“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
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.
“Yes, sir, I can ride a horse,” he said.
“You don’t mind if I give you a little test just to see how well you can ride, do you?” Big Ben asked.
“Pa, that’s not fair,” Rebecca said. “You know our horses aren’t like the ones he is used to riding. At least give him a few days to get used to them.”
“I don’t have a few days, Rebecca. I have two hundred square miles of ranch to run, and a herd of cattle to manage. I need someone who can go to work immediately. Now, maybe you’re right, everyone has to get experience somewhere, so I’m willing to give him time to learn his way around the ranch. But if he can’t even ride a horse, I mean a Western horse, then it’s going to take more time than I can spare.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Whitman,” Rebecca said. “If you don’t want to take Pa’s test, you don’t have to. We’ll all understand.”
“I’d like to take the test,” Tom said.
“Good for you,” Big Ben said. “Come on outside, let me see what you can do.”
A tall, gangly young man with ash-blond hair and a spray of freckles came up to them. “Hello, Sis. I heard you were back.”
“Did you stay stay out of trouble while I was gone?” Rebecca asked. Then she introduced the boy. “Mr. Whitman, this is my brother, Dalton.”
“Are you going to work for Pa?” Dalton asked.
“I hope to.”
“Then I won’t be calling you Mr. Whitman. What’s your first name?”
“Dalton!” Rebecca said.
“I don’t mean nothin’ by it,” Dalton said. “I’m just friends with all the cowboys, that’s all.”
“My name is Tom. And I would be happy to be your friend.”
“Yes, well, don’t the two of you get to be best friends too fast,” Big Ben said. “First I have to know if Tom can ride well enough to be a cowboy. Clay!” Big Ben called.
A man stepped out of the machine shed. “Yes, sir, Mr. Conyers?”
“Get over here, Clay, I’ve someone I want you to meet.” To Tom, Big Ben added, “Clay is the ranch foreman. I’ll leave the final word as to whether or not I hire you up to him.”
“Good enough,” Tom said.
