Dawn Comes Early

by Margaret Brownley

  Michael shrugged. “Okay, I guess.”

  “Do you like working there?”

  “There’re worse places to work.” Even before Michael’s gaze flitted around the shop, his meaning was clear. He was never meant to be a smithy and Luke regretted making him his assistant, but at the time it seemed like the wise thing to do.

  Prior to working at the ranch, Michael couldn’t hold down a job or stay out of trouble for more than a day or two at a time. Luke had hoped that by teaching Michael the blacksmithing trade his brother would settle down. Instead, Michael fought him the entire two years he worked at the shop. Was still fighting him.

  “You’ve been at the ranch several weeks now. That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

  Michael shrugged. “After a while even cattle tend to grow on you.”

  Luke grinned. “Never figured you as a rancher.”

  “Steer can be as stubborn as iron, but they aren’t nowhere near as dull.”

  “I made a mistake,” Luke said quietly. “I should never have made you work here against your will.”

  The blacksmith shop meant the world to him. From the time he first started helping Uncle Sam at the tender age of twelve he hadn’t wanted to do anything else. He naturally assumed his feelings would run in the family and Michael would feel the same way.

  “The problem is I need to ask a favor of you,” Luke said.

  A look of curiosity crossed Michael’s face. “A favor?”

  “I need help with some of the horseshoeing and windmill repairs at the ranch.”

  “Ah, gee, Luke. You know that’s not what I want to do.”

  “It’ll only be for a short while. Miss Walker is still looking to hire someone. Meanwhile, I can’t keep up with the work here and there too.”

  Michael made a face. “I’ll think about it.”

  “I really need your help—”

  “I said I’d think about it!” He turned to leave but Luke called to him.

  “Wait.”

  Hands at his waist, Michael turned away from the door. Head down, he toed the metal shavings on the floor, letting his jingling spurs fill the silence. If his refusal to look Luke square in the eye wasn’t clear enough, his stance certainly was. Michael had no intention of lending a helping hand.

  Luke fought the frustration rising inside. His aunt’s words echoed in his head. “You just don’t speak his language, is all.”

  “I know you’ve always wanted to be a writer. You have a way with words. I swear you could make a pump believe it’s a windmill.” As a child, Michael never had trouble expressing himself, whereas Luke tended to get tongue-tied. It was only in recent years that Michael had stopped talking or at least saying anything that made sense.

  Michael looked up. “You’re just saying that. You don’t mean it.”

  “Since when have you heard me say something I don’t mean?”

  Michael said nothing and Luke sucked in his breath. “I wonder if you would mind givin’ me a list of words to work on. You know, so I can improve the way I express myself and all.”

  Michael shifted his weight from one foot to the other, disbelief flitting across his face. “You want to improve your vocabulary?”

  “Not a whole lot.” Nothing irked Luke more than people who sounded like a walking Webster’s. “Just . . . a little something to decorate what I say.”

  Michael narrowed his eyes. “Why now? You never cared about such things before.”

  “No special reason.” Luke wasn’t about to tell his brother that he wanted to impress Kate with his newfound way with words. Maybe if he polished up his language a bit, she would stop pushing him away. His aunt’s barn dance couldn’t have come at a better time.

  Michael scratched behind his ear. “What kind of words are you interested in?”

  Luke wiped his arm over his sweaty forehead. Here came the tricky part. “How can I express my . . . affection? To . . . say . . . Homer?” No sooner had he said it than he knew how ridiculous that sounded. Michael’s eyes rounded in disbelief. “Just toss him a bone. He’ll understand.”

  “Okay, forget Homer. Aunt Bessie and Uncle Sam are going through a rough patch right now. How can I tell them how much I”—he cleared his throat—“care for them without . . . eh . . . coming right out and saying it? You know how emotional Aunt Bessie gets.”

  Michael rubbed his temples with both hands. “You could say your heart pullulates with affection.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. Wait, let me write that down.” He quickly searched for his writing tablet and pencil. “How do you spell it?”

  Michael frowned. “Are you serious? I’m joking.”

  “No, no, that’s good. Really it is.”

