Dusty Britches (78 page)

The mornings were dark in
Downey
,
Idaho
—especially at 4:00
am
when our hired hand, Dale, was out milking the cows. Yet I loved those wee morning hours—just lying in my warm little bed and listening—listening to the rhythmic pulses of the milking machines milking the cows
and the other comforting, beloved sounds of morning—early birds, the breeze. Yet most of all, it was listening to Dale I relished.

Dale was sixteen years old—a real man by my seven-year-old standards—and as handsome as anyone I had ever known (since Huckleberry Finn, of course). He was so kind to me—so entirely chivalrous.
I remember lying on the front room floor next to him.
We
’
d lie there—side-by-side—just eating grilled-cheese sandwiches and watching TV. I
’
ll tell you this
:
grilled-cheese sandwiches and black
-
and
-
white TV—that man knew how to treat a woman!

And Dale could sing! He had a singing voice to put any girl who loved old MGM musicals to thinking on Howard Keel or Gordon MacRae!
(Mostly Howard Keel.)
Every morning, as he herded the cows to the milking barn for milking, hooked them up to the milking machines
,
and set everything in motion
,
Dale would sing
.
Oh, the songs he sang
.
Beautiful songs!
Romantic songs!
And my very favorite—
“
Make Believe
”
from the MGM 1950s movie musical
Showboat
.
Sooooooooo utterly romantic!

I would lie there in my little bed in our farmhouse in
Downey
(the one with the crooked outhouse out back) and listen to Dale singing
“
Make Believe
.
”
It was magical!
In those sweet morning hours when my dreams were still lingering
,
it was the very stuff of fairy tales
.
Dale
’
s voice would drift softly to me—echoing on the breeze—the lovely morning breeze, so fragrant with the scents of farm life—and I would listen and dream and smile and sigh
,
longing for evening when Dale and I would share grilled-cheese sandwiches in front of the TV—longing for the next wee hours of the morning when Dale would sing and I would listen—and sigh—and daydream—and smile—and get butterflies in my stomach!

Sitting here now, I wonder—are the cool morning breezes, so sweetly caressed with Dale
’
s rendition of
“
Make Believe
”
—is that the reason I still love the early morning hours so much?

Marcia Lynn McClure

Weathered Too Young

by Marcia Lynn McClure.

“I sure could use the help,” the rather frail-looking, elderly woman began, “but I’m afraid I just can’t afford to pay ya…not just now with summer endin’ and winter just around the corner.
Things slow to a crawl in my shop in winter.”

Lark couldn’t keep the breathy sigh of disappointment from escaping her lungs.

“I’m sorry, honey,” the woman said.
“Truly.”

“Oh…no worries,” Lark said—though, in truth, her own worries were profound.

Still, she studied the older woman a moment—her silvery hair
,
the deep wrinkles life had carved upon her pretty face.
She was a kind woman—Lark was certain she was.
Kind and truthful.

The bell hanging on the door of the quaint little seamstress shop jingled
,
and the woman glanced up.

“Hey there, Hadley,” she greeted, smiling.

Lark turned to see a dusty cowboy remove his hat.
She’d seen him before—earlier that morning when she’d been in the
g
eneral
s
tore inquiring about the possibility of working there.
He was young—perhaps only a year or two older than Lark—with light brown hair and blue eyes.
Handsome too.

“Mornin’, Mrs. Jenkins,” the cowboy said.
“I’m in need of a new Sunday shirt.
Mrs. Jones says I ain’t fit to step one foot before the Lord in the one I been wearin’
. A
nd all us boys runnin’ cattle for Mr. Jones…well, Mrs. Jones insists on Sunday church-goin’.”

“Of course, Hadley,” Mrs. Jenkins giggled, her blue eyes transforming into half-moons as she smiled.
“I’ll be right with ya.”

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jenkins,” Lark said, forcing a grateful smile.
“I’ll let you help this young man.
We certainly can’t have him missing services.”

“Certainly not,” Mrs. Jenkins said, still smiling.
“I really am sorry, honey,” she added.

“Oh, it’s nothing to concern yourself over,” Lark assured her, even despite the growing sense of panic that was rising within her.

“I’ve got a shirt in the back that’ll suit you just fine, Hadley,” Mrs. Jenkins said then.
“You hold on there
.
I’ll just be a minute.”

As Mrs. Jenkins disappeared into the back room of her small seamstress’
s
shop, Lark exhaled a heavy sigh of discouragement.
Time was running short.
Summer was waning, and though the weather was still kind and the nights yet warm, autumn and winter were not far away.
She had to find some means of earning a wage—had to find some place to wait out the winter.

Tucking a tired strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, she tried to remain calm.
Yet the growling hunger in the pit of her stomach only added to her anxiety.

“Excuse me, miss,” the young cowboy said, startling her from her worrisome thoughts.

“Yes?” she asked, again forcing a smile.

“I…I couldn’t help but notice that yer lookin’ for work over at the
g
eneral
s
tore…and I’m guessin’ here too,” he began
.
“
A
nd I wouldn’t want to stick my nose in where I shouldn’t, but…are ya only lookin’ for sewin’ and mendin’ and such?
Or might somethin’ else do for ya?”

When she saw the young cowboy’s eyebrows rise in astonishment, however, Lark blushed, adding, “I’m willing to do anything honorable, that is.”

