Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  “What? Oh, no. Thank you. You’ve done enough already.” She scrambled to her feet and looped the rope coils over her saddle horn, then swung up into the saddle. That was better. She was more comfortable facing him here, on horseback. She’d practically grown up in the saddle, after all.

  He nodded. “I’ll take your leave, then. I would say it has been a pleasure, but I make it a point to never lie. So I will say it has been interesting.” He bowed low, then turned the horse away and set off toward the east, and the Ace of Clubs.

  Abbie watched him until he was a dim figure on the horizon. More than once she thought he looked back in her direction, but perhaps that was just a trick of the light, like a mirage shimmering on the prairie. She shook her head and turned Toby to continue her ride along the creek. Until heel fly season ended, she and Banjo and Toby would take their turn on patrol here, and spend more than a few nights camped under the stars.

  It wasn’t the kind of life most women would have enjoyed, but it suited Abbie fine. At least most of the time it did. Then something would happen, like Reg Worthington kissing her hand today, to remind her of the things most women had that had passed her by.

  Things like a husband and a nice home, and children. For the past few years, children had been on Abbie’s mind a lot. She couldn’t pass a child on her infrequent trips to town, or even ride by a passel of calves, without feeling a funny tightness in her belly, and a longing for a baby of her own.

  She’d always meant to marry up and raise a family, the way other women did. But after her father had died and left the ranch for her to run, time had gotten away from her. Now here she was, twenty-six years old and well on her way to permanent spinsterhood if she didn’t get busy.

  Still, overseeing five thousand head of cattle didn’t leave much time for polishing up her flirting skills or keeping up with the latest fashions. And despite the fact that men outnumbered women at least ten to one up here in the Texas Panhandle, most of those fellows weren’t exactly what you’d call prime husband material. Most cowboys would as soon have rocks tied around their ankles and be thrown in a stock tank as be lassoed into holy matrimony.

  The other ranchers gave Abbie their grudging respect, but she’d earned that by being as unlike the women they knew as possible. Her father had taught her early on that the only way to do business in this man’s world was to act like a man. That attitude had kept her safe and made her successful, but lately that success was a pretty lonely pill to swallow. She had nothing in common with the women who lived in the area, and she didn’t fit in with the men, either.

  The only men she really counted as friends were her neighbors on the A7, Alan Mitchell and his father Brice. She sighed as she thought of Alan. The blond, blue-eyed rancher had a smile that would set any woman’s heart to racing. Abbie had fancied herself half in love with him from the first time they’d met, when he’d reprimanded a cowboy for cussing in the presence of a lady. When the cowboy had denied seeing any ladies around, Alan had fired him on the spot, and won Abbie’s heart.

  If only she could take the friendship she and Alan shared and turn it into something more. She was sure they’d make a good match. They were both skilled ranchers and they loved the half-wild Texas Panhandle. Together, they could build up a fortune and a family. She smiled, imagining the blue-eyed, blond-haired children they’d raise. Twenty-six wasn’t too late to start a family. All she had to do was find a way to make Alan see her the way she really was inside – as a warm-hearted woman, ready for love.

  Chapter Two

  Two days after his encounter with the cowgirl on the prairie, Reg stood among the wagons parked around the A7 Ranch headquarters, surveying his first taste of the rustic entertainment Texans called a barbecue. The outdoor celebration was a sharp contrast to the overly formal and consequently excruciatingly dull garden parties he’d endured as a young man in England. The Texans stood in big, noisy groups, laughing and talking loudly while consuming large plates of smoked meat and drinking tankards of beer and lemonade. No doubt the Earl would laugh to see Reg reduced to dining on underdone beef on a tin plate, amid a crowd dressed in denim work clothes. He’d be shocked to learn that his second son was actually enjoying himself.

  Reg tried to look more relaxed than he felt, and nodded affably to anyone who passed by. Few bothered to conceal their open interest in the newcomer in their midst. He felt like a raw midshipman standing for inspection his first day aboard ship. Judging from the disdainful looks some of his neighboring ranchers sent his way, he wasn’t passing muster.

