Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  Too bad he and Reg got off on the wrong foot, she thought as Tuff rode up. The foreman could have taught Reg a lot.

  “Evenin’,” she said.

  He grunted and reined his horse in beside her.

  She watched as he pulled a twist of tobacco from his pocket and bit off a hunk. “It’s quiet tonight,” she said.

  He nodded, jaw working. “Saw you talkin’ to Little Lord Fauntleroy,” he said after a moment.

  She stiffened. “Reg isn’t at all like you think.”

  Tuff leaned over and spat on the ground. “I had him pegged the day he walked in the door and took the first look down his long nose at me. His kind won’t last long out here. Hard livin’ wears them down fast.”

  “I think you’re wrong.”

  He looked her up and down. “Yeah, well it’s easy enough to see those fine manners and smooth talking have taken you in.” He shook his head. “I used to think better of you than that, Abbie. You’ve gone all soft on us, acting like some simpering schoolmarm, with your fancy hairdos and long skirts. Thought your pa raised you up to have more sense.”

  “He raised me to have the sense not to judge a man before he’s had a chance to prove himself.” She gripped the saddle horn, anger making the words almost stick in her throat. “And he taught me not to cheat a man – especially right under his nose.”

  Tuff stopped chewing and leaned toward her. “Who said anything about cheating?” He spoke softly, an edge of warning in his voice.

  “Reg isn’t stupid, you know. He’s seen how many calves you’ve put your brand on.”

  Tuff spat. “He can’t prove those calves aren’t mine – which they are.” He straightened in the saddle. “I’ve put in a lot of years, working for other people. Nobody that knows me is gonna begrudge me getting a little back now – especially not from some damned British syndicate.”

  “It’s stealing whether you take from a British syndicate or from your own mother. It’s still wrong.”

  He shrugged. “Who says I stole anything? Who are people around here going to believe – some tight-ass foreigner or a cow man they’ve known half their lives?”

  She glared at him. How could she have ever thought this man was the image of what a cowboy should be? Her father would have knocked Tuff off his horse for saying half the things he’d said tonight. If she’d been a man, she’d have done the same.

  But she wouldn’t let him ride away tonight thinking he was getting away with theft. “Reg was asking me about hair branding the other night,” she said quietly.

  He raised his head slightly, like a mustang, ready to bolt. “Planning to change a few of his neighbors’ brands, is he? That’s one way to get free passage home – in a pine box.”

  She leaned toward him, keeping her voice low. “Maybe I ought to suggest Alan check the brands on the calves you burned today,” she said. “What would he find?”

  He shot out a hand and grabbed her by the collar, almost dragging her from the saddle. “You’d better watch what you say, little girl,” he growled. “You want to play rough, I’ll show you how.”

  She was close enough to see his pale eyes, glittering in the shadows beneath his hat brim. Her heart hammered in her throat. Banjo began barking, jumping and growling as he raced around her horse.

  “That damned dog’s gonna stampede the herd.”

  “Then you’d better let go of my coat.”

  He released her with a shove, so that she had to clamp her legs tight against the saddle to keep from falling. Tuff glared at her. “You’d best stay out of what’s none of your business,” he said. “Or you’ll wish you had.”

  Shaken, but determined not to show it, she turned Toby away from him and walked him toward her waiting bedroll. Inside, she wanted to spur the horse to a gallop, and ride fast and far away from Tuff’s hate-filled stare. As her first panic subsided, she felt sick to her stomach. A man she had respected and trusted all her life had turned dishonest and mean right before her eyes. Or had that side of Tuff Jackson been there all along? Maybe she’d been too busy trying to fit in with the men to study them with a critical eye before. If she looked closer would she see things to dislike in all of them?

  She’d never thought the view from a woman’s perspective would be so unsettling.

  * * * *

  “I don’t like the looks of those storm clouds.” Alan crouched beside Reg as the two men finished their breakfast the next morning.

  Reg followed his friend’s gaze to the line of blue-black thunderclouds hovering low on the horizon. “Can we expect another ‘norther’?”

