Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  He was the only one who knew of her secret love for Alan. Reg had promised to help her, to teach her. Surely that help included dancing lessons.

  She’d consider it part of the bargain they’d made. Strictly a business agreement. Nothing more.

  After she filled her plate, she sought him out. He sat alone, back against his saddle. Bruises from the stampede and from his fight with Tuff made dark patches on his face. She wondered if he was in much pain, and fought the urge to ask.

  He glanced at her when she lowered herself to the ground beside him. “I’m not in the mood for conversation at the moment.”

  “I came to talk business,” she said.

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Ours.”

  He raised one eyebrow in question. “Yes?”

  She stabbed at the meat on her plate, avoiding his penetrating gaze. This close to him, her fingers had begun to tingle again. “I want you to teach me to dance.”

  “As I recall, I already attempted that.”

  “That was different. There were other people around, watching us.”

  He set his plate aside. “Why are you so interested in learning to dance now?”

  “The Mitchells are hosting a dance next week, to celebrate the end of round-up.” She flushed. “Alan said he’d dance with me, if I only knew how.”

  She looked up and was surprised to see Reg scowling at her. “He said that, did he?”

  “Well, in so many words.” She leaned toward him. “You promised to teach me to be a lady. A lady should know how to dance, shouldn’t she?”

  “What would you teach me in return?”

  She hesitated, thinking. Of course Reg would expect something from her in return. “I’d show you what you should do at the livestock auction next month,” she said at last. “You’re going to want to buy some new breeding stock.”

  “You’ll help me choose the stock?”

  “I’ll make notes for you to take with you, teach you what to look for.”

  He looked at the ground, seemingly lost in the contemplation of tufts of grass and patches of scraped earth. She stared at his shoulder, remembering the feel of the hard muscles beneath her fingers. Maybe dancing with Reg was a bad idea. Something about him brought out this wanton side of her. . .

  “All right,” he said. “I’ll teach you to dance. On one condition.”

  “What is that?”

  He raised his head to look at her again. His eyes held a challenge. “You’ll come with me to the livestock auction. Help me personally select the stock I need.”

  “Reg, the auction is in Amarillo. It’s a two day trip. I can’t possibly –”

  “Maura will come with us, of course.” He gave her a mocking look. “I thought you weren’t concerned about propriety and what people think.”

  Her own thoughts concerned her far more than those of others, thoughts of Reg holding her, kissing her, his tongue grazing her fingertips. She took a deep breath, trying to clear her head, but she inhaled the leather and musk scent of Reg. Her heart pounded. “I. . . I care what Alan thinks,” she stammered.

  “Everything will be perfectly above-board,” Reg said. “You’ll be traveling to the auction with a chaperon, for the purpose of purchasing stock of your own. There’s no reason we should not be traveling on the same train.”

  “It will be a business trip,” she said.

  “Of course.”

  She nodded. “All right. I’ll do it. And you’ll teach me to dance?”

  His mouth slowly curved into a smile. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Round-up ended on a Saturday. Abbie and her vaqueros cut her cattle from the herd and trailed them home to the Running W. The last she saw of Reg, he was working alongside his new foreman, Donnie Best, to gather the Ace of Clubs stock. Cooky trailed after them, driving the chuck wagon toward his new home; he’d somehow persuaded Reg to allow him to stay on to shoe horses and mend wagons and perform other odd jobs. Abbie wondered what Mrs. Bridges would have to say about that.

  “So tell me, Miss, what should we be wearing to the dance next week?” Maura rode up beside Abbie as they neared the ranch house. “I want to look nice for me first American ball.”

  Abbie turned to look at her maid. Her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement, and red-gold tendrils framed her face. She sat erect in the saddle, her riding habit accentuating her generous curve. “Oh, Maura, you couldn’t look anything but nice,” she said. “The cowboys will be waiting in line to dance with you.” She turned her attention back to the trailing cattle. “Besides, it’s not really a ball. Not like you’re thinking. It’s more of a square dance. A bunch of folks getting together to celebrate.”

