Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (3 page)

Her warning shot worked; the strange rumbling noise stopped. She fired again to let the road agents know she meant business and quickly reloaded. A long, uneasy silence followed. The sulfurous odor of gunpowder slowly faded away, along with the blue haze.

Heart thumping, she held her breath. Had . . . had she shot someone?

“Do you see them?” Donny whispered at last. “Do you see the bandits?”

“N-No,” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “I can’t see anything.”

“Hello there,” a man called and she jumped.

Gulping, Molly straightened to peer around the seat at the man waving a white handkerchief. Was it a trick?

Slowly she stood, knees shaking. The serious end of her weapon pointed at the stranger’s chest, she kept her finger on the trigger. “Don’t move.”

The man jammed his handkerchief in his pocket and glared at her. “What in blazes do you think you’re doing? You could have killed me.” His Texas drawl did nothing to hide his anger.

Ignoring her warning, he bent next to a high-wheeled carriage and ran his hand along the front like someone might check for a wound. What appeared to be “weapons” at first were in reality two shiny carriage lanterns. There was no sign of a horse or mule and she couldn’t imagine how he got there—or what had caused that ungodly blast and rumbling sound.

He turned to face her, hands on his hips. “Now look what you’ve done.” He indicated the front of his rig where she assumed her bullet hit. “Why did you shoot at me?”

“Why did
you
shoot at us?” she stormed.

He looked momentarily baffled. “I wasn’t shooting at you.” He pulled off his hat and ran the back of his arm over his forehead. A tall man, six feet or more, he wore dark pants and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. “My motor backfired.”

Motor? She cast a puzzled glance at the dusty black phaeton parked half off the road.

Next to her, Donny sat upright. “He’s driving a horseless carriage,”
he whispered, his eyes rounded. “I read about those in my science magazine.”

Horseless . . . ? She’d never thought such a thing possible. “What . . . what do you want?” she called.

“I want you to put your weapon down,” he replied. He sauntered to the side of her buckboard, holding his arms out as if to prove he had no intention of harming her. “I’m a doctor and I’m heading to the LC Ranch. One of the cowhands has taken ill.”

LC.
Last Chance
. “I’m heading there too,” she said. He certainly didn’t look like any doctor she’d ever met. For one thing he couldn’t be a day over thirty. Up close he was even more handsome than he looked from a distance, but that didn’t give him any right to go around scaring people.

The man pushed his hat back. A swath of dark brown hair with reddish highlights fell across his forehead. He gave her a once-over— a very thorough once-over with the bluest eyes imaginable, and also the boldest.

As a dance hall girl she had grown accustomed to men’s leering gazes. It was part of the job and, for the most part, she’d learned to disregard them. Indeed, she’d developed a hard shell for protection.

It was hard to ignore the doctor, though. Not only was he handsome, his sharp assessing gaze seemed to go beyond the surface. She feared her carefully constructed façade was in terrible danger of melting away like face paint in the sun.

“Doctor Caleb Fairbanks at your service.” He gave a slight bow. He’d dropped his angry tone, but it was his crooked grin that made her lower her weapon. “I guess we had ourselves what you might call a misunderstanding.”

“I’m Molly Hatfield and this is my brother, Donny.” She
moistened her lips—a mistake as it only drew his gaze to her mouth. She lifted her chin, hoping he wouldn’t notice her blush. “You nearly scared the life out of us.”

“I have to say, ma’am, the feeling was mutual.” He sounded sincere and not at all threatening.

“I—I apologize for what I did to your . . .” Her gaze drifted to his vehicle. Horseless? She swung her gaze back to the man’s square face. “But if you go around making loud popping sounds, you can expect to be shot at.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Apology accepted, but I’m afraid you’ll find Bertha less forgiving.”

She glanced around but didn’t see anyone else. “Bertha?”

“My motor buggy.”

She stared at the vehicle, not sure what to make of it
or
its tall owner. “You mentioned the LC Ranch. How far is it?” she asked.

