Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  Alan frowned. “Abbie’s never really concerned herself with what’s ‘socially acceptable.’ I’ll admit her situation’s a little unusual, but most of us don’t think anything of it these days.”

  Reg raised one eyebrow. “You mean you don’t think of Miss Waters as you would another young woman?”

  Alan rubbed his chin. “I guess not. It’s her daddy’s fault, really. Ever since she was a little tyke, he raised her like a boy. I think sometimes he wished she was a boy.” He shrugged. “At least he taught her to take care of herself. Nobody around here’s ever worried about Abbie.”

  Then perhaps it’s time someone started, Reg thought. He turned back to the woman. “What is your name?”

  She dropped the carpetbag and executed a prim curtsey. “Maura O’Donnell at your service, sir.”

  “Well, Miss O’Donnell, why don’t you come with us right now.”

  “Wait a minute,” Farley straightened. “What about my money?”

  Alan tensed, his big hands knotted into fists. “I warned you, Farley –”

  Reg reached into his coat and pulled out a money clip. He peeled off six one-hundred dollar bills and pressed them into the man’s hand. “I suggest you take this and make yourself scarce.” He glanced at Alan’s scowling face. “In fact, perhaps you should purchase a ticket out of town.” He picked up Maura’s carpetbag and led the way across the street.

  “I promise to repay you, sir,” Maura said, following close behind him.

  Reg nodded. “Of course.” They reached the wagon and he stowed the bag behind the seat. He turned to offer Miss O’Donnell a hand up, but Alan beat him to the punch. The rancher assisted the young woman into the spring seat and settled in beside her.

  Reg smiled to himself as he untied his horse and swung up into the saddle. He was still smiling as he followed the wagon out of town. He couldn’t wait to see the expression on Abbie’s face when she realized she was getting a dose of her own brand of interference.

  Chapter Five

  The loud knock on her door startled Abbie so much she snapped the lead off the end of her pencil. She’d been sitting at her kitchen table, making a tally of the month’s expenses, when the knock shattered the afternoon silence. Banjo leapt up and began barking and running in circles around her. Who would come calling at this time of day? Abbie wondered as she shoved the excited dog out of the way and pulled open the door.

  A plump red haired woman wearing a battered hat and a plaid shawl stood on the porch. Behind her Reg Worthington had one hand raised in the act of knocking. When he saw Abbie, he gave a slight bow. “Abbie Waters, may I present Miss Maura O’Donnell,” he said in his most pretentious British accent.

  Abbie stared at the woman. She had waist-length red hair that fell in curls like the illustration of a princess in a children’s story book. Her dimpled, heart-shaped face was pale as milk, and her hazel eyes sparkled with flecks of gold. She had a feminine, curved body, and delicate, long-fingered hands in black gloves. Beneath her full skirts, buttoned ankle boots encased her small feet. As Abbie gaped, the woman dropped into a curtsey and spoke in a voice like an Irish fairy’s. “Pleased to meet you ma’am. I hope you’ll be happy with me services.”

  “Reg, what –”

  “Miss O’Donnell has traveled a long way and is anxious to get started.” Reg urged the redhead over the threshold and followed close behind her.

  Abbie shot him a furious look. “Get started with what?” she asked, following the pair to the table.

  “I was telling Miss O’Donnell about our conversation only yesterday, when we discussed your need for a companion and ladies’ maid. She’s perfectly suited for the position.” Reg had the audacity to wink at her over the top of Miss O’Donnell’s head.

  Abbie ground her teeth together. Of all the nerve! She took a deep breath and gave the woman what she hoped was a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid Mr. Worthington may have misunderstood –”

  “Oh, but he’s explained to me that you’re not looking for a ladies’ maid like we’d have back home.” Miss O’Donnell smiled brightly, revealing teeth like a row of matched pearls. “I understand I’d be the only female employee, and that I’d be expected to cook and clean as well as sew and help with your hair and such.” Her gaze lingered on Abbie’s head. “I’m sure I could help you a great deal.”

