“See there? You like pretty things same as the next lass.” She set the iron aside and shook out the skirt. “Your hair looks nice that way, don’t you think?”
Abbie put one hand to the intricate arrangement of braids. “Yes, it does.”
“I’ll wager Mister Worthington noticed it, didn’t he?”
Abbie’s face grew hot as she remembered Reg’s compliment, and the kiss that had followed soon after.
“I knew it!” Maura cried. She shook her head. “You aren’t any different from other women, so don’t be pretending you are.” She held the skirt out to Abbie. “Now try this on, Miss, and I’ll be checking the hem.”
Abbie looked at the charcoal grey skirt in her hand. “What is it?”
“It’s a riding skirt. So you don’t have to ride in trousers all the time.” Maura stepped up and caught the hem, then fanned it to reveal a split in the skirt.
Abbie frowned. “But I don’t mind wearing trousers –”
“Lord Worthington gave me the money for the fabric. Said they were all the rage in Europe among ladies of quality such as yourself.”
“Ladies of qual–” Abbie dropped into a chair and gaped at Maura. “Reg said that about me?”
Maura nodded. “He should know, shouldn’t he, him being such a fine gentleman? Course, it really goes without saying, you being an heiress and all.”
“An heiress! Maura, who has been filling your head with that kind of nonsense?”
“Alan, I mean Mr. Mitchell, told me you’d inherited this big ranch from your father. That makes you an heiress, don’t it now?”
Abbie shook her head and stared at the skirt in her hand. “I’m a rancher’s daughter, not an heiress,” she said. “And I don’t need a fancy skirt to ride in, thank you all the same.”
“Mister Worthington said he expected you’d say as much. So he told me to tell you this skirt is your new uniform.”
Abbie frowned. “Uniform?”
Maura shrugged. “Can’t say as it makes much sense to me. But he said you’d understand – something about a lady being recognized by her clothes.”
Abbie groaned. Of course. She’d preached at Reg about dressing like a person in authority if he expected to be accepted as an authority. Now he was turning the tables and telling her that in order to be treated like a lady, she had to dress like one. “All right.” She stood and began unbuttoning her trousers. “I suppose I can try it on.”
She pulled her skirt over her hips and dropped her jeans. Stepping out of the trousers, she kicked them away, then fastened the row of buttons up the side of the skirt. Maura clapped her hands together in delight. “Oh, miss, you do look wonderful!”
Abbie took an experimental few steps. The skirt was surprisingly unconfining. In fact, she felt almost naked without the familiar cloth clinging to her legs.
“Course, you’ll want to wear some good stockings and garters,” Maura said. “With those and your boots, a nice shirtwaist and maybe a waistcoat, you’ll be all set.”
Abbie frowned. “The other ranchers are liable to laugh me out of the round-up if I show up in a dress.”
Maura’s eyes widened. “Oh no, Miss, they wouldn’t dare!”
“You don’t know Texans very well yet, do you?”
“They’d have Mister Worthington to answer to if they dared insult you,” Maura said firmly.
“Goodness knows, we don’t want to disappoint Mister Worthington,” Abbie said, holding back a smile. “I’ll give the skirt a try. But if it interferes with my work, I’ll go back to trousers.”
“I’m so glad,” Maura said. “I’ve already ordered the fabric for two more – and one for me own as well.” She flushed. “Mister Worthington said it was all right.”
Abbie nodded. “Of course. But promise me, Maura, if you go on the round up with us, you’ll be extra careful.”
“Oh I will.” She grinned. “Besides, you don’t have to worry about anything happening to me. I’ve got me St. Christopher’s, and a bottle of Holy Water for extra protection.”
* * * *
The first day of Spring Round-up held all the excitement of Christmas, Camp Meeting, and the beginning of school combined. Everyone was fresh from a winter’s rest, horses groomed and newly shod, saddles oiled and polished. The chuck wagons were full, branding irons ready. Even the promise of hard work ahead couldn’t dull the sharp anticipation that hung in the air like the smoke from mesquite cook fires.
