Dawn Comes Early (38 page)

F
ive days after the barn dance, Bessie found a box on the kitchen table. It was a plain white box wrapped with a red ribbon and tied with a big fat bow. A card read,
A good old gal if there ever was one. Always, Sam
.

Old gal?
Is that what he thought of her? And why was he giving her a present? Her birthday and Christmas were still months away. That could only mean one thing. Sam was still acting out of guilt.

She quickly pulled off the ribbon and opened the box. It was a pudding pan that matched the skillet and saucepan that Sam had previously given her. Tears sprang to her eyes. After the dance, she had almost convinced herself that Sam had lost interest in the other woman, but this latest enamelware gift proved her wrong.

Mercy, what would be next? A matching teakettle? Anger soon replaced her hurt. After giving Sam the best years of her life, this was how he treated her.

She slammed the pan back into the box, walked into the kitchen, gathered up her skillet and saucepan, and dropped the whole kit and caboodle into the trash. Brushing her hands together, she threw back her shoulders. She would not play second fiddle to some husband-stealing tramp. She had her pride. Granted, she didn't have much left at this point, but what little she did have she intended to keep.

She stormed through the house and into the bedroom. Pulling a battered valise out of the closet, she stuffed it full of her old clothes. She left her new satin unmentionables behind, for all the good they'd done her.

She would not spend another moment under the same roof with that two-timing husband of hers.

In no time at all, she finished packing and harnessed the horse to the wagon. Lula-Belle pulled up in her buggy just as Bessie drove away.

“Where are you going?” Lula-Belle called.

“I'm leaving Sam. I'm going to Marion's.” Their older widowed sister lived in Tucson.

Lula-Belle's eyes grew as wide as the discarded pudding pan, but Bessie had no time to argue with her or spell everything out.

Just then Sam returned from his daily walk. He called to her but Bessie drove right by him like he didn't exist.

She followed the stagecoach road to Tucson, which cut through miles of desert. She would have to spend the night at Mescal, of course, and maybe even a night at Wilmot. She would also have to telegraph Marion to let her know she was coming.

It was hot, but Bessie was too angry and hurt to give it much mind. Forty years she'd given that man. Forty of the best years of her life. She had washed and cleaned and cooked for him. Laughed at his dreadful jokes. Listened to his endless war stories. Picked up after him. And what did she have to show for it? A pudding pan!

So deep were her thoughts that it took her awhile to notice she was being followed. Thinking it was her fool sister, she slowed down, but after spotting Sam in the driver's seat of her sister's buggy, Bessie slapped the reins against her horse's rump, forcing the startled animal to pick up speed.

A few miles later she glanced back, but Sam was still on her tail. “Gid-up!” she yelled. She had nothing to say to him, and at that moment she didn't care if she ever saw him again. God help her.

The road rose over a hill, twisting and turning around outcrops of huge boulders. She didn't chance looking back until she reached the summit. Sam had apparently given up the chase for there was no sign of him. She rested her horse in the shade and let him drink from a natural spring. She dipped her handkerchief in the water and mopped the sweat off her forehead.

Ha! Give up, did he? He chased her long enough to appease his conscience, but he obviously had no intention or interest in catching up with her. Not that she cared. Of course she didn't care. Why would she? After the way he treated her. Still, the least he could have done was try a little harder to catch her. After all the years she'd given him, he could have
acted
like he didn't want her to leave.

She hoisted her skirt and climbed on the rocks to view the road below. In the far distance the eastbound train from Tucson looked like a metal snake, but there was no sign of Sam. Strange. If he wasn't on the way home and he wasn't on the road behind her, then where in tarnation was he?

Worried now, she walked back until she could see the road leading up to where she stood. Nothing. Heart pounding, she ran to her wagon, turned it around, and started back down to the valley below. She then spotted a spinning wheel off the side of the road.

Crying out in alarm, she yanked on the hand brake of her wagon and jumped to the ground. Sam was sprawled in a ditch a few feet from the overturned buggy. Lula-Belle's horse, Jordan, was on his side, squirming. Spotting Bessie, he let out a frantic whinny.

Ignoring the horse, Bessie slid down the embankment and rushed to Sam's side.

“Are you all right?”

He grimaced. “It's just my leg. Take care of Jordan.”

“But—” Torn between seeing to Sam and helping the horse, Bessie tried to think what to do.

“I'm fine.” Sam sounded more annoyed at himself than hurt. “I should have watched where I was going.”

She gave Sam's leg a worried look before scampering toward the distressed animal. “You're all right,” she said soothingly, stroking Jordan's neck.

Once she got the gelding to calm down, she unbuckled the back strap and undid the traces. She moved slowly so as not to startle the fallen animal.

“Be careful,” Sam called. “I don't want you getting yourself hurt.”

Touched by his concern, she stepped back as the horse struggled to his feet. This was the dangerous part. The horse could easily stomp on her with flailing hooves. His eyes looked wild, but fortunately he showed no sign of injury. She led him out of the ditch and tied him to the overturned wagon before returning to Sam's side.

“Let me look at your leg.”

“It's just a twisted ankle,” he said.

She shook her head. “You're an old fool.”

He stared at her from beneath knitted eyebrows. “I'm a fool? What about you? You're the one who's all hung up on that Parker fella.”

