Dawn Comes Early (5 page)

“What about that up ahead? Is that a mirage too?” She pointed to a carpet of green that offered a pleasing contrast to the miles of arid land they'd passed.

“Nope, that's real. Two hundred acres of alfalfa and red-top clover. Up ahead is the ranch house.” He clicked his tongue and flapped the reins, and his horse picked up speed.

At the first building they reached, he brought the wagon to a stop and set the brake. Jumping from his seat he hurried to Kate's side. Hands around her waist, he lifted her to the ground as if she were weightless.

His horse drank from the water trough next to the largest windmill Kate had ever seen. The sucker rods made a swishing noise as they rose and fell in the well casing. The metal teeth of the gears scraped and grated as the windmill drew water from the depths of the earth.

Homer stuck his long nose in the trough and drank with loud lapping sounds. Mr. Adams filled his canteen directly from the wooden tank that no animal could reach and handed it to her. Next to the hot air, the water tasted cool and sweet.

“Miss Tenney, I want you to meet your new friend, Adam,” he said, introducing her to the windmill.

She tilted her head back to look up. “I didn't know windmills had names.”

“There're more than fifty windmills on this here property and they all have names. If one gets into trouble you just yell out its name and everyone knows where to go. This here was the first windmill on the ranch.”

“Is Adam named after your family?” she asked.

He laughed. “Nope, the first man in the Bible gets that honor. We had nothin' to do with it.”

“It's huge.” At least twenty feet wide, it was much larger than any windmill in Boston.

He nodded. “It has to be. It's pullin' water from hundreds of feet down. We don't get much rain so we have to depend on wind for water.”

“I always liked Longfellow's ‘Windmill.' I can't remember the words exactly, but he wrote that the windmill faced the wind as bravely as a man meets his foe.”

“Never heard of a Longfellow windmill. Most of the ones around here were made by the Wolcott Union Windmill Company.”

“Oh, but Longfellow's not a . . . a very well-known company.”

“Probably why I never heard of it.”

“Yes . . . well.” She raised her voice. “I'm pleased to meet you, Adam.”

In response, the spinning sails turned toward the wind with a creaking sound. Homer, wanting to play, barked and wagged his fluffy tail.

“Come on, we're almost at the ranch house,” Mr. Adams said.

She stopped to run her hand along his horse's slick neck. It was a reddish horse with white markings. “What's his name?” she asked.

“Bacon.”

She smiled. “I wrote an essay on Bacon in college.”

“Seems like a strange subject to write about,” he said.

“A strange . . . oh.” She blushed. “I was referring to Sir Francis Bacon, the English philosopher.”

His mouth quirked but only briefly. “Named him Bacon because that's what he looks like.” He raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Do you easterners name animals after philosophers?”

“Not always,” she said, and because she wanted to return to their earlier rapport added, “Neither do we name our animals after breakfast fare.”

His serious expression disappeared, but the smile she hoped for failed to materialize. “Come on, we better get you to the ranch house.”

He walked by her without another word and climbed into the driver's seat. Had she offended him or had she only imagined his sudden curt manner? She watched him warily as she took her seat by his side.

Not that his abrupt change of mood surprised her. Men were unpredictable. It was part of their nature. One moment they could seem all friendly and kind, and the next . . . She shuddered and pushed the thought away but remained circumspect. If she'd learned nothing else in her twenty-nine years, it was never to let down her guard where men were concerned.

From early childhood people had drifted out of her life, never to return. Her father walked out on her and Mama when she was only five, but others had deserted her as well, including her grandfather, who had disapproved of her mother's fondness for alcohol and men. For that reason Kate had conditioned herself not to get too close to anyone, so she'd never had many friends.

Protecting herself had come with a price, of course, requiring her to trade hurt for loneliness, but it was the best she could do. Between the harsh desert land and the uncertainties that lay ahead she welcomed the blacksmith's acquaintance, however tenuous.

After passing a horse corral, large barn, bunkhouse, and various outbuildings, Mr. Adams pulled up in front of a two-story U-shaped adobe ranch house with a low-hip tile roof. The covered porch was supported by wooden columns and ran the length of the house. It provided the only shade Kate had seen since arriving in town, a pleasing sight.

A brick courtyard was hugged on three sides by the house and protected in front by a low adobe wall. An ornate metal gate stood open and looked surprisingly inviting.

Mr. Adams helped her down from the wagon, his work-hardened hands strangely comforting around her small waist. Nonetheless, she moved away the moment her feet touched ground and stared at the ranch house. It was larger than she'd imagined, larger even than the grand houses in Boston's south end, and perfectly maintained.

She brushed off her skirt, threw back her shoulders, and swallowed hard to brace herself. She hadn't come all this way to let a few quivering nerves get the best of her.

Mr. Adams leaned against the wagon with folded arms. “I can take you back to town now, ma'am. It would save you from havin' to hitch a ride back tomorrow or the next day.”

It took her a moment to understand his meaning. “Are you saying that I'm not going to make it here?”

“None of the others have. The longest anyone stayed was a week, but that woman was a workhorse.”

Irritated that he so easily assumed she'd fail without knowing anything about her, she tossed back her head. He wasn't the first man to underestimate her, but if she had anything to say about it, he would be the last.

