Dawn Comes Early (34 page)

“I don't see him,” Kate replied.

The marshal glanced around. “We'll get him.” He took his leave with a tip of his hat. “Just remember two
r'
s.”

“Two . . . oh, you mean your name in the book. I'll remember.”

He headed for the refreshments and Kate scanned the crowd yet again. Finding no sign of Cactus Joe, she relaxed, her foot keeping time to the music. The only dance she'd attended previously was during the last year of school just before graduation. It had been a formal affair with none of tonight's boot-stomping gaiety. Here in Arizona whatever you couldn't do well you did loud, and that went double for musicians. The fiddles screeched and harmonicas whined, but no one seemed to care.

Aunt Lula-Belle's husband, Murphy, danced with the grace of a bear fighting off a swarm of bees. Sam and Aunt Bessie simply stood in the same spot, swaying back and forth like the pendulum of a clock, but with less regularity.

Stretch bopped by with a pretty redheaded girl in his arms. He practically doubled over to accommodate his short partner and was obviously telling one of his tall tales.

“It was so windy that the hen laid the same egg three times.”

A few of the other ranch hands shuffled by, feet going every which way, some leading their partners, others being led. Feedbag danced like a man on a bucking horse.

The widow White stared at the dance floor through her lorgnette, holding on to the tortoiseshell handle with a delicately posed gloved hand, her magnified gaze riveted upon Luke and Miss Chase.

Kate followed her gaze, hands curling into fists by her sides. Not that it mattered who Luke danced with. Of course it didn't matter. He could dance with whomever he pleased. It was Miss Chase who irritated her. Never had she witnessed such unseemly behavior from a woman. Why, her laughter could be heard even above the whiny music.

The woman wasn't only brazen, she was downright shameless. Luke wasn't
that
funny. And did he have to look like he was enjoying himself so much? Why didn't the chaperones do something?

“Looks like something's got your dander up,” Michael said by her side.

“What?” She had been so engrossed in what was going on in plain sight of God and everyone that she hadn't seen Luke's brother enter the barn.

“You look like you're ready to stretch someone's neck.”

Embarrassed to be caught staring at Luke and his dance partner, she pulled her gaze away from the couple and focused on Michael. He had shaved and combed his hair, but instead of wearing his Sunday best like the other men, he wore his usual blue denim pants, checkered shirt, and mule-ear boots.

“I didn't expect to see you here,” she said. Michael didn't strike her as the social type, no matter what Luke said. He kept pretty much to himself at the ranch and she thought of him as a loner.

“Gotta do something to relieve the boredom. Been busy shoeing horses and they aren't much company.”

From the dance floor came the sound of Miss Chase's laugh and Michael narrowed his gaze in her direction, his face grim.

Kate studied him. “I read your story and really liked it.”

His head swiveled in her direction, his eyes wide. “Really?” His astonished expression gradually faded into wariness. “You're not just saying that?”

“I mean it, Michael.” His story of a young crippled boy and his dog traveling around the world brought a tear to her eye. “You're a very talented writer.”

Michael turned red, but he looked pleased. “That means a lot. Coming from you.”

“I made a few suggestions and corrected spelling and grammar, but those things are easy to fix. The writing itself . . . Michael, it's beautiful. I think you should send it to the
Saturday Evening Post
.”

She'd sold a few stories to the magazine through the years. Founded in 1821, the
Post
was reportedly in dire financial straits, but it still paid writers more than most publications and was a good place to start.

Michael's face lit up like a bonfire. Grinning, he grabbed her by the waist and brazenly kissed her on the cheek. By the time she recovered from the shock, he had already pulled away.

All eight chaperones sat staring at them. Michael either didn't notice or didn't care. Instead, he indicated the dance floor with a nod of his head.

“Do you think I can pull Miss Chase away from my brother?”

She glanced at him askew. “I know you can write, but can you dance?”

“Not very well.”

“Then you should fit right in.”

Miss Chase's constant laughter had the same effect on Kate as fingernails on a blackboard. Gritting her teeth, she gave Michael a shove. “What are you waiting for?”

Smoothing down the sides of his hair with both hands, he stalked away, looking a whole lot more self-confident than he ever looked with cattle. Moments later Miss Chase had a new dance partner, and judging by her pouty mouth she was none too pleased about it.

Luke made a beeline for Kate. She looked around for a means of escape, but he blocked her way.

“Dance with me.” He held out his hand and waited. His determined stance made it clear that turning him down was not an option. He cocked his head to the side. “Don't worry. I'm not going to grab you and kiss you.”

Her mouth snapped shut. She didn't want to dance with him, didn't want to be that close, but with Aunt Bessie staring at them and the chaperones looking on, denying his request would only create a spectacle. Nevertheless, she hesitated before placing her hand in his.
Just don't let my legs buckle
.

Their last encounter was very much on her mind and, judging by his serious expression, it was very much on his mind too. The kiss she had tried so hard to forget now seemed to stretch between them as if no time had passed since his lips touched hers.

He led her to the center of the barn, and she forced herself to breathe. It was only a dance. She was just being silly. She had nothing to fear from Luke Adams.

Hand on her waist, he waited a beat before pulling her close. She rested a palm on his shoulder and his eyes darkened as he held her gaze. He led her around the floor, his two-step even more graceful than it had looked from a distance. Nothing else seemed to exist. Not the music and certainly not the other couples.