He tossed a nod westward. “Just a couple miles up the road. Keep going. You’ll see a sign.” He glanced at her brother before leveling his gaze back to her with a tip of his hat. “I’d best get a move on.” He gave her a broad wink before walking away.

Her mouth dropped open. Of all the nerve! Even the miners of Dobson Creek with all their rough talk and leering looks were never so outrageous as to wink.

Her brother stared at her burning face with reproach. As if the doctor’s blatant gesture was her fault.

“What?” she snapped.

“Nothing.”

Sighing, she stored the rifle and grabbed the reins.

The doctor wound his buggy like a mechanical toy, mounted the seat, and drove by them, the motor huffing and puffing. A previously unnoticed dog sat on the seat next to the driver, barking. The horn
made a loud
Ah-ooh-ga
sound and the brazen doctor lifted his hat as he passed.

The strange vehicle took off with astonishing speed, spitting and sputtering like an arthritic man about to take his last breath, and vanished down the road in a cloud of dust.

Chapter 3

D
r. Caleb Fairbanks was still smiling when he reached the LC Ranch. Never could he have imagined meeting up with the likes of Miss Hatfield practically in the middle
of nowhere. She fairly dazzled in that bright purple frock and ridiculous
feathered hat, but it was her sparkling green eyes that left the biggest impression. Those and her pretty round face and nicely shaped mouth.

He only wished she hadn’t shot two holes in his prized automobile. Perhaps the smithy in town could fix it. Anyone driving these machines spent a great deal of time on repairs, and the sooner he got on friendly terms with the owner of the blacksmith shop, the better.

Miss Hatfield was right. If he didn’t get the problem fixed, an unfriendly bullet might very well hit him next time instead of Bertha.

Just as he pulled up in front of the adobe ranch house, his motor backfired again. He switched off the engine. The auto shuddered and gave a final gasp before altogether dying.

“I guess this is it,” he said. His little dog, Magic, tilted his head, one pendent ear cocked, and gazed at him with dark brown eyes, his fluffy tail curled over his back.

The two-story adobe house with its red tile roof, courtyard,
and wraparound verandah was the largest building Caleb had seen since arriving in Cactus Patch. The outbuildings, barn, corrals, and twenty-foot windmill were as well maintained as the house.

A horseman galloped up to Caleb’s vehicle and dismounted. “Who are you and what is this . . . this . . . what gives you the right to bring this rattletrap on my property?”

Much to Caleb’s surprise, it wasn’t a man but a woman dressed in a split riding skirt, masculine shirt, Stetson, and boots. He’d been warned about Miss Walker, owner of the ranch, but nothing had prepared him for her militant demeanor.

“It’s a horseless carriage, ma’am, and I’m Dr. Fairbanks.” He pointed at his dog. “Stay.”

The woman quickly wrapped the reins onto the hitching post and turned. She regarded him from a well-worn face, hands planted firmly on her hips. Wisps of gray hair showed beneath her hat. “What happened to Doc Masterson?”

“He’s retired, ma’am. I’m taking his place.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Retired? That’s ridiculous. The man can’t be more than sixty years old. What’s he going to do with himself?” The way she carried on, one might think the man was but a babe-in-arms.

“He never told me. Just said he wanted to go back home to Kansas.”

Despite her advanced age, which he guessed to be somewhere in the midsixties, she stood perfectly tall and straight, easily reaching his shoulders in height. She displayed none of the round shoulders or stiff joints he’d observed in many women her age.

“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor,” she said, her voice sharp as a snapping whip.

It was a comment he’d heard countless times before. A doctor’s ability was often judged on the basis of a gray or balding head. So far
neither his medical degree nor experience had resulted in a single strand of silver, and his chestnut hair remained as full as ever.

“I’ll be thirty-one come November,” he said.

Miss Walker glared at him like a schoolmarm scolding a pupil. “Have you ever had arthritis or gout? Or even a pain in your sacroiliac?”

“No, ma’am, can’t say that I have.”

Her lip curled. “Then how do you expect to treat such conditions?”

