Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  Jackson’s nostrils pinched as he sucked in a deep breath. “Are you threatening me?” he growled.

  “I’ll do whatever I have to in order to make this ranch successful.”

  Jackson’s lip curled in a sneer. “Without me and my men you’ll fall flat on your ass inside of a month.” He pointed a tobacco-stained finger at Reg’s chest. “You need me a hell of a lot more than I need you. Don’t be forgetting that.”

  Reg’s stomach clenched as he balled his hands into fists at his sides. He’d like nothing better than to banish that sneer from Jackson’s face with a good left jab. But underneath the sneer and the insolence lay enough truth to stay his hand. Until he’d learned more about ranching, and this ranch in particular, he needed the foreman and the men he commanded.

  Of course, he would never admit that out loud. He couldn’t afford to show any weakness to these men. Untamed by society’s niceties, they circled around him like wolves, ready to pounce if he faltered or fell behind.

  He couldn’t back down, and he couldn’t lash out with his fists. He could, however, use a skill that had served him well in past skirmishes. He looked down his nose at Jackson with aristocratic disdain and spoke in his best upper-class Brit diction. “It is not my intention to argue with you. Your reputation as a top foreman is undisputed in this area. See that it stays that way.” He gave a nod of dismissal, then turned back to the opened ledger.

  Jackson hesitated, his mouth working as though ready to fire off a retort. But none came, and after a moment, he turned and hurried from the room, spurs jangling.

  Reg sank into the chair and let out a heavy sigh. He felt like a man who’d thrown down the gauntlet and now was waiting for his opponent to choose his weapon and name the date and time. This isn’t England, he reminded himself, frowning at the war bonnet draped across the corner of the desk. Jackson would no doubt prefer a quick and dirty ambush over the code duello. From now until he boarded a ship for home, he’d be wise to watch his back.

  “Anybody home?”

  Alan Mitchell’s broad shoulders filled the doorway to the study. “I knocked but nobody answered,” he said.

  “Come in, Alan, please.” Reg rose and pulled up a chair for his neighbor. “I hadn’t expected to see you again so soon. What a pleasure.”

  “I just stopped by to talk for a few minutes.” Alan pulled off his tan Stetson and smoothed back his blond hair. “I met Tuff Jackson on the way out. He looked madder’n a wet hen. What did you say to get him so riled?”

  Reg frowned. “We had a discussion about what I felt were some discrepancies in the books.” He tapped the ledger. “Mr. Jackson and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye.”

  Alan nodded and rubbed his chin. “Don’t suppose you’d care for a bit of advice?”

  Reg leaned back and looked at his neighbor. This burly blond Texan was the least threatening man he’d met in his life, like a tame bear. He was also one of the few people Reg felt he could trust in his new home. “I’d welcome anything you have to say.”

  “You want to walk easy around Tuff. Folks around here respect him and he’s good with cattle.”

  “So I gather from talking with people at the barbecue.”

  Alan ran his thumb around the brim of his hat, as if testing it for sharpness. “He’s not as book smart as some, and he can be ornery at times, but he’s a good man if he’s on your side.”

  Reg picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “And if he’s not on my side?”

  Alan shrugged. “You might find yourself in trouble. I don’t have to tell you, syndicates like the one you represent aren’t very popular in these parts.”

  “My brother didn’t report having any problems.”

  Alan grinned. “Yeah, well, would Charles ever have problems? He was one of those guys everybody seemed to like right off. Not that you’re not –”

  Reg shook his head. “You don’t have to explain it to me. Reg never met a man he couldn’t befriend. I tend to be more reserved. I take it I can’t expect to be welcomed with open arms by everyone.”

  “It has more to do with business than where you’re born.” Alan gestured toward the ledger. “Most of the folks around here have close ties to the land. They live here, raise their families here, give up their own sweat and blood to succeed or fail. Whereas a syndicate is a group of people living somewhere else, far away, buying up land and using it as long as they turn a profit. They don’t necessarily care if the land is preserved for the next generation, as long as the board of directors and stockholders get their money now.”

