Dawn Comes Early (32 page)

She hurried down the stairs and rushed outside. “Michael!” She could barely make out his dark form, but she sensed she had his attention. “I can't wait to read what you wrote.”

“You don't have to if you don't want,” he said.

“I want to,” she said. “I do . . .”

“I'm no good at spelling and I never figured out the difference between a colon and semicolon.”

“I'll help you with those.”

“You will?”

She couldn't make out his face in the dark, but she could hear the pleasure in his voice.

“Yes, but only if your story has merit.”

“How will you know that?”

“Oh, I'll know,” she said. “Readers always know such things.” She thought for a moment. “I'll read your story, Michael, on one condition. No more being late in the morning or leaving a gate open or neglecting to put in an honest day's work.”

“That's three conditions.”

She grinned. “I know you can count. Now let's see if you can write.”

Eleanor stood in the shadows of the dining room, listening. It was nearly eleven and the only sound that broke the late-night silence was the peck, peck, pecking of the typewriter. How the girl managed to stay up till all hours typing and still do her chores was nothing short of a miracle.

Eleanor let out a sigh of envy. Ah, the energy of youth . . .

She leaned against the wall, eyes closed, and prayed. She hadn't prayed in years and now here she was, turning to God for a second time in less than a week.
Keep this under your hat, God. I don't want my men to think I'm growing soft in my old age, but just between you and me, I'm mighty glad that you brought Kate back. You did good. Real good
.

After Kate had disappeared, Robert had accused Eleanor of using the girl to replace her long-dead daughter. She'd brushed away his concerns as a bunch of hogwash, but now she wondered if he might be right. When Kate disappeared, it felt like losing Rebecca all over again.

Now she had another worry. If the passionate pounding of typewriter keys was any indication, Kate's heart and soul did not belong to the ranch, no matter how much she insisted that they did. The ranch demanded one's all, and nothing must be allowed to interfere. Not marriage, not family, and certainly not such frivolous pastimes as writing.

Something had to be done and done fast. The future of the ranch depended on it.

Luke stared at his aunt's invitation, not sure what to make of it. “Hmm.”

Kate's kidnapping had been the main topic of conversation for days and the town was in an uproar. Guards had been posted outside the schoolhouse and women were never left unescorted. Some townspeople had even gone so far as to have Luke make bolts for doors that had never been locked.

As much as he approved of his aunt's fund-raising idea, Luke doubted crime fighting was her true motivation. The question was, what was she really up to? Did it have anything to do with his uncle's suspicion that she was interested in Postmaster Parker?

At first Luke had dismissed his uncle's concerns. The idea that his aunt would look at another man seemed too ridiculous to consider. But the tension between his aunt and uncle at last Sunday's dinner worried him. Now he didn't know what to think.

Luke folded the invitation and shoved it into his shirt pocket. He felt a fierce need to protect his family. On the night of the dance he'd keep an eye on things, make sure that Parker stayed away from his aunt.

He wondered if Kate would attend. He was pretty sure she would. Since the funds raised would help capture her kidnapper, it didn't seem likely that she would stay away.

The last thought raised his spirits. He didn't want it to, but it did. No matter how hard he tried not to think about her, he couldn't help himself. Trying to forget Kate was like bending steel with bare hands.

He wanted to see her again. Had actually ridden out to the Last Chance again to talk to her, but she was out on the range and he never did find her. The ranch. It was all about the ranch with her. Still, he hadn't imagined the way she kissed him or the way she looked at him in church.

“You want to see me?”

Luke had been so deep in thought he hadn't known his brother had entered the shop until he spoke.

Homer greeted Michael with a wagging tail and eagerly took the piece of dried meat from his hand.

“What have I done this time?” Michael looked worse than usual, his clothes and hair unkempt, his chin covered with a scraggly beard. He looked like he hadn't slept in a month of Sundays.

“Nothing,” Luke said. If anything he was pleased that Michael had managed to hold on to his ranch job as long as he had. Maybe there was hope for him yet. “How are things going at the ranch?” He really wanted to ask about Kate, but he didn't want to rouse Michael's suspicions.

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.”