“I won't be needing a ride back to town, but thank you for your concern.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself, ma'am.” He nodded his head toward the back of the wagon. “I'll bring in your trunk.”

Something in his voice reminded her that he had been obliged to pick her intimate garments off the street. Blushing, she turned quickly to hide her face and walked to the open gate.

Knowing he watched, she moved with quick, confident steps that belied her shaking knees, tightly clenched stomach, and dry mouth. Reaching the oversized carved wood door, she tugged on the bellpull with damp hands and glanced back. He stood where she left him, doubt written all over his handsome square face. Gritting her teeth, she gave the bellpull another tug.

From deep inside came the sound of chimes, and after a short wait, a Mexican girl flung open the door.

“I'm Kate Tenney,” Kate said by way of introduction. “Miss Walker is expecting me.”

“My name Rosita,” the girl replied in halting English. Kate guessed that she was probably in her late teens. She wore a gray dress and white apron, her black hair tucked beneath a white ruffled cap. “Miz Walker back soon. Hurry, hurry.” She motioned Kate inside and slammed the door shut.

“Flies,” she explained.

“Oh.” Relieved at not having to face the ranch owner immediately, Kate glanced around the large entry hall, which was as cool as it was dim. Adobe brick walls, partly covered by a colorful Indian rug, rose from a red tile floor. The house smelled of furniture polish, old wood, brass, and just a hint of freshly baked bread. The bread reminded Kate that she hadn't had a bite to eat since breakfast, and her stomach growled.

A sweeping staircase led to the second floor, and Rosita was halfway up before Kate realized she was expected to follow.

Upon reaching the second-floor landing she couldn't resist glancing over the polished wood banister to the huge foyer below. Mr. Adams had not yet brought in her trunk. Was he really so certain that she wouldn't last? That she would quit before she'd even begun?

Something—a movement, perhaps a shadow—made her lean forward for a better look, but all remained still. Whoever it was had quickly stepped out of sight. No doubt a curious resident or employee.

Rosita led her down a long narrow hall past a small room with a toilet but no tub.

She opened a door toward the end of the hall and motioned Kate inside. The room was light and airy and surprisingly cool. A four-poster bed piled high with pillows and spread with a colorful quilt promised a good night's sleep, the first since leaving Boston. A mahogany lift-top desk stood in a corner next to a tall wardrobe. An oak washstand containing a porcelain basin and water pitcher was centered on the wall opposite the bed, next to a freestanding gilded mirror. The town, ranch, and surrounding area fell far short of her expectations, but the room was everything she could hope for and more.

“When you ready Señorita Walker meet you downstairs.”

“Thank you,” Kate said. “Is there a bath—”

The rest of her sentence was met by a closed door. Pulling off her jacket she stepped through the glass door that led to the balcony. Shaded by an overhang, the balcony stretched the length of the building, providing a panoramic view of the ranch and distant mountains.

She grabbed hold of the iron railing, surprised to spot Mr. Adams already driving away, his dog sitting in the seat she had moments before occupied. She had assumed he would bring her trunk upstairs himself.

Disappointed that he'd left before she had a chance to thank him, she watched until only a cloud of dust made by his wagon wheels was visible. Loneliness descended upon her like nightfall and she shuddered. The view outside her window looked every bit as forlorn as her future.

Someone knocked on the door and she hurried to open it. A slender Mexican man dressed in white shirt and pants carried her trunk inside and set it on the floor.

“José,” he said with a grin, pointing to himself. She wondered if this was the person spying on her earlier.

“Pleased to meet you, José. Thank you for bringing my trunk.” When he made no move to leave, she added, “I need to unpack my things.”

“Better wait to talk to Miss Walker. The last one vamoosed before she unpacked.” He grinned and left.

Refusing to be discouraged and anxious to change out of her traveling clothes, she knelt on the floor and opened her trunk. The instant the lid sprung up, her mouth dropped open and she sat back on her heels. Not only had Mr. Adams fetched her belongings off the street, he had neatly folded every last garment.

She picked up a corset and pair of lacy bloomers and held them to her bosom. She imagined his large, capable hands on the satiny fabric and delicate lace. A strange warm and worrisome current flowed through her.

Shaken, she stood and quickly stuffed her garments in a drawer.

Little more than an hour later, Kate walked downstairs mustering every bit of confidence she could manage. After vigorously sponging off dust and train soot, she'd changed into a plain but stylish brown skirt and tailored shirtwaist, then pinned her hair securely into a neat bun. Her appearance would pass muster for a job interview in Boston, but what was acceptable attire for being interrogated as a possible heiress?

Rosita greeted her at the foot of the stairs and showed her to a sitting room. “Wait here.”

The housekeeper left and Kate walked through the open archway, her footsteps bouncing off the clay tile floor. Outside, the house had looked larger than it actually was, probably because of its clean, sweeping lines.

The room had none of the overblown fussiness of Boston parlors. A steer head with wide horns hung over the stone fireplace and seemed to gaze at her as if she were an unwelcome intruder. The walls were adorned with Indian rugs, the bold geometrical designs woven in vivid red and bright turquoise wools. The furniture, which included leather chairs and a matching davenport, was spare but substantial, more intimidating than inviting. Dark wood beams crossed the ceiling.