“Rebecca Conyers,” Tom said. “Has she checked out yet?”
The clerk checked his book. “No, sir. She is still in the hotel. Would you like me to summon her?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I’ll just wait here in the lobby for her.”
“Very good, sir.”
Huh, Tom thought. And here it was my belief that Westerners rose with the sun. As soon as he thought that, he realized she had gone to bed quite late, having arrived on the train in the middle of the night. At least his initial fear that she had left without meeting him was alleviated.
When Rebecca awakened that morning she was already having second thoughts about what she had done. Had she actually told a perfect stranger that she could talk her father into hiring him? And, even if she could, should she? She had arisen much later than she normally did, and as she dressed, found herself hoping he had grown tired of waiting for her and left, without accepting her offer.
However, when she went downstairs she saw him sitting in a chair in the lobby. His suitcase was on the floor beside him, but he wasn’t wearing the suit he had been wearing the night before. He was wearing denims, a blue cotton shirt, and boots. If anything, she found him more attractive, for the denims and cotton shirt took some of the polish off, giving him a more rugged appearance.
Although Tom had gotten an idea the young woman was pretty, it had been too dark to get a really good look at her. In the full light of morning he saw her for what she was—tall and willowy, with long, auburn hair and green eyes shaded by long, dark eyelashes. She was wearing a dress that showed off her gentle curves to perfection.
“Mr. Whitman,” she said. “How wonderful it is to see you this morning. I see you have decided to take me up on my offer.”
“Yes, I have. You were serious about it, weren’t you? I mean, you weren’t just making small talk?”
Rebecca paused before responding. If she wanted to back out of her offer, now was the time to do it. “I was very serious,” she heard herself saying, as if purposely speaking before she could change her mind.
“Do we have time for breakfast? If so, I would like to take you to breakfast.”
Rebecca glanced over at the clock. “Yes, I think so. And I would be glad to have breakfast with you. But you must let me pay for my own.”
“Only if it makes you feel more comfortable,” Tom said.
“Let’s sit by the window,” Rebecca suggested when they stepped into the hotel restaurant. “That way we will be able to see when Mo comes for me.”
“Mo?”
“He is one of my father’s cowboys. He is quite young.”
They settled at a table and ordered breakfast, drinking coffee and making small talk until their meals arrived. Rebecca had a poached egg and toast. Tom had two waffles, four fried eggs, a rather substantial slab of ham, and more biscuits than Rebecca could count.
“My, you must have been hungry,” Rebecca said after Tom pushed away a clean plate. “When is the last time you ate?”
“Not since supper last night,” Tom said, as if that explained his prodigious appetite. “Oh, I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.”
“Not at all. Tell me about yourself, Mr. Whitman. Where are you from? What were you doing before you decided to come West?”
“Not much to tell. I’m from Boston. I’m more interested in you telling me about the ranch.”
“Oh, there’s Mo,” Rebecca said. “I won’t have to tell you about the ranch, we’ll be there in less than an hour.”
Tom picked up his suitcase and Rebecca’s, then followed her out to the buckboard.
“Hello, Mo,” Rebecca greeted.
Mo was a slender five feet nine, with brown eyes and dark hair, which he wore long and straight.
“Hello, Miss Rebecca,” Mo said with a broad smile. “It’s good to see you back home again. Ever’one at the ranch missed you. Did you have a good visit?”
“Oh, I did indeed,” Rebecca answered.
Seeing Tom standing there with the two suitcases, Mo indicated the back of the buckboard. “You can just put them there.” Turning to Rebecca, he whispered, “Uh, Miss Rebecca, you got a coin? I come into town with no money at all.”
“A coin?”
Mo nodded toward Tom. “Yes ma’am, a nickel or a dime or somethin’ on account of him carrying your luggage and all.”
“Oh, we don’t need to tip him, Mo. His name is Tom, and he’s with me. He’ll be comin’ out to the ranch with us.”
“He’s with you? Good Lord, Miss Rebecca, you didn’t go to Marshall and get yourself married up or somethin’, did you?” Mo asked.
Rebecca laughed out loud. “No, it’s nothing like that.”
“Sorry I didn’t bring the trap,” Mo said to Tom. “This here buckboard only has one seat. That means you’ll have to ride in the back.”
“That’s not a problem,” Tom said. “I’ll be fine.”
“I hope so. It’s not all that comfortable back there and we’re half an hour from the ranch.”
Tom set the luggage in the back of the buckboard, then put his hand on the side and vaulted over.
“Damn,” Mo said. “I haven’t ever seen anybody do that. You must be a pretty strong fella.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Rebecca said.
CHAPTER TWO
Live Oaks Ranch
Just north of Fort Worth, 120,000 acres of gently rolling grassland and scores of year-round streams and creeks made Live Oaks Ranch ideal for cattle ranching. Two dozen cowboys were parttime employees, and another two dozen were full-time. Those who weren’t married lived in long, low bunkhouses, painted white with red roofs. At least ten of the permanent employees who were married lived in small houses painted green with red roofs, adjacent to the bunkhouses. There was also a cookhouse large enough to feed the single men, a barn, a machine shed, a granary, and a large stable. The dominating feature of the ranch was what the cowboys called “The Big House.” It was a stucco-sided example of Spanish Colonial Revival, with an arcaded portico on the southeast corner, stained-glass windows, and an elaborate arched entryway.
Inside the parlor of the Big House, the owner of Live Oaks, Rebecca’s father, was standing by the fireplace. Big Ben Conyers was aptly named, for he was six feet seven inches tall and weighed 330 pounds. Rebecca had just introduced Tom to him, explaining how he had come to her aid when she had been accosted by two cowboys.
“I thank you very much for that, Mr. Whitman.” Big Ben shook Tom’s hand. “There are many who would have just turned away.”
“I’m glad I happened to be there at that time,” Tom replied.
“Mr. Whitman is looking for a job, Pa,” Rebecca said. “I know that Tony Peters left a couple weeks ago, and when Mo picked me up this morning, he told me you hadn’t replaced him.”
“I don’t know, honey. Tony was an experienced cowboy,” Big Ben said.
“Nobody is experienced when they first start,” Rebecca said, making Big Ben laugh.
“I can’t deny that,” he said. “Where are you from, Mr. Whitman?”
“I’m from Boston, sir.”
“Boston, is it? Can you ride a horse?”
For several years Tom had belonged to a fox hunting club. Uunlike the quarter horses, bred for speed in short stretches that were commonly seen out West, fox-hunting thoroughbreds were often crossed with heavier breeds for endurance and solidity. They were taller and more muscular, and were trained to run long distances, since most hunts lasted for an entire day. They were also bred to jump a variety of fences and ditches. Tom was, in fact, a champion when it came to riding to the hounds.
The sport got mixed reactions, from those who felt sorry for the fox, to those who thought it was a foolish indulgence, to those who did not understand the skill and stamina such an endeavor required.