Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  Maura worried her lower lip between her teeth. “All right,” she said, her voice faint. She took the jug and stared down at the open mouth, then raised it to her lips and took a long drink. Abbie watched in amazement as Maura swallowed once, twice, three times. When she lowered the jug, her face was flushed, her eyes bright. Cooky grinned at her. She grinned back.

  “Goes down smooth, don’t it?” As if to demonstrate, he took a drink himself. Then he handed the jug to Abbie. “I figured a fine gentleman like Mistuh Worth’nton wouldn’t want no ordinary corn liquor on his chuckwagon, so I borrowed some o’that aged whiskey from a cut-glass decanter he keeps in his study.” He pushed up his sleeves and opened the medicine kit. “Now let’s see what we gots here.”

  Abbie set the jug aside and watched as he unwrapped a packet of needles and another of silk thread. The needle looked tiny in his thick fingers, the thread very white against his dark skin. “All right now, Miss Maura, you hold on to Miss Abbie here. And no matter what, you gots to stay still. I’d hate to see your pretty little face with a big old ugly scar.”

  Abbie put her arm around Maura, and held tightly to one hand. She felt dizzy as she watched the needle sink into her friend’s skin. Maura sucked in her breath and Abbie had to look away. But though Maura squeezed Abbie’s hand until it ached, the maid never flinched.

  “You know I sewed up your daddy once, Miss Abbie.” Cooky made a neat knot in the first stitch and clipped the thread with a pair of scissors from the medical kit.

  “You did?” Abbie tried to remember a time when her father had had stitches, but could not.

  “You was a little bitty thing, then. He used to strap you on behind his horse and you’d ride with him all morning. After dinner, you’d bed down in the chuckwagon for a nap.”

  She had vague memories of snuggling down amid a pile of bedrolls, lulled to sleep by the familiar aromas of wool blankets, harness leather and boiling coffee. “Why did you have to sew him up?” she asked.

  “Oh, he got crossways with a calf he was cuttin’. Knife slipped and gashed his arm.” He chuckled. “Didn’t have no silk, so I stitched him up with red thread from a flour sack. Looked pretty funny, he did, with that fancy stitchin’ up his arm, but nobody woulda dared say anything about it.”

  Abbie nodded. Her father was not the kind of man others dared laugh at.

  “Your daddy was jus’ about the proudest man I ever knew.” Cooky tied off a second stitch and clipped the thread. “He always did things his way, and nobody could tell him different. Especially where you was concerned.”

  Abbie glanced at him, but he was intent on making the next stitch. Between them, Maura sat still as a rabbit trying to blend into the scenery. Abbie might have thought she wasn’t affected at all, except for the stark whiteness of her face. “What do you mean?” she asked. “What did people try to tell Daddy about me?”

  “Some folks thought it was wrong raisin’ a little child that way, with jus’ a bunch of rough cowboys for comp’ny. Some said he ought to send you off to school to get a proper education.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He tole ‘em he’d teach you everythin’ you needed to know. You was gonna run his ranch one day.” He glanced at her. “Guess he was right about that.”

  She looked away, blinking back sudden tears. Her father had been dead three years now, and yet at times her memories of him were so strong, her grief still fresh. She could almost see him, sitting tall and proud in the saddle, staring down the critics who would take his daughter from him. “Do you think he was wrong, Cooky, to raise me the way he did?”

  He shook his head. “What’s done is done, Miss Abbie. You gots to live with it. I can’t see you done all that bad.”

  “But do you think he was wrong not to teach me ‘women things?’“ She ran one hand down her riding skirt. “Do you think I’m too different from other women?”

  “Aww, child, don’t matter what your daddy taught you, you’re still female through and through. Some men don’t look close enough to see it, but some do. Mistuh Worth’nton do.”

  Yes, Reg acknowledged that she was a woman, but what good did that do her? Reg was going away before long, he’d made that clear. He was going home to England, to fine ladies with fancy manners and fancier dresses. Once there, he’d forget all about Abbie.