  Abbie put one hand up to the twist of hair at the back of her neck. It was held together with another pencil, and was beginning to come undone. She looked down at the man’s shirt she wore, streaked with what might have been blood from last week’s butchering. She felt awkward, and ugly. Surely Reg and Miss O’Donnell must see her the same way.

  She looked at Reg, expecting to find him laughing at her predicament. But he was carefully avoiding her gaze. “Miss O’Donnell worked as an upstairs parlor maid in her home in Ireland,” he said.

  “But I was training to be a ladies’ maid,” she interjected.

  “Yes, but then she decided to emigrate to the United States,” Reg concluded.

  “Mr. Worthington makes it sound so nice and simple ma’am, but I’ll not have you thinking better of me than I am.” Miss O’Donnell hung her head. “I answered an advert from a man looking for a woman to come to Texas and be his wife. But when I arrived here yesterday I discovered I’d been sorely misled.” She glanced at Reg, eyes shining with admiration. “If it hadn’t been for Mr. Worthington here, I don’t know what I would have done, for I didn’t have but a dollar to me name, and Mr. Farley – the man who brought me here – was demanding six hundred dollars for me fare.”

  Abbie looked at Reg again. “You paid the six hundred dollars?”

  He coughed. “It was a loan. Miss O’Donnell can repay me out of her wages.”

  “We’ll get along famously, we will,” Miss O’Donnell said. “I’m a hard worker, and I’m not one to be overly particular.”

  “Why did you decide against marrying Mr. Farley?” Abbie asked.

  The young woman looked indignant. “He lied to me – said he was young and handsome and had pots of money, when really he was middle-aged and homely and poor as the village tinker.” Her expression grew wistful and her voice softened. “I could have stood all that if it hadn’t been for the way I felt whenever he looked at me.” She shook her head. “No sparks at all. I knew there wasn’t a chance of me ever falling in love with him. I’d rather die an old maid than be living the rest of me life without love.”

  Abbie swallowed a knot of tears that rose suddenly in her throat. Hadn’t she felt the same way when she looked at her own life? What was this ranch and all her money worth without someone to share it with – in love? Yet such happiness had eluded even a beauty like Maura O’Donnell.

  She shook off her melancholy and forced her mind to consider more practical concerns. It was all well and good to sympathize with Miss O’Donnell and her misfortune, but a ranch in the middle of the Texas plains was no place for someone so feminine and delicate. She’d end up being a liability, not a help.

  Her father had always said women had no business on a ranch, at least not if they were going to act like women. Their clothing was impractical, they couldn’t ride or rope or handle a gun. They had the wrong focus in life, he said.

  He’d worked hard his whole life to make sure Abbie maintained the proper ‘focus’ to be a successful rancher. George Waters’ highest compliment to his daughter had been to tell her she was thinking like a man.

  But as she watched Reg place his hand on Miss O’Donnell’s shoulder and offer her a chair, Abbie recognized an unfamiliar, but highly feminine jealousy heating her blood. If Reg was going to insist on her hiring a maid, he could have at least had the decency to find some homely old woman.

  She sank into the chair opposite Miss O’Donnell and scowled up at Reg. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” he said, smiling and replacing the Stetson on his head. “I’ll stop by again tomorrow afternoon.”

  “What for?” Abbie snapped. “Don’t you thin
k you’ve interfered enough?”

  “On the contrary, I’ve hardly begun.” He stopped and looked over his shoulder at her. “Don’t forget, we have a bargain. I fully intend to live up to my end of the deal.” He was out the door before she could answer.

  She gave an exasperated sigh. Oh all the dirty tricks –

  “You’re so fortunate to have a friend like Mr. Worthington,” Miss O’Donnell said.

  “What makes you say that?” Abbie stared at her hands to avoid looking at the pretty young woman. She noticed her fingernails were dirty. She had no doubt Miss O’Donnell’s nails were pink and white and spotless.

  “He was telling me all the way over here how concerned he’s been about you, living out here all alone. I know women who’d give their eye teeth to be having a man like that take such an interest in them.” She leaned across the table toward Abbie. “And he’s easy on the eye like, ain’t he now?”