  “So you’re another of those Britishers who thinks he can make a quick killing in the ranching business, are you?” a man who introduced himself as Joe Dillon, owner of the Triple D, challenged him.

  Dillon had the short, squat build of a Hereford bull, and Reg amused himself by imagining the man with a ring in his nose. The image allowed him to smile and reply pleasantly. “I would certainly hope to profit as a rancher. Sooner is better than later, wouldn’t you agree?” Of course, if he didn’t show some profits fairly quickly, his father would likely disown him and he’d be back in England struggling to live on a junior clerk’s wages.

  “Hmmph!” Dillon snorted. “The country’s crawling with foreigners as it is.”

  Reg gave the man a cold look and directed his attention elsewhere. His hosts, Alan and Brice Mitchell, came out of the house they used as ranch headquarters and stood on the veranda that stretched across the front. A stranger could have pegged the pair as father and son. They shared the same deep tans and silver-blond hair, though Brice’s was more silver than blond these days. Twenty years in the Texas panhandle had carved permanent lines in their bronzed faces, like gullies worn into sandstone. They stood side by side in identical poses, thumbs hooked in their belts, right hips cocked.

  Several of the other guests immediately hailed the pair. Alan and Brice returned the greetings and stepped off the porch, moving through the crowd with an ease born of years of working together, each man anticipating the move the other would make.

  Reg watched them stroll toward him and felt a stab of envy. He and his father had never enjoyed so much as an hour of the kind of closeness the Mitchells seemed to live and breathe. All his life Reg and the Earl had been separated by the invisible specter of the ‘perfect’ son his father was always trying to shape him into.

  “Tell me, Worthington, what’s your syndicate going to do about these big outfits fencing off the best watering holes for themselves?” Dillon nudged Reg’s shoulder with one pudgy finger. “Answer me that, why don’t you?”

  Reg kept his expression calm, though his mind raced. He hadn’t the slightest idea what Dillon was babbling about. Was it something important, or merely a made-up issue to test the newcomer? “I’d be interested in hearing your opinion of the matter, Mr. Dillon,” he said after a moment.

  “Mr. Worthington, I hope you’re settling in all right, meeting everyone.” Alan Mitchell smiled warmly as he and his father paused in front of Reg, cutting off whatever answer Dillon had been about to make.

  “Yes, I’m acquainting myself with all my neighbors.” He returned the smile, some of his tension easing in the presence of his congenial hosts. “Please, call me Reg.”

  “Then it’s Alan and Brice. Hello Joe.” Mitchell Senior nodded to Dillon, then surveyed the crowd around them. “We’ve had a pretty good turnout this year, if I say so myself.” He turned back to Reg. “I always like to start the season off with one of these shindigs, let everybody catch up on the gossip, help newcomers like yourself get to know the folks they’ll be working with come roundup.”

  “As if we needed any more green hands on the roundup,” Dillon muttered.

  Reg ignored the remark. “I believe I’ve met everyone but my neighbor to the west, A.B. Waters,” he said.

  “You haven’t met A.B.?” Alan’s grin broadened. “Well, then you’re in for a treat.”

  Brice added his deep-throated chuckle to his son’s easy laughter. Reg wo
ndered what the joke was that he’d missed. Apparently the owner of the Rocking W was quite a character. He had his doubts about a man who would employ a woman to work his cattle. Especially a woman as stubborn and sharp-tongued as the cowgirl, Abbie. He didn’t know what had stunned him more – the fact that she’d leveled that man-sized pistol at him, or the knowledge that she had been fully prepared to use it.

  She was definitely a far cry from the women he’d known in England, and the daughters of English landowners he’d occasionally called upon during his days in India. He’d feared for a moment that all women in Texas would be so outspoken and unfeminine, but a brief survey of the females in attendance at today’s barbecue had reassured him this was not the case. Already more than one lovely coquette had cast her eyes his way, inviting flirtation. The fact that their fathers and brothers all wore revolvers at their sides limited his chances at all but the most casual acquaintance, however.