  Shaking his head, Michael spelled the word and Luke scribbled it into his notebook. “Now give me a word for bold or brazen.”

  “Audacious?”

  “There you go.” Luke wrote the word down in big bold print and underlined it. “What about when something causes you pain?”

  “You mean like inflicted?”

  “Now there’s a word.” He added it to his notes. Michael fed him several more words and he wrote them down, spelling them as best as he could. “You’ve been a big help.”

  Michael quirked an eyebrow. Lifting his Stetson he raked his fingers through his hair and set his hat back in place. “I’ll help out with the horseshoeing and repairs.”

  Luke wasn’t sure he’d heard right. “You will?”

  “Yep.”

  “What made you change your mind?” Luke asked. He still couldn’t believe his brother was serious about helping out.

  “You’ve not been acting like yourself lately. I should have known your think box was addled when you insisted on naming that dog after a Greek philosopher.”

  Luke cringed at the memory. Naming the dog Locker was a mistake. All it did was push Kate further away. “I just wanted to be different,” he muttered. “When Mrs. Stanton calls for her dog Rover, five dogs come running.”

  “That still don’t explain why you’re suddenly worried about your vocabulary. You know what I think? I think you’re even more overworked than you know.”

  Luke wasn’t about to argue with him. Just so long as Michael agreed to take over some of the blacksmithing chores, let him think what he wanted. “I’ll be mighty grateful for your help. It won’t be for long.”

  Michael gave him a strange look before turning to leave. He stopped and glanced at Luke from the doorway. “You better get some rest.”

  “I feel fine,” Luke said. He stared at the list of words long after Michael had left. What was he doing? Maybe Michael was right. Maybe he was more overworked than he knew.

  His feelings for Kate were real. To dress them up in fancy words was like putting a top hat on a cowboy. It didn’t set right. He needed no fancy words to tell Kate Tenney how he felt. Crumbling the paper into a ball he tossed it into the burning forge.

  Chapter 28

  Two hectic blotches suffused her pale cheeks at the memory of Brandon’s arms. It was an act of sheer folly to attend that dance. “Spare me from this pain,” she lamented, but her forlorn prayer went unanswered.

  Kate had initially turned down Ruckus’s invitation to ride to the barn dance with him and his wife. She had no interest in socials or dances, but Ruckus insisted she make an appearance.

  “Luke’s aunt is doing this out of concern for you. And even if she weren’t, it won’t do for the future ranch owner to act all unfriendly-like,” he’d chided her.

  He was too loyal to criticize Miss Walker openly, but Kate got the distinct impression he disapproved of the ranch owner’s lack of interest in community affairs.

  “When I take over the ranch things will be a lot different,” she said. She had plans, big plans.

  Ruckus grinned. “I reckon they will be at that.”

  Now Kate sat on the buckboard seat between Ruckus and his wife, Sylvia. Kate couldn’t remember ever feeling this nervous. She dreaded coming
face-to-face with Luke. What could she say to him? Would he even talk to her? “Ohhhhhhh . . .”

  She hadn’t known she’d groaned out loud until Sylvia patted her arm. She wore a lilac flower dress and a knitted purple shawl, her little bow mouth pursed with worry.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine, thank you.” And because Sylvia kept looking at her, she turned to Ruckus. “You promised that if I attended the social you would tell me why Miss Walker refuses to come to town.”

  Ruckus heaved a sigh. “It’s a long story, but it had to do with her divorce. From what I gather it created quite a stir in town.”

  “A dreadful scandal,” Sylvia said. “The women in my quilting bee talked about it just last week.”

  Ruckus continued, “A group of church ladies refused to purchase Last Chance meat. Said it was tainted by the divorce, of all things. ’Course some of those same women criticized her during the war when she sold beef to both Confederate and Union armies, but she took the tainted meat thing more personal. You can say what you want about the boss lady, but you better not criticize her beef. Simple as that.”

  “Did you know her husband?” Kate asked.