The world was suddenly all about him—the breadth and scent of him, the nearness, warmth, and scope of him. She tried to concentrate on the other couples, but nothing banished the hold he had over her.

In spite of her best intentions, she soon relaxed and enjoyed herself. For now, she just wanted to embrace the moment and pretend it was simply a scene in one of her books.

He twirled her smoothly around the dance floor, in and out of the other couples like ribbons around a maypole. For a man so strong and powerful, he was surprisingly light on his feet.

Her own feet so buoyant they barely touched the floor, she felt weightless and grounded all at the same time. It was as if she and Luke now shared a common breath. But how was that possible? How could two hearts beat as one?

“You look mighty pretty,” he said, his rich, smooth voice a sweet melody in her ear.

Any protagonist worth her salt would think of something charming or witty to say in response, but all she could manage was a murmured, “Thank you.” She quickly added, “It's a lovely party.”

He nodded in agreement. “My aunt knows how to show people a good time.” After a moment he said, “I looked for you after church Sunday, but you'd already left.”

Her heart took an unexpected lurch. He had looked for her? “It's a b-busy time at the ranch,” she stammered. “We had to rush back.”

His gaze sharpened and heat rose up her neck to her face. Desperate to change the subject, she said, “How are the puppies?”

His infectious smile melted away her defenses and she grinned back at him. “Growing by leaps and bounds,” he said. “You should feel honored. Homer allows very few people near his pups.”

She didn't want to think about a dog protecting its family. That only brought back painful memories of her childhood and how no one thought to protect her. Her mind scrambled for a way to fill in the sudden silence.

“Your brother looks like he's having a good time.” When Luke made no comment she added, “Ruckus is pleased with the way he shoes horses. He even fixed one of the windmills.”

“He doesn't much like smithing, but he's got a knack for it,” Luke said. “He's been a real help.”

On safer ground now, she spoke freely. “He's a gifted writer.”

“Writing don't seem like a very good way to make a living,” Luke said.

His comment came as no surprise. Luke worked with iron and steel, tangibles that could be molded by heat and shaped by an anvil. Words could be shaped, too, but not with fire or hammer. A writer's skill was so much more subtle, requiring prudent choices and careful arrangement of sentences and ideas.

“I can think of several writers who would disagree with you,” she said. Robert Louis Stevenson and Stephen Crane came to mind, as did Mark Twain. She never thought to come close to that kind of success. Few women authors ever did.

“Do you really think he's that good?” As if to make sure they were talking about the same person, he added, “Michael?”

“I do.”

He pulled her a tad closer, his breath in her hair sending warm shivers racing down her spine. She closed her eyes and, for several turns around the dance floor, unspoken words seemed to flow between them as meaningful as if they'd been given voice.

The fiddlers finished their lively tune and immediately launched into a mournful song about lost love. Some couples left the dance floor, but she and Luke kept dancing, although at a slower pace.

He looked deep into her eyes. “What you said . . . about not seein' each other.”

She swallowed hard. “I can't think about anything but the ranch.” She then went on at great length about the ranch and all that she'd learned in recent weeks. “I don't know anything about the business side yet, but Miss Walker is expecting some eastern buyers next month and said I can sit in on the meeting.”

He listened intently with knitted brow. “Does the ranch really mean that much to you?”

His question was not too surprising. Most men had a hard time understanding why a woman might wish to pursue a profession. “Of course it does.”

“Why?” He studied her. “Why take on that much responsibility? It's hard work even for a man.”

It was hard, harder than she'd ever thought possible. “Miss Walker seems to manage.”

“Miss Walker doesn't strike me as a very happy woman.”

She'd once held a similar opinion, but that was before she came to know the woman. “I don't think she sees it that way. The ranch is her life.”

He rested his chin on her head and she swallowed the lump that suddenly rose to her throat. How did he always manage to do this to her? To confuse her and make her question her own heart?

By the time he drew back to look at her, she'd regained control enough to smile up at him.

“And is it yours?” he asked, looking straight at her. “The ranch? Is it your life?”

She refused to look away. “It is,” she said. Land was forever, and at this point in her life, she needed something that was lasting. Something she could count on.

He studied her for a moment. “I aim to make you change your mind.”

“Not possible
.” Just don't look at me like that. Stop tempting and confusing me. Stop making me wish things were different
.
Stop being you
.

“Maybe not, but I have to try. It's gonna be in my language, not yours.”

She frowned. “My language?”

He nodded. “I never had much schooling. There was no school in Cactus Patch when we moved here from Texas. My aunt tried to get me to practice readin', but I was more interested in hangin' out with my uncle at the shop. I'm not much good with fancy words.”

“I don't imagine you have much need for fancy words in your line of work.”

The music stopped and so did they. “My line of work?”

Confused by his sudden withdrawal, arms to his sides, she explained, “I don't imagine that linguistics is required for blacksmithing.”

“Drat, Kate, why do you always make everything so difficult? I'm trying to tell you that I . . . I . . . fancy you.”

“I don't think we should—”

Her words were cut off by a high-pitched squeal and the sudden appearance of Miss Chase, who shamelessly grabbed Luke's arm. “Come on, Lukey, they're playing my favorite song.”

Sure enough, the fiddlers played again and couples poured back onto the dance floor like ants at a picnic.

“‘Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay!' is your favorite song?” Kate asked. As much as she tried to sound pleasant, her voice was thin with dislike.

Miss Chase's smile failed to reach her eyes. “Better that than the ‘
Spinster
Polka.'”