“The same way a person like yourself knows how to deliver a calf without giving birth to one,” he drawled. He meant no disrespect but he didn’t know how else to answer her.

“I see.” She looked him up and down. Was that reluctant approval in her gaze or wishful thinking on his part? “Do yourself a favor, young man. Get a horse.”

Caleb slapped Bertha’s shiny side. “This is like having two horses, ma’am.”

“It’s noisy and smelly and I won’t have such a thing on my property.” She whirled around and walked away. “What are you waiting for? We’re wasting time. Show me what you can do.”

Caleb grabbed his leather bag from the seat of his vehicle, gave his dog another order to stay, and ran to catch up with the ranch owner. Not only did she dress and talk like a man, she walked as quickly as one too.

She led him into the barn. The smell of fresh hay offered a pleasant contrast to Bertha’s odor of oil and burning rubber.

She stopped in front of a stall that held a red roan. “This is Baxter.”

Caleb was momentarily speechless. Obviously the woman meant it when she said to get a horse.

“I’m afraid purchasing a horse at this time is out of the question, but—”

“Purchasing!” She narrowed her eyes. “This is
my
horse and there’s something wrong with him. I summoned Dr. Masterson to tell me what it is.”

Caleb rubbed his chin. It seemed like a day for misunderstandings. “I . . . I fear there’s been a mistake. I’m a
medical
doctor. I treat humans.”

“If you are indeed what you say you are, then you treat infections and disease. This animal is suffering from one, if not both.”

Caleb could see that. The horse looked at them with dull eyes, nostrils flared. He also appeared to be trembling.

“He’s not eating and he’s been lying down,” she added.

Just then one of the cowhands joined them. Miss Walker introduced Caleb in a no-nonsense voice. “Fairchild, meet Ruckus.”

“That’s Fairbanks,” Caleb said, shaking the man’s hand. “
Doctor
Fairbanks.”

“This man claims to be a doctor, though he’s only thirty,” Miss Walker added.

“The same age as the Lord was when he started ministering,” Caleb said.

Ruckus grinned. Obviously, he was used to the cantankerous ranch owner. Caleb guessed from the man’s strong grip that he was somewhere in his midforties, though his craggy face and leathery skin made him look older. He had a horseshoe mustache and a crooked nose, most likely the result of someone’s misplaced fist.

“What happened to Doc Masterson?” Ruckus asked.

“Retired,” Miss Walker said. “Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?”

Ruckus shrugged. “I reckon more people would retire if they
lived long enough, but out here if a bullet don’t get you the weather likely will.”

Caleb hoped the ranch hand talked in jest, though nothing in his demeanor suggested it.

Miss Walker ran her hand along her horse’s neck. “Well? Don’t just stand there. Do something.”

Caleb set his bag on the ground away from the horse and opened it. Dr. Masterson had warned him about the old lady and told him to get on her good side. He wondered if such a thing existed. Out of habit he reached for his stethoscope, then thought better of it.

“Let’s have a look.”

He ran his hands along the roan’s sweaty flanks. A horse’s pulse is normally slower than a human’s, but Baxter’s pulse was elevated.

Ruckus hooked his thumbs onto his gun belt. “You won’t find anything. No founder, no nothin’.”

That’s what Caleb was afraid of. Carpeted with a thick layer of fresh straw, the stall was spotless with plenty of hay and water. This was a well-cared-for horse and his caretakers weren’t likely to let a common disorder slip by without notice. Whatever ailed the gelding was probably something uncommon.

He’d doctored many animals in his youth and once considered going into veterinary medicine. He soon learned, however, that working with animals took a great deal of guesswork. He much preferred working with patients able to voice complaints and describe symptoms.

He flexed each leg and examined each hoof, watching Baxter’s reaction. Nothing.

He checked the horse from one end to the other. None of the animals he worked with in the past had anything seriously wrong with them, and he hoped the same was true for Baxter. It wouldn’t
look good if the first patient he treated upon arriving in Cactus Patch should die.