Dusty Britches Read online

  Copyright © 2012Dusty Britches by Marcia Lynn McClure

  www.marcialynnmcclure.com

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, the contents of this e-book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any part or by any means without the prior written consent of the author and/or publisher.

  Published by Distractions Ink

  P.O. Box 15971

  Rio Rancho, NM 87174

  ©Copyright 1999, 2003, 2008, 2012 by M. L. Meyers

  A.K.A. Marcia Lynn McClure

  Cover Photography by © Robertplotz and ©Olena Chyrko/Dreamstime.com

  Cover Design by Sheri L. Brady/MightyPhoenixDesignStudio.com

  Third Printed Edition: 2012

  All character names and personalities in this work of fiction

  are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author.

  Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  McClure, Marcia Lynn, 1965—

  Dusty Britches: a novel/by Marcia Lynn McClure.

  ISBN: 978-0-9852807-6-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938853

  Printed in the United States of America

  To Rhonda…

  For never having too many red sweaters,

  For basking in the autumn-ness of being brunette,

  And for being the perfect answer to my prayers…

  With a flying package of paper plates!

  Chapter One

  Dusty Hunter looked up into nature’s painted splendor of a heavenly blue sky. Raising one hand to shade her eyes from the intensity of the late spring sun, she paused for a moment in her efforts to rid the vegetable garden of weeds. As she marveled at the soothing beauty of immense velvet clouds wandering slowly across the canvas of sapphire, their tranquil grace gave her cause to smile. Somehow the task at hand didn’t seem quite so tedious anymore.

  Inhaling deeply of the dry western air, she wondered at how long the day seemed to be. She had been weeding the garden since the first rays of morning sunlight broke over the mountains. In addition to all the troublesome weeds meeting her at dawn, some rotten little varmint had nibbled the leaves of her cabbage plants during the night. She wasn’t sure she could save them now.

  “Rotten ol’ skunks,” Dusty mumbled. Resting her hands on her hips, she glared down to the seemingly endless task before her. Tossing a handful of ragweed into a nearby wooden bucket, she removed her well-worn leather gloves and carefully inspected the blisters in her palms. They weren’t as sore today as they had been yesterday, but sore enough all the same. Pulling the gloves back on and sighing heavily, she dropped to her knees and returned to the monotony of maintaining the garden.

  Dusty’s father, Hank Hunter, had been away on a cattle drive. For weeks he’d been gone; it was a long way from Texas to the Hunter ranch. Hank had lost nearly all of his calves during the early spring calving season. Mother Nature had been brutal. Even though several calves had been saved by bringing them right into the house at night, most were lost when their mothers suffocated from snow and ice obstructing their nostrils. Others died simply from cold and exposure. New cattle had to be purchased in Texas, and Hank had gone to drive them home.

  Dusty found herself glancing up from her labors—toward the south. She knew at any moment her father, whatever cowboys he’d hired to drive the cattle home, and at least a hundred head of cattle would be arriving in a cloud of Colorado dust.

  “They’ll never get that fence done in time,” Dusty mumbled. Her daddy’s top ranch hand, Feller Lance, and the rest of the ranch hands were working from sunup to sundown on the fence and windbreaks needed for the new cattle.

  Dusty wiped the perspiration from her brow. She began yanking weeds out of the ground once more. She wished she hadn’t sent Becca to gather the eggs. Having Becca’s company and help would have been nice. Yet she immediately cast aside the useful piece of the idea, for Becca would simply sit and ramble on endlessly—on and on and on. Dusty had no patience for, and definitely no interest in, hearing about the shallow affairs of Becca’s young heart.

  Dusty Hunter had no heart. Long ago it had been stomped on and ground into the dust under the boot heel of a man. Dusty had no interest in repeating such an experience. Therefore, she couldn’t see why any woman would trust any man or find anything attractive or redeeming about one. Her younger sister’s naive, lighthearted ways only served to irritate Dusty most of the time. Therefore, after thinking about it again, Dusty was, as usual, content in her lone misery.