  “Sure and there’ll be music, won’t there?” Maura asked. “And ladies in their best frocks and the lads all spit-shined to boot.”

  Abbie smiled. The cowboys with their newly-shorn faces and slicked-back hair would indeed look ‘spit-shined.’ “Yes, there’ll be that. But don’t worry about what to wear. I’m sure any of your dresses will do fine. No one will care.”

  “Beggin’ pardon, Miss, but that’s proof if I ever needed it that you’re not as educated in such matters as ye should be. I’d wager a half crown that every lady there will be wearing a new gown. Sure and they’ll be noticing if you or I show ourselves in an old one.” She nodded decisively. “There’s nothing for it but for me to get to work right away on new frocks for us both, though of course, ma’am, I’ll sew yours first. I’ll make it suitably fine for a woman of your station.”

  Abbie started to protest. But then she remembered the only other dress she owned – the russet-colored gown she’d worn to Alan’s barbecue. She still blushed at the memory. Of course she needed something more fashionable if she was going to impress Alan. “Um, what exactly did you have in mind?” she asked hesitantly.

  Maura tilted her head and studied her. “Something in a deep blue silk taffeta, I think. With a draped bodice. I saw a gown in a magazine trimmed with little bows, with a ruffled underskirt, that would look ever so nice.”

  “I don’t know. All those ruffles and frills sound a little fancy for me. Maybe something plainer –”

  “Nonsense, Miss.” Maura looked offended. “I won’t be accused of dressin’ me mistress like a charwoman.” A smile teased at the corner of her mouth. “And the fact of the matter is, the fancier your dress, the fancier me own can be without fear of people thinking I’m oversteppin’ me place.”

  “This is America, Maura. People won’t think that.”

  Maura shook her head. “Beggin’ pardon, Miss, but I’m not so certain of that. I’ve me own standards to live up to, after all. Ye can’t be taking a lifetime of teaching out of a girl in a few months in America. I couldn’t conscience dressing fancy while you went plain. So there’s nothing for it but for you to put up with a few ruffles and frills.”

  Abbie chuckled softly. For all her pretense at humility, Maura had a way of always getting exactly what she wanted. Maybe Abbie herself could learn a few lessons from her.

  “As long as I’m sewing, Miss, I think we’d better go ahead and make you up a few new dresses,” Maura said.

  “Why?” Abbie asked. “The divided skirts you made are fine for ranch work.”

  “For work, yes, but you can’t expect to wear them to town, now can you?”

  That’s exactly what Abbie expected, but she didn’t dare confess this to Maura. And what about her upcoming trip to Amarillo? Perhaps it would be best to dress like a lady for her trip to the city. She nodded meekly.

  “We’ll measure you up tonight and I’ll ride into town Monday to purchase material.” Maura waved, then urged her horse into a canter, riding out ahead of the trailing cattle.

  Abbie stared after her, the fluttery feeling in her stomach growing. Ordinarily, she would have looked forward to a trip into Amarillo. She liked the challenge of the auction ring, sizing up the cattle and outbidding the other ranchers. She had a reputa
tion as having a sharp eye for good stock, something she’d inherited from her father. Other ranchers had come to respect her judgment.

  But traveling on a train with Reg and spending the auction at his side was unfamiliar territory for her. No doubt, he’d be dressed in his handsomely tailored suit, with his manners as polished as his accent. He’d expect her to play the part of a lady. The thought made her shaky with nervousness.

  Other thoughts plagued her, too, thoughts she didn’t want to examine too closely. What would happen when she and Reg were away from the familiar territory of their ranches, alone together? Twice now they’d almost succumbed to the attraction – the desire – that hovered between them like quicksand below a crust of firm earth. No matter how much she fought to resist it, she couldn’t deny those feelings existed. Maybe it was because Reg was so different from the other men she knew, or maybe it was because he was the first man to acknowledge the feminine side of her – whatever the reason, Reg had awakened this wild longing in her.

  If only women weren’t restrained by those unwritten rules of propriety, she thought. If only we could behave like men, satisfying our curiosity and desires without suffering consequences. No doubt Reg could teach her things she’d find useful to know when she became Alan’s wife. . .