“Cookin’?
Cleanin’ and warshin’?” the man asked.

“Of course,” Lark assured him, the tiny flicker of hope within fanning to a flame.

“Well,” the man began, glancing to the door through which Mrs. Jenkins had exited the room, “I might know of somethin’…though I doubt Mrs. Jenkins would approve
. O
therwise she mighta mentioned it herself.”

But Lark was beyond worrying about what a woman she’d only just met might think.
If the cowboy knew of work that might suit her, Lark was determined to consider it.

Lowering his voice
,
the young man said, “Well, ol’ Mrs. Simpson died and got planted last month…and I know them Evans brothers have been lookin’ for someone to come in and take her place
. Y
a know
,
do the warsh, the cookin’
,
and such.”

Lark felt a smile spread across her face.
Hope!
She was very adept at keeping house and cooking—at looking after others.
Why, hadn’t she been doing it for near to four years now?

“That sounds perfect!” she exclaimed in a whisper.

“They’re hard
-
workin’ ol’ fellers,” the cowboy explained.
“And…and not married…neither one of
’
em.”
He glanced up
,
obviously worried Mrs. Jenkins would return and hear him suggesting that a young, unmarried woman might find employment in the company of two unmarried men.

Lark likewise understood his concern—and the danger.
“Are they good men?” she asked.
“I mean…I mean
,
are their reputations sound?”

“They ain’t womanizers if that’s what you mean,” he said in an even lower voice.
“They run cattle on their ranch out west of town.”
He shrugged and continued, “They keep maybe three or four hands out there
. B
ut the cowboys all live in the bunkhouse and do their own cookin’ and all
,
so Mrs. Simpson only took care of the Evans brothers.
They’re hard
-
workin’ men
,
and I know they could use the help.”

Lark smiled and bit her lip with hopeful delight.
“Where do I find them?” she asked.
“Can you tell me how to find their property?”

The cowboy smiled.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered.
“In fact, I got the wagon in town with me today.
I could take ya out there myself
. I
t’s on my way back.”
He nodded and added, “I’m Hadley, by
the
way…Hadley Jacobson
. A
nd I’m no rounder, miss.
You can trust me.”

He offered her a rough, callused hand
,
and Lark gladly accepted it.

“Lark
Lawrence
,” she told him.

“Here ya go, Hadley,” Mrs. Jenkins said, entering from the back room.
“Do ya think this will do?”

Lark watched as the older woman held up a new, pristinely white shirt.
She wondered how long it would remain so pristinely white.
Even if
Hadley
did only wear it on Sunday, Lark knew how hard cowboys were on clothes.

“I imagine that’ll be just fine, Mrs. Jenkins,” Hadley said.
“Just fine.
How much do I owe ya then?”

“Don’t ya wanna try it on and make sure it fits ya all right?” Mrs. Jenkins asked.

“No, ma’am.
Everyone says you can fit anybody by just lookin’.”

Mrs. Jenkins smiled.
“Well, then…I’ll take two of your hard-earned dollars for the shirt, Hadley.”
Retrieving a length of brown paper from beneath a counter, Mrs. Jenkins began to carefully wrap the shirt in it.

Hadley smiled.
He shoved a hand into the front right pocket of his well-worn trousers and retrieved two silver dollars.
He placed them on the counter as Mrs. Jenkins tied the parcel with twine and handed it to him.

“Thank ya, Mrs. Jenkins,” Hadley said.
He plopped his hat back on his head and smiled.
“You have a good day now.”

“You too, Hadley.
I’ll see ya on Sunday,” the woman giggled.

“Thank you again, Mrs. Jenkins,” Lark said as Hadley opened the shop door
,
causing the bell to jingle again.

“Don’t you worry, honey,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
“Somethin’ will turn up for ya.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lark picked up the old carpetbag protecting the few things she owned.
Smiling at Hadley, she passed him, exiting the store as he held the door for her.

“Mrs. Jenkins,” Hadley said, touching the brim of his hat and nodding to the seamstress.

As Hadley helped Lark up onto the wagon seat, she glanced into the seamstress’
s
shop.
Sure enough
,
Mrs. Jenkins stood at the window—a scowl of concern on her already wrinkled brow.

Lark knew the woman was disapproving of her riding off in a wagon with a cowboy she’d only just met.
Therefore, she could just imagine what the sweet old seamstress would think if she knew Lark’s intention of seeking out the possibility of working for two unmarried men.
Still, the ox was in the mire
;
the toe was in the trap.
Lark needed work and shelter for the coming months, and every other venue she’d tried offered nothing.

So she simply straightened her posture as she settled next to Hadley on the seat of the wagon—simply did not glance back at the disapproving gaze of Mrs. Jenkins as Hadley slapped the lines at the back of the team of horses.

“Is it far?” Lark asked as Hadley drove the wagon out of town.

“Nope.
About five miles is all,” he said.

The cowboy seemed nice enough—trustworthy.
After all, hadn’t he just purchased a new shirt for Sunday church meetings?
Still, as ever, Lark was wary.
It was a difficult thing—to always be in the company of strangers—to try to sift out the ones that could be trusted from the ones that couldn’t.
Still, Hadley seemed nice
,
and he was a church-going man.
Therefore, Lark attempted to remain calm where Hadley Jacobson was concerned—tried not to worry about the fact she was about to ask two solitary men for employment.