  Reg looked away from Mitchell, out the window to his right. An ocean of prairie stretched toward the horizon, silvery green grass undulating like waves rolling beneath the steady wind. He thought of his family’s estate in Devonshire, land passed on through six generations of Worthingtons, deeded and entailed and shackled to the family name in an unbreakable bond.

  Yet Reg could honestly say he had no more feeling for that parcel of land than he’d had for the Indian tea plantation he had managed. Land was a means to an end, a source of income and position in society. Everything Alan Mitchell had said about what he was doing here was true, but Alan made it sound so wrong.

  Reg felt the first uncomfortable stirring of guilt. He shifted in his chair and gave Alan a slight smile. “The syndicate sent me, rather than hiring a local manager, to demonstrate that they are personally concerned with what happens here,” he said.

  Alan grinned. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Reg felt the warmth of that smile wash over him. He relaxed some and settled back in his chair. “If there’s anything I can do to help you or my other neighbors, please let me know,” he said.

  “I stopped by to see if you’d be willing to supply a chuck wagon and cook for the round-up. I’d like to have a couple of the smaller outfits throw in with you. They’d pitch in to help with the work and expenses.”

  Reg nodded, careful not to show his ignorance. He made a mental note to ask Abbie what exactly supplying a chuck wagon entailed. “I’d be happy to help. Who do you have in mind to work with me?”

  “I thought the Rocking W crew and maybe Fred Lazlo’s Lazy L to the southwest. They’re both pretty small outfits. Not more than three or four men each.”

  Reg raised one eyebrow. “I was under the impression the Rocking W was quite a large ranch.”

  “Large in territory. Small in manpower.” Alan grinned. “Or maybe I should say ‘womanpower.’ It’s just Abbie and two Mexicans who run the place, with the help of that herding dog of hers. She hires extra hands for some chores, but most of the time it’s just them.”

  “I would have thought she could afford more.”

  Alan shook his head. “It’s not a matter of being able to pay or not. Abbie’s probably got more money in the bank than some of the rest of us. She’s just conservative. And truth be told, it’s probably hard to find men who’ll work for a woman. She probably sees it as easier to do the work herself than put up with the grief some cowboys would give her.”

  “From what little I saw, she’d have no trouble ‘giving them grief’ in return.” Reg chuckled, remembering the way she’d sized him up on their first meeting. Her words had stung like the lash of a whip.

  Alan gave him a considering look. “Say, what happened between you two?” he asked. “Did you really help her pull a heifer out of the mud?”

  Reg nodded. “I’d heard American women were quite liberated, but I’d hardly expected to meet one in trousers, lassoing cattle.”

  “Well, our Abbie’s not the usual female,” Alan said. “But she holds her own with the other ranchers.” He stood and replaced his hat on his head. “One thing you’ll find out here. If you do your share of the work and mind your own business, nobody much cares how you choose to live your life. We tend to be a little rough around the edges, but we’re sure of the things that really count.” He extended his hand. “I’ll see you at my place in two weeks.”

  Reg shook Alan’s hand
, the firm grasp of two men who had taken the first steps toward friendship.

  When Alan was gone, Reg resumed his study of the ledgers. But five minutes with the dry columns of numbers left him feeling restless as a sailor who’d been three months at sea. He pushed aside the stack of books and grabbed his new Stetson from the rack by the door. Two weeks would pass quickly enough and he had plenty to do to get ready. The time had come for his first lesson with Abbie Waters.

  * * * *

  Banjo’s barking alerted Abbie to the presence of a visitor. Tossing aside the harness she’d been mending, she walked to the open doorway of the cabin and looked out. Her jaw dropped at the sight of Reg Worthington riding up on the gray. The Englishman was dressed in his ridiculous imitation-cowboy garb, made worse today by the addition of a black and white cowhide vest. She bit back a smile. Old Hiram Pickens had been trying to unload that vest for a year or more. He must have about fell over himself when Reg walked into the store.

