete’s brown eyes grew bigger as she read. Several times he stopped her to ask the meaning of a word.

  “What does remuneration mean?” he asked at one point.

  “It means payment for work done,” she explained, pausing only long enough to answer his question.

  Wishbone sat with hands clasped on the table, head bent. Next to her Stretch was hunched over. The new man they called Greenie leaned against the doorjamb that separated the sleeping quarters from the living space and quietly smoked a cheroot. He looked slightly familiar but Kate couldn’t place him.

  “I say that’s bloody marvelous,” Dook exclaimed at one point. Another time he yelled out, “Rubbish!”

  Ignoring his outbursts Kate kept reading. “‘Miss Hattie was in a quandary. She didn’t know whether to give her heart to the dashing Brandon or to stay true to the dull but safe Mr. Booker.’”

  Stretch thumped the table with his fist. “To Brandon!”

  Wishbone shook his head. “That’s ridiculous. Brandon sounds like a saint or somethin’. No man worth his salt is that good.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Stretch said.

  Wishbone glared at him, his steer horn mustache twitching. “So what are you? God’s gift to women?”

  Stretch leaned his body over the table. “Are you saying I ain’t?”

  Fearing a fight was about to erupt, Kate cleared her throat. “Gentlemen.” The instant she had their attention she continued to read and didn’t stop until she reached chapter five.

  “I think that’s all for tonight,” she said, and the men groaned.

  Feedbag frowned. “But we don’t know who the lady will snag.”

  “Or what happened to the gold,” added Wishbone.

  She’d hoped to make them pay for making fun of her writing. Consequently, she was surprised—shocked really—by their interest in the story. She bit back a smile. Normally, most males wouldn’t be caught dead reading a love story. Instead, these rough-and-tumble men were practically begging for more.

  If she wasn’t so tired she might have been tempted to keep reading, but it was late and dawn came early.

  “That’s for another time,” she said, rising. “Good night, gentlemen.”

  Book in hand, she walked out of the bunkhouse and headed toward the ranch house. A drop of rain fell on her forehead and she quickened her pace.

  “I like your writing.”

  Startled by the male voice, she turned. The owner of the voice was silhouetted by the light from the open door of the bunkhouse, and she knew from his unkempt shoulder-length hair it was the new man, Greenie.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Do . . . do I know you from somewhere?”

  He moved toward her, stopping a few feet away. “Name’s Michael. Michael Adams.”

  Now she knew why he looked familiar. “You’re Luke’s brother.”

  “Yeah, but don’t hold that against me.”

  She’d heard Luke and his brother argue, and the rancor in Michael’s voice told her that the two were still at odds with one another.

  He struck a match on the heel of his boot. The flame flared briefly over his whiskered face as he lit his cheroot. He took a generous puff on the slim cigar before removing it from his mouth.

  “You best watch where you’re walking,” he said. “Never know if a rattler is waiting in ambush.”

  She brushed his smoke away from her face and turned her gaze downward, though it was too dark to see the ground.

  “Are you a permanent hire?” she asked.

  “Where work is concerned I’m what you might call a drifter,” he said. “They hired me as a cattle guard and I’ll do it until I can’t stand the boredom any longer.”

  “I see. By the way, my name is Kate Tenney.”

  “I know who you are.”

  The nearby windmill squeaked and the tail turned to follow the wind. Another drop of water fell, this time on her arm. It looked like Ruckus’s prayers were about to be answered.

  “I gotta go,” he said. “Get me some shut-eye.”

  He turned and she called after him, “What is the best way to walk back to the ranch house? I don’t want to step on . . . anything.”

  He continued walking. “You could make a lot of noise. Let ’em know you’re coming.”

  She stared after him. He walked and even sounded like his brother, which did nothing for her peace of mind. The last thing she needed was a daily reminder of Luke.

  A lot of noise. She could do that. She clapped her hands and stomped her feet as she headed for the ranch house. Something moved in the courtyard—a shadow big enough to be human.

  She stopped. “Hello. Anyone there?”

  Silence greeted her, but she sensed someone hiding in the dark. The fine hairs on her arms stood up and she shivered. Here I go again, imagining things. Still, just to be on the safe side, she flew up the steps and into the house, slamming the door behind her.

  Chapter 20

  He gasped in horror. “You write dime novels?” the stranger asked.

  “Certainly not!” she replied with cool regard. “Can’t you see that the cover price is clearly marked twenty-five cents?”

  Two days later Kate joined the circle of men outside the barn.

