Dawn Comes Early (6 page)

Beyond a second archway was a dining room with a polished table that could easily seat twelve. Two paneled doors stood open, revealing an office complete with a large oak desk and filing cabinets. The typing machine centered on the desk surprised her. She'd sold her own typewriter to pay for travel expenses. Though she had no further use for such a machine, already she missed it.

One parlor wall was covered with shelves holding leather-bound books. She ran her fingers along the rigid spines hoping to find a Twain, Brontë, or even a James, but every book was about cattle or the cattle business and she couldn't help but feel disappointed.

It wasn't that long ago that writing was her life, but after her last book was banned for “immoral content,” her publisher quickly and firmly showed her the door. Immoral, indeed! Boston's Watch and Ward Society deemed her love story a detriment to society and accused her of putting wanton ideas into the heads of young readers. Maybe she did go a bit overboard in taking two pages to describe a kiss, but for the most part the society's critiques were unfair and unfounded.

Books had helped her through an unstable and unhappy childhood. Now as then, she looked for a means of escape. She was so engrossed in reading the titles that she failed to notice the open coffin partly hidden by a potted cactus until she practically bumped into it. The body of a pale-faced man sporting a waxed mustache and dressed in a dark suit lay in the satin-lined interior, a coin on each eye, hands folded across his middle.

Startled, she jumped back, hand on her chest. “Oh dear!”

Chapter 4

The lips of the dying man moved and Brandon leaned closer. “For God and country,” the man said before taking his very last breath.

K
ate gaped at the dead man, the pungent smell of formaldehyde making her eyes water. Nerves taut, she jumped when a cheery voice sounded from behind.

“I see you met my ex-husband, Ralph.”

Kate whirled about to face the tall, stately woman with steady gray eyes standing in the doorway. Kate stared at her speechless. Not only did the woman's cavalier attitude regarding the dead man stun Kate, but never had she heard anyone so boldly admit to a failed marriage. Certainly not to a stranger. In Boston a divorce was considered shocking, if not altogether scandalous.

“Burying him on the ranch is more than he deserves, but no one else will claim him,” the woman continued. “So what is one to do?”

Not sure whether she was expected to answer the question or simply offer condolences, Kate inched away from the corpse with a murmured, “I'm sorry.”

Ignoring Kate's commiseration, the woman introduced herself. “I'm Eleanor Walker. Owner of this ranch.”

Dressed in a divided skirt, heavy boots, and a man's plaid shirt, she wore her gray hair pulled into a tight bun with not a single loose strand. Her wide-brimmed hat dangled between her shoulder blades, the stampede string around her neck. The huge room seemed to shrink in response to her commanding presence.

“You must be Kate.” She held out her hand and Kate shook it. The woman's grip was as firm as a man's. “Or do you prefer I call you Miss Tenney?” She spoke in a brisk no-nonsense manner, her gray eyes seeming to penetrate rather than regard.

“Kate will do.”

“Very well, and you may call me Miss Walker.”

It struck Kate as strange to call a previously married woman
miss
, but she would of course comply.

“Do sit down,” her hostess said. “I trust you found your accommodations satisfactory.”

“Yes, thank you. My room is lovely.” Miss Walker was every bit as intimidating as Cactus Joe, even without a weapon.

Miss Walker took a seat and Kate sat down on a chair opposite. She held her knees together, hands tightly clasped on her lap. Keenly aware that others had come before her and failed, she met Miss Walker's probing stare with chin held high.

As if on cue, Rosita appeared carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She set the tray on the low table and looked at Miss Walker as if waiting for permission to pour. The younger woman's quiet, demure manner offered a striking contrast next to Miss Walker's broad movements and deep, vibrant voice, both of which would have been frowned upon in more civilized social circles.

“Thank you, Rosita,” Miss Walker said. She waved the young woman away and filled both glasses herself. She handed one to Kate.

“Thank you.” The lemonade was both cold and sweet and Kate gulped it down—something she would normally not do in polite company, but then she'd never been so thirsty nor so nervous. Miss Walker made no mention of her ill manners. Instead, she refilled Kate's glass without comment.

Setting the pitcher on the tray, the ranch owner sat back. “I heard you had a little excitement in town.”

A little?
“The man grabbed me and shot at my trunk,” Kate said, shuddering at the memory. When this failed to draw any kind of sympathetic response, she added, “I'm lucky to be alive.”

“Aren't we all?” Miss Walker glanced at the coffin. “Or at least some of us are.” She fell silent for a moment before adding, “I apologize that no one was at the station to greet you. When my driver heard that Cactus Joe was up to his old tricks, he turned around and came back.”

“I don't blame him,” Kate said. “Mr. Adams was good enough to give me a ride.”

“Then I am in his debt.” Miss Walker took a sip of her own lemonade before setting the glass on the tray, ice clinking. She looked Kate up and down, her expression registering neither approval nor disapproval.

“You stated in your letter that you were a professional woman familiar with ranching.”

“Yes . . .” Kate had rehearsed this interview in front of a looking glass numerous times, but Miss Walker was even more intimidating than Kate's former editor, Mr. Conner, and everything she'd practiced went out of her head.

“You wrote that you're a college-educated woman, but I'm not clear as to your profession.”

