Waiting for Morning (The Brides Of Last Chance Ranch Series) by Margaret Brownley Read Free Book Online Page B

No cussing in the lady’s presence.”
    The men whistled, clapped, and whooped until a man pointedhis pistol at the sky and fired. A hawk took off from atop the barn, horses whinnied, and a cattle dog barked in the distance, but the men all fell silent.
    Ruckus walked around the circle saying each man’s name out loud. The man who’d shot the pistol was O.T. “That there is Stretch,” he said, indicating the man she’d met the day before. He was the tallest of the bunch. “I reckon you won’t disremember him.”
    Stretch tipped his hat. “And I ain’t likely to disremember her.”
    Wishbone swept off his hat when he was introduced, his legs so bowed he looked like he was sitting on an invisible horse. Mexican Pete kicked Wishbone in the behind, sending him sprawling to the ground. It was a jovial group and reminded Molly of Saturday night at Big Jim’s Saloon when everyone was in a festive mood and ready to have a good time after a week’s hard labor.
    Ruckus then surprised Molly by leading the group in prayer. Molly followed Ruckus’s lead and lowered her head respectfully. The last time she’d prayed in a group was three years ago when that awful cave-in trapped several miners. The entire town had turned out to hold vigil and pray—for all the good it did them. The fact that these cowhands thought to start the day with prayer was unsettling to say the least. Was ranch work so dangerous that they needed to pray every day?
    After the others walked away, Ruckus explained her duties. “Me and the boys have some branding to do, but you ain’t up to that yet.”
    He sent her to the horse corral to meet with a man named Brodie, who barely bothered looking up when she introduced herself. Instead, he kept his gaze on a large black horse bucking around in a circle, kicking up its hind legs.
    The horse trainer was a compact man, his long sandy hair tied at the base of his neck with a piece of rawhide. A scraggly beardcovered the lower half of his face while sharp, observant brown eyes commanded the upper. She guessed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties.
    “What do you know about horses?” he asked in a voice made gravelly by tobacco.
    “I know how to ride.” She tossed a nod at the mustang. “What’s the matter with him?”
    “Not a thing.” Brodie spit out a stream of brown juice. “That’s the first time he’s been saddled. His name’s Lightning.”
    Lightning raced toward the fence and Brodie snapped his whip. That stopped the horse from jumping but not from running.
    A Mexican cowhand walked by. “ Muy mala ,” he called out. Very bad.
    “Not bad,” Brodie called back. “Just spirited.” The Mexican shrugged and kept going.
    Lightning slowed as he made the turn and headed toward them. Brodie slapped his whip against the ground and the horse gave a double hock kick and picked up speed.
    Brodie nodded toward the animal. “His nature is to run when confronted with something new. He’s gotta learn that runnin’ will do him no good. I’m his last chance. He don’t make it with me, he don’t make it with no one.”
    He tossed her a pair of buckskin gauntlets and handed her a second whip. “Stand over there by that gate and make sure he don’t escape.”
    Slipping her hands into the leathery softness, Molly crossed to the gate. The horse stopped running, pawed the ground, and turned in a circle as if chasing his tail. The saddle remained secure.
    “Yee-ow,” Brodie yelled. Lightning ran by him and Brodie responded by cracking the whip against the horse’s heels. He thenchased after the horse, popping his whip each time Lightning tried to climb a fence with his powerful legs.
    The horse ran to the far end of the corral and jumped. Smashing into the corral fence he fell, landing on his side with a thump and stirring up a cloud of dust.
    Molly stared in wide-eyed horror over gloved fingertips. The man with his yelling and cracking whip obviously didn’t know what he was