Abbie inhaled deeply of the fragrant aroma of burning wood and boiling coffee as she and Maura approached the rendezvous on the edge of the Mitchells’ land, Banjo trotting alongside. Jorge and Miguel had ridden ahead, driving their extra horses. “This is my favorite time of year,” she said.
“Seems to take a great lot of people to do the roundin’ up,” Maura observed as they guided their horses past a wagon piled high with cowboys’ bedrolls. “I didn’t realize there were this many souls in the whole county.”
“When I was a girl, there were even more,” Abbie said. “There weren’t so many fences then, and cattle roamed further. We’d travel for weeks, and ride hundreds of miles to collect what was ours and see the calves properly branded. Now it’s just a matter of helping each other brand the stock within our little territory, and any that may have roamed over the winter.”
Maura watched two cowboys toss armloads of wood into yet another wagon, then looked back at Abbie. “I can’t imagine anyone bringing a wee child out in all this chaos.”
Abbie smiled. “Daddy never left me out of any part of his life. He wanted me to learn everything he knew about ranching.” She rubbed her thumb across her saddle horn. “I don’t think he thought of me much as a child. I was more of . . . an apprentice, I guess.”
“Mornin’ Miss Abbie. Miss Maura.” A cowboy with a big-toothed grin and a face dusted with freckles rode up to them. “My name’s Tim O’Rourke,” he said, tipping his hat. “You ladies need anything, you let me know.”
“Now you don’t listen to him, ladies.” A broad-shouldered man wearing a butter-yellow shirt rode up. He, too, tipped his hat. “Donnie Best is the name. If you need anything, you remember to ask for the Best.”
Abbie flushed. This unaccustomed attention from the young men was refreshing, but she was honest enough to know the lion’s share of credit for it must go to Maura. The Irish maid stood out like a polished ruby among the cocklebur roughness of the cowboys. She’d swept her auburn hair into a high bun and topped it with a wide-brimmed gaucho’s hat. Dressed in white blouse, red fitted waistcoat and black-riding skirt and boots, she made a fetching picture astride the little mare she’d chosen as her mount.
Abbie shifted in the saddle and looked down at her own gray wool skirt. The fabric was smooth against her stockinged legs, lightweight and unconfining. Maura had arranged her hair in a coil of braids, and she wore a simple shirtwaist with embroidery at the collar and cuffs. Studying herself in the mirror back home, she’d felt almost beautiful for the first time in her life.
Now, watching the men ride out of their way to smile and bow at Maura, she felt awkward and foolish. Her father would have laughed at her, arriving at round-up in such a getup. “There’s work to be done!” he’d have said in a voice accustomed to issuing orders. “No time for all that feminine fol-de-rol.”
“Good morning, Miss Waters. Aren’t you a fetching sight.” A new cowboy joined their group, his hearty British accent at odds with the scuffed boots and tall Stetson he wore. He pushed his hat back on his head and grinned. “I take it you don’t recognize me, miss. Can’t say as I blame you. Last time we met I was togged out a bit different.”
Abbie peered closer, then grinned. “Nick Bainbridge! Of course I remember you.” She looked the cowboy up and down, remembering how he’d looked when she first met him, dressed in a black suit, low shoes and a bowler hat. He’d been footman to Cecily Thorndale, Reg’s brother Charles’s fiancé. A love of cowboying had soon infected him, and he’d elected to stay behind when Cecil
y and Charles returned to England. “You’ve turned into a regular waddie!”
“We’ve been working real hard on Nick and have about got all the polish worn off those fine manners of his.” Tim O’Rourke gave the Englishman a playful shove.
“And how is Alice?” Abbie asked. “I heard you two got married.”
Nick’s grin broadened. “Aye. We tied the knot last month. Until we start our nursery, she’s helping Miss Simms with the Academy.”
“Please tell her I said hello, next time you see her.”
“I’ll do that, Miss.” The three men walked away, but before Abbie could urge her horse to follow, another voice hailed her.
“Why if it ain’t Miss Abbie. I hardly knew you, decked out so fancy like.” Clarence Green raised a hand in greeting and walked toward them. A snowy apron covered most of his torso and he carried an enormous ladle in one hand. “You two ladies are lookin’ right pretty this mornin’,” he said, flashing them a grin as dazzling as his apron.
