Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) (7 page)

Molly grabbed the pot of coffee and yawned. She couldn’t help it. She’d hardly slept from worrying about Donny. Several times during the night she’d lit the oil lantern and tiptoed through the quiet house to his room. Only upon hearing his steady breathing could she relax enough to creep back to her own bed.

Donny wasn’t the only reason she couldn’t sleep. A night cough that started during the fire kept her awake and none of the usual remedies worked. Her throat still felt parched.

It was more than just lack of sleep that had her yawning. It was getting up at four in the morning and having to be ready to work at five.

She lifted the lids off the covered metal pans arranged on the buffet in the formal dining room. No one else was around and the long table for twelve looked anything but inviting.

The flapjacks, scrambled eggs, and bacon smelled good, but who could eat at such an ungodly hour? It was all she could do to force the strong bitter brew down her throat before she headed out the door.

To make matters worse, outside it was cold as a well-digger’s knees. Her baggy shirt offered little protection from the chill, even with its long sleeves.

The sun had yet to rise and the sky was dull as tarnished silver. Following the sound of male voices, she turned the corner of the barn and a group of men turned to gape at her. One man gave a low whistle. Another’s eyebrows disappeared beneath the brim of his high-crown hat.

One cowpoke’s eyes practically bulged out of his weathered face. He scratched his temple, frowned, and cleared his throat. “They call me Ruckus.”

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Molly Hatfield and I’m Miss—”

“I know who you are.” He turned to the other men, all still gaping at her. “This here is Miss Walker’s new heiress. Name’s Miss Hatfield. Same rules apply as before. No cussing in the lady’s presence.”

The men whistled, clapped, and whooped until a man pointed
his pistol at the sky and fired. A hawk took off from atop the barn, horses whinnied, and a cattle dog barked in the distance, but the men all fell silent.

Ruckus walked around the circle saying each man’s name out loud. The man who’d shot the pistol was O.T. “That there is Stretch,” he said, indicating the man she’d met the day before. He was the tallest of the bunch. “I reckon you won’t disremember him.”

Stretch tipped his hat. “And I ain’t likely to disremember her.”

Wishbone swept off his hat when he was introduced, his legs so bowed he looked like he was sitting on an invisible horse. Mexican Pete kicked Wishbone in the behind, sending him sprawling to the ground. It was a jovial group and reminded Molly of Saturday night at Big Jim’s Saloon when everyone was in a festive mood and ready to have a good time after a week’s hard labor.

Ruckus then surprised Molly by leading the group in prayer. Molly followed Ruckus’s lead and lowered her head respectfully. The last time she’d prayed in a group was three years ago when that awful cave-in trapped several miners. The entire town had turned out to hold vigil and pray—for all the good it did them. The fact that these cowhands thought to start the day with prayer was unsettling to say the least. Was ranch work so dangerous that they needed to pray every day?

After the others walked away, Ruckus explained her duties. “Me and the boys have some branding to do, but you ain’t up to that yet.”

He sent her to the horse corral to meet with a man named Brodie, who barely bothered looking up when she introduced herself. Instead, he kept his gaze on a large black horse bucking around in a circle, kicking up its hind legs.

The horse trainer was a compact man, his long sandy hair tied at the base of his neck with a piece of rawhide. A scraggly beard
covered the lower half of his face while sharp, observant brown eyes commanded the upper. She guessed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties.

“What do you know about horses?” he asked in a voice made gravelly by tobacco.

“I know how to ride.” She tossed a nod at the mustang. “What’s the matter with him?”

“Not a thing.” Brodie spit out a stream of brown juice. “That’s the first time he’s been saddled. His name’s Lightning.”

Lightning raced toward the fence and Brodie snapped his whip. That stopped the horse from jumping but not from running.

A Mexican cowhand walked by. “
Muy mala
,” he called out. Very bad.

“Not bad,” Brodie called back. “Just spirited.” The Mexican shrugged and kept going.

Lightning slowed as he made the turn and headed toward them. Brodie slapped his whip against the ground and the horse gave a double hock kick and picked up speed.

Brodie nodded toward the animal. “His nature is to run when confronted with something new. He’s gotta learn that runnin’ will do him no good. I’m his last chance. He don’t make it with me, he don’t make it with no one.”

He tossed her a pair of buckskin gauntlets and handed her a second whip. “Stand over there by that gate and make sure he don’t escape.”

Slipping her hands into the leathery softness, Molly crossed to the gate. The horse stopped running, pawed the ground, and turned in a circle as if chasing his tail. The saddle remained secure.

“Yee-ow,” Brodie yelled. Lightning ran by him and Brodie responded by cracking the whip against the horse’s heels. He then
chased after the horse, popping his whip each time Lightning tried to climb a fence with his powerful legs.

The horse ran to the far end of the corral and jumped. Smashing into the corral fence he fell, landing on his side with a thump and stirring up a cloud of dust.

Molly stared in wide-eyed horror over gloved fingertips. The man with his yelling and cracking whip obviously didn’t know what he was doing.

Lightning stretched his front legs, pushed out his head, and struggled upright. The horse looked groggy and uncertain.

Brodie grabbed the halter rope and tied Lightning to the fence outside the corral.

“You’re lucky he didn’t break his neck,” she charged, not bothering to hide her anger.