  “Ralph? Nah. He was before my time. From what I’ve heard, he wasn’t no cattle rancher. He owned a silver mine, but when that ran dry, he tried to talk Miz Walker into moving to Colorado but she wouldn’t hear none of it. When their little daughter died, supposedly that was the beginnin’ of the end. I heard tell that to hide her grief the boss lady buried herself in ranch work. That didn’t set too well with her husband.”

  “How did her daughter die?”

  “Smallpox. Rebecca was only five years old when it happened. From what I heard tell, she was the prettiest little thing you ever did see.”

  “Mrs. White said she was the most precious child,” Sylvia added. “It near broke everyone’s heart to put that sweet little thing to rest.”

  “Miss Walker used to keep a colored daguerreotype on her desk. I remember she had blond hair and big blue eyes.” He glanced at Kate. “Just like you.” He shook his head. “I gather from others that Miss Walker was never the same after buryin’ her little girl.”

  It never occurred to Kate that someone as self-possessed as Miss Walker could be hiding a broken heart. Was that what Ruckus had been trying to tell her when he said Miss Walker had a soft center, just like a cactus?

  It was a little past seven by the time they pulled up in front of the barn. It was still light, but the sun was setting in a blazing red sky and the air buzzed with excitement. Ruckus parked behind a long line of wagons, shays, and carriages.

  “Here we are, ladies,” he said. “I’ve always wanted to walk into a dance with a pretty girl on each arm.”

  Sylvia laughed and tapped her husband fondly on the shoulder with her folded fan.

  The high whine of fiddles greeted them as they walked into the barn arm in arm. The warm summer air was filled with the smell of sweet hay and the flowery fragrance of cologne.

  Kerosene lanterns hung from hooks, casting a warm yellow glow over the guests. Red, white, and blue streamers dangled from the rafters, and the wooden barn floor had been dusted with corn starch for dancing.

  Luke’s Aunt Bessie practically tripped over herself in her hurry to join them, her sister dog-paddling behind her. Kate stared at Bessie’s shocking low-cut purple gown with big puffy sleeves and a small train.

  “Oh, I’m so glad you could make it,” Aunt Bessie gushed with warm approval.

  Compared to the ginghams and calicos of the other female guests, Kate felt overdressed. Her circular rust-colored skirt fell from her waist in graceful folds. Neither her fitted shirtwaist nor her ruffled leg-o’-mutton sleeves would pass muster in a Boston parlor, let alone a social, but both were much too frilly for Cactus Patch.

  However, considering Bessie’s gown, Kate stopped worrying about being overdressed.

  Ruckus’s mild-mannered wife stared in astonishment. “My, my, Bessie, you look . . .” Eyes rounded, she raked Luke’s aunt up and down. “Lovely,” she managed finally, with puckered lips.

  Bessie looked pleased. Apparently she hadn’t noticed the pinched expression that accompanied Sylvia’s compliment. “Why, thank you, Sylvia.”

  “She looks like a big purple plum,” Aunt Lula-Belle muttered, patting down her own plain brown frock.

  Aunt Bessie either didn’t hear the remark or chose to ignore it. Instead, she motioned them toward the tables against the back wall laden with all manner of cakes and pastries.

  “Help yourselves to refreshments. The lemonade is nice and cold.” Aunt Bessie rolled her eyes. “Mercy, would you believe I paid two cents a pound for ice?”

  “Shocking,” one of the women exclaimed. “I remember when Mr. Hargrove first opened up his ice plant. The price was only half a cent.”

  “Those days are long gone,” Ruckus said before making a beeline for the punch bowl. Aunt Bessie introduced Kate to some of the other guests. After rattling off the names of several women and pointing to each one in turn, she said, “I want you to meet our guest of honor.”

  Startled to learn she was more than just an invited guest, Kate nonetheless managed a polite nod. “I’m pleased to meet all of you.”

  “Ah, you’re the writer who was abducted,” the woman who had been introduced as Mrs. Turnbull exclaimed. “How exciting!” A mousy woman with sallow skin, she clapped her hands as if applauding some great achievement or honor.

