ToLoveaLady

by Cynthia Sterling

  But Reg merely smiled pleasantly and held out his hand. “You’re obviously very graceful. I’m sure you could learn the steps in no time.”

  Caught off guard by this praise, Abbie let him take the hat from her. He draped it carefully over the side of the wagon, then took her hand and led her toward the dance floor.

  As the fiddlers began a new song, Abbie and Reg faced each other. He clasped her right hand and put his other hand at her waist. She could feel the heat of his touch even through her clothes, and a blush swept over her as she realized Reg must know she wasn’t wearing a corset.

  She’d studied the pictures of the women’s undergarments in the mail order catalog, but she couldn’t see anything beneficial in being trussed up that way. She hadn’t thought she’d ever be in a situation where anyone would know the difference, but she realized her mistake as soon as Reg’s palm touched her. She watched for his reaction, but he was apparently too much of a gentleman to show any.

  “The first thing you must do is learn to relax and follow your partner,” he said as the music began. He took a step forward, pushing her gently back.

  She tried to relax, but found it impossible. The sensation of being held in a man’s arms was too unfamiliar, and she was too aware of all the other couples around them watching. Her nervousness increased when they moved past Alan Mitchell, who was expertly twirling Miss Hattie Simms, the town banker’s daughter, around the floor. Hattie wore a sky blue silk dress and a dainty little hat, and she floated in Alan’s arms. Abbie felt weighted to the ground. As Reg pulled and pushed her around the dance floor, she moved in awkward, jerking movements, apologizing each time she trod on his toes. “I’m sorry. Oh, do forgive me. Oh, I’m making such a mess of things!”

  Even Reg’s pleasant smile faded in the face of this constant assault on his highly polished boots. He let out a muffled grunt as she came down firmly on his instep yet again. Mortified, Abbie heard laughter from the couples around them. She looked up and saw Alan and Hattie chuckling to each other. Angry tears stung her eyes.

  “Perhaps we should take a break for some refreshment,” Reg said, and led her from the dance floor.

  Head down, Abbie followed him to a table where glasses of lemonade and plates of cakes and cookies were arrayed. “Thank you, but I really must be going,” she said when he offered her lemonade.

  “Take it.” He pushed the glass into her hand. Droplets of condensation ran down to dampen her glove. Automatically, she took a sip of the pale liquid, which tasted of too much sugar and not enough lemon. “Let’s go somewhere where we can talk,” Reg said, taking her elbow.

  They walked around the side of the house, to a spreading oak not far from the pit where two calves roasted for the evening’s feast. The smell of mesquite and roasting meat hung heavy in the air. Except for the old cook tending the meat, the area was deserted.

  Reg pulled out a chunk of wood and offered it to Abbie as if it were a throne. Then he took a seat on an old stump and absently rubbed his shin. “I’m sorry I stepped all over you,” she said.

  “I should have known better than to try to teach you in a crowd like that.”

  She stared into her glass, the laughter of the other dancers still ringing in her ears. “I don’t really have much call to know how to dance anyway,” she said, as a tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Now, Abbie, please don’t cry.” Reg’s voice was soothing as a cool breeze on a scorching day. She raised her head and saw him watching her, eyes warm with concern. “I’d wager you’ve faced down worse than a little harmless laughter in your time,” he said. “From what little I’ve seen, you’re stronger than many a man I’ve known.”

  He meant to comfort her, she knew, but the kind words merely tore through the thin barrier of reserve she’d been clinging to all afternoon. Her tears flowed in a steady stream, and then a torrent. “I don’t want to be a man!” she sobbed. “But I don’t know how to be a woman!”

  Reg pressed a handkerchief into her hand. She buried her face in the soft, sandalwood scented linen, fighting a fresh wave of tears. “Now you probably think I’m insane, making a statement like that,” she said.

  “I’m waiting to hear the story behind it.” He settled himself on the stump once more and looked her up and down. “You obviously are a woman. Only a blind man could fail to notice that.”

  She shook her head. “Of course I’m a woman. But I don’t know how to behave like one – how to dress and talk and react like one.” She sniffed and dabbed at her reddened eyes. “My mother died when I was a baby and my father raised me like a boy. He taught me to ride and rope and help him work the cattle. He always dressed me like a boy, too. He thought I’d be safer that way.”

  Reg nodded. Encouraged, she continued her story. “Daddy said I didn’t really need to know all that fancy stuff like how to dance or pour tea and such. He said making money ranching was a lot more important than knowing how to arrange flowers or walk in high heels and when the time came I’d meet a man who’d understand that and marry me for myself and not a lot of outside trappings. I thought he was probably right, but then he died. . . “

  “And you’ve managed the ranch alone ever since?”

  She folded the damp handkerchief. “Yes. Most of the time I love the work. It’s just lately. . .” She looked past him, back toward the front of the house, where the music of the fiddles still filled the air.

  “Lately you think about finding a husband, having a family.”

  She jerked her gaze to him, startled. “How did you know?”

  He smiled. “Those are the normal dreams of every young woman.”

  She bowed her head. “But they’re just dreams, aren’t they?”

  “I noticed you watching Alan Mitchell this afternoon.”

  She felt as if her heart sank to her stomach. “Is it that obvious?” she said softly.

  “He seems a nice man. There’s no reason he shouldn’t like you.”

  “I told you, Alan thinks of me as just another rancher – one of the guys.”

  “Perhaps because he’s known you so long, he only sees one side of you.” He leaned forward and gestured toward her. “He doesn’t really see those enchanting emerald eyes, or the gold highlights in your thick brown hair, or the very feminine curves your masculine clothing does little to conceal.”

  Reg’s voice was like velvet, purring out compliments Abbie might have thought meant for another woman. But when she raised her eyes she found his gaze fixed on her. The heated look he gave her made her mouth go dry and her heart race.

  Abruptly, he looked away, and rose from his seat on the stump. “I propose you and I enter into a business arrangement,” he said brusquely.

  She blinked, made dizzy by the sudden shift in the conversation. “A business arrangement? What for?”

  “By all accounts, you’re a good rancher. I must learn everything I can about ranching, as quickly as possible, if I’m to make a success of this job. The sooner I succeed, the sooner I can return to England.” He stood in front of her, hands clasped behind his back, his expression grave. “If you’ll agree to teach me what I need to know, I’ll coach you on the proper behavior for a lady. I’ve no doubt once Alan Mitchell sees the more feminine side of you, he’ll be swept off his feet.”

  Abbie stared up at him, breathless. What he was proposing was unbelievable, preposterous. Did he really think he could turn her into a lady? She thought of Lady Cecily Thorndale, the British beauty who had been Charlie Worthington’s fiancé, and tried to imagine herself walking and talking and acting like Lady Cecily. She shook her head. “How could that ever work?”

  “We would make it work.” He held out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  Her heart raced, though whether in anticipation of the bargain before her, or from the warmth she thought she’d glimpsed in the depths of Reg’s brown eyes, she could not at that moment have said. Hesitantly, she slipped her hand into his. “It’s a deal.”

  p;

  Cynthia Sterling, ToLoveaLady