  Alan shook his head. “More likely rain, coming from the east like that. Lots of lightning and thunder.” He drained his coffee cup and set it on the ground beside him. “Stampede weather. I can almost guarantee it.”

  Reg frowned. He’d heard talk around the campfire about stampedes – tales of cattle running out of control for miles across the plains. Right now, by his best estimate, more than a third of the Ace of Clubs stock was gathered in the round-up herd. The thought of having them scattered across the countryside once more made his stomach clench. “What do we do if there’s a stampede?”

  “Chase ‘em down and try to get them into a mill.” At Reg’s puzzled look, he explained: “We try to turn the leaders and get them running into a circle. The rest of the herd will follow. They’ll wear themselves out, running in a circle like that.” He stood and straightened his hat on his head. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the storm will pass around us without doing much harm.”

  As Reg headed toward the branding fires, he felt the first raindrop strike his cheek. Fat drops splattered the dust at his feet and thunder rumbled in the distance. The storm wasn’t going to go around them. Indeed, it looked as if the brunt of it would pass directly over them.

  The rain hissed and sizzled on the hot fire, sending up wisps of steam. Cowboys donned slickers and cursed the weather, but work did not visibly slow. Within an hour, Reg was soaked to the skin and caked with mud. He’d discarded his slicker after only ten minutes, when he discovered the long coat got in the way of wrestling calves to the ground and holding them long enough to brand and cut.

  Reg’s mood grew as dark as the weather. The constant moaning of the cattle set his teeth on edge and he flinched at every crack of lightning. He held himself tensed, anticipating the sudden charge of the herd, the way a man with his head on the block might anticipate the fall of the executioner’s ax.

  “Heads up! Got a lively one for you!” Abbie skidded her horse to a halt beside the crew by the fire, showering them with a spray of mud. She laughed as the calf she dragged fought for footing on the slippery ground. “You all look like a bunch of half-drowned dogies,” she said cheerfully. “You gonna let a little rain get you down?”

  “I don’t notice you down here in the mud,” Reg snapped. Despite water dripping off the brim of her hat and running in rivers down her slicker, Abbie appeared to be as energetic as ever. The dampness made tendrils of hair curl around her face in a soft cloud, and leant a dewy quality to her skin.

  She grinned and shook her head. “You boys seem to be doing a fine job without me.”

  Reg tried to wipe the mud from his brow with the back of his hand, but only succeeded in smearing it in his hair. “We’d no doubt do even better if some people would take their duties more seriously,” he growled. He grabbed the calf and forced it to the ground, then jerked her rope from around the animal’s neck. “The cattle are nervous enough without your riding up here at a gallop like that.”

  Her smile vanished. “I don’t need you telling me how to do my job.” She whirled around, then spurred her horse, sending a new shower of mud over Reg and the calf.

  Reg looked away and found Alan watching him. The rancher winked. “Women sure can be touchy, can’t they?” he asked.

  Reg grunted in agreement and set about notching the calf’s ear. Already, he regretted his words to Abbie. But why did she have to be so bloody cheerful, when he felt
as if another disaster hovered on the horizon?

  He doubted if anyone could understand the dark foreboding that sank into his bones with the dampness. He didn’t understand the feeling himself, but he recognized it from past failures. The weather had conspired against him before; he couldn’t shake the belief that it was about to happen again.

  The rain had slowed to a heavy mist by the time they broke for the noon meal – which the Texans always referred to as dinner. Reg took his place in line and accepted a plate of beans and bacon, though he hadn’t much appetite for food.

  Searching for a place to eat, he spotted Abbie seated next to Maura. He owed Abbie an apology, and now was as appropriate a time as any to offer it. Perhaps Maura’s presence would soften any sharp retort Abbie might have prepared for him.

  But before he could make his way to the two women, Alan stepped up. Their smiles and gestures made it obvious, even from a distance, that they were inviting him to join them.

  Reg drew up short. He didn’t mind making amends with Maura looking on, but he couldn’t bring himself to admit his wrongdoing in front of Alan. He lowered himself to the ground and set his plate in his lap. He’d wait here until Alan left and talk to Abbie then.

