He forced his mind back to the job at hand. “What about eighty-six? The one with the star-shaped blaze on her forehead.” He nodded toward the heifer in question.
“Yes. She’s such a lovely deep red color.”
He looked at her in surprise. “And here I thought all your selections were made purely on the basis of business and scientific principles.”
She flushed. “Well, she has good shape to her, too. But there’s nothing wrong with choosing an animal who looks nice, is there?”
He smiled and shook his head. Just when he’d deluded himself into thinking he could predict her behavior, she would confound him with a new response. Like a many-sided children’s puppet, she constantly presented a new facet of her personality for him to wonder at. She could go from hard-riding cowgirl to kittenish flirt while his back was turned, from Puritan-practical rancher to a woman who would choose her stock as much for their color as for their conformation.
Since they’d left the ranch to come to Amarillo, he’d enjoyed more glimpses of the lady inside the rancher. Away from the day to day drudgery of ranch work, minus the rough work clothes, Abbie revealed a softer side. She smiled more, and took more care with her appearance.
But it would be a mistake to underestimate her. More than one man in this auction ring had flinched at a piercing look from her emerald eyes. She refused to be outbid on an animal she wanted; the roughest man in boots and spurs could not force her to back down.
Reg admired that kind of confidence even more than he admired her beauty. Abbie might not realize it, but she was teaching him in more ways that one.
“That’s an even dozen,” he said now, looking at the card where he’d been keeping track of his purchases. “That’s enough for me, don’t you think?”
She glanced at her own card. “Yes. For me, too. It looks as if the rest of the sale is steers and odd lots.” She slipped her hand out of his arm. “You did very well for yourself today.”
“Except for the two I lost to you.” He winked at her.
She blushed. “I couldn’t let you take everything good.” She looked around the auction barn. Reg followed her gaze across the rows of wooden bleachers surrounding the dirt ring, and the raised booth where the auctioneer surveyed the steady flow of livestock. The air was redolent with the odors of manure and tobacco smoke. “Spending the day here with you today makes me think of my father,” she said.
He winced. He wasn’t that much older than Abbie. “So I remind you of your father, do I?”
“Not you. This place.” She swept her hand out to take in the arena. “I can’t help but think of him when I walk in here. He brought me with him from the time I could walk. He’d hold me in his arms so I could see the animals, and talk to me about the ones he was bidding on.”
“He was training you even then.”
“I suppose so.”
They began to walk toward the exit. Reg tried to imagine Abbie as a little girl, carried in the arms of a tall man in a Stetson, who even then treated her less like a child and more like the business partner she would one day be. “You’re very fortunate that your father trained you to take over his business,” he said as he and Abbie stepped out into the yard in front of the auction barn.
She nodded, her expression pensive. “He wanted me to be able to look after the ranch, and myself, even when he wasn’t around to help me any longer.”
“My father spent time with my brother, Charles, grooming him to follow in his footsteps. Naturally, as the eldest, he will inherit the title and the duties that come with it.” He shook his head. “There was never any specific duties for a middle son, no prescribed training one can give.” He tried to keep his voice light, but he feared she would sense the bitterness he could never quite block out. God, here he was, thirty-four years old, and he was still picking at that old wound like a schoolboy.
Abbie looked at him as if she wanted to ask a question, but after a moment she looked away. “So much of what Daddy taught me wasn’t really specific to ranching,” she said. “Most of all, he taught me to think for myself – to make my own decisions and stand by them. He taught me to live independently, to be responsible for myself.”
“Unconventional training for a woman.”
She raised her chin. “Is that so bad, then?”
“It’s stood you in good stead, made you successful.”
“And left me alone.” She hugged her arms across her chest. “I wonder sometimes if my failure to marry has been more because I am a woman who insists on standing on my own, than because of any lack of femininity on my part.” She stopped and turned to face him. “I can go through the motions of being a lady all right, Reg, but I can’t change what I am inside.”
He stared into her eyes, green as meadow grass, dark with concern. “Do you want to change?”
She bowed her head. “I don’t see why taking a man’s name should mean I take his direction also.”
Reg reached out and lifted her chin, and stroked his thumb along her velvet cheek. Hard and soft. Independent and longing for union. Such a lovely contradiction. “You’ll find the right partner one day. Maybe not Alan – but a man who’ll see your value. A man who’s looking for a partner as well as a wife.”
She gazed back at him, clear-eyed and unwavering. “What do you want, Reg?”
He sensed her probing him for answers he wasn’t prepared to give. “I want to take you to dinner this evening,” he said lightly. “To celebrate a successful day at the auction.”
If she was disappointed in his answer, she did not show it. She looked away, and nodded. “All right. Give me a chance to clean up and change.”
“Six o’clock, then? I’ll meet you and Maura in the lobby of our hotel.”
“That sounds fine. I want to speak to the stock agent first, arrange for shipping.”
“I can do that,” he said.
“No, I’ll do it. You’d better see to your heifers, though. Don’t forget to pay the cashier.”
He bit back a smile as he listened to her list of instructions. Lesser men might indeed be daunted by such competence. Ah, but Abbie didn’t deserve a lesser man. Only a man as strong as herself would satisfy her. Even now, Reg felt a stab of envy for that unknown man who would one day win such a fair prize.
