Dawn Comes Early (21 page)

“I don't think vultures generally carry folks away. Least not that I heard.”

“There's a first time for everything,” she said with a stubborn nod of her head.

“Come along,” he said. “I think you've had enough fence mending for today.”

Later that afternoon she walked out of the barn and bumped into Luke—literally. The impact made her drop the rope she was carrying and they both stooped to pick it up, their hands meeting on the braided twine.

She pulled her hand away and quickly rose. He gave her a quizzical look before gathering the rope, coiling it, and handing it back to her.

“Thank you,” she said.

He grinned. “Heard about your run-in this morning.”

“Everyone in Cochise County has heard about my run-in with that hog,” she muttered. The ranch hands hadn't stopped joshing her since she returned to the ranch. She bumped against Luke's arm and she quickly lengthened the distance between them.

“It was a
javelina
,” he said, as if that made a difference. He stared at her with a puzzled frown. “Do I make you nervous?”

The question surprised her. “No, of course not. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “You always act like I'm gonna grab you and kiss you.”

Her mouth dropped open. “The . . . the thought never occurred to me.”

“Oh?” He looked genuinely perplexed. “Why not?”

She stared at him. “Why . . . not?” Did he really expect her to answer such an outrageous question?

“The thought occurred to me. I just wonder why it never occurred to you,” he said.

He thought about kissing her? That meant she hadn't imagined the heated glances that passed between them. They had been real. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Her mouth went dry.

“I . . . I can assure you I'm not the kind of woman who goes around thinking such things.” Her voice sounded haughty even to her own ears, but it couldn't be helped. There could be no misunderstanding between them.

“I'm mighty sorry to hear that, ma'am. Mighty sorry.”

She straightened her shirt. “Yes, well . . .”

“If you don't think about kissing me, then I guess there's no reason for you to be so jumpy around me. 'Less you're worried about makin' that Brandon fellow jealous.”

She stared at him for a moment before recovering from her surprise. “How . . . how do you know about Brandon?”

“That day you arrived and I carried you into my shop. You were half out of your wits and you mistook me for Brandon. Is he a beau or something?”

She shook her head. “He's . . . nobody. I made him up for one of my stories. He doesn't exist.”

Luke scratched his head. “You made him up?”

“It's what writers do,” she said. “Haven't you ever made up anyone? Even as a child? An imaginary playmate, perhaps?”

“No, ma'am. I figure the world's crowded enough without makin' up people.”

“Yes, well . . .”

“So if this Brandon fella doesn't exist, and you don't think about kissing me, I reckon that means you have no reason to be nervous around me, right?”

“Right,” she said.

He hesitated and she feared he would pursue the subject. “I'm not much of a reader but I sure would like to read somethin' you wrote. Maybe somethin' with that Brandon fella.”

Relieved to talk about something else, she said, “I'm afraid it wouldn't be to your liking.” Secretly, it pleased her that he'd asked.

“Because it's literary?” he asked, his voice oddly distant and taut.

She laughed. “Not according to my critics.”

His eyebrows shot up. “It's a good thing critics weren't around when God created the world.”

“I agree.” Her gaze bounced off his lips and she felt her cheeks grow warm. Why did he have to mention kissing? Glancing past him she spotted Miss Walker watching from a distance.

“I . . . I better get back to work.” She turned and walked away as fast as she could without running, but it was a long time before she could breathe normally again.

Luke beat the red-hot metal with a hammer, the sound ringing in his ears.
Twe-rink, twe-rink, twank
. Blacksmithing was physically demanding work and normally he welcomed the manual labor required to shape iron into something usable. Today no amount of pounding relieved his tension. Nor did it get his mind off Kate Tenney.

Flipping the metal over with his tongs he tapped the end. Behind him the forge burned brightly and the mechanical fan emitted a steady hum. Homer was outside but kept poking his nose through the open door as if sensing his master's ill temper.

A vision of blue eyes came to mind and Luke pounded harder. She didn't think about kissing him—least that's what she said. Could've fooled him. He never could figure out the way a woman's mind worked, but she sure did
look
like she wanted to be kissed.

She also said her writing wouldn't be to his liking. Why didn't she just come out and say what she really meant? He didn't have enough book learning to understand what she wrote.

He pounded harder still.

Not that he cared. It was probably some scholarly tome filled with ten-dollar words that only college professors and Greek scholars could understand.

