Dawn Comes Early (8 page)

The dining room empty, she helped herself to coffee and bacon, eggs, biscuits, and gravy from the buffet. Worried that she might be late, she hardly tasted her food as she gobbled it down.

She had barely opened the front door before Rosita chased her outside, shaking a feather duster at her. “Hurry, flies.” Kate stumbled onto the porch, the door slamming behind her.

Outside the sky was silver with streaks of yellow, pink, and red. The sun had yet to rise and it was surprisingly cold. Never had she experienced such a wide temperature swing between day and night as she did here in the desert. She should have donned a wrap.

With no one around, she circled the ranch house to the back, wanting to explore. A rooster eyed her from its perch on a white wooden fence before throwing back its head and letting out a loud crow.

A screened-in area directly behind the house held a clothesline strung with pieces of drying meat. A series of small boxy buildings were located off the southernmost U of the main house, which she guessed contained the kitchen and maybe even José's and Rosita's quarters. One building was a washhouse, complete with large metal tubs, ironing tables, and sadirons. She followed a well-worn dirt path to an icehouse. A short distance away was a granary and a smokehouse with stone chimney.

A vegetable garden spread between the buildings like a carpet, a scarecrow rising from its midst. She walked over for a closer look. A series of irrigation ditches crisscrossed the garden and the soil looked wet. Little signs read Lettuce, Carrots, Peas, and Onions.

Impressed with everything she had seen so far, she turned to watch two men lift caged chickens and a goat into the back of a wagon. The goat butted its head against a wooden side. The chickens clucked furiously, feathers flying about like snow flurries. A third man appeared from behind a barn leading a steer by a rope. Kate had never seen such a huge beast. It took both men to tie the animal to the back of the wagon. Once the animals were secured, the men drove off pulling the steer behind.

José walked out of the milk house carrying a bucket in both hands. Seeing her, he frowned and shook his head. “You better hurry,” he said. He tossed a nod toward the front of the house. “Late not good.”

Nervous about meeting the others, she ignored his warning. “You have milk cows too?” she asked, glancing at the milk sloshing over the sides of the buckets.

He grinned. “Last ranch I worked at had no milk cows. We had beef but no milk. Señorita Walker has everything.”

“Where are they taking those animals?” she asked, pointing to the back of the departing wagon.

José put his finger to his lips. “That secret,” he said.

“Why can't you tell me?” she asked.

“Señorita Walker said no tell. Now go. You be late.”

This time she ran, her feet wobbling in her unfamiliar boots. Chickens clucked and scattered out of her path as she made her way to the front of the house and hurried to the main barn. The hem of her divided skirt flapped against her boots with a slapping sound.

She rounded a corner of the main barn and was surprised to see a group of men standing in a circle. All had lean, well-muscled frames, their faces weathered from countless hours in the saddle beneath the hot Arizona sun. All but one wore dark pants rolled at the cuffs, unbuttoned vests, and bright red bandannas. The sleeves of the collarless shirts were rolled up and held in place with twisted wire garters.

Gun holsters looped with cartridges sagged loosely down each man's side. Each wore peg-heeled boots similar to hers, but with silver spurs.

One of the men motioned to her and she hurried over to the circle.

He lifted his hat in greeting. “You must be Miss Tennis,” he drawled.

“Tenney,” she said.

“They call me Ruckus.” A crooked nose matched his crooked grin and his horseshoe mustache drooped below his chin.

“That's 'cause he raises the roof with his snoring,” one man added. “Been that way ever since he met up with a fist coming the other way.”

His comment was followed by a round of laughter. It seemed like a jovial group, and Kate found herself relaxing for the first time since arriving in Cactus Patch.

“That there is Stretch,” Ruckus said, pointing to the tallest man of the lot.

Stretch raised a hand in greeting, his tan hat contrasting with his dark eyes, black curly hair, and pencil-thin mustache.

“Don't take anythin' he says seriously as his tales are as tall as he is.” Ruckus pointed to the man next to Stretch. “And that funny-looking man behind the bush is Feedbag.”

The “bush” was a square black beard that did indeed look like it belonged on a horse's muzzle.

“Howdy, ma'am,” Feedbag said in a froggy croak, followed by a well-aimed stream of tobacco.

