“Then why are you here?”
He froze in the act of putting on his hat. “I came because we agreed to a bargain and I am a man of my word,” he said stiffly.
“This ‘bargain’ was your idea. Why did you propose it?”
He turned to face her, still looking as if he had a steel rod for a backbone. “It is my desire to make my first season at the ranch profitable. The sooner I do that, the sooner I may return home to my own affairs.”
“But you don’t know enough about ranching to do that on your own, do you?”
His jaw worked, as if it took great effort to dredge up words. “No,” was his single clipped answer.
“Then you’d better leave your precious pride with your hat on that rack and come sit down. The sooner we get to work, the sooner we’ll both have what we want.”
They glared at each other for a long minute. The steady beat of the mantle clock sounded loud as a blacksmith’s hammer on iron in the silence. Her flood of anger ebbed as quickly as it had risen, replaced by a jittery anticipation. She found herself wishing for Reg to stay; despite his aggravating manner, she’d never met a man who intrigued her more.
Banjo trotted over to lean against her leg. She glanced down at the dog and when she looked up again, Reg had replaced his hat on the peg. “I suggest we begin,” he said, and took his seat at the table.
Smiling to herself, Abbie went to sit across from him.
Chapter Four
Reg set out the next morning for the nearby town of Fairweather, his head still reeling from the information Abbie had rattled off to him. She’d lectured on the supplies he’d need and terms he must know and had him parrot the information back to her like some dull-witted schoolboy. She seemed to enjoy seeing him brought down to this level, her emerald eyes alight with glee as she drilled him.
He’d never met such a forward woman in all his life. She said exactly what was on her mind, without the slightest simpering or feminine hesitation. He was accustomed to women who deferred to his judgment; Abbie contradicted him at every turn and never hesitated to let him know every time he was in the wrong.
In short, she spoke to him exactly as a man would have. It was damned unnerving at times, to gaze into that delicate face and meet her unwavering stare. A proper woman never looked at a man that way.
A proper woman never made his heart race the way his had when confronted with the ocean depths of Abbie’s eyes. That moment of arousal had caught him completely off guard. He shook himself. He’d be foolish to think such feelings were anything more than a reaction to the novelty of Abbie’s beauty and brashness. Now that his head had had a chance to clear in the cool morning air, he could see Abbie was so far from his ideal of the proper woman as to make him laugh.
He studied the lengthy list she’d made of the items he’d need for the chuck wagon. Two hundred pounds of flour. Fifty pounds of beans, twenty pounds of raisins. She’d written down enough food to feed a ship’s crew for a month! Some of the items listed sounded strange to him. Two gallons of sorghum. One hundred pounds spuds. Twenty-five pounds Arbuckles. What the devil were Arbuckles? And why did he need so many of them?
Scowling, he shoved the list into his shirt pocket. He wouldn’t put it past that little minx to write down a bunch of nonsense in order to play him for the fool. He remembered the way she’d smiled at him when she’d given him the list. “Be sure you get everything on here,” she’d said.
“Hmmmph. We’ll see about that,” he muttered as he turned the gray down the town’s one main street. “I’ve got a few ideas of my own about what’s needed from town.” Abbie Waters wasn’t the only one who would give orders in this ‘business arrangement’ of theirs.
Despite its lofty name, Fairweather was a feeble excuse for a town. Most of the buildings were little more than hovels, constructed of scrap lumber covered with tar paper. Some of the more substantial structures were made of mud bricks, which the locals referred to as adobe. A few buildings, including the general store and the train station, were built of sawn lumber, though even this was left unpainted.
Pickens General Mercantile sat on one side of the street in the center of town, directly across from the Texas and Pacific depot. Reg tied Mouse to the rail in front of the Mercantile and crossed the broad front porch. A trio of Texans by the door eyed him suspiciously as he passed. He was glad he’d taken Abbie’s advice and traded his cowboy clothing for his more usual mode of dress. The short cutaway jacket, fitted trousers and high boots made him stand out more, but at the same time, he felt more at ease. He nodded formally to the men by the door and stepped into the cool darkness of the only shopping emporium for twenty miles.
