Read Online Dawn Comes Early by Margaret Brownley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Brownley
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enormous animal, she grabbed the reins tightly, heart pounding, and was afraid to breathe. Seated upon a horse clothespin-style didnât seem natural.
âGet down and try again,â Ruckus said.
Getting off the horse wasnât any easier than getting on, but she was determined to prove she could do it. Once both feet were on the ground she sprang up and down to give herself momentum. Ruckus moved toward her. In her haste to keep him from touching her again, she bounced up with such force she settled into the saddle with a thud.
Startled, Decker arched his back, kicked up his back legs, and took off running.
âOhhhhhhhhhhh,â she cried. Her hat flew off and she flopped around in the saddle like a rag doll, gripping on to the reins for dear life. âHe-e-e-elp!â
Chapter 6
E leanor stared at the white pine coffin, her divided skirt flapping against the top of her boots in the early morning breeze. The first warm rays of the sun trickled down the mountain like melted butter over freshly baked rolls. Though this was her favorite time of day, she never grew tired of watching the ever-changing colors of the desert as the sun journeyed across the sky.
The only sound breaking the silence was O.T. digging her ex-husbandâs grave. His real name was Chip Mason, but she called him O.T. like the others did. Heâd worked at the ranch for fifteen years, a record. Working on a cattle ranch was hard work and most cowmen didnât last for more than seven or eight years, ten tops.
At age twenty O.T. had managed to escape a Texas hanging for killing a man, which to this day he claimed was self-defense. For some reason Eleanor believed him. Sheâd given him a chance to prove himself by working hard and staying out of trouble, and he had done exactly that many times over.
A compact man with a weathered, clean-shaven face, he was the best wrangler who ever worked at the ranch. He never met a challenge he didnât like, and she had a corral of former wild horses to prove it. More than one rancher tried to steal him away by offering higher wages, but fortunately O.T. was more loyal than ambitious. Or maybe he was just grateful that she had given him a job when he was down on his luck.
Even at age thirty-five O.T.âs movements were quick and strong, whether dealing with horses or cowboys or, in this case, digging a grave. Alternating between slamming the spade of his shovel into the ground and tossing soil over his shoulder, he worked steadily. Even so, it seemed to take forever to dig through the hard, arid ground.
While he worked, Eleanor glanced at the weathered crosses that marked the graves of her parents, Harold and Mary Walker. But it was the smaller cross that gave her pause and brought a lump to her throat. After all these years it still hurt. Drat!
Sheâd battled droughts, floods, Indians, rustlers, and cattle fever without so much as a blink of the eye. Only four years ago she lost nearly half her cattle in that terrible drought. Five years before that she was forced to rebuild the ranch house and outbuildings after the original ones were destroyed in the â87 earthquake and subsequent fire.
Oh yes, sheâd seen and done it all. So why, then, did the sight of the little white cross tear her apart after all this time? It was Ralphâs fault for making her come to the little cemeteryâa place she tried to avoid except on rare occasions.
Irritated that a man to whom she owed nothing, let alone a decent burial, had imposed his death upon her, she impatiently tapped her foot. She had work to do, cattle that needed tending, calves to pull, books to balance, fences to repair.
She also had to oversee the training of that new woman, though she didnât hold much hope that any of it would pay off. A writer. Great guns, what would be next?
So far six women had answered her advertisement, each progressively worse than the one before. First there was the
âGet down and try again,â Ruckus said.
Getting off the horse wasnât any easier than getting on, but she was determined to prove she could do it. Once both feet were on the ground she sprang up and down to give herself momentum. Ruckus moved toward her. In her haste to keep him from touching her again, she bounced up with such force she settled into the saddle with a thud.
Startled, Decker arched his back, kicked up his back legs, and took off running.
âOhhhhhhhhhhh,â she cried. Her hat flew off and she flopped around in the saddle like a rag doll, gripping on to the reins for dear life. âHe-e-e-elp!â
Chapter 6
E leanor stared at the white pine coffin, her divided skirt flapping against the top of her boots in the early morning breeze. The first warm rays of the sun trickled down the mountain like melted butter over freshly baked rolls. Though this was her favorite time of day, she never grew tired of watching the ever-changing colors of the desert as the sun journeyed across the sky.
The only sound breaking the silence was O.T. digging her ex-husbandâs grave. His real name was Chip Mason, but she called him O.T. like the others did. Heâd worked at the ranch for fifteen years, a record. Working on a cattle ranch was hard work and most cowmen didnât last for more than seven or eight years, ten tops.
At age twenty O.T. had managed to escape a Texas hanging for killing a man, which to this day he claimed was self-defense. For some reason Eleanor believed him. Sheâd given him a chance to prove himself by working hard and staying out of trouble, and he had done exactly that many times over.
A compact man with a weathered, clean-shaven face, he was the best wrangler who ever worked at the ranch. He never met a challenge he didnât like, and she had a corral of former wild horses to prove it. More than one rancher tried to steal him away by offering higher wages, but fortunately O.T. was more loyal than ambitious. Or maybe he was just grateful that she had given him a job when he was down on his luck.
Even at age thirty-five O.T.âs movements were quick and strong, whether dealing with horses or cowboys or, in this case, digging a grave. Alternating between slamming the spade of his shovel into the ground and tossing soil over his shoulder, he worked steadily. Even so, it seemed to take forever to dig through the hard, arid ground.
While he worked, Eleanor glanced at the weathered crosses that marked the graves of her parents, Harold and Mary Walker. But it was the smaller cross that gave her pause and brought a lump to her throat. After all these years it still hurt. Drat!
Sheâd battled droughts, floods, Indians, rustlers, and cattle fever without so much as a blink of the eye. Only four years ago she lost nearly half her cattle in that terrible drought. Five years before that she was forced to rebuild the ranch house and outbuildings after the original ones were destroyed in the â87 earthquake and subsequent fire.
Oh yes, sheâd seen and done it all. So why, then, did the sight of the little white cross tear her apart after all this time? It was Ralphâs fault for making her come to the little cemeteryâa place she tried to avoid except on rare occasions.
Irritated that a man to whom she owed nothing, let alone a decent burial, had imposed his death upon her, she impatiently tapped her foot. She had work to do, cattle that needed tending, calves to pull, books to balance, fences to repair.
She also had to oversee the training of that new woman, though she didnât hold much hope that any of it would pay off. A writer. Great guns, what would be next?
So far six women had answered her advertisement, each progressively worse than the one before. First there was the
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