Usually the men paid little attention to her presence among them. When she’d dressed in men’s clothes and tucked her hair under her hat, more than one newcomer had mistaken her for a boy. By the time they discovered the truth, she’d already proven herself as a capable hand.
Today, she noticed a difference in the men’s behavior from the start. Men who had known her for years edged away from her, casting curious glances in her direction, but never meeting her gaze. Strangers eyed her with open suspicion.
“What’s she doing here?” a dark-haired youth with a pock-scarred face asked.
“I’ve been assigned to help bring in the calves,” she said, adjusting the fit of her leather gloves.
“Since when does a woman do a man’s job?” the youth asked.
“Since she owns one of the ranches we’re ropin’ for.” Moses Wilson spoke up. Moses was fifty years old if he was a day and he’d taught Abbie much of what she knew about roping. He glanced at her with knowing eyes, then leaned over and spit tobacco juice on a dung beetle making its way across the ground. “‘Sides that, she’s a dab hand with a rope.”
“I never heard of such,” the youth said.
Moses shrugged. “We ain’t payin’ you for your opinions,” he said, and turned his horse toward the open prairie.
Alan stood on the back of a wagon and gave the orders to move out. Cheers shook the air as the various work crews raced across the prairie, headed in all four directions. They’d start with the calves closest to camp and work out, moving base over the next few days in order to cover as much territory as possible.
Abbie spotted her first calf. Making a mental note of the brand on the cow the calf ran beside, she sent her rope spinning. She leaned forward, Toby racing alongside the frightened calf. A flick of her wrist and the rope snaked out and caught the calf around the heels. Toby backed to tighten the rope and they dragged the bawling animal to the branding fires. “This one’s Lazy L,” she called out to the men waiting to brand the calf to match its mother.
As the sun rose, Abbie settled into the rhythm of the work. Ride out, rope, return. The sun was warm on her back, the breeze cool on her face as she raced beside a fleeing calf. The air around the branding fires reeked of burnt hair and hide and the scent of burning chips – the dried dung that fueled the fires. This was the perfume of a round up, an aroma steeped into her brain, lacing her memories.
After an hour of steady work, she took a break to rest and water Toby. She stood by the water barrel and watched the activity around the fires. Alan and Reg flipped a calf on its side. “Rocking W,” the roper called and Jorge reached for the glowing brand. The calf bawled and kicked as the hot iron pressed against its flank. While Jorge worked, Alan reached down between the animal’s hind legs and neatly gelded the bull calf, while Reg cut a double notch in the right ear and tossed the severed slice of ear into a nearby bucket. The tally man noted the calf and its markings in his notebook. Later, he’d count the contents of the bucket and match it to the tally in his notebook.
The men stepped back and the calf leapt to its feet and shook itself, then trotted over to its mother, waiting by a makeshift holding pen. Another roper arrived, dragging another calf, and the process began again.
Abbie admired Alan’s smooth efficiency. He worked without wasted energy, quickly so as to produce the least trauma in the animal. A flick of his wrist and the job was done, while Reg still struggled to make the proper marks in the ear.
She shifted her gaze to the Englishman. He was holding his own, muscles straining as he pinned the calf’s neck beneath his knee. He’d discarded his suit jacket, and his fine linen shirt was splattered with blood. More blood dripped from his expensive leather gloves, and stained his trousers. He wore a grim expression, intent on the job at hand.
Abbie turned away, one hand over her stomach, trying to quell the sudden fluttering there. Where was the Reg she knew, the cocky Englishman with the impeccable manners? He’d been replaced by this fierce warrior, bloodied but not bowed. Her heart pounded as she watched him release the calf. The muscles in his thighs and buttocks tensed as he stood. She swallowed hard. This different Reg, stripped of fancy clothes and fancy manners, reduced to raw masculinity, drew her. He stirred emotions she didn’t want to examine too closely. How could she be lusting after Reg when she meant to love Alan?