  Becca would’ve complained anyway. The temperature must be in the high eighties, and Becca would only tell Dusty they shouldn’t be out working in the heat. She would claim “heatstroke” and end up back in the house, sitting in the rocker with a nice glass of water for company.

  Not Dusty. Hard work was good for the body and soul. And the mind! It kept one occupied and unable to linger on…on the frivolous things most young women spent far too much time thinking about. Besides, Dusty knew her limits. She’d only fainted from the heat once before, and that was last year. Becca was just—just…Dusty sighed and smiled at the thought of her sister. Becca was simply a very normal, very sweet, very pretty young girl—the little blue-eyed blonde of the family. The jewel—with the personality befitting a jewel too! No wonder all the ranch hands liked her. She was kind to them, witty, and didn’t mind someone finding humor in her misfortunes.

  Dusty reflected on the day only a week before when Becca had gone out to slop the hogs. There she’d been, treading awkwardly through the muck in the pen. Nevermind that she could’ve gone around the outside of the pen and slung the slop into the trough that way. No! Becca had put on a pair of her daddy’s old boots, hitched up her skirts and petticoats, and tucked their hems firmly in her waistband. She treaded out then—a bucket in each hand—to feed the hogs. Naturally, anyone with any sense could see what was going to happen. Dusty had been watching from the back porch. She saw the ranch hands pause in their usual chores to watch what promised to be no less than a hysterical exhibition by Becca Hunter.

  Sure enough, Becca had no sooner entered the pen than the hungry hogs began snorting around her feet.

  “Now, all you hogs…you leave me be!” Becca ordered in her strongest voice. Becca’s strongest voice more resembled that of an indentured servant trying to timidly whisper an order to her mistress.

  But the hogs, in their impatience to eat, began bumping against her legs, and before she could act—before anyone could act—Becca lost her footing. The two buckets she was carrying leapt into the air, emptying their contents the length of Becca—from the newest hair of her head to the tip of her tiniest toe. She found herself promptly, and not very gently, sitting in the mud and muck of the hog pen.

  The way every ranch hand anywhere near flung himself into the pen to assist Becca caused Dusty to think for a moment that perhaps her sister’s dramatic “accident” had actually been intentional. The thought was only fleeting, for Dusty knew Becca hated nothing more than getting dirty. And slop and hog manure surely were in the “dirty” group. Still, as Dusty giggled at her sister’s predicament, she noted Becca managed to laugh at herself as several of the men helped her escape her snorting captors.

  What a sight Becca had been! Dusty smiled broadly, feeling a little less dismal, as she continued to pull weeds.

  Her knees were sore from kneeling on the moist ground and her fingers stiff from ripping up unwanted roots. Yet she smiled when she looked up to see Becca approaching at almost a dead run a few minutes later.

  “Dusty! Guthrie’s seen Daddy!” Becca called, stopping a few steps from the tomato plants Dusty was tending. Becca
placed a dainty hand to her panting bosom. “They’ll be comin’ in any minute!”

  Dusty’s heart felt almost happy for a moment—as though something had just filled her body with a warm, sweet liquid. It had been weeks since their father left! Dusty had missed him terribly. She pulled off her gloves, tossing them into the bucket of weeds as she stood.

  Brushing off the seat of her skirt and smiling warmly at her sister, she said, “Well…let’s go then! I love to watch them bringin’ the cattle in.”

  Becca smiled. Taking her sister’s hand, they both hurried off toward the corral. Sure enough, just as they approached the south fence of the corral, they saw a cloud of dust in the distance. Dusty smiled and sighed with delight when she heard the soft bawling of the cattle—the whistles and shouts of her father and the men on the drive.

  “I love this,” Becca sighed, smiling lovingly at her sister.

  “Me too,” Dusty agreed, returning her loving smile.