  If only Alan could be made to see her through Reg’s eyes. If she were married to Alan, she wouldn’t miss Reg so much when he left.

  “There, that ought to do it.” Cooky snipped the last thread and stood back to survey his work.

  Maura sagged against Abbie’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Better have another drink.” He offered her the jug.

  She gave him a weak smile, but accepted the jug and took a sip of its contents. Abbie relaxed as a little color returned to her friend’s cheeks. “You’d better take it easy the rest of the day,” she said.

  “Hop down off the table, though.” Cooky took the jug, then helped her to the ground. He lifted the edge of the table, folded the legs under it, and folded it up so that it formed the front of the chuck box. “We gots to get movin’. When the men catch up with the herd, they don’t want to have to ride all the way back here for chuck.”

  Abbie helped put out the fire and strike camp. Maura insisted on doing her part, though they did persuade her to ride on the chuck wagon with Cooky when they set out to find a new campsite.

  Abbie rode a horse from the remuda, a half-wild mustang who pitched her off once before she brought him in line. “I can’t find Toby,” she complained to Cooky as she rode alongside him. “It’s not like him to run off.”

  “Maybe the lightning spooked him. Or maybe one of the other men borrowed him.”

  “They should of asked first,” she grumbled. “You don’t just help yourself to someone’s horse.”

  “Maybe you weren’t around to ask and they were in a hurry.” Cooky yawned. “He’ll come back. Horses are like bad luck – they always come back around.”

  * * * *

  The ground was cold and damp against Reg’s cheek, and smelled of turned earth and manure. A rock dug into his temple, but he ignored the pain. The very fact that he could feel meant he was alive.

  In those terrifying moments when he’d fallen from the horse into the path of the stampeding herd, his only thought had been that death would be his ultimate failure. A long line of Worthington men before him had expired on the battle field, or in duels, or even comfortably in their beds after long, successful lives. Only he, Reg, would meet his end trampled in the mud on this Godforsaken prairie.

  Apparently he’d been spared that indignity, at least. He rolled over on his back and stared up at the sky. Already the gray clouds were receding, like cotton wrapping pulled back from a plate of china blue. He strained his ears, but no sound of running cattle or galloping horses reached him. He was alone. Either no one had seen him fall, or he’d been left for dead.

  With a few choice curses, he raised himself into a sitting position. “We can safely rule out paralysis,” he said to no one in particular. “I’m certain I can feel every damn bone in my body.” Every nerve, every muscle, every fiber reported in with a complaint. He looked down at his legs and winced. The fabric of his trousers hung in ribbons, and the red imprint of hooves showed clearly on his thighs. Further examination found his back to be in similar condition, his skin sticky with dried blood. As he moved to stand, a sharp pain pierced his side. He sucked in his breath and rose slowly, one hand pressed against what he surmised was a cracked rib.

  Once upright, he surveyed the country around him. The path of the stampede was clearly marked in the churned mud, a hundred-yard swath stretching to the horizon. Apparently, the bulk of the herd had avoided him, though his hat had not fared so well. It was crushed flat in the dirt, mere inches from where his head had lain. The saddle, or what had been the saddle, rested a few feet from the hat, – a smashed heap of wood and leather, ground into the dirt. He
kicked it free of the mud, then bent to examine the cinch strap. But too little was left of the leather strip to tell much. Perhaps it was only his bad luck that he’d been riding it when it broke.

  It might have been Abbie. His stomach clenched at the thought. If she’d reached her horse before he had, she’d be the one limping home right now. Or she might be crushed in the dirt, along with her saddle.

  He shuddered and pushed the thought from his mind. He wasn’t a prayerful man, but he paused to send up a word of thanks that Abbie had been spared.

  He looked around for the horse, not really expecting to find it. The frightened animal was probably miles from here by now. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he began following the trail the herd had taken. Eventually it would lead him to the rest of the roundup crew. All he had to do was stay upright and keep walking.

