Dawn Comes Early (4 page)

“Often enough to wear out his welcome,” he said.

She gave her head a slight toss, buttoned her shirtwaist, and put on her hat. Her bodice was still wet and the feathers on her hat drooped, but she sure did look businesslike all of a sudden.

“How do I arrange transportation to the ranch?” she asked.

“Normally I would tell you to rent a rig from the livery, but Hopper—that's the owner—took off when he heard the first shot. I'm sure someone will come and get you. Eventually. Meanwhile, you can stay at the hotel.” No sooner had he said it than he changed his mind. The hotel was no place for a lady, especially one as pretty as this one.

“Tell you what. I'll drive you to the ranch myself.”

“That's very kind of you to offer, but I don't want to cause you further inconvenience,” she said.

“You won't. My wagon's out back. All I have to do is hitch my horse to it and we can be on our way.” If his lazy, good-for-nothing brother hadn't taken off, Luke would have made him drive her to the ranch.

She shivered. “You don't think we'll run into that awful man, do you?”

“Cactus Joe?” He shook his head. “He's probably in the next county by now, if not the next territory.”

A shadow of relief crossed her face. “Thank you. I appreciate your kindness.”

“It's my pleasure, ma'am.” The moment he grabbed his leather hat, Homer lifted his head, ears forward. “Come on, boy. Let's give the lady some privacy.”

Homer jumped to his feet, wagging his tail, but made no move toward the door.

“The dog's a chicken,” he said, and Miss Tenney laughed. It was a tight little sound, but it was still the nicest sound he'd heard in a week of Sundays. He clapped his hands twice and this time Homer followed him outside.

The sun dazzled him as he walked up the alley, but no more than the sight that greeted him when he turned the corner and spotted the lady's fancy under-riggin's strewn upon the dirt-packed road.

Chapter 3

She stared into Brandon's velvet brown eyes and her heart gave a wild flutter . . . “You saved me, you saved me . . .”

K
ate chased away the words running through her head. The man sitting on the wagon seat next to her had blue eyes, not brown, though he certainly was every bit as handsome as Brandon, the hero in her latest novel. Mr. Adams had a rugged square face, an indented chin, and a straight, narrow nose. Brown hair curled from beneath his leather hat, and a wayward lock swept across his forehead.

He had wide shoulders that tapered down to a trim waist. The rolled-up sleeves of his boiled shirt revealed the full length of his powerful arms.

Even more disconcerting than his likeness to her fictional character was the womanly way he made her feel each time he turned his blue eyes in her direction. Between her encounter with the outlaw and her imminent meeting with Miss Walker, she didn't need Luke Adams to add to her anxiety. But add he did.

The air practically sizzled with the strength and virility of him. Much to her alarm her racing pulse brought a flush to her face. She could not, would not trust him, not for a single moment. No man could be trusted. Not even one as handsome and seemingly kindhearted as Mr. Luke Adams.

The wagon jolted over a rut in the road and her arm inadvertently rubbed against his. Inching as close to the outer edge of the seat as possible, she measured the distance between them and it was still alarmingly close.

As much as possible she kept her gaze straight ahead. The long, narrow road seemed to stretch to the horizon. “Are you sure we won't run into that horrible man?”

“Cactus Joe? I doubt it. If you ask me the man's short a hat size or two but he's harmless. Not like the Texas Kid or the Tucson Kid. Drat, he's not even like Billy the Kid. Now
those
are outlaws.”

His assurances did little to calm her nerves. Apparently the only bandits he took seriously were the ones belonging to a society of human goats.

Seemingly oblivious to her anxiety, he whistled softly but she didn't recognize the tune. He sat tall and straight, his shoulders wide, his hands firm on the reins. From time to time he pointed out various landmarks. He was extremely knowledgeable and described the history of the territory going all the way back to Spanish rule.

He indicated a building with a tall steeple and small cemetery. “That's the church. We don't have a regular preacher, but a circuit rider whizzes through every other week or so.”

Homer trotted a short distance ahead, sniffing the ground like a hound trailing a fox.

About a mile or two out of town, Mr. Adams pointed to a small adobe house with a corrugated steel gable roof. “My Aunt Bessie and Uncle Sam live there,” he said with obvious fondness. Homer stopped in front of the house and barked.

“Not now, boy,” he said. “We'll pop in for a visit on the way back.” For Kate's benefit he added, “Homer has a fondness for gingersnaps and Aunt Bessie makes the best.”

About a mile farther down the road he tossed a nod toward another house almost identical to the first. “Aunt Lula-Belle and Uncle Murphy live there.”

“How many relatives do you have?” she asked.

“Not many. I have a brother named Michael and another aunt who lives in Tucson. That's about it. I was born in Texas, but my parents died when I was eleven. My pa was killed in an Indian uprising and my ma died soon after, in childbirth.”

“I'm so sorry,” Kate said.

“I went to live with my aunt and uncle in Houston, but when a second smithy came to town my uncle decided Texas was gettin' too crowded, so we moved here.”

A smile broke through her guarded countenance.

He grinned back at her. “What's so funny?”

“I can't tell you how many blacksmiths are in Boston. At least a dozen or more.”