  She shoved the thought from her mind and took off after a heifer that was trying to make a break from the herd. But she couldn’t shake the feeling trouble was waiting for her, somewhere in Amarillo.

  * * * *

  Abbie refused to accompany Maura to town to shop for dress material on Monday. The thought of standing in Pickens’ Mercantile sifting through bolts of fabric and stacks of pattern books made her feel panicky. She couldn’t tell a dimity from a damask and she didn’t care to show off her ignorance in public. No doubt the usual collection of old timers would be gathered around the cracker barrel, ready to gawk and comment on her choices.

  Instead, she told Maura to use her own judgment and sent her to town alone, then decided to devote her afternoon to cleaning out the horse stalls. It was job that occupied the body without taxing the mind. As she shoveled manure and straw, she thought about what she should say to Alan when he came to discuss this horse she was supposedly planning to purchase. She had to find a way to turn the conversation, and Alan’s thoughts, to more personal matters.

  “Don’t you have cowboys to do this sort of menial labor for you?”

  The familiar smooth accent startled her out of her musing. She took a firmer hold on the shovel and turned to see Reg standing at the end of the stall, mouth twisted in a grimace. “Miguel and Jorge are my employees, not my servants.” She leaned the shovel up against the stall and stripped off her gloves. “My father taught me a man works better if he knows you won’t ask him to tackle anything you wouldn’t, or couldn’t, take on yourself.”

  “Wise advice, I’m sure. But impossible to follow if one is inept at the job.” He stared out across the corral, his expression blank.

  “I’d hardly call your performance during round-up inept.” She walked past him, out of the barn.

  He followed her. “Did you know I lost eight calves during the stampede?”

  She opened the gate and stepped through. “Losses like that are a part of ranching.”

  “My father is unlikely to see it that way.” He shut the gate behind him and turned to face her once more. “He’ll place the blame squarely on my head.”

  From the way he spoke, Abbie could tell Reg agreed with his father’s assessment. She shook her head. “So don’t tell him about the calves. They’re not important – not compared to the eight thousand other cattle you have.”

  “I’m required to make a monthly report to the Syndicate’s stock holders,” he said stiffly.

  She shrugged. “It’s a long way to England. What are they going to do if you miss a report or two? Tell them you were too busy doing your job to mess with a bunch of papers.”

  He scowled. “Those papers are a part of my job. My father expects me to keep him informed.”

  “Why? If he trusted you, he’d let you run the ranch without interference.”

  “Exactly.” He walked past her, up on to the porch.

  Abbie stared at his back. He held his shoulders as if braced to ward off a blow. What had she said to put him in this mood? Or had he brought it with him, wearing his ill humor like a hair shirt?

  “I did not come here to discuss my personal affairs.” he said, turning to face her once more.

  “Then what are you doing here?” she snapped.

  “I came to give you your dancing lesson.”

  “Now?” She brushed straw from her shirt front, suddenly aware of how awful she must look. She was wearing patched trousers that were too tight for riding and a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She’d plaited her hair into two pigtails and tied the ends with strips of torn sheeting. She was dusty and perspiring and probably reeked of manure. Of all times for Reg to see her. . .

  “The dance is less than a week away. You’ll need plenty of practice to master the steps between now and then. That is, if you still want to learn. . . “

  “Of course I want to learn. But you can’t possibly teach me like this. I need to change clothes and bathe and –”

  “On the contrary, you look quite fetching.” His gaze swept over her. Her skin tingled and she felt feverish, as if he’d actually touched her.

  “I. . . I have to change.” She hurried past him, into the house. He followed. “Wait here. I’ll only be a minute,” she told him, then rushed into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

  Of all the times for Maura to decide to go to town! she thought as she stripped off shirt and trousers and filled her washbowl with water from the pitcher. She lathered a washrag and began sponging her arms and shoulders. But really, what did it matter if she and Reg were alone? It had never bothered her before.