“Or break the neck of a rider,” Brodie said, his demeanor calm. “Let’s hope he learned his lesson.”

Lesson? She frowned. “What would have happened had he jumped over the fence without falling?”

“I would have made him fall,” Brodie said simply. “What he doesn’t learn on his own I’ve got to teach him. That’s my job. A ranch can’t run without well-trained horses.” He tossed a nod toward the open desert. “You never know what you might encounter out there. Could be a rattler. Could be a raging bull, a wolf, or a bandit. A cowboy’s life depends on how his horse reacts to adversity.” He snapped the ground with his whip. “Let’s get to work.”

Molly spent the rest of the morning learning how to turn a wild horse into a tame one. Brodie was a patient teacher, his movements efficient but never hurried. Now that she understood the reason behind his methods, she realized he was firm but never harsh or cruel.

“I learned to train horses in Mexico,” he explained as they
took a midmorning break in the shade of the windmill. He dipped a metal cup into the water tank and drank it down in one gulp. Wiping his whiskered chin with the back of his hand, he continued.

“Mexicans are the best riders. They don’t treat horses like pets. A horse is a cowboy’s partner and it’s all serious.”

“Would it be okay if I ride one of those?” she asked, pointing to a row of saddled horses tied outside the corral. She was a good rider and anxious to check out the ranch.

“Not unless you got yourself a hole ready. I ain’t got time to dig no grave.” He laughed at her expression before explaining, “Ain’t none of them ever been ridden. They’re gettin’ used to saddles and learning how to stand quietly. What you see is a bunch of horses learning patience.” He gave her a cockeyed glance. “I reckon that’s a virtue you know nothing about.”

“I know about patience,” she said. “And what I know, I don’t much like.”

She stared at the next corral over. A black colt held his head to the ground. Keeping his forelegs in place, he moved his back legs sideways in a circle. He then lifted his head and bounded to the other side. What a strange horse.

Brodie followed her gaze. “He’s blind,” he said simply.

Molly frowned. The horse looked so carefree, so vibrant and full of life, it was hard to imagine that anything was wrong with him. “But he looks so . . . happy.”

“Reckon he don’t know any better. Soon as he weans, we’re gonna have to let him go. He won’t be any good around here.”

A surge of protectiveness shot through her. “Let him go? You mean set him free? But he won’t survive.”

Brodie shrugged. “Not my problem. Not yours either. Our job
is to train horses to work. If they can’t do the job, they’re no good to us.”

Molly continued to watch the young horse. How she envied the little fellow’s exuberance. Or maybe it was his ignorance she envied, for he had yet to learn that physical handicaps were often met with cruelty and disdain.

Sensing Brodie watching her, she pulled her gaze away from the colt. “How long have you been training horses?”

“Since I was knee-high to a jackrabbit,” he said.

“They respect you,” she said. “They watch you like a teacher.”

“They’re watching me like a prisoner watches a guard. I’m keeping them from freedom. They figured out my weaknesses long before I figured out theirs. They’ve already figured out yours.”

“What weak—” But already he’d turned his back and walked away.

The morning passed quickly and a distant bell sounded.

“Lunch,” Brodie called from a distance.

She gaped at him. Already? It wasn’t possible. Her heart thudded.
Donny.
She raced to the ranch house as quickly as her unfamiliar pegheeled boots would allow.

How could she have forgotten to get her brother out of bed?

Chapter 7

H
e ran through the grass, the wind in his hair, the sun in his face. He kept running and running as if never to stop. He didn’t know what he was running to or even from, but he had to keep running
because . . .

Donny woke with a start. Fighting to hold on to the dream as long as possible, he didn’t dare move. But the sweet smell of grass and the wind in his hair soon faded away like popping bubbles, along with the rest of his dream. Only the memory of running remained.

Every night it was the same dream. Every morning he woke to the reality of his life. He couldn’t walk, let alone run. He could barely manage to put on his own shirt.

A clanging sound in the distance made him glance at the mechanical clock next to his bed.
Noon.
He couldn’t believe it. No wonder his stomach growled.

Where was Molly? It wasn’t like her to keep him waiting so long. Had something happened to her? The thought sent cold chills down his spine. The Dobson Creek fire made him realize like never before how much he depended on his sister. Without her he couldn’t survive.

Had Molly been injured? Was that why she was so late? What if she never returned? Heart thumping, he hung his head over the side of his bed and dangled his arms, his fingertips barely reaching the floor. Slowly he eased his shoulders over the edge of the mattress. He placed the palms of his hands on the floor. Tears of frustration sprang to his eyes and sweat trickled down his forehead.

Blinking away the moisture, he measured the distance to his wheelchair. It looked like a mile away, though the room was only a few feet wide. He tried pulling himself forward using his arms, but it was no good. He wasn’t strong enough. Feeling helpless as a slug, he gasped for breath.

He’d die rather than let Molly know how much he hated his life, hated being crippled, hated having to depend on her to get him out of bed in the morning and put him there at night. He hated the pitying looks from others—if they bothered looking at him at all.

If only he could escape that dream. Dreaming about running only made his reality that much worse. Sometimes, like today, he wished he were dead.

He was still half on, half off the bed when Molly burst through the door.

“Drat!” Eleanor Walker rested her hands on the pommel of her saddle and stared at the barbed wire fence that someone had cut. The problem was worse than she thought.