“I'm a writer.”

“Yes, you do write lovely letters.”

“A
professional
writer,” she said to clarify, though it was no longer entirely accurate. After the scathing review of her last book and its subsequent ban in Boston, she was currently unemployed.

“I've published several novels under my pseudonym, K. Mattson.” She hesitated. “Some people have a rather jaundiced eye toward certain . . . literary endeavors.”
Especially when they involve affairs of the heart.
“For that reason I prefer to keep my former occupation confidential.”

Miss Walker's gaze sharpened. “Are you saying that you write . . .
wrote
potboilers?”

The question was pointed enough to raise the dead, but a quick glance at the coffin assured Kate that it hadn't.

“I prefer to call them novels,” Kate explained. “Dime novels.”

The woman had looked unflappable until that moment. Now she looked downright appalled. “And you think writing these . . . dime novels makes you knowledgeable about running a ranch?”

“Most of my stories take place on a cattle ranch,” Kate explained. “That's because I . . . grew up listening to tales about the West. I enjoyed hearing the stories one man told about working on the King Ranch in Texas. He helped drive cattle to Kansas.”

What she failed to say, didn't want to say, was that the stories were told by tramps gathered around a bonfire behind the apartment where she lived with her mama. Some were war veterans, others failed gold miners—all were society dropouts. As a child, she liked to climb out onto the roof and hide behind the chimney to listen. Their lively stories fired Kate's imagination like nothing else ever did.

“You heard these tales in
Boston
?” Miss Walker made it sound like Boston was located somewhere in the Boer Republics rather than the States. “I hope you don't believe everything you heard. It's my experience that most people have no idea about life in the West. As for cattle drives . . .” She made a dismissing gesture. “Long and costly drives have gone the way of hoop skirts. Now we simply drive the cattle a short distance to the Willcox stockades and train depot.”

“I know ranching has changed, but it was those stories that inspired me to write my books.”

“So why
aren't
you writing?” Miss Walker asked.

“It's difficult for a woman to earn her living by writing,” Kate said. At least that much was true. “That's why I'm here.”

After her publisher refused to publish more of her books, she applied for a job at both the
Boston Evening Globe
and
Traveler
, but no one was willing to hire a disgraced writer.

Anxious to prove her competence, Kate hastened to add, “I'm quite good at bookkeeping and budgeting and—”

Miss Walker interrupted her with a wave of her hand. “We'll get to all that. First things first. We're in the middle of calving season and it will soon be April. How are you at calving and branding?”

Kate blinked.
Branding
. It never occurred to her that she would actually have to
work
with the animals. “Don't you employ cowhands to do that?”

“Of course I do. But how do you expect to know if the job is done right if you don't know how to do it yourself?”

Kate moistened her lips. “I've never actually
worked
with cattle but like I told you, I do know a little something about the workings of a ranch.”

Miss Walker frowned. “The only way to learn ranching is through tenacity and hands-on experience. You can't learn ranching secondhand. Nor can you learn it from books.” She waved toward her extensive library. “But even experience isn't enough if you don't have a real passion for the land. It must be in your blood. Do you have anything that qualifies you to run a ranch?”

“I . . . I believe so.”

“Believe, Miss Tenney, or know?”

Miss Tenney
. If the sudden formality hadn't already convinced Kate that she was about to be dismissed, the railroad watch Miss Walker pulled out of her pocket most certainly did.

“I'm extremely tenacious,” Kate said, determined to rise to the challenge. She would never have survived her childhood had she not been strong-willed.

“I'm a fast learner and I'm trustworthy. I'm also honest and hardworking.” She continued to recite her qualities as one might recite a list of groceries to a clerk in a mercantile store, but nothing she said pried the skeptical look off Miss Walker's face.

Miss Walker stared at her watch for a moment before pocketing it. “This is all very well and good and you do write a persuasive letter. But so far you've failed to convince me that a privileged upbringing such as yours qualifies you for ranching.”

Kate jumped to her feet. “Privileged!
Privileged?
I've worked for everything I have. I earned my education by scrubbing floors, cleaning privies, and—”

Mortified, she covered her mouth with her hand. All her weeks of careful planning had been wasted in one careless, unguarded moment.

Expecting Miss Walker to order her out of the house, she was surprised when the woman gestured for her to sit down.

“I see there's more to you than meets the eye,” Miss Walker said, and this time her face reflected the first signs of approval. “That's good. I don't know if mucking out stables is comparable to cleaning privies, but we'll know soon enough. We can't let you around cattle until we get the city smell off you, and nothing accomplishes that faster than a good mucking. I'll also ask Ruckus to find a horse for you. You do ride, of course?”

“Yes, but—”

“Excellent. What about work clothes?”

Kate glanced down at her skirt. These were her work clothes. “I'm afraid these are all I have.”

“Hmm.” Miss Walker tapped her chin with her finger. “You're about my size. Not quite as tall but I think I have some garments that will fit. I'll have Rosita bring them to your room.”

Miss Walker rubbed her hands together. She had large calloused hands the color of leather. It was hard to know how old she was. She had a timeless quality that seemed to make age irrelevant. Her lively eyes, more blue now than gray, watched from a well-lined and well-tanned face, but her body was as supple as that of a young girl.