  As he ate, his gaze continually strayed to the threesome. Abbie sat between Alan and Maura. She smiled often, and fluttered her lashes at Alan like a skilled coquette. She leaned toward him, and even reached up and touched his shoulder for a moment. Reg tensed. So much for Abbie’s claims that she did not know how to flirt.

  Their laughter drifted to him, and the low murmur of conversation. Alan bent his head toward Abbie, as if to better hear what she had to say. Maura leaned forward, too, to complete the cozy grouping, three heads together, oblivious to the chaos around them.

  Reg shoved his plate aside, unable to force down the cold beans and cornbread any longer. What were they talking about that was so interesting?

  Abbie looked toward him once, and for a brief moment their eyes met. Her expression clouded, and she quickly focused her attention on Alan once more.

  Reg snatched up his plate and stood. He’d talk to Abbie later – alone. Right now, he had work to do.

  Most of the other men were still eating, so he decided to take Mouse and ride a circuit of the herd, to satisfy himself that all was in order. He was headed toward the spot where he’d staked the big gray when he spotted Tuff Jackson adjusting the saddle on another horse. Now wasn’t the time for another face-off with the surly foreman. He started to veer out of the way. But then something made him pull up short.

  He took a closer look at the horse with Tuff and recognized Abbie’s gelding, Toby. Why would Jackson have Abbie’s horse?

  As Reg started toward Jackson, the foreman turned and saw him. He stiffened, then slipped a long peg through a loop at the end of the stake rope. With his heel, he gouged a hole in the ground, dropped the pegged rope in and filled the hole in with dirt. As Abbie had explained to Reg, a horse on a long lead couldn’t pull free, provided the hole was dug deep enough. “You want something from me, Chief?” he asked, with the familiar scorn that set Reg’s teeth on edge.

  “What are you doing with Miss Waters’ horse?”

  “Came unstaked. Figured I’d better tie it down before it wandered off.” He straightened and fixed Reg with a challenging glare. “What about it?”

  Tuff’s gaze shifted to Reg’s shoulder, where a glob of mud rested like an epaulet. He studied the blood-smeared shirt and wet trousers, a glint of amusement coming into his eyes.

  Reg was conscious of Tuff’s own comparative neatness. His slicker and chaps bore signs of wear and rain, but they merely added to the man’s aura of rough competence. Tuff looked like a man at home in the outdoors, ready to tame the wilderness rather than be tamed by it.

  Reg thought the differences in the two of them went beyond appearances. Tuff was a man who had succeeded in everything he’d ever tried. He had no place for, or patience with, failure in his life. Whenever they met, Reg felt as if he were confronting a shark that scented blood. As he stared into Jackson’s cold blue eyes, the hair at the back of his neck rose up in warning.

  He was opening his mouth to speak when the ground shook beneath them and a loud Crack! rent the air. Bark exploded from a tree near the remuda as lightning blazed to the ground. A woman screamed, horses reared up on their stake ropes and men shouted curses. The crash of thunder from the skies was replaced by a more ominous rumble as cattle, bawling with fear, began to race across the prairie.

  “Stampede!” Tuff shouted and ran for his horse.

  Reg followed close behind the foreman, reaching the area where he’d staked Mouse in time to see the big gray bolt and race out across the prairie.

  “Bloody hell!” Reg stared after the gray as men galloped past him in pursuit of the herd. He whirled, searching for another mount. The other horses in his string were in the remuda, unsaddled. Reg was a competent rider, but he didn’t think he was up to the challenge of riding the half-wild Texas broncs bareback.

  Then he spotted Abbie’s gelding, still staked where Jackson had left it. He ran to the horse and untied it. “Where’s Abbie?” he asked a passing cowboy.

  “Saw her over at the chuckwagon tending Maura. Looked like that Irish gal cut her head or somethin’.”

  She wouldn’t be needing her horse if she was busy nursing Maura, Reg reasoned. He swung up into the saddle and spurred the animal into the race.