Chapter Nine
Reg could not find a part of his body that did not ache. Muscles burned from wrestling several hundred-pound calves to the ground. His fingers were criss-crossed with cuts from the knife that sliced him as often as it notched the calves’ ears. His eyes stung from the constant assault of smoke from the branding fires and his head throbbed from noise and heat and the sickening stench of burning hair and hide and the metallic odor of blood.
He dragged one arm across his brow, trying to keep the sweat from running into his eyes, and took a firmer grip on the ear of the calf that writhed beneath his knee. He would never think of these animals as cute babies again. Up close they were wide-eyed demons, all sharp, lashing hooves and butting heads. He wiped the knife on his pants leg and notched a double V into the right ear. With practice, this was getting easier. He didn’t slip as often, or take as long to make the cuts. He leapt up, standing clear of the thrashing animal. The calf righted itself, shook, then, prodded by a cowboy, raced toward the gathered herd, to be reclaimed by its mother. Later, each ranch would ‘cut out’ – separate from the herd – the cattle that bore that ranch’s brand.
“How ‘bout taking a break and grabbing a bite to eat?” Alan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you where to wash up.”
Reg looked down at his blood-spattered shirt and trousers and frowned. He doubted there was enough water in camp to get him clean. This suit would be fit for nothing but the ragman after today.
He followed Alan to a wooden trough set up near the chuck wagon and took his place in a line of cowboys waiting to wash up. Aware of curious glances in his direction, he stood straighter. Here was his chance to prove himself to these men, by working among them and with them.
“Where’s the calf you’ve been butchering?” He snapped his head around at the sound of the familiar voice taunting him. Tuff Jackson looked him up and down, then spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground between his feet. “I ain’t seen so much blood on any one person since I found old Andy Goebler scalped by Comanches.”
Reg stared at the tobacco juice slowly sinking into the dirt at his feet. He clenched his jaw, commanding himself to rein in his temper. When he felt able to speak, he raised his head and gave Jackson a cool look. “As I recall, we are all here to work, not to engage in a fashion show.” He narrowed his eyes. “Not that you would ever win a prize in either case.”
Jackson blinked, the closest Reg had seen him come to flinching. Several of the men around them chuckled, and the foreman’s expression grew darker. Reg sensed he’d risen a few points in the estimation of some, though at the expense of Jackson’s increasing animosity. He’d have to deal with the foreman eventually; better to hold off until after the round-up. While he was here, he’d scout for Jackson’s replacement. He couldn’t afford to be without a competent foreman for long.
After his turn at the wash trough, he took a tin plate from a stack at the end of the chuck wagon and walked to the fire, where Maura and Green – Cooky – were ladling out the contents of various iron pots.
Reg stared at his filled plate. Nothing looked familiar. Well, the dark brown stuff was some kind of beans. The other was apparently bread, though he was sure it wasn’t made of wheat. The third dish was fried pieces of something. Liver, perhaps? He looked around for a place to sit. Of course, there were no tables or chairs. Everyone else was seated on the ground, holding their plate in one hand and shoveling food in with the other. So much for his tutor’s lessons on table manners, he thought as he lowered himself to the ground.
He was taking his first bite of the fried substance when Abbie, accompanied by her dog,
Banjo, settled down beside him. She hardly looked winded, though he knew she’d been busy all morning roping calves. He wondered if her new skirts got in the way of her work. The brown wool puddled around her as she sat with her legs tucked under. The new wardrobe definitely leant her a softer, more feminine air, though he had to admit, part of him missed watching her walk or ride in the more form-fitting trousers.
“Tell me what this is I’m eating,” he said. He paused to chew. Whatever it was, it was tough as hide, and had a peculiar flavor.
She leaned over a little to study his plate. “That’s cornbread.” She pointed to the chunk of bread. “Those are Cooky’s famous beans. That stuff you just ate is calf fries.”
“Calf fries?” He poked the curious food with his fork.
“Some people call them mountain oysters.” She grinned, but a tell-tale flush swept up her neck.
“Uh, exactly what part of the calf is, uh, fried?” he asked.