  It had rained solid since Thursday night and the ground was still wet, puddles of water dotting the area. Work on the ranch had come to a standstill except for watching for flash floods and checking the herd. Now the sky was clear and the air smelled fresh.

  Stretch, Feedbag, Mexican Pete, and all the other ranch hands grinned at her like they shared some sort of secret. At the men’s insistence she had finished reading her book to them the night before. The men had taken bets
as to which man the heroine would marry at the end, Brandon or Mr. Booker. Feedbag had put his money on Mr. Booker and didn’t take kindly to having to pay out a week’s salary to those wise enough to bet on Brandon.

  O.T. arrived and the good-natured teasing stopped, but not soon enough. O.T. walked around the circle, looking each person square in the face. “Must be a reason why you’re all in such a jovial mood at this hour. Something I need to know?”

  All eyes turned to Kate. Taking the hint, O.T. walked up to her. “Goldilocks?”

  Kate tried to think what to say. She wasn’t about to admit to reading the cowhands a dime novel. O.T. looked about to press her but Michael Adams joined the circle, late, and the foreman was immediately distracted.

  Luke’s brother looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. Even in the dim light of dawn, his eyes looked glazed and his clothes rumpled. His tan Stetson failed to hide his unkempt hair. Today he looked nothing like his brother.

  “Look what we have here,” O.T. said. “Sleeping Beauty.” He walked up to Michael and barked in his face. “Is there something about 5:00 a.m. that you don’t understand?”

  Michael gave a sheepish grin. “Nope.” Belatedly he added, “Sir.”

  “Good.” O.T. backed away. “Ruckus, it’s all yours.”

  “Let’s pray.” Ruckus lowered his head. “Dear heavenly Father, hear our prayer. Thank you for the rain. If you ain’t too busy, we can use more.”

  At that moment the sun rose over the distant mountains revealing a carpet of grass that spread outward from the horse corral for as far as the eye could see.

  “Look at that!” Kate squealed in amazement.

  Ruckus laughed at her enthusiasm. “Just takes a little rain.”

  “But it’s only been a couple of days.” One short rainstorm and the dry land had turned into a luminous carpet of green. Even the nearby barrel cactus looked fuller as if bursting with pride.

  “Grass roots grow close to the surface,” Ruckus explained. “The desert is probably the most efficient place on earth. It don’t waste nothin’.”

  Kate rubbed her nose. “What’s that funny smell?” It was a strong musty odor, stronger even than the smell of cattle.

  “What you smell is the creosote bush,” Ruckus said. “You’ll smell them after every rain. You best be careful of those bushes. That’s where rattlers like to hide.” He turned, his arm held high. “Come, men, let’s get to work.”

  The circle broke up, the others took off in different directions, and Kate grabbed a pitchfork leaning against the barn. She could hear Ruckus yelling before she even entered the building. Curious as to who got his dander up so early in the morning, she peered through the door and spotted Luke’s brother, Michael.

  Ruckus continued in a loud voice, “How many times have you heard me say to lock the gates? Do you have any idea how many hours it’ll take to round up those horses? We might never get them all rounded up. If I didn’t like your brother so much I would have sent your hide the way of the wind long ago. This is the very last straw.”

  Kate stepped inside the barn. “I left the gate open,” she said, lifting her voice to be heard.

  Ruckus spun around. “You did that?” His voice was every bit as disbelieving as his expression.

  “I . . . I’m sorry.”

  Ruckus opened his mouth to say something, changed his mind, and stormed past her.

  Kate regretted the lie, but she didn’t know how else to keep him from firing Luke’s brother. She turned and walked outside. Michael caught up with her, but she was in no mood to talk to him. She tried to ignore him, but he stayed by her side.

  “Why did you do that?” he asked. “Why did you take the blame for me?”

  She kept walking. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it for your brother who is concerned about you.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She spun around to face him. He looked every bit as sincere as he sounded. “You’re welcome.” She tilted her head. “You do know what you did was pretty serious, right?”

  “I know.” Hands at his waist he stared at the ground a moment before settling his gaze on her. “I guess I’m not cut out to be a ranch hand.”

  “So what are you cut out for?” she asked.

  He blew out his breath and drew a line in the ground with the toe of his boot. “I want to be a writer like you.” He looked up and in a quieter voice added, “Not quite like you. I mean I don’t want to write about that man and woman stuff.”

  “So what do you write?” she asked.

  “Adventure stories,” he replied. “Like Treasure Island.”

  “You want to write about pirates?”