“Mr. Worthington, sir. So happy to see you back so soon.” The proprietor, Hiram Pickens, a small man with a nervous manner who reminded Reg of a cairn terrier he’d once known, rushed forward to shake hands. On their first meeting, the day after his arrival in town, Reg had let slip that his father was the Earl of Devonshire, and Pickens had almost fainted. You would have thought the little man was entertaining the Prince Consort the way he bowed and scraped whenever he and Reg crossed paths. “Come to buy some more clothing, or perhaps another hat?” He eyed the Stetson on Reg’s head.
Selling two of his finest, and most expensive, hats in two days would no doubt send Pickens to new heights, or perhaps depths, of obsequiousness. “I’m in town to pick up a few supplies,” he said, pulling the list from his pocket.
“Anything you need, Mr. Worthington, sir. You just say the word and I’ll fix you right up.”
As Pickens led the way through the store, Reg read from his list. Aware of the many interested ears straining his way, he left off the more questionable items. Even with the omissions, purchases piled up at an alarming rate. By the time Pickens and his assistant carried everything to the counter, the little man could hardly see over the stack. “Oh, I almost forgot.” Pickens reached into a cubbyhole behind the counter and withdrew a slim envelope. “This came for you yesterday afternoon.” He leaned forward and placed the letter carefully in Reg’s hand. “I think it’s from the Earl,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.
Reg frowned at the familiar crest on the pale blue envelope. He recognized the copperplate script of Avery Endicott, his father’s secretary. The old man felt it more efficient to dictate all his correspondence, thus Endicott was privy to every bit of scandal or petty gossip brewing in the Worthington household and its spheres.
Reg shoved the letter into his coat. He didn’t have to read it to know what it would say: a formal greeting, followed by several pages detailing what he was doing wrong so far, and why his plans, whatever they might be, would never work. He’d received many such letters in India. Before that, they’d awaited him in every port of call, like land mines set to destroy whatever good feelings he might have mustered about himself in the intervals between communications.
“Are you sure there won’t be anything else?” Pickens licked his pencil and began calculating his column of numbers.
“That will do for today, thank you.” Reg laid a twenty dollar gold piece on the counter. “Have your boy deliver it at your earliest convenience.”
Pickens’ eyes widened. He swallowed hard, his Adams apple bobbing like a fishing float in his throat. Everyone in the room had gone silent. Reg stiffened. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Well, Mr. Worthington, sir, it’s just that, uh, folks usually take what they buy with them.” Pickens loosened his collar, then wiped his suddenly sweating forehead.
“He means he ain’t got no ‘boy’ to do your beck and call,” one of the men by the door called out. “Out here, we do our own haulin’.”
The back of Reg’s neck burned as the room erupted into laughter. He took a deep breath, struggling for calm. No sense in making things worse by losing his temper and shoving the oaf back there out the door.
“Just put the order in my wagon.” He turned at the sound of the familiar voice and saw Alan Mitchell striding towar
d him, hat tipped in a friendly greeting. “I was headed out your way this afternoon, anyway,” he said, shaking Reg’s hand.
“Thank you, Alan. I’ll accept your kind offer.”
Alan clapped him on the back. “Come on, then. I’ll help you load up.” He hefted a fifty pound sack of flour over one shoulder and tucked a can of lard under his arm, then led the way out of the building. Reg picked up another sack of flour and followed him, casting a scowl at the hangers-on by the door that sent them rushing back like chickens in the path of a charging horse.
Refusing Pickens’ nervous assistance, the two men loaded the supplies in the back of Alan’s wagon. As Reg shoved the last sack of sugar into place, Alan stepped back and surveyed the purchases. “Getting ready for round-up?” he asked.
Reg nodded. “I thought it best to get the chuck wagon stocked now.”
Alan brushed flour off his hands. “Mind if I make a few suggestions?”
Reg smiled at his easygoing friend. “Considering how you helped me save face just now, it would be ill-mannered to object.”
