Dawn Comes Early (22 page)

Feedbag was the only bulldogger of the bunch. The other ranch hands preferred to rope the calves from atop their horses.

After nearly three hours, Ruckus called out to her, “Let's see what you can do.”

Surprised, Kate sucked in her breath. She had practiced for days, but roping a single calf in an otherwise empty corral was a whole lot different from working in a chaotic pen of thundering horses, panicked calves, and shouting men. Still, she was too caught up in the excitement not to try. Just as long as she didn't fall off her horse.

She tied the end of her rope to the horn of her saddle, just as Ruckus had taught her. Failing to do so could result in the loss of a thumb. Picking out her target she pressed her heels into her horse's sides and took off. Lariat circling overhead, she timed her toss but still came up empty. She yanked the rope back and tried again.

On the fourth or fifth—or maybe it was the tenth or twelfth—try she caught a calf by a hind leg, or heel as Ruckus called it.

“I did it!” she yelled in astonishment.

“Ride your rope!” Ruckus yelled back, the urgency in his voice telling her there was no time for celebration.

She rode toward the calf, taking the slack out of the rope so that Ruckus could wrestle the struggling critter to the ground, pin it on its back, and wrap the calf's legs with pigging rope.

Ruckus looked up at her. “I'd never thought to hear myself say this, but congratulations. You're now officially one of the boys.”

She grinned back at him, surprised at how good those words made her feel. After weeks of hard work her efforts had finally begun to pay off. She might just make it as a rancher after all.

Bessie barged into Lula-Belle's house without so much as a knock on the door. Mercy, she didn't have time for such amenities, not this of all days.

She found Lula-Belle in the kitchen pulling a pie out of the oven. Bessie threw up her hands in disgust. On a day that was clearly about to break ninety degrees even with the threat of rain, the woman was not only baking, she wore a knitted wool shawl. It made Bessie hot just looking at her.

“What are you doing here so early?” Lula-Belle asked, though it was well past noon. She set the pie on the counter to cool. “What is it? Are you ill? Is something wrong with Sam?”

“No, nothing is wrong with Sam. At least nothing that can't be fixed.”

Lula-Belle ran her hands down her gingham apron and frowned. “Are you sure? It's not his heart, is it?”

Bessie touched her head and groaned. “Mercy, why do you always think the worst?”

Lula-Belle took Bessie by the arm and dragged her out of the kitchen and made her sit. “If it's not Sam, who is it? Do tell me.” Lula-Belle sank onto the cushion by her side.

Bessie lowered her voice, though it was not necessary since they were the only two in the house. “Two weeks ago I bumped into José in town and he told me the most amazing thing.” She glanced around to make sure they were still alone. “He overheard Kate Tenney say that she once wrote dime novels.”

A houseboy at the ranch, José provided an endless source of juicy gossip, but none quite as delicious as this latest tidbit.

Lula-Belle sat back and looked confused or, at the very least, unimpressed. “Kate is a writer?”

“Apparently not a successful one. However, I thought it my duty to read one of her books. You know, to see what kind of woman she really is. Picking out a wife for Luke is too important to go by appearances alone. Fortunately, I was lucky to get hold of the one banned in Boston.”

Lula-Belle gasped. “Her books were banned?” Eyes rounded, she covered her open mouth with her fingertips.

“Only in Boston,” Bessie assured her. “You know how prudish they are there.”

Lula-Belle's eyes practically popped out of her head. “You read a banned potboiler?”

Her sister's shocked expression came as no surprise. It was a well-known fact that no decent Christian woman would read such trash.

“It was my
duty
,” Bessie explained. She looked toward heaven. “God forgive me, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for Luke. Michael too.”

She pulled a paperback book out of her pocketbook.
Miss Hattie's Dilemma
was written across the cover in big bold letters.

Lula-Belle leaned back as if the mere presence of the book could corrupt her fine sensibilities.

Bessie riffled through the book until she found the right page. “Listen to this.”

“Oh my stars,” Lula-Belle gasped. Her springy curls were practically doing handstands. “You're not going to read it
aloud
.”

Bessie gave her a stern look. “Only the good part.” She cleared her voice and began to read like she was auditioning for a part in a play. “‘Brandon took her in his arms and captured her trembling lips. Ripples of desire shot through her body and'”—Bessie paused for effect—“‘curled her toes.'” She snapped the book shut. It was hard to believe that the mere mention of something as commonplace as toes could cause an entire book to be banned.

Lula-Belle obviously was not of the same mind. Indeed, she couldn't have looked more incredulous had Bessie sprouted orange and black spots and turned into a gila monster.

“Now I ask you. Did Murphy ever make your toes curl during a kiss?”

Lula-Belle's face turned scarlet and her hand fluttered nervously to her lap. “For goodness' sakes, Bessie, what are you talking about? Curling toes?”

Bessie gave a self-righteous nod. “I thought so.”