  He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Mud stuck to his boots, weighting his steps. He knew he should move to the side, to firmer ground, but in his weariness and pain, even that seemed too much of an effort to make. Twice he passed dead calves, trampled by larger animals. He thought about looking to see if they bore his brand. But he didn’t stop. Most likely the dead calves were his. That was just the kind of luck he expected to have these days.

  The Earl would fly into a rage when he saw the losses on the monthly reports. Never mind if natural forces beyond his control had conspired against him – Reg would take the blame.

  He kicked at a dirt clod and sent it flying. Maybe he should quit while he was ahead. Move and start over. Forget his family. Forget trying to prove himself. He could go to Australia, or maybe back to sea.

  He looked up, at the empty expanse of prairie. Pale green grass undulated across its surface, stirred by a breeze from the west. He thought again how much it was like the sea, vast and empty, with the capacity to make things and people appear small.

  It wasn’t a good place to be alone, to try to live one’s life alone. He’d never minded being alone before, but now the thought of having only himself for company pained him. What had happened since coming here to change him? Why this sudden longing for a place to call home?

  * * * *

  The cowboys began to trickle into camp in late afternoon, tired and dirty, but triumphant. They’d succeeded in turning the herd, which rested peacefully nearby. The storm had passed, promising a quiet night.

  Abbie made a bed for Maura inside the chuck wagon, away from prying eyes. Between the whisky and tension of the afternoon, the poor maid was exhausted. She barely protested when Abbie insisted she lie down. Then Abbie went to help Cooky serve coffee to the returning men.

  “Well, Miss Abbie, I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen you in a apron before.” Donnie Best grinned at her as she filled his cup. “I’d say it suits you.”

  She flushed and looked away. She felt anything but suited to the task. She’d always been on the other side of this serving line before.

  “Fill ‘er up, darlin’,” Tim O’Rourke drawled, and had the audacity to wink at her.

  She resisted the urge to toss the hot coffee in his face. The men never spoke to her this way when she was riding as one of them. Why was it, the minute she picked up a coffee pot and tied on an apron, she became less in their eyes?

  Maura didn’t seem to mind the men’s teasing, but then, she’d never known anything different. Abbie knew what it was like to carry on a conversation with men as an equal, and the sudden demotion to servant and ornament chafed.

  Alan held out his cup to be filled and she studied his expression. Did he see her differently now, too?

  He met her scrutiny with his usual pleasant smile. “Have you seen Reg around?” he asked.

  With a start, she realized she hadn’t seen the Englishman in quite some time. “I thought he was with you,” she said.

  Alan shook his head. “I haven’t seen him all afternoon. His horse came in a little while ago, still saddled and dragging its stake rope.”

  “My horse, Toby, is missing, too.”

  Alan frowned into his cup. “I saw your horse a little while ago. He wasn’t wearing a saddle. I thought you’d turned him out to graze.”

  She swallowed, trying to control the tempo of her heart, which insisted on racing like a panicked mustang. “Maybe Reg’s horse ran away and he borrowed mine,” she said. She thought she’d seen Reg near Toby right before Maura distracted her with her scream. “But where is he now?”

  “Could it be, Miss Abbie, that you’re sweet on that Brit?” Best grinned and nudged O’Rourke.

  Her face burned and she looked away. “What makes you say that?” she snapped.

  “Well. . . I noticed you two spendin’ a lot of time together. And you seem awful concerned about him now.”

  “Mr. Worthington and I are neighbors. Of course I’m concerned about him. He could be lost, or hurt.” Her voice caught as she said the words. Reg wasn’t used to Toby – if he was with Toby at all. What if he’d been thrown and was lying out there somewhere, injured?

  She turned to Alan. “Maybe we should go look for him.”

  He nodded and drained his cup. “I’ll get some men together for a search party.”

  He was turning to go when Banjo began barking. The little dog pricked his ears and wagged his tail, then shot out across the prairie.

  Abbie stared at the man staggering toward them. He was dressed in dirty rags, and moved with a lurching gait. He walked with his head down, as if concentrating on every step. As he neared, Abbie’s heart skipped a beat. She set the coffee pot aside and took off running toward the man. “Reg!” she screamed, just before he collapsed in the dirt.