  At least the Englishman had the sense today to wear a hat. She had to admit the broad-brimmed Stetson made his dark hair and square jaw look even more masculine and handsome.

  “Hello, Abbie,” Reg said, swinging down from the gray and leading the horse to the watering trough. Banjo ran out to greet him, barking.”I thought it time we had our first lesson,”

  She put both hands on her hips and looked him up and down. “The first thing we have to do is get you out of those clothes.” “I beg your pardon?” He looked up from petting the dog. “Madam, I’m flattered at your interest, but I assure you, that is not what I had in mind.”

  Abbie’s eyes widened and her face grew hot with shame. “I didn’t mean. . . I wanted. . . you don’t really think. . .” There she went again, speaking rashly and getting herself into trouble. She put one hand to the porch post to steady herself, and took a deep breath. “I only meant that the clothes you’re wearing don’t suit you at all. The newest hand could spot you as a greenhorn from half a mile across the prairie.”

  Reg glanced at his stiff denim trousers and starched plaid shirt. “This is the same sort of outfit every cowboy and rancher around here wears.” He frowned at her, and she was conscious of his gaze sweeping over the pants she had stuffed in her boots. Her cheeks grew even hotter as he took in the oversized shirt she knew still failed to disguise her feminine form. “They’re the same kind of clothes you’re wearing,” he said.

  “Except that those cowboys, and me too, for that matter, were practically born in these duds. They make you look exactly like what you are – a foreigner playing at being a cowboy.” She stepped off the porch and walked around him, studying him with a critical eye.

  Reg stiffened under her disapproving stare. “I fail to see what my mode of dress has to do with my abilities as a rancher.”

  She paused in her circuit around him. “You’ll have better luck with the men who work for you if you present yourself as someone in authority.”

  “Would you stop pacing around me like that? I’m beginning to feel like a cobra being stalked by a mongoose.” He took her arm. “Why don’t we go inside and discuss this?”

  She shrugged out of his grasp and led the way up the single step to the porch, across the plank floor and into the house. She walked on into the kitchen, Banjo at her heels. When she looked back, she saw Reg stopped in the doorway, hat in hand. A frown creased his brow as his eyes swept the room. Suddenly the scrubbed wooden table, ladder-backed chairs and open cupboard looked so plain and drab. Everything was clean and functional, but not so much as a crocheted doily or an embroidered cup towel lent the slightest femininity to the room. Reg Worthington was probably used to polished mahogany furniture and Turkish carpeting. She flushed and looked away, busying herself with stoking the fire in the cook stove. “I know it’s not much,” she said. “But it’s just me here and a lot of the time I’m out with the cows –”

  “You live here by yourself?” he interrupted.

  “Well, there’s Banjo, of course.” At the sound of his name, the dog thumped his tail against the wooden floorboards. “Jorge and Miguel live in a bunkhouse over by Buffalo Draw.”

  He hung his hat on the rack by the door and stepped into the room. “Don’t you have a maid? Or a companion?”

  “Why would I need one of those?” She moved the coffeepot over one of the stove eyes.

  He looked at her, eyebrows raised. “To keep your clothing in order. To arrange your hair. To act as a companion and chaperon.”

  She fought back a smile. “I can’t say my clothing needs much upkeep. I can brush and braid my hair myself. Banjo makes a good enough companion and as for a chaperon, well, my daddy always said a revolver was the best chaperon any girl could want.”

  He made a noise in his throat which she took for disapproval. “Holding a gun on a man in case he should decide to behave unseemly is not the best way of charming potential suitors,” he said. “A maidservant would serve the purpose far better.”

  She shook her head. “Over here in America, most of us don’t have servants like you do in England.” She filled two mugs with the reheated coffee and brought them to the table. “Now about your clothes,” she said, taking a seat and motioning for him to do the same.

  “You seem eager to divest me of my garments,” he said, sitting across from her.