The blush made its way to her cheeks. She looked away. “It’s the, well, you know, the, um, the part Alan cuts off.”
He clenched his teeth against the rising sour taste in his mouth. Good Lord, he’d thought these Texans barbaric before; this proved it.
“You’re looking a little green around the gills, Chief. What’s the matter? Don’t you like the local specialty?” Jackson’s jibe drew laughter from the crowd around them.
Reg stared down at the grayish lumps on his plate. He’d given up the comforts of his class and society to come here, worked like the most menial slave in an attempt to gain these people’s respect, and endured the scorn of Jackson and others without fighting back – but by God, there were some things he would not do. He offered one of the ‘calf fries’ to Banjo. The dog gulped it down and wagged its tail for more. “To each his own,” Reg said quietly.
“Why don’t you admit what we already know?” Jackson snorted. “You’re just another rich man, playing at being a cowboy, thinkin’ you’re too good for the likes of us. You’ve never done an honest day’s work in your whole damned life, and now it’s about killing you.”
Reg saw the unspoken agreement on the faces of the men gathered around him. Their expressions ranged from pity to open hostility, but to a man they looked on him as an outsider. Only Abbie’s eyes spoke of understanding, and encouragement.
Jackson wiped his plate clean with a piece of cornbread. “I’ve seen men like you come and go out here. You stay for a season or so – long enough to ruin a ranch with your ignorance. Then you head back home and spend the rest of your life cadging free drinks from all your cronies, telling them what a lot of shit-kickers we are out here in Texas.”
Reg heard Abbie’s gasp. He tightened his grip on his plate. He didn’t have to sit here and take this from Jackson. He didn’t even have to be here. He could run things as well from his office at the ranch.
Only then he’d be doing exactly what Jackson expected him to do. What Jackson wanted him to do.
If he backed down now, he’d lose face before all these men. Before Abbie, too. So far, she and Alan were the only ones who seemed to have much faith in him; he was loathe to let them down.
He raised his chin and addressed the foreman. “If you have something to say to me, Jackson, then say it,” he said. “But I’ll thank you to watch your language in the presence of a lady.”
Jackson glanced at Abbie and let out a harsh laugh. “I say if she can’t stand the heat, she oughta get out of the kitchen.”
Reg shoved his plate aside and started to stand.
“Reg, no, it’s all right.” Abbie put a hand on his shoulder.
Reg glared at Jackson, silently daring him to say one more word, make one move toward him. He’d show these Texans he could fight with more than words. The only thing that held him back now was the conviction that he ought to hold himself above the taunts of a man like Jackson.
The foreman’s pale blue eyes stared back at Reg, unflinching. The air around them had gone dead quiet, as everyone stared on the two would-be combatants.
“Time to get back to work, boys.” Alan’s command cut through the silence. He stepped up between Tuff and Reg and glanced at each man in turn. “Y’all know what to do. What are you waiting for?”
Reg grabbed up his plate and headed toward the chuck wagon. Abbie reached out to stop him, but he shrugged off her hand. His anger against Jackson hammered in his head; he didn’t trust himself to talk to anyone at the moment.
But he couldn’t avoid Alan. The rancher confronted him as he walked away from the washtub where he’d left his plate. “I want you to work a spell helping to hold the herd,” he said. He lowered his voice and studied Reg’s face. “And for God’s sake, stay clear of Tuff. He’s like a wounded bull when he’s riled. Give him a chance to cool off.”
“He’d do well to stay clear of me,” Reg grumbled. He shouldered past Alan, not waiting for a reply.
Working the herd gave Reg a chance to catch his breath. As he sat atop his horse, waiting for the next calf to head his way, he watched Jackson snatch a brand from the fire. With one booted foot planted on the calf to hold it steady, the foreman pressed the brand against the animal’s flank, leaving a blackened mark in his wake.
The calf leapt up, still bawling, and a cowboy prodded it toward Reg, who stayed close by to ensure the calf and its mother did not try to break from the rest of the loosely bunched herd. He glanced at the brand as the calf galloped past. He didn’t recall seeing the Circle 8 mark before.