  By the time she reached his side, he was already struggling to his feet again. She put her shoulder under his arm and helped support him. “What happened?” she asked. She stared at his dirt-streaked face. He’d lost his hat and his always neatly-combed hair was tousled. A trickle of blood had dried on the side of his face. She couldn’t keep herself from touching his cheek, reassuring herself he was in fact all right.

  He closed his eyes a moment, leaning into the palm of her hand. The rough stubble of his beard grazed her skin. She was aware of his body pressed against her, the hard muscles of his arm lying along her shoulder, the planes of his chest flattening the curve of one breast, the length of his thigh aligned with her own. The heat of him seeped into her, the warmth settling in her breasts and her stomach and the crux of her thighs. She stared at his mouth, the lips full and moist beneath the soft moustache. She wished he would open his eyes and kiss her. She had never wanted anything more.

  “Lawdy, suh, what has happened to you?” Reg’s eyes snapped open and he drew away from Abbie as Cooky ran up to them, followed closely by Alan.

  “The cinch on my saddle broke.” He glanced at Abbie, a frown creasing his brow. “Or rather, it was Abbie’s saddle.”

  “How could that have happened?” she protested. “It wasn’t an old saddle.”

  Reg shrugged and wrapped one arm around his chest. “I can’t imagine why it happened, but it happened nonetheless.”

  “What’s the matter?” Alan nodded toward Reg’s chest. “You crack a rib?”

  Reg winced. “I think so.”

  “Let’s get you over to the wagon and take a better look.” Alan stepped in front of Abbie and took her place at Reg’s side, while Cooky supported him on the other side. The three men walked slowly to the chuckwagon, Abbie and half the camp in their wake.

  Abbie started to follow them around the side of the wagon, but Cooky paused and waved her away. “You get on outta hear, Miss Abbie. This ain’t no concern of hers.”

  No concern of hers? Reg was her friend. Her neighbor. Not to mention he’d been injured riding her horse. She put her hands on her hips, ready to fire off an angry retort. Cooky winked at her. “Now don’t you get all riled with me,” he said. “I gone have to strip him down to examine him proper and that ain’t for you to see.”

  Her face grew hot and she whirled around
, heart racing. Though whether it beat faster from embarrassment, or from the thought of Reg without his clothes, she wasn’t prepared to answer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Reg allowed himself to be stripped to his drawers and subjected to a thorough examination of his wounds. Cooky fussed and fretted under his breath as he wiped away mud and clotted blood. “All I kin say is the angels mus’ be watchin’ out for you, Boss,’ he said. “You is sure ‘nuff lucky you ain’t a dead man.”

  Reg winced as the cook began swabbing the worst of the cuts and scrapes with a strong-smelling black ointment. “I fail to see the luck in having ended up in this condition in the first place,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “You say the cinch broke?” Alan leaned against the chuckwagon, watching them.

  “I felt it give way as I went down.”

  Alan frowned. “It’s not like Abbie to let her tack get worn. She’s particular that way, just like her pa.”

  “She apparently overlooked this.” Reg grunted as Cooky rubbed a tender spot on his back. Or someone tampered with Abbie’s saddle. The thought came to him like another kick in the gut, but he didn’t say anything to Alan. His friend was intelligent enough to draw his own conclusions. Besides, who could have wanted to harm Abbie?

  “What happened to you?”

  He jerked his head up and saw Tuff Jackson sauntering towards them. The foreman looked Reg up and down and let out a low whistle. “I could have told you, Chief. You can’t stop a stampede by throwin’ yourself in front of the herd that way.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  Anger churned Reg’s stomach like a tea kettle brought to boil. The picture flashed clear in his mind of Jackson bent over Abbie’s saddle just before the stampede. He’d been prepared to live with the man’s insolence, to keep his suspicions of hair-branding and theft silent. But he would not stomach a threat to Abbie’s safety.