Alan is right, she thought bitterly. I should give up even trying to be feminine. I don’t have the knack for it. She sighed, and pushed the annoying ostrich feather out of her eyes for the umpteenth time.
“Why don’t you take it off?”
She started when the Englishman spoke. He’d been so quiet she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone. “What did you say?” she asked.
“If the hat bothers you so, why don’t you take it off?” His moustache twitched as if he were keeping back a smile.
She looked around, at the other women with their neat straw or cloth bonnets. Her spirits sank further as she realized the hat, too, was hopelessly out of style. Suddenly, she couldn’t wait to get rid of the cursed thing. She reached up, fumbling with the hat pins.
“Allow me.” The Englishman deftly plucked the long steel pins from her hair, then gently lifted the hat from her head. He stepped back, smiling. “There. That’s much better.”
The gesture was innocent enough, but to Abbie it seemed intimate, as if this stranger had removed not only her hat, but her dress as well. Flustered, she took a step back. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. . . “
“Worthington. But I’ve noticed the custom here seems to be for the neighboring ranchers to address each other by their Christian names. Therefore, perhaps you should call me Reg.”
She accepted the hat from him. “All right, Reg. It was nice meeting you again. But I really must go now.” She intended to climb into her wagon and drive out of here as fast as she could. Then she’d bury this dress and hat back in her mother’s trunk and never make the mistake again of trying to be what she was not. Even as she formed the thought, a stab of sadness shot through her. If Alan Mitchell could never be made to see her as a woman, how would he ever come to think of her as a wife? Did she have no choice but to spend the rest of her days alone?
“I was hoping you would do me the favor of granting me one dance before you leave.” Reg Worthington bowed low before her.
Abbie looked around, realizing for the first time that two fiddlers had set up on the Mitchells’ front porch. They were playing a lively waltz and couples were whirling on the wagon sheet someone had spread on the ground to serve as a dance floor. “I. . . I don’t dance,” she stammered. She looked back at Reg, feeling more awkward by the moment. “I always intended to learn, but what with running the ranch and all, there was never really time.” She felt the heat rise in her face, and silently cursed her ineptness. This fine English gentleman was probably biting his tongue off to keep from bursting out laughing. Surely he’d never seen a more un-ladylike woman in his entire life.
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 s
till 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.”
Chapter Three
In the pale light of early morning, Reg sat alone at the long dining table in the Ace of Clubs ranch headquarters, sipping tea and battling a familiar enemy, doubt. Mounted heads of deer and elk stared down from the corners of the room, their glass eyes solemn with mute accusation. What kind of man would have agreed to the bargain he’d made last night? they seemed to ask. Who but a simpleton would trust a woman to teach him what he needed to know to succeed as a rancher?
And who but a fool would think he could turn a hoyden like Abbie Waters into a proper lady?
He frowned and studied his reflection in the heavy silver teapot the housekeeper, Mrs. Bridges, had set before him. The face that stared back at him might as well have been his father’s, scowling in disapproval. People said that of the three boys, Reg looked most like the Earl. But he didn’t have his father’s knack for always coming out on top. The Earl could spin straw into gold, turn defeat into triumph. He made success seem effortless, and couldn’t hide his disdain for losers.
The Earl would laugh himself into an apoplectic fit if he knew of Reg’s ‘bargain’ with Abbie Waters. Reg shoved the teapot away and looked out the tall front windows. From here he could see the pens where the saddle horses stood. Two cowboys leaned against the board fence, smoking cigarettes. They’d probably laugh too, if they learned of the scheme.
Then too, there was Reg’s end of the bargain to consider. Could he really turn the awkward, inept creature he’d seen last night into a woman that a man – most specifically Alan Mitchell – would rush to marry?
He winced as he remembered Alan’s kindness toward him. Already he’d begun to think of the rancher as a friend. It hardly seemed cricket to make him the prize in this highly unorthodox game.
He pushed these guilty thoughts from his mind and turned from the window, reaching for the silver bell on his breakfast tray. The delicate peal echoed through the silent house. In a few moments a short, stout woman waddled into the room. “Would you be needing anything else, Mr. Worthington?”
“The ranch books, Mrs. Bridges. Do you know where they’re kept?”
She tipped her head to one side in thought, and the white cap she’d pinned to her halo of slate-colored curls slipped toward her ear. “Why, that’d be in the study, I suppose.”
He followed her into the small, dark chamber across the hall from the dining room. “Mr. Grady wasn’t the most orderly gentleman I’ve ever met,” Mrs. Bridges said as she opened the heavy drapes.