This time he pounded so hard that pieces of hot iron flew off his anvil.

Chapter 18

Many a form bit the dust and a gasp of horror rose to her lips. Then, thinking that Brandon was among the wounded, she fell back in a dead faint.

K
ate sat on her horse watching what looked like sheer chaos. It was the first day of branding and Ruckus didn't mince words. “Once the action begins, stay out of the way!”

It wasn't what Kate wanted to hear. “How am I going to learn if I don't practice?”

Ruckus made a face. “Practicin' brandin' makes as much sense as practicin' for a hangin'. You either do it or you don't.”

The air vibrated with expectation. Men on horses, some from neighboring ranches, waited for the signal to start. Ruckus called some of the older men “use-ta wases.” The younger men he called green hands.

O.T. and Miss Walker had their heads together, their expressions serious.

“What are they waiting for?” Kate had to lift her voice to be heard above the bawling calves separated from their mothers.

Ruckus pointed to the north where dark clouds rolled over distant mountains. Already a few clouds had broken away from the pack to blot out the overhead sun.

“They're worried about rain. You can't brand a wet calf. Not if you want to read the brand.”

“You've been praying too hard, Ruckus,” she called.

Feedbag and Upbeat laughed and Ruckus chuckled.

“Next time I'll be more specific about the timing.”

Stretch said, “At least it's not as hot as it was last year at this time. It was so hot, the hens laid hard-boiled eggs.”

Kate shook her head and grinned. Stretch never ran out of tall tales.

O.T. and Miss Walker moved away from each other and mounted their horses.

“Is it time to start?” Kate asked.

“Not yet,” Ruckus said. “The boss lady gets to down the first calf. It's a Last Chance tradition.”

Kate could feel the tension in the air as all eyes remained on the boss lady.

Miss Walker sat tall in her saddle. From a distance she looked like one of the cowhands, giving no clue to gender or age. She rode her roan around the corral once before racing to the center, rope coiled over her head. Arm circling, she whipped her rope through the air with amazing speed and force, catching a calf by both hind feet. Twisting her lariat around the horn of her saddle, Miss Walker dragged the bawling calf up to the blazing bonfire.

Kate's mouth dropped open in admiration. “I never would have believed that a sexagenarian could do such a thing.”

Feedbag's eyes widened. “The boss lady's a sex . . . ?” He sputtered and his face got all red. He glanced at Miss Walker with awe. “I always knew she was a force to be reckoned with.”

“Oh, I didn't mean . . .”

A loud bawling drowned out the rest of her sentence. The roped calf struggled fiercely, its cries answered by its anxious mother on the opposite side of the fence.

One of the cowpunchers looked between the calf's legs and yelled, “Bull!”

The red-hot branding iron was pressed into the animal's side, leaving a distinctive mark only three inches high. “That smells awful,” she cried, waving her hand in front of her nose.

Ruckus grinned. “That's what we call branding smoke. You'll get used to it.”

It was all done in a blink of the eye.

She leaned over her saddle horn. “The brand is so small. I can hardly read it.”

“By the time the little fella's full-grown, it'll be a foot high,” Ruckus explained. “We used to brand the entire side of a steer, but then we got complaints from leather makers. I guess there was no call for Last Chance boots or saddles.”

Wishbone was the tally keeper. He made a mark on his tally sheet and called out, “One calf.”

The instant Miss Walker's honorary calf had been counted and let go, O.T. yelled, “Let's get rolling.” He waved his hat over his head. “Last year we branded three hundred calves in four hours. Let's see what we can do this year.”

“Here we go,” Ruckus called. “Go!”

Kate was mesmerized by the thunderous mass of horns and hooves in front of her. The smell of hot branding irons, sweaty horseflesh, heated cowhide, and dust made it hard to breathe, and her eyes watered. The air rang with bleating calves, bellowing steer, and exuberant shouts of men.

At first it seemed like chaos but, like everything in the desert, nothing was as it seemed. Branding required precision and timing—like a carefully choreographed dance.

Feedbag ran by her on foot. He threw his right arm around a steer's neck and seized the animal's left horn with his left hand. The beast ran and Feedbag's legs touched the ground in flying leaps—and at one point his legs even flew straight out. It looked like the steer was about to claim victory when at last the animal lost its balance and fell on its side.