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,” Rebecca said. “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,” Tom said. “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 both 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,” he said. Then to Rebecca. “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 of 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,” she said.
“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 down 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 lay just north of Fort Worth. The 120,000 acres of gently rolling grassland and scores of year-round streams and creeks made it ideal for cattle ranching. There were two dozen cowboys who were part- time employees, and another two dozen who were full-time employees. The part-time and full-time employees who weren’t married lived in a couple of long, low, bunkhouses, white with red roofs. In addition, there were at least ten permanent employees who were married, and they lived in small houses, all of them painted green, with red roofs. These were adjacent to the bunkhouses. There was also a cookhouse that was large enough to feed all the single men, a barn, a machine shed, a granary, and a large stable. The most dominating feature of the ranch was what the cowboys called “The Big House.” The Big House 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, Benjamin “Big Ben” Conyers, was standing by the fireplace. Big Ben 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 last night when she had been accosted by two cowboys.
“I thank you very much for that, Mr. Whitman,” Big Ben said, shaking 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, Papa,” Rebecca said. “I know that Tony Peters left a couple of weeks ago, and when Mo picked me up this morning, he told me that 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, and Big Ben laughed.
“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. And unlike 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.”
But he also knew that the sport had 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.
“Papa, that’s not fair,” Rebecca said. “You know that our horses aren’t like the ones he is used to riding. At least give him a few days to get used to it.”
“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 Papa’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 then.
“Hello, Sis. I heard you were back.”
“Did you 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 you 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.” Then to Tom, Big Ben added, “Clay is the ranch foreman. And I’ll leave the final word as to whether or not I hire you up to him.”