  Abbie tried to ignore the odd fluttering of her heart. Yes, Reg was handsome. Many a woman would be tickled pink to have him interested in her. Even Abbie would have been pleased if she’d believed it was true concern that had prompted Reg’s actions. But no, he was merely trying to live up to his end of their ‘bargain.’

  She stood and began gathering up the papers strewn across the table. That pact she’d made with Reg had to be one of the silliest ideas she’d ever agreed to yet. Even this ultra-feminine ladies’ maid wasn’t going to be able to undo twenty-six years of her father’s teachings and turn her into the kind of woman Alan Mitchell would want to marry.

  “Here, ma’am. Let me do that.” Miss O’Donnell took the papers from her. “That’s my job now.”

  “Look, Miss O’Donnell –”

  “Please, call me Maura.”

  “All right, Maura. I’m afraid there’s been some mistake.”

  “Mistake?” The brightness faded from Maura’s eyes, replaced by an edgy look of panic. “You mean I won’t do? I promise you ma’am, I can sew a fine hand, and I’m neat and tidy. I can’t cook fancy, mind, but we won’t starve, neither. And I –”

  “No, no, it’s not you at all.” Abbie took her by the hand and led her back to the table. “It’s just that a ranch like this is no place for a woman like you. It’s. . . well, it’s dirty. It’s isolated. And it’s dangerous. There’s snakes and wolves and cattle rustlers and –”

  Maura smiled, a perfect dimple on either side of her mouth. “You’re jest trying to scare me, ma’am. I’m not afeard of any of that.” She slipped her thumb under a chain around her neck and pulled out a silver medallion. “I’ve got me St. Christopher for protection.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt and withdrew a shriveled lump of fur. “And I’ve got me lucky rabbit’s foot, too.” She sat back in her chair. “Besides, you’re a woman and Mr. Worthington told me you’ve lived here all your life.”

  “But I’m not like other women,” Abbie said. “My father raised me knowing I’d run the ranch one day. He taught me to ride and to rope and to shoot, and other kinds of things I needed to know.”

  “Who says I can’t be learning those things as well?”

  Abbie fought back a smile. She didn’t want to like this woman who had intruded on her life, but Maura’s enthusiasm was contagious. “You said yourself you came here thinking to marry,” she said, taking another tact. “But there aren’t a great many young men in these parts – at least not any who would make good husbands.”

  Maura twirled one auburn curl around her finger. “I’ve had me fill of Texas men after Mr. Farley,” she said. “I’ll be happy just to work and pay back Mr. Worthington. After that – who knows?” She gave Abbie a considering look. “What about you, miss? Don’t you get lonely, living out here all by yourself?”

  “I’m used to it, I guess,” Abbie said. “And I’ve got Banjo.”

  “And a dog’s not the same as a living, breathing human being who can talk and laugh and share a cuppa tea with you.” She leaned forward again and put her hand over Abbie’s. “Just give me a try for a few weeks. You never can tell. We might be good friends.”

  Abbie looked down at Maura’s delicate gloved hand atop her own work-worn fingers. She’d never had a female friend before. If she was going to learn to be more like other women, maybe the place to start was with someone like Maura. Anything was better than continuing to rely on the advice of that interfering, arrogant British boaster, Reginald Worthington!

  * * * *

  The front door of the Ace of Clubs ranch house burst open, ushering in a bitter cold wind and a red-faced Tuff Jackson. Reg spread his arms wide to still the tumble of papers across the desk and looked up at his foreman. “Did you need something?” he asked.

  Tuff shrugged out of a heavy coat that looked to Reg as if it had been made out of a grizzly bear hide. He tossed the coat onto the hall tree by the door and shuffled over to the desk, spurs jangling. “I been waitin’ all morning for you to come to me, but then I figured it wasn’t gonna happen.” He propped one hip on the corner of the desk and pulled a twist of tobacco from his shirt pocket. “I want to know what you’re gonna do about this weather.”

  Reg frowned at the letter he’d spent the better part of an hour composing, now wrinkled like so much scrap paper beneath Jackson’s hip. “What about the weather?”