Chapter Sixteen
Abbie frowned at the figure huddled under the quilts in her hotel room. “But you can’t be ill,” she said. “You were right as rain less than an hour ago.”
“It come on me sudden like, Miss.” Maura gave a weak cough and pulled the covers closer around her chin. “I’m ever so sorry to inconvenience ye this way.”
“You’ve nothing to apologize for.” Abbie felt the maid’s forehead. It was cool to the touch. “Maybe we should call a doctor. . . “
“Oh no, Miss.” Maura’s eyes went wide and she shook her head. “I’m sure all I’m needin’ is a good night’s rest to set me right again. You go on and enjoy your dinner with Mr. Worthington.”
The thought of dinner alone with Reg sent a tremor through Abbie’s stomach. She’d already spent more time with him today than was wise; the constant contact left her edgy and impatient, longing for something she could not name. “If you’re ill, you shouldn’t be left alone,” she said to Maura. “I’ll send a note to Reg and stay with you.”
“Oh, no, Miss.” Maura struggled to a sitting position. “You needn’t be putting yourself out like that for me.” She clutched the quilts around her. “It’s not so much ill I am as over-tired.” She nodded. “The excitement of traveling and seeing a new city has taxed me nerves. A good night’s sleep and I’ll be back to me old self.”
Abbie gave her a doubtful look. Other than a slight flush to her cheeks, Maura looked healthy as ever. Having seen her work, Abbie was convinced the maid had an iron constitution. “This doesn’t have anything to do with your believing it’s not your place to eat with Reg and me, is it?” she asked. “I’ve told you before, those class distinctions don’t hold in Texas.”
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“Yes, Miss, and I’m beginning to see the truth in what you’re saying, and I’d be most honored to be going with you and Mr. Worthington. But I’m plumb tuckered, I am.” As if to confirm this, she slid back beneath the covers.
So much for the idea that the maid would be a suitable chaperon, Abbie thought. She’d begged off accompanying them to the auction this morning, and now she was opting out of dinner. Abbie sighed. Nothing to do but get the meal over with, she supposed. She picked up the ridiculously small bag that held her room key and handkerchief, then paused to check her appearance in the mirror by the door. “Do you really think this dress is all right?” she asked. The shimmering purple silk gown left much of her shoulders bare, and clung tightly to the curves of her waist and hips.
“You look divine, Miss,” Maura said, raising herself to a sitting position. “Mr. Worthington will love it.”
“I feel half naked.”
“Oh no, Miss. It’s quite modest – no more revealing than those trousers you’re fond of wearing.”
She nodded. Of course Maura was right. Time to quit stalling and go downstairs and meet Reg. After all, what could happen with a dining room full of other people watching them?
She left the room, walked down two floors, then descended the curved staircase into the hotel’s main lobby. She walked slowly, partly on account of the cursed high heels she could never quite get used to, and partly because her stomach was doing somersaults with every step closer to her rendezvous with Reg.
Stop it! she silently ordered her nerves, but they behaved no better than an untamed mustang. How was it her mind had turned something as simple as a dinner into a dangerous ordeal? She had eaten dinner with Reg before, she reminded herself.
But never alone. Never away from her familiar territory of the ranch. And never dressed in a clinging, low-cut gown that made her look, and feel, every inch a woman. She smoothed her hand down the shimmering skirt. Would Reg like the dress? Would he like her in it?
Oh confound it! What difference did it make what Reg thought? They would never be – could never be – anything more than friends.
She spotted him in the crowd below, standing with his back to her. Her breath caught as her gaze swept over his shining black hair and the broad shoulders outlined against his perfectly tailored suit. She had never met a man who was so handsome, so elegant. She ought to feel all awkward and ignorant beside him, but he never made her feel that way.
As if feeling her eyes on him, he turned, and caught sight of her on the stairs. His gaze swept over her, and a hint of a smile curved his lips. He nodded, as if in approval, and moved toward her. “Abbie, you look splendid,” he said. He reached for her hand, but instead of taking it to lead her the rest of the way down the stairs, he bent and kissed it.
She felt the warmth of his breath through her glove, and remembered the day they’d met, when he’d kissed her that way. Even then, the touch of his lips had made her tremble. He raised his eyes to meet hers; his dark, sultry gaze shook her as much as the kiss. “Every man in the room is watching us now, and wishing he were in my shoes,” he said.
“Every woman here wishes they were in mine,” she replied, sliding her hand from his grasp. “And to tell you the truth, I’d gladly trade these heels with them for a pair of comfortable boots.”
He laughed out loud and offered her his arm. “Then I’d best take you in to dinner before someone comes up and makes you a better offer,” he said.
She put her hand on his arm and smiled up at him. “Maura says she’s sorry she can’t come with us, but she isn’t feeling well.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t seem to be.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say so, but I’m pleased to be able to entertain you alone, without a chaperon.”
