Read Online Dawn Comes Early by Margaret Brownley - Free Book Online

if you ain’t sendin’ rain to us, don’t go sendin’ it to no other ranches neither.”
    Kate covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers. She’d never heard anyone speak to God with such informality. It was nothing like the stuffy, drawn-out prayers she was forced to endure while attending Miss Newcomb’s Academy for Young Women.
    An “amen” chorus went around the circle and the men stomped away in different directions.
    Ruckus remained, regarding her with a frown. “You all right, ma’am?”
    â€œYes, I’m fine.” And because he continued to study her, she added, “He prayed for rain.”
    He arched his eyebrows as if surprised by the comment. “Every day. That’s part of our job. Part of your job too.”
    Her gaze wandered across the dry land. “It looks like your prayers haven’t been answered in a while.”
    He shrugged. “Sometimes God answers our prayers slow as wet gunpowder, but sooner or later he gets around to it.” Ruckus made a face. “Some chuckleheaded politicians don’t wanna wait on God. One got a crazy notion to explode dynamite over Texas to make rain. Nine thousand dollars went up in smoke just like that.” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate. “They shot the feathers off a bunch of startled birds but they didn’t make no rain. Only the Forever Man can do that.”
    â€œThe Forever Man?” she asked.
    He grinned. “We all have our barn names. So why not God?” He signaled the end of the conversation with a nod of his head. “The boss lady says I’m to make a rancher out of you.” He looked her up and down and shook his head, his mustache seeming to droop another notch lower. “I reckon we’ll see a whole lotta rain before I succeed.” He turned and walked away. “Time to get to work.”
    Not knowing what else to do, she followed him. He spoke slowly, drawing out each word like one would draw out a sigh, but he walked with quick, long strides and it was all she could do to keep up.
    He led her to the side of the barn. “Mexican or Western?” he asked.
    She glanced at his profile. Was he joking? Mexican? With her blond hair? “I’m American,” she said with more than a little patriotic pride. “Born and raised in Boston.”
    â€œGod, give me strength,” he muttered. He yanked a door open and led her into a dim room. “I’m talkin’ about saddles.”
    â€œOh,” she said, cheeks flaming. Biting her lower lip she glanced around. Never had she seen so many saddles in one place.
    He pushed his hat to the back of his head and regarded her as he might a wayward child. “You do ride, right?”
    â€œYes,” she said. She took riding lessons at Miss Newcomb’s Academy, though she never was much good at it. Living in Boston with its hansom cabs and horse-drawn streetcars made horseback riding a luxury more than a necessity.
    â€œSo what saddle did you use?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me it was English.”
    â€œOh no,” she said. Miss Newcomb would never approve such a thing. “It was sidesaddle.”
    His eyes popped open. “Are you telling me you ain’t been on a real saddle?”
    Her heart sank. “I . . . I . . .” Miss Newcomb had strictly forbidden anyone to do anything as gauche or unladylike as to ride astride. “I’m afraid not.”
    â€œDoes the boss lady know this?”
    â€œWe never discussed the saddle,” she said, quickly adding, “but I’m a fast learner. I learned to type in less than two weeks and I could recite Tennyson’s ‘Ulysses’ from memory after only two days.”
    Doubt settled in every crevice of his face, even the pockmark at the corner of his eye.
    â€œFar as I know, neither one of them skills will matter much to a horse. Won’t matter much to the cattle