  Laughter sparkled in his eyes as he spoke, but she couldn’t suppress the blush that heated her skin once again. “Charlie said something once about having a brother who’d been in the Navy. Was that you?”

  He nodded, looking wary.

  “Well, on a ship, everybody knows the ship’s captain, or the admiral or whoever, by the uniform they wear, don’t they?”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded. “Well, you don’t have the years of experience, or the benefit of having grown up in these parts to establish who you are. So you need clothes – a uniform of sorts – that will let everybody know from the start that you’re the boss.”

  He leaned forward. “What do you suggest?”

  “Nothing too flashy.” She frowned at his spotted vest. “Something you’re comfortable in. What do you wear in England?”

  He straightened and struck a dignified pose, hands clutching the front of his vest. “I wear suits from my personal tailor.”

  She bit back a smile. He sounded impossibly vain, but the dignified posture suited him. He reminded her of portraits she’d seen in books of European monarchs and war heroes. In fact, she decided, that regal air of his was the reason Reg Worthington looked so out of place in a common cowboy’s clothes.

  “Wear your suits here, too,” she said. “You’ll do better work if you’re comfortable. But nothing too fancy. Remember, you’re liable to get pretty dirty.”

  His moustache twitched in the beginnings of a grin. “Especially if I’m anywhere near you and a mud hole.”

  “I’m beginning to think you say things just to make me blush,” she said as her cheeks once again grew uncomfortably warm.

  “You do it so beautifully.” He leaned forward, chin in hand, and fixed her with an intense gaze. “I find you such a contradiction, my dear. An independent woman who can rope and ride like a man but hasn’t mastered the simplest dance steps. A woman who talks of using a gun as a chaperon, who blushes like the greenest girl.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” she protested, looking away.

  “On the contrary. I find you intriguing.” He lowered his voice to a soft purr.

  A not unpleasant shiver danced up her spine. She shifted in her chair. “You’re changing the subject,” she said. “We were talking about you, and your clothes.” She nodded toward the boots on his feet. The fancy lizard-skin uppers were barely scuffed. “What about those boots? Are they comfortable?”

  He grimaced. “They hurt my feet.”

  “What do you wear to ride in England?”

  His expression relaxed. “English leather riding boots. The finest made.”

  “Of course.” She rolled her eyes. Nothing
but the best for Sir Galahad. “They’ll do here as well, though you might want to talk to someone about fitting your stirrups with tapaderos.”

  “Tapaderos?” He stumbled over the foreign word.

  “Stirrup covers to keep your feet from slipping through and hanging up.” She raised one foot to show him the worn heel of her boot. “The high heel keeps your foot from slipping through. If your horse throws you and you hang up, you could easily be dragged or trampled to death.”

  He nodded. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Now that leaves the hat.”

  He waved his hand toward the Stetson hanging on the rack by the door. “Now that’s one piece of Western dress I rather admire.”

  “Then keep it. It suits you.” At his pleased look, she fought back another blush. “Let’s see. What else? From what I’ve seen you’re not a bad rider, and I’m assuming that revolver you’re wearing is for more than show.”

  He raised his chin. “I can hit the bulls-eye nine times out of ten at 50 paces.”

  “That’s great, but could you hit a running lobo, or a striking rattlesnake, or even a two-legged varmint up to no good?”

  He stiffened, his expression fierce. “I am not the total incompetent you obviously believe me to be. Despite your inflated opinions of yourselves, you Texans are not the consummate experts in everything. The British were riding and shooting and hunting and tracking when your state was still overrun by savages.”

  “Speaking of inflated opinions of oneself –”

  He flattened his hands on the table and shoved himself up out of the chair. “I do not have to submit to these continued insults.”

  Abbie shot up to face him. “The truth hurts, does it?”

  “You are the most insufferable woman –”

  “I’m the woman who’s going to save your bacon –”

  He strode to the door and plucked his Stetson from the rack. “I don’t need any woman to save me, much less a sharp-tongued shrew like you.”