  He wasn’t here for amusement, he reminded himself. He was here to make a profit as quickly as possible, so that he could go home. Once back in England, he’d have plenty of time to acquire the suitable bride his father was always going on about. Right now, his business wasn’t women, but cattle.

  He turned to Brice, who had one booted foot propped on the wagon wheel Reg leaned against. “So what does the market for cattle look like this year?” he asked.

  Brice gave a half-smile. “So far it looks good. Especially if we get some rain this spring to green up the grass. But you’ll learn soon enough that out here, anything can happen. A late spring snowstorm, a fire or a drought, and the whole herd’s wiped out.” He shrugged. “I don’t know of any place on earth where the weather moves back and forth between such extremes as the Texas panhandle. You have to be prepared for anything. I’ve never been to England, but I imagine things are different there.”

  Reg nodded. He recognized a warning when he heard one. Be prepared for anything. Already he’d begun to see how unprepared he might be for this particular venture. His stomach tightened as he contemplated the prospect of failing yet again.

  He looked over Brice’s shoulder, past the milling crowd to the empty prairie that stretched to the horizon. Despite his misgivings about the ranch, the sight of all that open space had a certain fascination, in the same way the endless expanse of rolling waves had captivated him as a young seaman.

  “Texas is different, all right.” Alan spoke up, following Reg’s gaze toward the horizon. “It’s something you can’t rightly explain to someone until they’ve been here. But there’s – I don’t know – a feeling about the land that sorta reaches out and grabs you, makes you want to sink deep roots.”

  Reg thought about his own roots. He would have said they were in England, though he’d spent precious little time in his homeland these last few years.

  “Well, will you look who finally made it? I was beginning to think she’d forgotten about my invitation.” Reg followed Alan

  Mitchell’s gaze and spotted a woman walking toward them through the crowd.

  Though she moved with the ease of a girl, her wide skirts and full-sleeved bodice reminded Reg of the fashions he’d seen in paintings of his mother in her coming-out years. The outdated design was made worse by an unflattering shade of russet orange that stood out among the cool blues and greens and purples of the other women in the crowd. The broad-brimmed straw hat, with its sweep of ostrich feather, effectively hid the woman’s face from view. A Soho charwoman would have dressed more stylishly for a party. Who was this eccentric female, and why was Alan greeting her so enthusiastically?

  “Glad to see you made it,” Alan said, pumping her hand as if she were a man.

  “I had to mend the buggy wheel before I could hitch it up,” the woman said in a voice Reg found strangely familiar. “I guess I could have ridden Toby instead, but I wanted to wear my new dress.” She smoothed her hands awkwardly down the front of her skirt.

  “I hardly recognized you in that getup,” Dillon said, looking the woman up and down.

  “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble,” Alan said. “We’re all neighbors here, after all.” He took her arm and led her to Reg. “Allow me to introduce you to your newest neighbor. Reg Worthington has taken over the Ace of Clubs on behalf of one of those British syndicates. He’ll be overseeing things for a while.”

  The woman raised her head and Reg found himself staring into a pair of brilliant emerald eyes – the same eyes that had mesmerized him on the prairie yesterday.

  “Reg, this is Abigail Waters, your neighbor to the west.” Brice chuckled. “Otherwise known as A.B. Waters.”

  “Abbie.” Reg spoke the name over the sound of Dillon’s laughter. “Why didn’t you tell me you owned the ranch?”

  The woman raised her chin higher, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “I didn’t think it was particularly important at the time.”

  “Do you two know each other?” Alan asked, looking puzzled.

  Abbie ducked her head and busied herself straightening the row of black braid down her bodice. “Mr. Worthington and I met briefly yesterday. He helped me pull a heifer out of the mud.”

  “If I know our Abbie, she didn’t really need much help,” Alan said. He clapped his hand on her shoulder. “She’s a better rancher than most of the men I know.”

  A blush washed her cheeks pink and she fussed more with the braid. Her hands, freed of the heavy work gloves, looked slender and delicate in their covering of brown cotton. Reg found himself watching them, remembering the way her fingers had trembled as he’d brushed them with his lips yesterday. She’d appeared so tough and capable out there in the wilderness; the trembling had startled him.