“Whose brand is that?” he asked a cowboy riding by.
“Which one?”
“The Circle 8.”
“Oh, that’s Tuff Jackson’s brand. He’s got a little herd he runs mostly up around Spanish creek.”
Reg looked back at the calf. Recovered from its ordeal, it was now playfully butting heads with a calf marked with Alan’s A7 brand. He frowned. Was it usual for a foreman to have his own herd? It seemed to him such a practice would encourage cheating.
“Hey, Worthington! Heads up. Got one headed your way.” He snapped to attention in time to head off a calf intent on bolting across the prairie. With little need for direction from him, his horse blocked the fugitive’s path and guided it back towards the herd.
Reg spent the rest of the afternoon watching Jackson. He seemed to have an awful lot of calves with his brand, while Abbie’s man Jorge, who worked the other fire, hardly ever pulled that iron from the coals. After a while he began counting, and discovered that Tuff branded more calves overall than Jorge. Did speed and experience account for this rapid turnover? Everyone agreed Jackson was an excellent cow man.
Why then, couldn’t Reg shake the feeling that something was wrong?
* * * *
Abbie stirred the remains of her son-of-a-gun stew and fought to avoid looking toward the chuck wagon. But a burst of laughter broke through her resolve and dragged her gaze in that direction. As she’d expected, Maura stood by the wagon, holding court with a line of cowboys. Donnie Best was there, along with his friend Tim O’Rourke. Even Banjo had forsaken Abbie in favor of the maid and her admirers. The dog sat at Maura’s feet, gazing up at her with an expression of doggy adoration. A tin box lay open on the pull-out shelf by her side and she had her head bent over Reg’s hand, carefully daubing salve on his palm.
Reg’s face looked grim. Abbie felt a stab of sympathy. The black draught salve burned as it sank into the cuts – a sure sign, her father had told her, that it was working.
But then, Reg’s expression might have nothing to do with the salve or his cut palm. He’d been scowling all afternoon; was he still brooding over Tuff’s insults at dinner, or was something else the matter?
Maura laughed again, and the cowboys joined in, their deep chuckles a counterpoint to her lighter sounds. The heat of the cookfire had tinged her cheeks a faint pink, and her hazel eyes danced with merriment. Abbie felt drab in comparison, and irritated at the maid for being in such a good humor after working all day. Really now, did she have to spend
so much time rubbing that salve into Reg’s hand?
“Never saw the men so anxious to be patched up before.” Alan took a seat on the ground next to Abbie. He smiled and nodded toward the line at the chuck wagon. “Next thing you know, they’ll be getting hurt on purpose, just for a chance to visit with the nurse.”
Abbie smoothed her skirts over her knees. “Maura is very pretty.”
“Yes, she is.” He smiled. “You’re looking right smart yourself these days. I guess Reg was right – having a little feminine influence is good for you.”
She flushed. Surely Reg hadn’t told Alan about their ‘bargain.’ “When did he say that?”
“Oh, that day we met Maura, I mean, Miss O’Donnell. Reg offered her the job as your maid, said she was just what you’d been looking for.”
She nodded, relieved. Then the thought hit her that Alan had actually sought her out, and complimented her to boot. Maybe Reg’s plan was working already. Smiling, she looked up, only to find he was still watching Maura.
She searched for some topic to draw his attention back to her. Her eyes flickered to Reg as he moved away from the wagon. “Do you think Tuff will make more trouble about the argument he had with Reg at dinner?”
“I don’t know. A lot depends on what Reg does next.” He glanced at her. “The men are still trying to make up their minds about him. A lot of them think what Tuff said is true.”
“Do you think it’s true?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “At one time I did, maybe. Not anymore. I never saw a man work harder to prove himself.” he grinned. “If he stays here long enough, we might make a cowboy out of him yet.”
“What do you mean, if he stays?” The idea had never crossed her mind that Reg would leave. Why would anyone come here and want to leave?
Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two Page 11