Alan nodded toward the load in the wagon. “If you show up at round-up without coffee you’re liable to have a mutiny on your hands in a hurry. You English may prefer tea, but out here, coffee’s the fuel that keeps us going.”
“Coffee. How could I forget?” He’d already noted that he could not go anywhere without being offered a cup of the black, strong brew Texans drank by the gallons. Had Abbie purposely left it off the list?
“Ask for Arbuckles. Pickens’ll know what you mean.”
“Arbuckles?” Reg gave himself a mental kick.
“It’s the most popular brand. Comes in a red sack.” Alan walked around the side of the wagon and peered in. “While you’re at it, don’t forget the lick.”
Reg swallowed, almost afraid to ask. This was an item definitely not on his list. “Lick?”
Alan looked at him and grinned. “Sorghum syrup. It’s a kind of sweetener.” He nodded. “Gotta have lick. Cowboys like a little something sweet after working all day.”
Feeling slightly foolish, Reg turned on his heels and went back to purchase the rest of his supplies. He would know better than to question Abbie’s judgment next time. Perhaps the gleam in her eye when she’d given him the list was merely amusement over his reluctance to unbend enough to ask the meaning of the unfamiliar terms.
While he and Alan were loading the last of his purchases, the door of the depot across the street flew open and slammed back against the wall. A flame-haired woman ran out, struggling to free herself from the grasp of a disheveled, disgruntled man. “Take yer filthy hands from me at once!” she ordered, and bashed him on the head with an oversized carpetbag.
The man staggered, but kept his grip on her arm. “I paid six hundred dollars for you, woman!” he bellowed. “I don’t intend to let go.”
“You bought me passage, sir. You did not buy me.” She readied her carpetbag for another swing, then stomped down on the man’s booted foot. Howling like a kicked dog, the man sprang away.
The woman backed up against the train station, carpetbag clutched in one hand. “You needn’t be complainin’ about your money. I’ll find me a job and repay every last copper.”
“You said you’d come to Fairweather and be my wife.” The man shook his finger at her.
“You said you was a handsome gentleman.” She swept her gaze over his doughy face and dirty clothes. “You said you had a fine ranch and a home fit fer a queen.” He flinched at the disdain in her voice. “You never said nothin’ about a soddy shack on the edge of a prairie and a few sorry cattle the knacker wouldn’t pay to take.”
The man straightened and folded his arms across his chest. “You won’t find work in these parts, and I know you don’t have the train fare out of here. You might as well take me up on my offer. You’ll starve if you try to fend for yourself.”
“I’d rather be taking that chance than be spending me life shackled to the likes of you.” Her face was stern, but Reg thought he detected a glint of tears in her eyes. She pinched her lips together, as if trying to keep them from trembling.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Alan said softly.
Reg shrugged. “Apparently one of those ‘mail-order bride’ schemes that didn’t quite work out. She sounds a long way from home, though. Judging from the accent, I’d say Ireland.”
“Her hair. Have you ever seen that shade of red on a woman?”
Startled, Reg looked over at his friend. Alan’s gaze was locked on the woman, a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. “It’s almost the color of a Hereford calf,” Alan murmured. “It looks as soft, too.”
Reg looked back at the woman. She was pretty in a common sort of way. Her figure was well-rounded, plump even, and she wore a dusty black skirt and white shirtwaist. Her one striking feature was her hair, which had come loose and tumbled from beneath her crumpled porkpie hat. The trailing locks were the same russet shade as the dress Abbie Waters had worn to the barbecue. And like Abbie, this woman appeared capable of defending herself against all comers.
“Come on, we’ve got to help her.” Alan started across the street.
“We’ve got to help her?” Reg asked as the woman’s spurned suitor reached for her again and was rewarded with another crack on the head from the carpetbag. “My friend, it would seem the young woman has the situation under control.”
But Alan was already halfway to the depot. Reluctantly, Reg followed. “Ma’am, could I be of any assistance?” Alan asked, pulling off his hat as he approached the woman.