  Rebecca Hunter had always secretly envied her sister. She loved Dusty like she loved no one else on earth. Still, it had been difficult—being Dusty Hunter’s little sister. Dusty was intelligent, strong, witty, and beautiful! Even now, after Dusty had hardened her heart toward people and life for years, her dark eyes, shaded by long, thick lashes, sparkled with strength. She was an inch or two shorter than Becca with a smile that lit up any room—when she chose to smile anyway, which wasn’t very often—nearly never now. Her skin was unblemished, her figure flawlessly curved, her hair the most absolute shade of chestnut brown ever given a woman. Becca wrinkled her nose a little—completely disappointed in that moment at the way Dusty had taken to pulling her lovely hair back into a tight, spinsterly knot on the crown of her head. To Becca, Dusty was ideal—except for the blackened heart she now carried about in her bosom.

  “Quit starin’ at me, Becca!” Dusty demanded.

  Still, even Becca’s disapproving eyes could not dampen Dusty’s spirits. Since she was a little girl, Dusty had loved to hear the approach of a cattle drive. Even in the fall when her father and the cowboys started bringing the cattle in to winter close by, she loved the sound of it—hundreds of hooves approaching, the snap of the whip some cowboys used to turn them, the soft bawling of younger heifers and steers, the whistles and shouts of her father and the cowboys who rode for him.

  Her mind wandered back for a moment to the year she was fourteen. She’d stood just where she was now—perched upon the south fence of the corral watching the cowboys bringing in the cattle for fall. There had been one particular cowboy she’d favored. Actually, she’d been in love with him! Becca was always in love with one ranch hand or cowboy, it seemed. But it hadn’t been so with Dusty. She had her varying crushes as a young girl, but her feelings for this one particular cowboy went far beyond a little girl’s crush. He had seemed so mature to her—so handsome and strong—though he was only twenty at the time. Dusty remembered the way he rode, the snap of his bullwhip as he drove cattle. There had been several cowboys that had carried a whip since, but none had been as skilled as that young cowboy years ago. He could crack it so perfectly she could hear him coming long before the sounds of the cattle were audible. In that very moment, Dusty fancied she nearly heard the crack of his whip—remembered how excited she would be in knowing he was bringing in the cattle and would be home in time for supper at the ranch house with the family. Shaking her head, she scolded herself for dwelling on such sap as being melancholy over a cowboy from years back. She returned her attention to the approaching cattle.

  “Oh, surely Daddy’s bought more than a hundred head, Dust!” Becca remarked. “Look how many!”

  “Maybe he decided to be safe. Last time he lost so many on the drive,” Dusty said, realizing the snap of a whip echoing in the distance must have been what sparked the never-forgotten memory.

  “Listen there, Dusty. Daddy’s hired a cowboy with a whip,” Becca noted, also having heard the echo of the crack. “It always puts me in mind of…”

  “Yes, I remember.” Dusty fought to keep her thoughts from floating back through time again.

  Her father came into view, riding in front and to the right of the herd. She and Becca waved excitedly, and Dusty felt warmed as he waved back.

  “He’ll water ’em at the creek and come on up,” Feller Lance chuckled as he appeared from behind them and joined them at the fence. “Your daddy’s come home to ya, my girls!”

  Ruff, Guthrie, and Titch arrived, hopped up onto the fence, and began whistling and waving their arms in greeting. Dusty smiled at the three hands. They’d stayed on the ranch for near to three years now. All of them were local boys who wanted to cowboy but had no desire to roam the country far and wide.

  Ruff was a handsome enough fellow with green eyes and sandy-colored hair. He was short and squatty but strong as a bull. Guthrie and Titch were brothers, sons of a farmer in a neighboring county. Both were tall with black hair and eyes as gray as rain. All three hands were hard workers and good men. Dusty thought how lucky her daddy had been to keep them on.

  Looking on as the cattle were allowed to head toward the creek, Dusty waited impatiently as her daddy spurred his horse into a gallop and rode to them.

  “Whoa, boy,” he mumbled, reining in his horse and leaping off like he were no more than a boy. “Sugar plums!” he called, chuckling as he swaggered toward his daughters, weathered cowboy legs bowed and strong arms outstretched.

  “Daddy!” Becca exclaimed, rushing forward.