  Before he’d kissed her in the cave. Before she’d felt her body tremble at his touch. . . Stop it! She dropped the washrag and plunged both hands into the water, as if she could wash away the disturbing thoughts that crowded her mind. Reg and she were friends, nothing more. Alan was the man she intended to love.

  When she emerged from her room, in fresh shirtwaist and riding skirt, her hair neatly combed and tied behind with a ribbon, she found Reg seated at the kitchen table, staring blankly out the window.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, walking up behind him.

  “What?” He started. “Nothing’s wrong.” He stood and kicked a rag rug – one of Maura’s many improvements – out from in front of the door, then moved a rocking chair and a foot stool back against the wall. “There, that should give us enough room. Now for music.”

  Abbie looked around the room. “We haven’t any. Even if I could play an instrument, I couldn’t very well do it and dance at the same time.”

  “Never mind. We’ll improvise.” He held his hands out to her. “Come. Let’s begin.”

  Feeling awkward, she put her hands in his and let him lead her to the center of the cleared-off space. His grasp was warm, and the warmth seemed to flow from her fingers, down through the rest of her body to pool between her thighs. She wanted to stand closer to him, to feel the strength and heat of him pressed against the length of her, but she fought that urge, forcing herself to stand as far from him as possible.

  “You’ll have to move closer than that,” he said, pulling her nearer. “You act as if you’re afraid to touch me.”

  Only afraid of what I’ll do if I touch you.

  He put one hand on her waist and her stomach trembled. “Your hand goes on my shoulder,” he instructed.

  She rested her fingers lightly against the soft fabric of his coat. He shifted his arm and she felt the muscles move beneath her fingertips. She’d never been so aware of another person’s body before, or so alive in her own.

  “I think we’ll begin with a waltz.” He cleared his throat, then began to hum a simple, lilting tune. He took a step to the side, pul
ling her along. “Follow me,” he sang, and she did her best.

  “One, two, three. One, two, three. Left, step, step. Right, step, step. Nice and easy. Not too fast.” Somehow Reg managed to sing his instructions.

  Abbie listened, and followed his lead, but she felt as stiff as a branding iron, and awkward as a new calf. “I’m so sorry,” she moaned when she trod on Reg’s foot yet again. She looked down, to watch her feet, but Reg nudged her chin up with their clasped hands. “Close your eyes,” he sang.

  “What? I’ll fall.”

  “No you won’t. Close your eyes and follow me.”

  She shut her eyes, and her steps faltered. But Reg relentlessly pulled her along. “Relax,” he crooned. “I’ll never let you fall.”

  She inhaled deeply, filling her head with the masculine aromas of starched linen and sandalwood soap. With a sigh, she surrendered herself to the coaxing of Reg’s hands, the gentle urgency of the music. He pulled her closer, his hand moving from her waist to the small of her back. She felt her skirt brushing his thigh with each step.

  He began to sing. “O, Genevieve, Sweet Genevieve, I see thy face in every dream. My waking thoughts are full of thee; Thy glance is in the starry beam.”

  She smiled, letting the words wash over her. His voice was clear and deep, the notes of the song seeming to float around them. She leaned back and abandoned herself to the music, and the words, and the joy of moving in the rhythm of the dance.

  Reg stared down at the pulse that throbbed in the smooth ivory column of Abbie’s neck. She had bent her head back, eyes still closed and smiling, lost in some private enjoyment of the music and the moment. Once she had relaxed, she’d followed him quite well, their bodies moving in perfect rhythm.

  He swallowed hard, and clenched his teeth against the urge to cover that beating pulse with his lips. He wanted to feel that heartbeat rhythm against his mouth, as he imagined another rhythm they might find together, another kind of dance they might enjoy.

  The thought of making love to Abbie no longer shocked him as it once might have. He could no longer deny the physical attraction he felt, though he readily acknowledged the impossibility of ever acting on his feelings. Abbie was an unschooled virgin, intent on marrying the one man Reg counted as a friend in this foreign land. She would spend the rest of her life on this ranch she’d been groomed since birth to rule, while Reg was destined to return to England, to find some place in his father’s small kingdom.