She gave him a wary look. Reg imagined her taking stock of the clean, neat and no-doubt well-to-do stranger before her. She glanced at her erstwhile groom, then back at Alan, and apparently decided in the handsome rancher’s favor. “Mr. Farley here has asked for me hand in marriage, and I’ve refused his offer. But he must be hard of hearing because he won’t take no for an answer.”
Farley glared at Reg and Alan as if they were two rattlesnakes who’d blocked his path. “I paid six hundred dollars to bring her here to be my wife,” he grumbled. “A deal’s a deal. She can’t back out now.”
“Haven’t you heard a lady always has the option of changing her mind?” Alan asked.
“Lady my eye! Back home she was no better than a scrub maid at some rich fella’s house.” Farley shot her a wounded look. “I’d say marryin’ me would be a step up in the world. At least she’d have her own house to see to.”
“I was upstairs parlor maid!” the woman protested. “A few more years I’d have been promoted to lady’s maid. I’ll have you know the estate where I lived was a far sight better than that. . . that hovel you showed me.”
“Where do you think you’ll go if you leave me?” Farley shot back. “There’s only one way to make a living for the likes of you, and that’s flat on your back. At least with me you’d only have one man to answer to, and not a half-dozen a ni—” The last word ended in a strangled tone as Alan grabbed Farley by the shirt collar and hoisted him up against the depot wall. “That’s no way to talk to a young woman you were recently engaged to marry,” the rancher said in a low voice. “Now apologize and get out of here before I decide to teach you a lesson.”
The man’s eyes bulged as his face turned the color of raw beef. He managed to nod, and gasp, “All right.”
Alan released his hold and Farley slumped against the wall. “I’m sorry we ever laid eyes on each other,” he croaked, rubbing his throat. He scowled at Alan. “What about my money?”
Alan reached in his pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. “I’ll gladly pay it just to see you gone.”
“Wait jest a minute, sir.” The woman’s hand on Alan’s arm stayed him. She blushed as his eyes met hers, then took her hand away and stepped back. “I won’t be having you makin’ the same mistake as Mr. Farley here, thinkin’ I’m to be bought and sold like a milch cow.” She held her head up, eyes bright. “I’m a nice, proper lass, I am. I won�
�t be beholdin’ to no man. I’ll find a job and repay Mr. Farley meself.”
Alan hesitated. “I’m afraid there aren’t many jobs in a town this size. Perhaps you would consider a loan?”
She worried her lower lip between her teeth, hesitating, then shook her head. “It’s bad enough bein’ in debt to Mr. Farley. I won’t be owin’ you also.”
Reg almost felt sorry for Alan as he watched him struggle between his chivalrous impulses and his desire to remain in the young woman’s good graces. What was it about these modern woman that made them so set on looking after themselves? Whatever happened to damsels in distress who welcomed the avenging knight?
“Perhaps I could be of assistance,” he said, stepping forward.
The others turned to look at him. “What did you have in mind?” Alan asked.
“The young woman has expressed an interest in finding work. I believe I know of a position for which she would be suited.”
Alan frowned. “I hadn’t heard of anyone who was hiring –”
“I understand Abbie Waters is looking for a ladies’ maid.”
“A ladies maid? Abbie?” Alan looked at Reg as if he’d suddenly grown two heads.
“Well, more of a companion, really. Someone to keep her company, help look after her clothing, that sort of thing.” He ignored Alan’s astonished expression and turned to the woman. “Miss Waters’ ranch house, while not luxurious, is quite comfortable and the work would not be too strenuous.”
“It sounds like just the thing.” She glanced at Farley, who was slumped against the depot wall, rubbing his neck.
Alan grabbed Reg’s arm and nodded to the woman. “If you’ll excuse us, ma’am.” He pulled Reg to the end of the depot’s front veranda and spoke in a low whisper. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “I mean, Abbie’s always been the independent sort. If she was gonna hire another employee, seems like she’d want someone who could ride herd and mend fence.”
“I’m quite aware of Miss Waters’ desire for autonomy,” Reg said. “Still, even in the United States, it’s not considered proper, is it, for a young woman to live alone as she does? A female companion would be more socially acceptable.”
Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two Page 5
