Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (5 page)

“Very well,” he said. This time he didn’t wink. He simply turned and walked with long strides to his horseless carriage.

He took hold of the handle in front and cranked, jumping out of the way when the vehicle roared to life. He then climbed into the driver’s seat next to his barking dog and backed away until the road was clear, allowing her room to turn the wagon around. The doctor honked his horn as she drove by, but she didn’t bother to wave.

He had caused her quite enough problems, thank you very much, and she was happy to see the last of him. Right now her main concern was for Donny.

“Let’s sing,” she said. It was the last thing she wanted to do. Her mouth was dry, her throat parched, and she was bone-tired, but singing never failed to relax Donny and calm his breathing. “Hush, little baby, don’t you cry . . .”

Donny made a face. “Ah, gee. That’s for infants.” He brightened. “Let’s sing ‘Old Man Harrington.’”

“No, absolutely not.”

“Ah, come on, Molly. That’s your best song. You know everyone laughs when you sing it.”

She tossed him a stern look. “It’s not a proper song for a young man to sing and I never want to hear you mention it again.”

“How about this one, then?” Donny could barely get the words out between his ragged breaths. “This one makes people laugh too. O-O-Old man Bill Whit-ey, f-f-fell in a beer keg. What so—”

“Donald Thomas Hatfield!”

Donny tried to laugh but instead he coughed. She nonetheless gave him her best “motherly” look, but she couldn’t remain annoyed at him for long. He was right—it did make people laugh. The song was set to the same English drinking tune as the popular “Star Spangled Banner.” Once, during a saloon fight, angry fists gave way to loud guffaws when she stood on a table and sang it. Even so, she didn’t want her brother singing about drinking.

Donny could be irritating at times, but she loved him dearly. It was her fault he couldn’t walk. Somehow, some way she had to make it up to him—if it took the rest of her life.

Spotting a windmill ahead, she snapped the reins, but the horse lumbered forward at the same slow speed. Never had she seen such an enormous windmill; its slow-turning blades spanned a good twenty feet. She pulled up alongside it, letting the horse drink from the trough while she dipped her empty canteen into the wooden tank out of the animal’s reach. While Donny drank his fill, she spotted a red-roofed ranch house a short distance away.

“There it is,” she said with false cheerfulness. Everything looked so . . . big. The sky, the size of the ranch, the house. She only wished she didn’t have the feeling that her troubles had also grown in size.

Chapter 5

N
o sooner had Molly pulled up in front of the two-story adobe ranch house than a tall thin man with a skinny moustache walked up to her buckboard to greet her.

“Name’s Stretch,” he said, tipping his hat and revealing a mass of black curly hair. “Kin I help you?”

“I’m here to see Miss Walker,” Molly replied, trying to look as dignified as a droopy plumed hat and dusty purple dance hall gown would allow.

“Miss Walker ain’t here right now. We had ourselves some cattle trouble.” His gaze followed the swinging plume of her hat. “You ain’t one a those women lookin’ to be the boss lady’s heiress, are you?”

His skeptical look did nothing for her self-confidence. “I should wait and discuss my business with Miss Walker.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“Would you mind helping me with my brother’s wheelchair?” The chair was awkward and heavy and she would never manage to lift it out of the back of the buckboard by herself. “Also, if you would be kind enough to help my brother out of the wagon, I’d be ever so grateful.” She also needed help with her valise, but she didn’t want to overwhelm the man with her demands.

Stretch glanced at Donny, then stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. He waved to the cowpoke sitting on a wooden fence. “Feedbag! Come here a minute.”

The man called Feedbag hurried over. He had a black square beard that did indeed look like it belonged on the muzzle of a horse. The spurs on his boots made a strange noise when he walked and he wore bat-winged chaps.

“Grab that side,” Stretch said, pointing to the wheelchair. Feedbag cast a curious look at Molly before walking to the back of the wagon. Together he and Stretch grabbed the wheelchair, heaved it over the side of the buckboard, and set it on the ground.

Just then a horseman galloped toward them at full speed. It wasn’t until the rider dismounted that Molly realized it was a woman dressed in a divided brown skirt and man’s plaid shirt. Her gray hair in a bun, she wore a wide-brimmed Stetson and red kerchief.

Stretch whispered, “That’s Miss Walker.”

Molly withered inside. The woman looked even more intimidating than she sounded in her telegram. Molly swallowed hard and forced herself to meet the woman’s steady gaze without flinching. “I’m Molly Hatfield and—”

“I know who you are, but who is that?” She indicated Donny, still seated in the buckboard.

“My brother and—”

“I don’t recall any mention of a brother in your telegram. Furthermore, you are three days late. Anyone without regard for time has no business on a ranch.”

Stretch bobbed his head and the two men lifted the wheelchair back into the wagon with a thud.

Molly hadn’t expected to be dismissed so abruptly and without
so much as an interview. After all she’d been through these last few weeks, she wasn’t about to go without a fight.

“Our train was late and that made us miss our connection. I explained all that in my latest telegram.”

The two men reached for the wheelchair and heaved it over the side of the wagon and back onto the ground.

“If you sent a second telegram, it’s probably in town waiting for one of my boys to pick it up. The telegram I
did
receive said nothing about your brother. Had it done so, I would have saved you the trouble of a trip.”

Warmth crept up Molly’s face. She regretted withholding information, but at the time she hadn’t known what else to do. “I apologize, but I had to bring him with me. I’m the only family he has and I’m responsible for his care.”

“And I’m responsible for two thousand head of cattle.”

“Yes, and my brother and I had occasion to meet some of them on the way here. We were almost trampled to death.”

Miss Walker cocked an eyebrow but offered no apology for her cattle’s poor behavior. “That is precisely why I need someone reliable and trustworthy. If your appearance is any indication, you not only lack those necessary virtues, you also lack judgment and good sense.”