  The foreman bit off the end of the tobacco twist, then stuffed the rest back in his pocket. “Don’t you ever look up from that bookwork?” He jerked his head in the direction of the front window. “There’s a norther blowin’ in. The mercury’s dropped thirty degrees in the last hour.”

  Intent on composing his first report to the Syndicate, Reg hadn’t felt the change. He’d only barely registered the icy gust that had preceded Jackson into the room. Now he turned his head to look out the window and raised one eyebrow in surprise. The sky was the deep blue-black of a bruise and the stunted willows by the horse corral popped like buggy whips in the wind. “I’ve heard of the vagaries of Texas weather, but I don’t see that a late spring cold spell should concern us that much.”

  Jackson snorted. “I don’t know about vagrants or whatever it is you’re babblin’, but this ain’t no little cold spell. This is a hell-freezin’ norther.” He spat, hitting the spittoon with a forceful Zing! “If it don’t come a blizzard by nightfall, I’ll eat my boot.”

  Reg fought the urge to order Jackson to stand up straight and look him in the eye and come to the point. The foreman’s every action seemed designed to set Reg’s teeth on edge. If he had any other choice, he’d fire the man, but right now the ranch was more important than his personal feelings. As much as it pained him, he’d have to play Jackson’s game, at least for the time being. “All right then,” he said. “Obviously, we’ll need to protect the stock.”

  “You’re the boss. You tell me what you want to do.” Jackson gave him a blank look.

  Reg could feel a vein throbbing at his temple. He tried to think back to his ‘lesson’ with Abbie, but ‘northers’ were not a topic they’d had time to discuss. He glanced at Jackson. The foreman was studying the dirt under his nails. He wore the superior expression of a schoolmaster who knows the pupil before him has no idea of the correct answer to the question just asked.

  “We’ll need to move the cows and calves to a more sheltered area,” Reg said, counting on common sense to get him through this standoff.

  Jackson gave him a considering look. “Yeah, but where?”

  Reg searched his memory for details of his ride around the ranch. The unfamiliar terrain blurred in his head like a sea chart he’d seen only once. He looked away from Jackson’s challenging gaze. Was it his imagination, or did the sky seem darker? The room, which had been comfortable only moments before, now felt chilled. As he stared out the window, an empty water barrel fell over onto its side and tumbled across the yard.

  “Time’s a wastin’, chief,” Jackson said. “Don’t take long for those calves to freeze.”

  “You know where to move them – move them!” Reg’s v
oice was raspy with anger as he faced the foreman once more. “You’re wasting my time and yours with this ‘twenty questions’ routine.” Jackson had the audacity to smile. Reg gripped the edge of the desk to keep from lashing out at the man. “We ought to move them to Oxcart Canyon,” Jackson said. “But we’ll need every man’s help to make it in time. Should have been done this morning, really.”

  Reg ignored the goad and followed Jackson to the door. As the foreman shrugged into the bearskin, Reg reached for his lighter wool greatcoat. “Goin’ somewhere?” Jackson asked.

  “You said you needed every man to help.”

  “I didn’t mean you, Chief. You’d best stay here warm and dry with your books.”

  “I can ride, dammit.” Reg jerked open the door, the shoulder cape of his coat blown back by the fierce wind. “Don’t waste any more time arguing about it.”

  The cold wind cut through Reg’s clothing as if he were naked. Any other time, he would have gone back inside and dressed more warmly for the task. But he wouldn’t give Jackson the satisfaction of riding off without him. He clenched his teeth and leaned into the wind, counting on the heat of his anger at the foreman to help warm him.

  Mouse balked at being forced from his warm stall into the cold. He fought against the bridle and bowed his back when Reg threw the saddle on him. Reg elbowed him in the belly and tightened the girth, then leapt into the saddle and held on while the gelding bucked and tossed. At least the exercise warmed us up, Reg thought as he rode out of the corral at last, Jackson’s figure already a dark blur in the distance.

  Jackson must have assembled the cowboys before riding to the ranch house. They waited on the edge of the pasture closest to the house, a string of horses bunched behind them. With a few mumbled orders from Jackson, they rode toward the Plum Creek pasture, where most of the cows and calves had spent the winter.