  The gelding was fast, and soon caught up with the tail of the herd. Reg watched the other cowboys, observing how they worked to keep the cattle bunched together as they raced along, seemingly out of control. Presumably men at the front of the herd would be trying to turn the leaders – to get them into a mill, Alan had said.

  Reg rode alongside the racing cattle. He was close enough to read the brands on their flanks, to see their nostrils flare with each panicked breath, their eyes rolled back with fear. The air was thick with the smell of churned earth and sweating livestock. The ground shook with the pounding of their hooves and the sound was a deafening rumble, like a freight train bearing down upon him.

  A cow with horns as wide as bedposts veered from the pack. Reg spotted her and tried to bring the gelding up to block her path. He thought he’d succeeded, but as they came alongside, the cow swung her head, barely grazing the horse with the tips of her horns. The gelding jumped sideways, narrowly avoiding a collision. Reg struggled to keep his seat, but even as his legs clamped around the horse, he felt the saddle slipping. The gelding bucked again and he felt himself falling, into the path of the stampeding herd.

  Chapter Eleven

  Abbie was slipping her dinner plate into the tub of soapy water Cooky kept by the chuckwagon when the sharp crack of lightning rent the air. A high-pitched scream cut through her and she whirled to see Maura bent over, clutching the side of her face. As she took a step toward her friend, the ground began to vibrate, and she heard an ominous rumbling that didn’t originate from the sky.

  Heart pounding, she looked over her shoulder and saw a wave of cattle surging across the prairie, a rolling tide oblivious to anything in its path. Around her, men shouted and vaulted onto horses, spurring their mounts to a gallop in pursuit of the herd.

  She started to join them, then remembered Maura. I’ll just make sure she’s all right, she told herself. Then I’ll catch up with the others.

  Abbie and Cooky reached the maid at the same time. Abbie gasped when she saw the blood running down the side of her friend’s face. “Looks like a splinter from the tree done gashed her,” Cooky said. He gently pulled Maura’s hand away from the cut.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have been goin’ out today without me rabbit’s foot,” Maura wailed. “I foreseen bad luck in me tea leaves last night.” She flinched as Cooky probed the deep cut just below her temple.

  Abbie glanced over her shoulder, at the stampeding herd and the pursuing cowboys. Already, they were a long way off. If she waited much longer, she’d never catch them
.

  “This is gonna need sewin’,” Cooky announced.

  She jerked her attention back to Maura. The gaping cut would definitely need a few stitches to help it heal and minimize scarring. Then she realized Maura and Cooky were both staring at her. “What are you looking at me for?” she asked, backing away. “You don’t think I’m going to sew her up, do you?”

  “It’ll be jes’ like stitching fancy needlework,” Cooky said.

  Abbie shook her head. “I don’t do needlework.” She turned to Maura, pleading. “Tell him I can’t sew.”

  “I thought all womenfolk did that stuff,” Cooky said.

  “Miss Abbie’s not like other women,” Maura said gently. “She’s not been taught women things.”

  Abbie flushed. Had she detected a note of pity in Maura’s voice? Was she less of a woman because she didn’t know how to bake and sew and arrange flowers?

  “I reckon I could patch you up right enough if Miss Abbie will help me. Come on over here.” Cooky led them to the fold-down table at the back of the chuckwagon. “You sit right up here. Miss Abbie, you get the medicine kit.”

  Abbie sighed. It was just as well the men were already out of reach. Maura needed her more right now. She retrieved the gray metal box from its nest amid the sacks of beans and flour and coffee. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, taking the kit to Cooky.

  “Well, now, first I reckon you better fetch the jug of whiskey I keeps for snakebite. It’s hid down behind the driver’s seat.”

  She found the heavy crockery jug, wrapped in a faded flour sack. She brought it to Cooky and he pulled the stopper. “All right Miss Maura, I want you to take a big swig o’this.”

  Maura stared at the jug, her blue eyes wide and frightened. “Oh no, I couldn’t be drinking that,” she protested.

  Cooky shook his head, his expression grave. “It’s the only painkiller we got, Miss. I couldn’t conscious sewin’ on you lessen I thought you’d had at least a little somethin’ to take the edge off.”