Molly was used to being judged solely on appearances. The socalled Christian women in Dobson Creek wouldn’t even talk to her or her brother. A woman’s virtue was not only determined by behavior but also by the color of her dress. Since Molly wore bright colors
and
worked at a saloon, her reputation suffered on both accounts.

“I assure you I
am
reliable and trustworthy. I’ve supported myself and my brother for the last four years and there aren’t many women who can make such a claim.” She was only seventeen when her
father died, leaving her with no visible means of support. Her looks and voice were her only assets and she used both to good advantage. “That alone should prove I’m reliable. As for my clothes, there wasn’t time to save but a few of our belongings. You probably heard about the terrible fire in Dobson Creek.”

Miss Walker gave no indication of having heard the news. “I’m sorry that you traveled all this distance for nothing. If you hurry, you can reach town before dark and catch the morning train.” She turned and stalked away and the wheelchair was promptly returned to the wagon.

Molly held her arms by her sides, fists tight. And go where? She and Donny had no family, no home, no money—nothing. Still, she’d rather live in a cave than deal with such a coldhearted woman.

She turned back to the wagon, her mind racing. Surely she could get a job at one of the saloons in town. Judging by the wailing sounds she heard while passing through Cactus Patch, they could use a singer like her. Not only did she have no intention of working for the ranch owner, she’d had her fill of cattle, thank you very much!

One look at her brother stopped her in her tracks. His face was gray and his lips blue and he didn’t breathe as much as gasp for air.

A protective surge shot through her. It was no time to think of her wounded pride. She swung around and called after the ranch owner, “That’s it? You’re sending me away just like that?”

Miss Walker turned, her cold gray eyes leveled on Molly. It was obvious she was not used to being challenged.

“Have you the slightest idea what it takes to be a rancher? It takes tenacity and hard work. This land will demand everything you have to give and then some. It means sleepless nights and endless days. It means fighting droughts, flash floods, cattle rustlers, and unstable markets. It means doing the impossible on a regular basis.
What have you ever done to make me think you can succeed against such odds?”

What had she done? What had she done!
“I ran into a burning building to save my brother when no one else would,” she replied.

“I commend you, but that hardly qualifies you to run a ranch.”

Molly’s heart squeezed and she thought fast. Her brother’s welfare depended on her. “I was a dance hall girl in Dobson Creek,” she said with a resolute nod.

A look of disbelief suffused Miss Walker’s face. “A
dance hall
girl? You mean you sang and—”

“Danced,” Molly said. That was all she did, which was why she got so little pay.

Miss Walker heaved herself to her full height. “And how does singing and . . . dancing prove that you have the tenacity for ranching?”

Molly forced herself to breathe. “I worked at the saloon for four years and”—she glanced at the two men listening, their expressions eager with interest—”and I still managed to keep my virtue.” It was true, no matter what those old gossips said.

Miss Walker stared at her for a moment before laughing, her head thrown back like the lid of a coffeepot. Even Stretch and Feedbag joined in.

“That’s a good one,” Feedbag said, punctuating his guffaws by slapping his thigh.

Molly couldn’t tell by Miss Walker’s amusement if she’d scored any points. The two men, however, must have thought things had turned in her favor, for they reached into the wagon for the wheelchair.

Miss Walker stopped laughing, but her dubious expression didn’t give Molly much hope. “How old are you?” she asked, her voice abrupt.

“Twenty-one.”

“You do know from my telegram that I would require you to sign a document forbidding marriage.”

Stretch and Feedbag held the wheelchair between them, waiting for Molly’s reply.

“I do.”

Miss Walker arched a brow. “You strike me as a woman who is”—she raked her gaze up and down the length of Molly’s form—”appealing to men, virtue or no virtue. You certainly dress provocatively enough. So why would you agree to sign a document forbidding you to marry?”

Molly had no trouble answering that question. “A woman caring for a crippled brother has no chance of landing a husband. The moment a man finds out about Donny, he runs the other way.”

“I see.” Miss Walker glanced at Donny before turning her gaze back to Molly. “And I assume you know this for a fact?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve had twenty-two marriage proposals in all. Soon as I told them about Donny, every last man took off like a mule with his tail on fire. Didn’t matter if they were young or old, none of them wanted the added responsibility.”

Miss Walker pursed her lips and thought for a moment. “Your loyalty to your brother is commendable.”

“I’ll be equally loyal to you and the ranch. All I ask is that you give me a chance.”

Miss Walker scrutinized her. “How do you propose to take care of your brother
and
keep up your duties?”

“Donny only needs help getting in and out of bed. He’s quite capable of taking care of himself throughout the day.” That wasn’t true—God forgive her—but she didn’t dare reveal the full extent of Donny’s needed care. At least not yet.

Donny nodded in agreement and Molly felt a tug of her heartstrings. Though he was very much against coming to the ranch, no one would ever guess it by his beseeching expression.

Miss Walker studied Donny for a moment and brushed a wayward strand of hair away from her face. “I’ll probably regret this, but I’ll let you stay.”

“Thank you, I—”

“I don’t want thanks—I want blood and sweat.” The ranch owner’s gaze slid the length of Molly like a dressmaker measuring for clothes. “I generally give candidates a set time period to prove themselves. I’ll give you till mid-September to show me you’re as capable of learning the ranching business as you are at protecting your virtue.”

One of the men laughed but Miss Walker ignored him. “If by some . . . miracle . . . you succeed, we’ll discuss the terms of our agreement. Until that time you’ll be paid less than the normal salary to make up for your brother’s room and board.”

The wheelchair landed on the ground with a thud and both men brushed their hands together. Stretch grabbed the valise and set it next to the chair.