  “Abbie’s kept the Rocking W going since her father died,” Brice Mitchell said. “Not many women, or men either for that matter, could have done what she has. You can count yourself lucky to have her as a neighbor.”

  “Oh, Brice, go on,” Abbie protested. She tried to push the drooping ostrich feather out of her eyes to give him a mock glare, but as soon as she lowered her hand, the feather drifted back into place, spoiling the effect.

  “You should have just worn your Stetson,” Alan said, laughing.

  “You’re not going to show up at round-up in all that feminine frou-frou, are you?” Dillon asked.

  Reg saw the hurt that flashed through Abbie’s eyes before she glanced away. He had the urge to stomp smartly on Joe Dillon’s foot.

  But the Mitchells seemed oblivious to any faux pas on their guest’s part. Rather than dissolve in tears, Abbie rallied with a jab of her own. “Even if I did, I’d probably manage to out-rope you,” she said. She blew out a breath, sending the ostrich feather waving. “Not to mention this feather keeps the flies out of my face.”

  Alan chuckled and clapped her on the back once again. “That’s what I like about you, Abbie,” he said. “Not only are you modest, you’re quick, too.” He nodded toward Reg. “I’d better go see to some of the other guests.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Dillon said. “I want your opinion on some stock I’m thinking of buying.”

  “You make yourself at home, you hear?” Brice Mitchell called over his shoulder as the three men departed.

  Reg watched the Mitchells make their way through the crowd, stopping often to shake hands or exchange greetings, jokes, or insults with other ranchers. “I must say, I find the Texas sense of humor takes some getting used to,” he said.

  “They don’t mean anything by it,” Abbie said. “I ought to be flattered they treat me as an equal – like one of the guys.”

  Reg studied the look of raw longing on her face as she watched the Mitchells move away from them. So that was the lay of the land, was it? Abbie Waters was wearing her heart on her sleeve for Alan Mitchell and the Texan treated her as ‘one of the guys.’

  He shifted his gaze to Alan. If Abbie treated Alan anything like she’d treated him on their first meeting, it was no wonder the rancher didn’t exactly see her as a fainting feminine flower
in need of a gallant man to come to her rescue. In fact, Reg couldn’t imagine anyone less likely to need assistance than the quick-tongued cowgirl who’d leveled a gun on him.

  He studied Abbie again. She wasn’t a bad looking woman. In fact, she was quite attractive. She was totally lacking in feminine manners, of course, but a man like Alan might overlook that in light of her obvious skill as a rancher.

  He’d wager a handsome sum she’d have known the answer to Dillon’s question about water rights. Even sour-faced Dillon hadn’t discounted Alan’s praise of Abbie’s ranching ability.

  Maybe all she needed was a little coaching on how to dress and how to behave. He winced as she reached up to brush the ostrich feather from her eyes yet again. All right, she’d need a lot of coaching. Still, he’d had his share of relationships with women. Surely he could teach Abbie Waters a thing or two to help her win the man she’d set her cap for. In turn, she could repay him by giving him a few tips to help him make the Ace of Clubs a success. Given time, he could learn what he needed to know on his own, but he didn’t have time. He needed results quickly. He could take advantage of Abbie Waters’ expertise, post a hefty profit and book passage on the next ship home. He smiled to himself as he shaped the plan in his mind. With any luck, he’d be Christmassing in Devonshire, raising a toast to A. B. Waters.

  * * * *

  Abbie forced her gaze away from Alan and busied herself straightening her skirt. When she’d first put on the outfit this morning, she’d been very proud of herself for digging it out of her mother’s things. It was the first dress she’d worn in years, and she’d hardly slept last night, thinking how pretty it was, and how pretty she felt wearing it.

  But now that she was here, she could see the dress was all wrong. The style wasn’t anything like the slim-skirted gowns with bustles that the other women wore. And the deep russet color, which she’d loved because it reminded her of the velvety coat of a newborn calf, was anything but flattering to her skin.