  None of the other women seemed to share her enthusiasm. Instead, they stared at Kate with open curiosity. The youngest, a woman introduced as Charity Chase, eyed Kate’s apparel, her mouth drawn in a straight line. Brown hair twisted into a coil and held in place with a jeweled comb, Miss Chase brushed a finger against the fringe of bangs on her forehead as if to point out that she alone was in style.

  The widow White, an older woman, raised a lorgnette to her eye and scanned Kate from head to toe. She wore a ready-made bun that might have matched her red locks years ago but bore no resemblance to the current color of her age-faded hair.

  Mrs. White lowered her eyepiece. “You’re Miss Walker’s new heiress,” she said, and Kate detected surprise in her voice.

  “That still hasn’t been decided,” Kate said.

  “Oh, there’s Luke,” Aunt Lula-Belle said, effectively stopping further discussion about the ranch.

  As if she had announced the appearance of Governor Hughes, active supporter of women’s suffrage and temperance, all women, young and old, turned to look with equal admiration.

  Kate’s knees threatened to buckle beneath her and she started to panic. What if she fainted or said something foolish or—

  “Over here,” Aunt Bessie called in a high-pitched voice, waving to him.

  Luke flashed a brilliant smile and headed their way, ducking beneath a dangling paper streamer. Taller than practically any other man, except for Stretch, he was a commanding presence. Kate tried not to stare, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  His black trousers and boiled white shirt barely contained his muscular physique as he made his way from one end of the barn to the other.

  He greeted each of them in turn, and Kate wondered if it was only her imagination that his gaze seemed to linger on her longer than it had the others. Oh, please don’t let it be true.

  He pecked both aunts on the cheek, and it was easy to see how much they adored him.

  He looked Aunt Bessie up and down and grinned. “I hardly recognized you.”

  Aunt Bessie patted her nephew on the cheek. “Do you like it?”

  “How could I not?” he said, wrapping his arms around her. Hugging his aunt close, he peered over her head at Kate and winked.

  Kate’s already-heated face flared another notch hotter, and she quickly looked away.

  Aunt Lula-Belle pulled her woolen shawl closer to her body, her face registering disapproval of her sister’s low-cut neckline. “You better stay away from the door
or you’ll catch your death of cold.”

  “Lands’ sakes, Lula-Belle. You act like we live in the arctic instead of a desert.” Aunt Bessie pulled out of Luke’s arms and craned her neck to peer around the room, fanning herself furiously.

  “Who are you looking for?” Luke asked.

  “Eh . . . Michael. Have you seen him?”

  “He’ll be here,” Luke said. “I’ve never known Michael to miss out on a good time.”

  Miss Chase laughed a little louder than the comment called for. A pretty woman with big green eyes and a tiny waist, she shamelessly pushed her way between Aunt Bessie and Luke.

  The fiddles started playing and couples moved to the center of the barn.

  Miss Chase cozied up to Luke and cast a disapproving glance at the awkward couples on the dance floor. “Why don’t we show them how to do it?”

  Luke smiled and offered her his bent elbow. She giggled as he led her away.

  Aunt Bessie stared after them with a frown. “In my day no woman would think of asking a man to dance with her.”

  Lula-Belle leaned over and whispered in Kate’s ear, “That was before they invented passion.”

  Kate smiled politely, not sure she’d heard right.

  Two older men joined them and Aunt Bessie introduced the taller of the two as her husband, Sam, the other as Lula-Belle’s husband, Murphy.

  Sam inclined his silver head. “Would you excuse us? I would like to take my purty missus for a whirl.” Aunt Bessie gave her husband a rather odd look before she took his offered hand.

  Lula-Belle and Murphy followed their lead. This left Kate on the sidelines next to the row of matronly chaperones seated by the barn’s back wall. The ladies obviously took their task seriously. Sitting on the edge of their ladder-back chairs they looked ready to pounce at the first sign of impropriety between the openly flirting singles.

  Kate watched the dance floor with equal attentiveness, but for a different reason. She wouldn’t put it past Cactus Joe to don one of his disguises and make an appearance. No doubt he would be delighted to know that this shindig had been planned for his benefit—or rather his capture. Not even Jesse James had warranted such a grand affair.