He grimaced. “Don't sound like there's enough room between the hammer and the anvil with that many people.”

She couldn't imagine Luke Adams on the crowded streets of Boston. He was definitely a man who needed wide-open spaces.

“What do residents do here?” she asked. Boston with its libraries, museums, and theaters offered a rich cultural life she thoroughly enjoyed.

He gave her a cockeyed look. “What do we do?”

“For entertainment?” she said to clarify.

“There're more than a dozen saloons in town. I reckon that's about as entertainin' as it gets around here.”

At first she thought he was joking, but he looked perfectly serious. She bit her lip and said nothing. She didn't know what to say.

He glanced at her. “I prefer it out here in the desert.”

“There's nothing out here.”

“It'll grow on you.” After a while he said, “In the Bible God used the desert to test men.”

She fanned herself furiously with her hand. “Is that what he's doing now? Testing us?”

“Could be.” He clicked his tongue and his horse picked up speed. “Could be.”

He stopped from time to time to offer the dog a drink. He also insisted Kate drink from his canteen, wiping the top with a clean bandanna before handing it to her.

They drove through what seemed like miles of high desert, ringed by steep-cliff mesas and littered with angry black rocks pitted with holes.

“Volcanic rock,” he explained.

The rocks looked as inhospitable as the rest of the land, and she shuddered. “Everything looks so dry.”

“We don't get a lot of rain out here,” he said. “About ten, twelve inches a year if we're lucky. June and July are our rainy months.”

Boston got at least four times that much rain. “Anyone saving for a rainy day around here could probably get rich.”

“He'd be more likely to be robbed,” he said.

She blew out her breath. Never had she met anyone with a more casual regard for crime. “How much longer?” she asked. She didn't mean to sound impatient or ungrateful, but the air was still warm and her body ached with weariness. The drive seemed interminable.

He guided the buckboard through a wire gap fence. “Here she is,” he announced as one might introduce royalty. “The Last Chance Ranch. You won't find a better ranch in all of Cochise County.”

She hadn't known what to expect, but certainly not this. A tumbleweed rested against a rock, but no sign. Just a barbed wire fence and more arid, flat desert dotted with rocks black as coal. The gate leading to the ranch was so different from anything she'd imagined, she would have laughed out loud had she had the energy.

“How ostentatious,” she said in jest.

He glanced at her and frowned. Obviously, the man lacked a sense of humor. What a pity.

“Do you know the owner?” she asked, anxious to fill in the sudden awkward silence.

“Miss Walker?” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “I reckon everyone knows her,” he said. “At least well enough to stay out of her way.”

It wasn't what she wanted to hear. “Are you implying the woman is difficult?”

“I'm not implyin' anything, ma'am. I'm statin' it as fact. She's more like a runaway locomotive coming straight at you.”

The picture he drew in her mind only added to her anxiety. It worried her that he used such strong words for the lady ranch owner, but described Cactus Joe as a mere nuisance. Could Miss Walker really be that bad?

In an effort to calm her nerves she rearranged her hat, wiggling the hatpin in place, and straightened her travel suit jacket. Her shirtwaist was now dry, but her skirt was wrinkled and covered in dust and smudged with train cinders. She neither looked nor felt her best.

She craned her neck looking for a ranch house or something—anything. Nothing stirred. Even the muted horse hooves and rattling buckboard failed to disturb the stark panorama that stretched all the way to the mountains.

She had taken him at his word when he said they had reached the ranch. So where was it? Maybe once she sighted civilization—if there was such a thing out here—the butterflies in her stomach would settle down.

“I thought you said this was the Last Chance.”

“It is, ma'am, acres of deeded property surrounded by thousands of acres of free range. The ranch house is just a mile or so up the road.”

“A mile?”

He glanced at her. “The entire area covers around two hundred and fifty square miles.”

She stared at him, openmouthed. “That much?” Westerners sure did think a lot bigger than their eastern counterparts.

She already doubted the wisdom of coming to Cactus Patch, and the size of the ranch only added to her apprehension. Had she not been so hot and exhausted she would have been tempted to ask Mr. Adams to turn the wagon around and drive back to town and . . . go where? As forbidding and inhospitable as this land was, she had no desire to return to Boston and the terrible memories left behind.

She shook her thoughts away. “So where are the cattle?”

He pointed to the right. “Over there.”

Shading her eyes against the midafternoon sun, she followed his pointing finger. The air shimmered with heat and the landscape was blurred. At first she didn't see anything but saguaro cacti rising from the desert floor. Some of the cacti stood twenty feet high, arms branching out from a rounded pole—a strange plant, indeed.

Finally she spotted little black dots of grazing cattle next to a body of water. She hadn't expected to see a lake in the middle of the desert and the sight offered a measure of comfort, however tenuous.

Spying the cattle too, Homer barked as if in greeting and raced ahead of the wagon.

“What I would give to dive into that lake,” she said, fanning herself with her hand.

He grinned at her. “I wouldn't advise it, ma'am. That's a mirage. All that's out there is sand, rattlers, and burro grass.”

She blinked. “It certainly looks real.”

“The desert is deceivin'.” He glanced at her. “You just never know what you're gonna find.”