Dawn Comes Early (7 page)

As if to guess her thoughts, Eleanor said, “I'm sixty-five years old. That's young for a saguaro, which can live for 150 years, but as far as I know no ranch owner could last that long. Nor would anyone want to.”

Her actual age surprised Kate. In Boston, people—especially women—tended to look old in their forties.

“You do understand that if I decide to make you my heiress you will be required to sign a document stating that you will forever remain single.”

“Yes, you explained that quite thoroughly in your letter.”

Miss Walker regarded her with narrowed eyes. “You're young and attractive. Why would you agree to forego marriage? Do you not wish to raise a family?”

“It's a bit late for that, I'm afraid. I'm twenty-nine.” Far past the marrying age deemed proper by Boston society.

The older woman rolled her eyes. “Ancient,” she said, her voice edged with irony.

Kate folded her hands on her lap and debated how much or how little to say. She sensed the ranch owner would see right through the vague answers she had prepared.

“Back in the States an educated woman is thought to be a liability in the home.” Some critics had even gone so far as to say that educated women were not “real” women, and therefore incapable of loving a man, let alone bearing his children.

“You won't find things any different outside the States, I'm afraid,” Miss Walker said. “Some men around here don't know what to do with a woman who has an intelligent thought of her own. And that includes you, Ralph,” she added, addressing the dead man.

“But that's the least of it,” the ranch owner continued. “You will work hard, harder than you've ever worked in your life. You and the land must become one. Its pulse will be your pulse, its heart yours. It will require everything you have to give—and then some. No man alive can compete with such a demanding lover.”

Kate flushed. Never had she heard anyone refer to land as a lover. In Boston most men were happy with a mere couple of acres, just enough to raise a milk cow or two and cultivate a vegetable garden.

“I'm not afraid of hard work,” she said, hiding her soft hands in the folds of her skirt. She often put in twelve or more hours a day working on her stories. True, it wasn't physical labor, but writing a book was hard work and, at times, even grueling.

“If that does indeed turn out to be true, you'll be greatly rewarded for your efforts. Nothing in this world is permanent except for land. It will always be there for you. The question is, will you always be here for the ranch? If things go wrong—as they always do—will you walk away? Abandon ship, so to speak?”

“I'm fully prepared to prove myself worthy of your trust and generosity,” Kate said. She would do anything—crawl to the ends of the world if necessary—for stability and permanence in her life. “I'll work hard and learn everything I can about ranching. I'll . . . I'll do whatever you ask of me.”

“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.

K
ate 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 quickly 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.