Ruckus went around the circle introducing each man in turn by his “barn” name. The names provided an astute, even comical description of the men, making them easy to remember. Wishbone's legs curved outward from the knee down. Moose's ears stood out like the handles of a sugar bowl. Upbeat grinned at her, his white teeth flashing against his ebony skin.

Mexican Pete whipped off his straw hat and bowed. “Señorita.” While the other men were beltless, he wore a red sash tied around his middle.

The man in the odd short pants was called Dook. Since he spoke with a thick British accent, Kate assumed his name was the western version of Duke.

The last man Ruckus introduced was the ranch foreman named O.T., short for Old Timer. The man was probably in his forties, but he was clearly the oldest of the bunch. He stood straight as a soldier, his gaze never seeming to settle on any one person or thing, yet Kate was certain he missed nothing.

“Listen up, men,” O.T. said. “In case you haven't noticed, Miss Tenney here is what you call a lady. Put a lid on your can of cuss words and keep it there. Is that clear?”

Feedbag lifted his hat and ran a finger though his jet-black hair. “How long we gotta watch our language this time?”

“For as long as she's here,” O.T. replied.

“Ah, shucks,” Feedbag groaned, putting his hat back on. “She could be here as long as a day or two.”

“Don't forget one lasted as long as a week,” one of the other men added.

Wishbone nodded. “Yeah, and I can't work as fast when I have to watch what comes out of my mouth.”

“That's your problem,” O.T. said. He removed his hat and held it to his chest. “And since you're the one with the problem, you can do the honors.”

Much to Kate's surprise, the men all took off their hats and bowed their heads in prayer. Head lowered, she allowed her gaze to travel from man to man. The last thing she expected to see was a bunch of rough men praying.

Wishbone held his hat in both hands. “God, the Father, thank you for your many blessings and don't forgit to send rain. And if you ain't sendin' rain to us, don't go sendin' it to no other ranches neither.”

Kate covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers. She'd never heard anyone speak to God with such informality. It was nothing like the stuffy, drawn-out prayers she was forced to endure while attending Miss Newcomb's Academy for Young Women.

An “amen” chorus went around the circle and the men stomped away in different directions.

Ruckus remained, regarding her with a frown. “You all right, ma'am?”

“Yes, I'm fine.” And because he continued to study her, she added, “He prayed for rain.”

He arched his eyebrows as if surprised by the comment. “Every day. That's part of our job. Part of your job too.”

Her gaze wandered across the dry land. “It looks like your prayers haven't been answered in a while.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes God answers our prayers slow as wet gunpowder, but sooner or later he gets around to it.” Ruckus made a face. “Some chuckleheaded politicians don't wanna wait on God. One got a crazy notion to explode dynamite over Texas to make rain. Nine thousand dollars went up in smoke just like that.” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate. “They shot the feathers off a bunch of startled birds but they didn't make no rain. Only the Forever Man can do that.”

“The Forever Man?” she asked.

He grinned. “We all have our barn names. So why not God?” He signaled the end of the conversation with a nod of his head. “The boss lady says I'm to make a rancher out of you.” He looked her up and down and shook his head, his mustache seeming to droop another notch lower. “I reckon we'll see a whole lotta rain before I succeed.” He turned and walked away. “Time to get to work.”

Not knowing what else to do, she followed him. He spoke slowly, drawing out each word like one would draw out a sigh, but he walked with quick, long strides and it was all she could do to keep up.

He led her to the side of the barn. “Mexican or Western?” he asked.

She glanced at his profile. Was he joking? Mexican? With her blond hair? “I'm American,” she said with more than a little patriotic pride. “Born and raised in Boston.”

“God, give me strength,” he muttered. He yanked a door open and led her into a dim room. “I'm talkin' about saddles.”

“Oh,” she said, cheeks flaming. Biting her lower lip she glanced around. Never had she seen so many saddles in one place.

He pushed his hat to the back of his head and regarded her as he might a wayward child. “You do ride, right?”

“Yes,” she said. She took riding lessons at Miss Newcomb's Academy, though she never was much good at it. Living in Boston with its hansom cabs and horse-drawn streetcars made horseback riding a luxury more than a necessity.

“So what saddle did you use?” He rolled his eyes. “Don't tell me it was English.”

“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.