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Green,” Maura said.
“Now we cain’t have none of that ‘Mister’ nonsense,” he said, shaking the ladle at her. “Out here, my name’s Cooky.” He puffed out his broad chest. “The Army’s got its generals and colonels and such, but out here on roundup, the straw boss is the only one who outranks Cooky.”
Abbie smiled. Clarence had cooked for her father when she was a girl. Having him here reminded her of those happy times, when she’d been the pet of every cowboy on roundup, and her father’s constant companion. “I’m glad you got the job,” she said. “I can hardly wait to eat a plateful of your beans and biscuits.”
“It’s son-of-a-gun stew and cornpone for dinner today.” His expression sobered. “I sure ‘preciate you recommendin’ me, Miss Abbie. Times been hard lately.”
She nodded. “I’m sure Mr. Worthington was happy to find someone so capable.”
“Yeah, well, he dug into my flapjacks quick enough.” Cooky shook his head. “The man don’t appreciate good coffee, though. Asked me to make him tea.”
Abbie bit back a grin. Asking a chuck wagon cook for special favors violated an unwritten law of the plains. A cowboy who complained could expect burned beans and cold coffee for the duration of the round-up. “What did you tell him?” she asked.
“I got riled a little at first, but then I figured I had to make allowances, him bein’ a foreigner and all.” His grin broadened. “I told him I’d boil an extry pot of water, but he had to mess with his own tea leaves and such.”
“I don’t mind making Mister Worthington’s tea.” Maura turned to Abbie. “I’ve made many a cup in me life. It’s the least I can do to repay him for his kindness.”
Abbie fidgeted, uncomfortable with the sudden tightness in her stomach. She didn’t like the idea of pretty Maura waiting on Reg. Even though his high-faluting ways wore on her nerves some times, Reg Worthington was a good looking man. And he was the only man who ever treated her as anything more than just another cowhand. It was bad enough that all the cowboys could hardly bear to take their eyes off the lovely redhead, once Reg was around Maura regular, he’d forget all about Abbie.
She shook her head and silently scolded herself. What did she care who Reg paid attention to? Maura had no doubt served hundreds of cups of tea to men like Reg and nothing had come of it. Besides, it might solve her problem of what to do with Maura while she was working.
“Cooky, do you have anybody lined up to help you?” she asked.
He shook his head and glanced at the dozens of men working around them. “These waddies would prob’ly be useless as tits on a boar hog when it comes to servin’ up chuck.”
“Would you mind if Maura helped you, then? She does all the cooking at my place.”
Cooky cast a critical eye on the maid. “It’s hot, dirty work,” he said. “Peelin’ spuds, gatherin’ chips for the fire.”
Maura looked him in the eye. “Aye, and I’d be wagering I’ve done worse work in me life.”
He nodded. “All right, then. Hop down off that horse and we’ll find you an apron. Time’s a wastin’.” He nodded to Abbie and set off toward the chuck wagon.
“You don’t mind helping him, do you?” Abbie asked.
“Of course not.” Maura dismounted and handed Abbie the reins to the mare. “I’d better go now, Miss.”
Abbie watched Maura walk across the gathering ground. Every few feet she was stopped by a cowboy who wanted to give his personal welcome to the beauty in their midst. Abbie hadn’t seen so much bowing and scraping since a coach load of female dancers spent the night in town, on their way to California. The queen of England herself probably didn’t receive such homage.
Thinking of England reminded her of Reg. She hadn’t seen him since the morning after the snowstorm, when he and Alan and the others had left her cabin to return to their homes. To tell the truth, she’d been half afraid to face him again. What had she been thinking, kissing him that way? She’d told herself the brandy had addled her mind, but she knew she hadn’t been drunk when she’d sought Reg’s lips with her own. She’d merely wanted to satisfy her curiosity about what it would be like to touch a man that way. Being with Reg in that cave presented the first opportunity she’d ever had to kiss a man and she hadn’t wanted to pass it by.