“I'm not even sure I want my toes to curl. I'm ticklish. Besides, what has this got to do with Luke and Kate Tenney? Are you saying that she's not the right woman for him?”

“Oh, she's the right woman for him, all right.” Bessie waved the book as if it were absolute proof. “Make no mistake about that, but I'm not talking about Luke or even Michael.”

“Then what
are
you talking about?”

“Us. You and me. It's time we lit a fire under our husbands. There's got to be more to life than loose skin and bald heads. Just because passion hadn't been invented when we were young is no reason we can't enjoy it now. Why should the young have all the fun?”

Lula-Belle made a funny choking sound. “Passion was invented?”

“Of course it was. How else can you explain its sudden appearance? Did you ever hear about it when we were young?”

“No, but . . . but who would invent such a thing?”

“How am I supposed to know? Howe, Edison, Bell . . . What difference does it make? If they can send words through miles of high-strung wires who's to say what else they can do?”

“Oh my!” Lula-Belle pressed her fingertips against her mouth again. “Maybe we should stay away from the telegraph.”

“Nonsense. A little passion would do you a world of good. Maybe then you wouldn't need to wear that tiresome shawl all the time.”

“I don't know, Bessie. This don't sound right to me. Sam and Murphy are set in their ways. They're not gonna take kindly to having to worry about our toes.”

“Oh, they'll worry about them all right. We'll make certain of that.” She stabbed
Miss Hattie's Dilemma
with her finger. “We have this to guide us. It tells us everything we need to know about capturing a man's heart. For example”—she thumbed through the book—“on page ninety-nine it says, ‘She brushed her hair until it shone and it fell down her back in glorious waves.'”

Bessie peered at her sister's tight corkscrew curls and grimaced. “Never mind that. There are other ways we can make ourselves appear more attractive.”

“What you're planning on doing don't sound normal. There's a reason why men's hair and women's assets fall when they reach a certain age. God don't want us worrying about our toes in our twilight years.”

“Poppycock. Why do you think God invented night? It's so we older folks can enjoy the benefits of youth without seeing how awful we look.” Bessie closed the potboiler and stood. “According to this book, perfume and satin unmentionables will do the trick. Green's General Store won't have what we need, so we'll have to order from Montgomery Ward.”

“I don't know, Bessie. I don't want anyone to think I'm one of those . . . you know . . . painted ladies.”

Bessie rolled her eyes. “You should be so lucky.” She argued with her sister for the better part of an hour, but Lula-Belle refused to even consider changing her ways.

At last Bessie threw up her hands in disgust. If Lula-Belle chose to live a passionless life, that was her business. Bessie had no intention of letting her sister hold her back. She stood and took her leave. If she hurried, she could mail in her order to Montgomery Ward before the post office closed.

Chapter 19

What could they possibly do to her should she dare set foot in their den? Take advantage of her helplessness? Surely not!

K
ate stood on the verandah of the ranch house, too wound up to sleep. Already Miss Walker and the house staff had retired for the night and the house was dark. It had been an exhausting but satisfying week. O.T. had been right about the Dunne gang. Some calves had been hair-branded, but Ruckus ordered everyone to “pick 'em out and brand 'em right.” And that's what they'd done.

Now that the Last Chance “LC” brand had been seared into every calf's hide, the rustlers' plan had been halted, if not altogether stopped. No thanks to the marshal, who nosed around but lost interest upon discovering it was the Dunne gang and not the “Arizona Kid” responsible for the misdeeds.

Time had gone fast and already it was May. Kate couldn't believe that nearly six weeks had shot by since she'd first arrived on the ranch. She'd actually helped with the branding, though the other ranch hands had lassoed dozens if not hundreds of calves to her scant one.

She gazed at the sky, the stars hidden by clouds. The air felt thick with the promise of rain. She still felt a rosy glow from roping her first calf. The ranch that had once seemed so bleak was now filled with endless possibilities and, for the first time ever, her future seemed bright. Maybe Ruckus would make a rancher out of her yet.

Laughter exploded from the bunkhouse. The men were in good spirits. No doubt Stretch was regaling them with another tall tale.

Kate envied the camaraderie they shared, and though she tried her best to fit in she longed for female companionship. Of course, that didn't mean she was anxious to join Miss Walker again for supper anytime soon. The woman made her nervous. Kate couldn't begin to guess what thoughts prevailed behind Miss Walker's steady gray eyes.

“You're one of the boys.
”

She smiled at the memory. She left the verandah and hurried through the darkened courtyard to the bunkhouse. A flash of lightning pranced along the distant mountains, but still no rain.

The bunkhouse door ajar, the ranch hands were gathered around a long wooden table, all eyes on Stretch who sat at the head.

Mexican Pete held both hands to his chest, a lovesick expression on his broad face. He acted like Romeo declaring his love to Juliet. His antics were met with jovial laughter.