Dawn Comes Early by Margaret Brownley

like the time between birthdays grew shorter each year. It was one of the drawbacks of aging.
    â€œLet me think. How old are you?” he continued, knowing full well it was a sensitive subject with her. “Forty-eight? Fifty?”
    â€œYou know very well I’m sixty-six. Five years older than you.” What a nuisance it was, growing older. Not that she felt her age, of course, or at least not that she was willing to admit. Still, there was something about birthdays that made one take stock and reflect, even if the last thing she wanted to do was think of the past. It was hard enough thinking of the future, which was shrinking at an alarming pace.
    â€œI hope you’re not holding our age difference against me,” he said.
    â€œYou make it hard not to,” she replied. He wore his years well. Too well .
    â€œShall we get on with it, then?”
    â€œOh, Robert. Must we?”
    He shrugged. “It’s your birthday.”
    He picked out a clear sandy spot and knelt on one knee. He pulled off his hat and held it to his chest. Most men his age would be at least half bald, but not him. His silver hair was just as full and lush as that of a much younger man.
    She rolled her eyes and glanced at the windmill, but the ranch hands all had their backs toward them and were focused on Kate high above their heads. Still, someone might turn and look their way.
    Eleanor gazed down at Robert. “Must you be so dramatic?”
    â€œIt’s my proposal. I can be as dramatic as I please.”
    â€œVery well. If you insist.”
    He cleared his throat and his pale blue eyes held hers. “Will you, Eleanor Walker, do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
    Each year on her birthday he proposed marriage, and each year she turned him down—and for good reason. Both her father and ex-husband had put the ranch in jeopardy. Her father had mortgaged it to pay off his gambling debts. However much she was tempted to marry Robert, she would never do so. Arizona Territory community property laws would make Robert half owner of her ranch. Her painful divorce taught her the folly of shared ownership and she had no intention of making the same mistake twice.
    â€œHow long have we been doing this, Robert?”
    â€œFourteen, fifteen years,” he said. “But like I’ve told you many times through those years, I’m a patient man.”
    â€œI’m not sure that patient is the right word,” she said. “In any case, the answer is no.” No surprises there.
    Robert was nothing if not a shrewd businessman. Landownership meant profit to him, nothing more. He was a banker through and through. He had no ardor for land, no passion for anything but cold, hard cash. He knew nothing about ranching. Had never stayed up all night with a sick cow or rescued a lost calf. He had no feeling for cattle except how much per pound they would bring at market.
    If he thought it financially wise to do so, he would sell his half of the ranch in a flash. Not only would that break her heart, it would make her hate him. Turning down his proposal had as much to do with preserving their friendship as protecting her property.
    Her answer hung between them for several moments before he rose and brushed the sand off his trouser leg. “Same time, same place next year.”
    â€œSame answer.”
    He replaced his hat, his eyes shadowed by the yellow straw brim.
    â€œJust thought I’d save you the effort,” she said. It couldn’t be pleasant being turned down as much as he had been.
    â€œA lot can happen in a year. Who knows? You might even believe me when I tell you that the cattle business is past its prime.”
    â€œPeople will always eat beef,” she said. “And mine is the best.” Hereford beef with its fatty marbling was certainly more tender and tasty than the leaner longhorn beeves, which is why most Texas cattlemen had made the switch in recent years.
    â€œI