She’d never expected the simple meeting of lips could be so powerful. Indeed, the kiss she and Reg had shared had barely resembled the few chaste caresses she’d had the opportunity to witness. The moment she’d touched Reg, warmth raced through her, as if their lips formed a conduit for his body heat. Her heart pounded. Her skin tingled. If anyone else had related these symptoms to her, she might have thought them stricken with some dangerous fever.
If that were true, it was a fever she longed to experience again. She’d never felt more alive, more aware of her own body, than she’d been in Reg’s embrace. Was this what lust felt like? She feared it was, and hung her head in shame, even as she reveled in the memory of the moment.
“Are you going to sit up there gathering wool all day?”
She let out a small gasp and looked around to see Reg striding toward her. He was handsome as ever in his tailored suit and Stetson, English riding boots sheathing his well-muscled legs to the knees. She silently cursed the blush that heated her face at the sight of him. It was bad enough that she’d allowed herself to revel in her wanton behavior; now she would have to do her best to convince him the moment had meant nothing to her. After all, she was in love with Alan. She could never have any real feelings for this stuffy Englishman, could she?
“I. . . I was looking for Alan,” she blurted when Reg stopped beside her. “I wanted to let him know we’re here.”
Reg nodded and looked away. Was she imagining things, or was that a flush coloring his cheeks? “He knows you’re here. He saw Maura working with Green and she told him.”
“You’d better learn to call him Cooky or the cowboys will give you a hard time about it.”
“As if their opinion of me makes a whit of difference.” But his very stiffness as he spoke told her he valued the opinion of the men far more than he cared to admit.
She frowned at the top of his hat. She didn’t like not being able to see his face, to read his emotions in his eyes. “You’ll have a much easier time of it if you try harder to fit in,” she said.
He shook his head. “The others would probably accept me soon enough. But Jackson relishes keeping the kettle boiling, so to speak.”
She swung down out of the saddle to stand in front of him. But still he refused to meet her gaze. She fought the urge to put her hand on his shoulder in a gesture of comfort. Her body still trembled with the memory of the last time she touched him; she couldn’t risk making contact again.
“Tuff will come around if you give him time,” she said. “He’s suspicious of outsiders.”
He rolled his shoulders, as if shrugging off her advice. “Where will you be working this morning?”
“I’m not
sure. Wherever I’m needed.” She scanned the crowd around them and spotted Alan. “Hey, Alan, where do you want me to work?” she called, waving to him.
She noticed the way Reg winced at her unladylike behavior. Well, what did she care what he thought anyway? Alan was the man she wanted to impress.
Alan returned her wave and sauntered over to them. She thought again how handsome he looked, dressed in a crisp white shirt, jeans, a calfskin vest and chaps. “Hello Abbie, Reg.” He stopped a few feet in front of them and looked her up and down. “What’s this outfit you’re wearing?” he asked.
“It’s a riding skirt.” She gathered the skirt in one hand, enough to show him that it was divided. “Maura made it.”
“Well how about that?” He grinned. “You still going to be able to handle a lass rope in a skirt?”
“Of course.”
“Then I want you with Fred Lazlo, roping calves.” He turned to Reg. “Abbie always was top hand with a lariat.”
Reg nodded. “Where do you want me to work?”
Alan rubbed his chin, considering. “I guess I figured you’d kinda take it easy and watch. Sort of an overseer’s position.”
“I didn’t come here to ‘take it easy,’“ Reg said. “I came here to work, as everyone else is working.”
Alan frowned. “I don’t know. This is pretty tough work.”
Abbie could see Reg bristle. He straightened like a porcupine readying its quills for an attack. “Just because I’m an Englishman and the son of a nobleman, doesn’t mean I can’t do my share of work. Some of these cattle are my cattle and I intend to do everything I can to make the ranch a success.”
Alan clapped him on the shoulder. “All right then. You can help Jorge and his crew at the fires. I’ll introduce you and they’ll show you what to do.”
They nodded goodbye to Abbie and headed out through the crowd. She mounted once more and guided Toby toward the group of cowboys gathered on the edge of the crowd. Some of these were men she’d known most of her life. Others were new to the area. Young and old, veteran or new recruit, they all had one thing in common. They could make a rope obey their commands, sailing through the air to snag a fleeing calf’s heels.
Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two Page 10