  Dusty was as excited as her sister, but as tears of joy and relief welled in her eyes, she swallowed them, not wanting to cry in front of everyone. She reached him soon enough and found herself melting in his fatherly embrace.

  “Did ya take care of my girls while I was gone, Feller?” Hank Hunter asked, winking at the weathered cowboy.

  “They look right as rain to me, Hank,” Feller chuckled.

  Hank kissed Becca square on the forehead. After doing the same to Dusty, he took her face in his hands. “And did ya soften ol’ Dusty up a mite…I hope?”

  “A mite,” Feller chuckled again.

  Dusty smiled happily up at her father.

  “Well, my girls,” Hank began. He tucked a daughter under each arm, squeezing them tightly, and began walking toward the house. With each step he took, dust and dirt from the drive lifted into the air like smoke curling out of a chimney. His normally black hair was more a plain old dirt color and matched his dust-covered skin. “I got us some good stock. Yep. Some good stock! Cattle and cowboys. Got me a fair price, a new pair of britches, and a back that’s aching like it ain’t laid down for a year!”

  “You needed the britches more than anythin’, Daddy,” Dusty assured him, smiling.

  “Don’t I know it! And I might have to have you and little sis patch them new boys’ britches up a bit too! They’re all as hard on ’em as me,” he chuckled.

  Dusty could hear the shouts of relief, the splashing noises made by the cowboys as they quickly refreshed themselves in the creek. She smiled, relishing the sounds and knowledge of tradition. The cowboys would no doubt be stripped down to nothing in a moment or two—washing the layers of trail dust from their bodies before they came to the house for the big meal her daddy always insisted on after a drive.

  “Get that fire pit goin’, Feller!” Hank hollered over his shoulder. “I brung home a starvin’ mob.”

  Becca and Dusty watched, giggling happily as their charmingly bowlegged daddy released them. Whooping and hollering, he stripped his shirt off over his head and climbed awkwardly into the big watering trough under the windmill.

  “Boots and all, Daddy? For Pete’s sake, you’ll slop for a week!” Dusty called after him through her laughter.

  Hank spit water from his mouth like a cherub fountain as he sat on the bottom of the trough, enjoying its cool refreshment. It was good to see her daddy happy. Losing her mother several years back nearly killed him. It was months and months and months following her mother’s death before he e
ven smiled, let alone spoke to anyone—unless it was absolutely necessary. It was good to see him happy.

  “Bring some wood from the shed, Titch,” Feller ordered. “And, Ruff, you get that beef out we done yesterday…’fore them boys start into eatin’ that herd they just brung in.”

  “Come here, my girls!” Hank called. Dusty and Becca rushed to where he sat in the trough. “Did you miss me?” he asked with a knowing grin on his face.

  “That’s the silliest question you ever did ask, Daddy,” Becca said. Both girls leaned on the trough’s edge.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what,” Hank began, lowering his voice and reaching out and taking a hand of each daughter in his own. “I missed you girls somethin’ awful. If it weren’t that you were ladies now…needin’ comfort, privacy, and a soft bed…I’da brung ya right along, ’cause missin’ you is too hard on me these days.”

  Dusty smiled lovingly at her daddy. Then, as the all-too-familiar expression of mischief crossed his face, she sensed his intentions and tried to pull her hand from his grasp.

  “Daddy!” she warned. “Don’t you dare!”

  But it was too late. In an instant, she found herself sitting next to him in the trough, having been pulled in headfirst. She heard Becca’s delighted shriek a second later, followed by a splash to match the one she’d just created. Looking over, she erupted into giggles at the sight of her sister sitting on the other side of her father, completely drenched.

  “Now you girls stop your foolin’ around!” Feller shouted. “I’m gonna need some help sloppin’ this mob.” He stood chuckling, amused at the sight before him.

  “Daddy!” Becca exclaimed in a horrified whisper. “Look at me! And all the new cowboys are walkin’ this way!” She pointed in the direction of the creek. Dusty saw four or five men, themselves dripping wet, some fully clothed, others missing shirts, walking toward them.