Bessie sat back on her heels. “What are you talkin' about? What about Parker?”

“Don't look so innocent,” he charged. “I know you've been seeing him on the sly.”

Shocked by his accusation, it took her a moment to gather her thoughts. “Is that what the fight was about?”

Sam had refused to tell her what caused the fight that ruined the dance, and her annoying nephew was equally closemouthed.

“I couldn't help myself. Knowing that you and him was dilly dallying behind my back made me see red.”

Bessie's temper snapped. How dare he try to wiggle out of this one by placing the blame on her! “Don't you go accusin' me of fooling around when you're the one lollygagging with some other woman.”

Sam's eyes widened in astonishment. “What are you talkin' about? Lollygagging?”

“You don't think I know why you bought me that pudding pan? It's to ease your guilty conscience, that's why. Just like you bought that skillet forty years ago after making eyes at that Mexican woman.”

He frowned. “You knew about that?”

“Yes, I knew about that.”

“I was a young fool back then. But I swear to you I've never looked at another woman since.” He shook his head. “And I sure didn't expect you to go lookin' at another man.”

Bessie stared at him. He actually seemed to believe his own ridiculous accusations. “Why in the world would you think such a thing?”

“You're the one who's been acting all strange. Wearing those slippery undergarments and fancy dresses cut down to your knees.”

“I did that for you. I . . . eh . . . have it on good authority that men like silky things.” She didn't want to admit she'd read one of Kate's dime novels.

“For me? You mean you and Parker ain't—”

“Can't stand the man. Why, the last time I mailed a letter, he tried to overcharge me.”

A smile as wide as the Grand Canyon suffused Sam's face. “I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that. I don't need you to wear no fancy garments. I like you just the way you are. I love you, Bessie Sue, and there's no other woman I'd rather be with.”

“You . . . you still love me,” she stammered. “After all this time?”

“Of course I love you. Do you think I'd waste my money on pots and pans if I didn't?”

“Oh.” Tears sprang to her eyes and his face turned all buttery.

“Come here,” he said and held out his arms. She melted next to him and he groaned in pain. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously.

“I'm fine,” he said. “Just be careful of my shoulder and leg and arms and . . .”

She leaned over and kissed him square on the mouth. Fortunately there was nothing wrong with his lips. Not one single thing.

Mercy. Her body didn't just tingle. It shivered and quivered like Lula-Belle's homemade jelly, all the way down to her very toes.

Chapter 32

L
uke was pleasantly surprised to find Aunt Bessie and Uncle Sam acting like a couple of lovebirds on Sunday. Good news for them, bad news for him.

Now that his aunt had worked out her problems with Uncle Sam, she obviously planned to devote all her energy to finding wives for her nephews. Since Michael wasn't able to get away from the ranch because of some windmill problem, she apparently intended to zero in on Luke. No sooner had the five of them, including both aunts and uncles, sat down to noon dinner than she started.

“So have you seen Miss Tenney since the barn dance?” she asked, reaching for a bowl of fluffy white potatoes.

“No, I haven't,” Luke replied, surprised at the sharpness of his voice. He stabbed at a piece of roast beef and passed the platter to Uncle Murphy. He hadn't meant to snap at his aunt. For all her meddling, she meant well. By way of apology he gave her a sheepish smile.

“I'm happy to see the two of you are getting along,” he said in an effort to get her mind off Kate.

It had cost his uncle a swollen ankle, cracked rib, dislocated shoulder, and some mean-looking bruises, but he claimed it was a small price to pay for saving his marriage.

Aunt Lula-Belle scooped a mound of potatoes onto her plate and passed the dish to Luke. “It was that book that started all the trouble.”

Aunt Bessie gave her sister a meaningful look. “Now, Lula-Belle—”

Lula-Belle glared back at her. “Well, it was.”

Luke shoveled up a spoonful of potatoes and looked from one aunt to the other. “What book?”

Lula-Belle ignored her sister's warning. “The book that Miss Tenney wrote. Bessie read it.” She stuck up her nose and shuddered in distaste. “Every . . . single . . . word.”

Luke's hand froze halfway to his plate. He had no idea Aunt Bessie read anything Kate had written. Since when had his aunt been interested in philosophy? Luke could hardly contain his curiosity. Not only was he anxious to hear more about Kate's books, he also wanted to know what was behind the dagger looks flying back and forth between his two aunts.

He turned his gaze to Aunt Bessie. “I . . . I thought she wrote for Greeks or monks or something.”

“Oh no,” Aunt Bessie exclaimed, glaring at her sister. “The book is in English.”

Aunt Lula-Belle leaned forward, her tight curls bouncing up and down like little metal springs. “And you won't find Miss Tenney's book in a monastery. At least I hope not. Any monk reading such goings-on would be shocked into breaking his vow of silence. She writes
dime
novels.”

Luke stared at his aunt in astonishment. Dime novels? Kate was so reluctant to talk about her writing, he assumed she wrote literary stuff. It never occurred to him that she wrote what some people called
cheap
fiction. Still couldn't believe it.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Quite sure,” Lula-Belle said. She lowered her voice and glanced around as if checking for eavesdroppers. “And one of them was banned in Boston.”