Dust motes swirled in the shaft of bright light that poured from the window. Reg walked over to the desk and shoved aside an Indian war bonnet, one of the many odd artifacts left behind by the ranch’s previous owner, former sheriff John Grady. The memory flashed through his mind of Abbie Waters and her absurd feather-trimmed hat. He smiled in spite of himself, remembering the way her green eyes had flashed when she’d returned Joe Dillon’s insult with that flippant remark about keeping the flies from her face.
He couldn’t deny Abbie intrigued him. Part of him wanted to unravel the mystery of the bold woman who wore men’s clothing with such ease, yet looked like the ragman’s daughter in a dress. She’d challenged him with a gun on the prairie, but had dissolved into tears when confronted by something as innocent as a dance. His father would not have approved, of course, but then, his father would never know. By the time Reg returned to England, having secured the family fortune in Texas, Abbie would be no more than an interesting memory of his time spent here. Right now, she was a means to accomplishing his goal.
“Is this what you’re lookin’ for, Mr. Worthington?” The housekeeper blew the dust from an oversized book bound in maroon leather.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bridges.” Reg took the book from her. “Now if you’d be so kind as to send for Mr. Jackson.”
She squared her shoulders, like a pigeon fluffing her feathers, and scowled at him. “I hope you’re not taking it into your head that I’m to be some kind of maid-of-all work here. I was hired to cook, and I’ve got work to do in the kitchen. I can’t be running here and there, fetching and carrying.”
He bit back a long-suffering sigh. Charles, from whom Reg had appropriate the cook, had warned him of her ‘tetchy’ nature. With effort, he fixed what he hoped was a charming smile on his lips. “Of course not, Mrs. Bridges. I would not dream of taking advantage of your generous nature. Once you’ve let Mr. Jackson know I wish to speak with him, by all means, hurry back to your kitchen and the culinary delights I know await me at luncheon.”
This decidedly overdone speech seemed to please her. Solemn-faced, she nodded, sending the cap dipping down over her brow. “All right. As long as you understand, then.”
He turned away, hiding a smile, while she shuffled from the room. He cleared a space on the desktop, then settled into the chair and opened the ledger. Starting with the most recent entries, he worked his way back through the book. A picture quickly began to form in his mind of the ranch’s financial situation. His spirits sank as he studied Grady’s cramped script. Despite good calf crops and relatively high market prices, the ranch had been steadily losing money. He frowned, trying to make sense of this conflicting information.
The scrape of spurs on the hardwood floor disturbed his scrutiny of the ledgers. He looked up and saw his foreman, Tuff Jackson, striding toward him. Jackson was a compact, sinewy man, legs permanently bowed from years on horseback, the skin of
his hands and face tanned to leather by long hours in the brutal sun. He regarded his new boss with a sour expression. “Got a lot of work to do to get ready for roundup,” he said. “Can’t waste time talking.”
“It would be in your best interest to speak with me.” Reg ignored the scowl Jackson directed at him and turned back a few pages in the ledger. “Can you explain this series of entries?” He pointed to a column of figures dated the previous fall.
Jackson sidled up to the desk and peered over Reg’s shoulder. He squinted at the numbers, then turned and aimed a stream of tobacco juice at a spittoon, narrowly missing Reg’s trouser leg. “Can’t say as I ever concerned myself with numbers much. My job is to see to the cattle, not lollygag around with bookwork.”
Reg bit off a sharp retort. From his insolent slouch to his barbed remarks, Jackson was doing his best to challenge his new boss. Reg refused to take the bait. “Your job is also to keep count of the stock, is it not?” he asked, his voice deceptively even.
Jackson shrugged. “What about it?”
“Then it is time you concerned yourself with these numbers.” He jabbed a finger at the ledger. “According to these entries, this ranch had a record increase last spring. Yet by the time of fall sales, only half the stock are accounted for.”
“A lot can go wrong in half a year. Rustlers, lobos, rattlesnakes.” He tipped his hat back, giving Reg a better look at his milky blue eyes. “Of course, you bein’ green and a foreigner to boot, you wouldn’t know that.”
Reg slammed the ledger shut and rose from his chair to face Jackson. With a small feeling of satisfaction, he realized he was a good two inches taller than the foreman, though he had an idea Jackson hadn’t earned the nickname ‘Tuff’ by looks alone. “What I do know is that those kind of losses show you aren’t doing a very good job of ‘seeing to the cattle.’ I expect a better performance or I’ll find someone who can do the job to my satisfaction.”
Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two Page 3