  “Not just pirates. I want to write about explorers and inventors and people doin’ amazin’ things.” His eyes shone as he spoke and she couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

  “So what’s stopping you?” she asked.

  The question seemed to surprise him. “I haven’t got me a fancy education. Not like you.”

  “You don’t need a fancy education,” she said. “You just need to write.”

  “I’ve been doing that.” He gave her a sheepish look. “I spend most of my nights writing. If I’d gotten more sleep I probably wouldn’t have forgotten to close the gate.”

  She couldn’t help but sympathize. She’d had her share of absentmindedness when working on a book. “Does your brother know you want to be a writer?” she asked.

  “He knows.” He shrugged. “Luke knows how to make things out of iron. He don’t cotton to making things out of words.”

  “Hammering out words is not so different from pounding out iron,” she said. Sometimes the words came easy, but more often than not a writer had to work at them.

  “I don’t think Luke sees it that way.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering, ma’am, if you’d be kind enough to look at something I wrote?”

  Flattered by what he asked of her, she nonetheless hesitated. “You do know I’m not writing anymore.”

  He looked surprised. “If I could write like you I would never give up.”

  “I’m not that good.” Since working at the ranch she now cringed at the errors she’d made. In one of her books she described a herd of bulls. In another, she had her heroine feed her horse straw. Then there was that lariat/lasso mix-up. Even now she had to think which one was the noun.

  “You’re good,” he said. “And I’m not just sayin’ that to be nice or anything.”

  He sounded so earnest she couldn’t help but smile. “I’d be honored to read your work.”

  He looked pleased and then skeptical. “Are you sure it won’t be too much trouble? I’m not much of a speller and my punctuation gave my old teacher Miss Gimble conniptions.”

  He cited more reasons why she might not wish to help him, but never mentioned what she suspected was the real one. Each word on a page was like a little window opening up the secrets of a writer’s heart. Writing was the easy part. The hard part was releasing it to the prying eyes of others.

  “. . . and I’m not sure the ending is right and you may not even like that kind of story and . . .”

  Head askance, she waited for him to either pause for breath or run out of excuses. “Are you finished?” she asked at last.

  “Eh. I think so.”

  “Good. I’ll read your writing. But right now we better get to work before we’re both in trouble.”

  He grinned, gave a nod, and, clutching his hat to his chest, took off running. Envying his exuberance, she couldn’t help but smile as she headed for the tack room. Her encounter with Luke’s brother got her thinking.

  As much as she enjoyed writing, she got more satisfaction from working on the ranch. She loved riding the range and racing the wind. Nothing pleased her as much as the wide-open spaces and the feeling of camaraderie when herding cattle with the other cowpunchers. She loved the idea that one day the Last Chance Ranch would be hers, and her mind fairly danced with new ideas on how she would run it.


  Miss Walker’s aloof managing style was not what she envisioned for herself. She dreamed of filling the ranch house with guests. She might even extend an invitation to that annoying classmate of hers who looked down her nose at anyone not owning property.

  On Declaration Day and the Fourth of July she would plan picnics. At Christmas she would invite ranch workers and their families to the main house for roast beef and all the trimmings.

  Ah, yes. When Miss Kate Tenney took over the Last Chance Ranch, things would be different.

  Ruckus called to her from atop his horse. “We got a fire over yonder. Stay here and start muckin’ out the stables.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the north. A column of smoke spiraled from the ground to the sky.

  He took off after Stretch, Feedbag, and the rest of the ranch hands. No sooner had he ridden away than Miss Walker mounted her horse and chased after them. Hands on her waist, Kate watched her. She envied the ease with which Miss Walker and her horse moved as one.

  Sighing, Kate stared at the black smoke in the distance. A fire? After all that rain? It didn’t seem possible but smoke didn’t lie.

  She chewed on her bottom lip. What if they didn’t put it out in time? What if it burned a path to the ranch house? Or even started a stampede? It might even burn all the way to town and . . . Worried now, she headed for the tack room for her saddle. The stables could wait. Her job was putting out the fire with the rest of them, and as the future owner of the Last Chance Ranch, that’s what she intended to do.

  The thought terrified her, but it was high time she faced her foe—just like the windmill faced the wind in Longfellow’s poem. Ruckus had said she was one of the men—and she intended to prove him right. With grim determination she ran the rest of the way.

  The tack room was dark except for a stream of sunlight from the single window.

  A strange feeling came over her. Goose bumps traveled along her arms and she almost lost her nerve. Berating herself, she balled her hands and gritted her teeth, determined to conquer her fear of fire.