A pleasant shiver ran up her spine at the words. He squeezed her hand and led the way toward the dining room. She concentrated on walking demurely by his side to their table, when what she really wanted was to stop and crane her head to take in all the sights. Even keeping her eyes straight ahead, she saw enough to amaze her. What looked like an acre of tables stretched out in front of them, each one topped with a dazzling white cloth and laden with silver polished to a mirror finish, and half a dozen glasses and goblets that winked in the glow of the candles that flickered at each table.
In case the candles didn’t provide enough light, gas chandeliers as wide across as a Conestoga wheel hung overhead, dripping with glass crystals like icicles on a January day. Gentlemen in elegant black suits and ladies dressed in all colors of the rainbow, most of them decked out with all manner of sparkling necklaces, earrings, bracelets and brooches, sat at the tables and dined on steaks and fish and what looked like whole little chickens and a lot of other things Abbie couldn’t even identify.
“Here we are.” Reg held out a chair for her at a table near the back wall. She lowered herself carefully into the upholstered seat, careful not to crush her skirt. Reg helped scoot in her chair, then took the seat across from her. “I believe we’ll begin with champagne,” he said to the waiter.
While Reg and the waiter conferred on the choice of wine, Abbie tilted her head back and looked up at the ceiling. Her eyes widened as she gazed at a trio of winged babies cavorting among the clouds. Except for a few strategically placed wisps of clouds, the babies were naked.
“The cherubs are a bit much, don’t you think?”
Reg’s voice made her remember herself and look down once more. “Is that what they’re called – cherubs?”
He nodded. “The decor here is rather overdone, but the food is supposed to be excellent.” He opened the gold-tasseled menu. “What would you like?”
Abbie opened her menu and stared at the long list of choices, many of which were written in a foreign language, and it wasn’t Spanish. “You choose,” she said, closing the folder. “But I’d just as soon have beef instead of one of those scrawny chickens.”
He tried to fight back a grin, but failed. “Those are squab. You’re right. They do look um, ‘scrawny.’ Why don’t we try the beef tenderloin?”
The waiter delivered the champagne, while another appeared to take their order. Abbie sipped the bubbly liquid and tried to suppress the similarly bubbly feeling inside of her. Never in her wildest fantasies would she have dreamed she’d ever be seated in such an elegant restaurant, dressed in fancy clothes and seated across from a handsome man who, if not exactly British royalty, was certainly kin to some.
“Why are you smiling?” Reg asked as he filled his glass.
“Was I smiling?” She sipped more champagne and grinned.
“You were.”
“Then I must try to be more serious.” She attempted a frown, but failed. How could she frown when she felt so happy?
“Don’t. You’re even more beautiful when you smile.”
“Oh, Reg, go on.” She could feel a blush working its way up her throat.
“Why do you deny it?” He leaned toward her. “I thought you were beautiful the first day I saw you, in pigtails and men’s trousers.”
“You’d never seen a woman in pants before.”
“And you’d never seen – what was it you said? Such a ‘poor excuse for a cowboy.’“
Her blush deepened at the memory. “I hoped you’d forgotten about that.”
He sat back in his chair, smiling. “I will never forget that day. If not for that fortuitous meeting, I might never have decided to apprentice myself to you, as it were. I might find myself considerably worse off than I currently am.”
“You haven’t needed that much help. You’ve done very well for yourself. Why, at the auction today, you were spotting almost as many good buys as I was.”
“That part of the cattle business interests me,” he said. “Building up stock and trying to breed better blood lines. Instead of leaving so much to chance, it seems to me a rancher would do better to line breed to reinforce the best characteristics, as is done wit
h race horses and hunting hounds.”
“Exactly. Reg, you have already realized something that some of the old men who’ve been doing this fifty years still haven’t hit upon. To them a cow is merely a cow, and the only way to make money is to ship them out in quantity. There’s some of us who see the money to be made in producing better quality cattle.”
“It would take several years to build up a good breeding program, but in the end, it would pay off.” Reg leaned forward, his eyes alight with excitement. “We could breed cattle with more stamina for harsh conditions, and the ability to hold their weight to market.”
“Maybe you should consider putting that kind of program into place on the Ace of Clubs,” she said.
He sank back against his chair, his enthusiasm vanished. “I’m due back in England at the end of a year. My father will be expecting results by then and no later.”
Abbie felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at the thought of Reg’s leaving. “What will you do back in England?” she asked.
He stared into the dregs of his champagne, idly turning the long-stemmed glass in his hand. “I don’t know. Whatever is expected, I suppose.”
Expected by whom? She wanted to ask, but the arrival of their dinner silenced her. Despite Reg’s attempts at entertaining conversation, she was unable to regain the joy she’d felt at the beginning of their meal. Reg had reminded her that this evening was nothing more than fantasy; he would soon return to his old life, just as she would return to hers. He’d go back to being Lord Worthington, son of an earl, and she’d likely end up an old maid wearing men’s trousers, her pretty silk dresses packed away in a trunk, along with her dreams of love and marriage.
Reg noticed Abbie’s sudden silence; he blamed himself for spoiling the evening with talk of his own dreary future. Why should Abbie care what became of him after he left Texas? In years to come, she’d no doubt remember him only as that stuffy Britisher who had intruded upon her life one year.
Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two Page 20
