Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  “My daddy taught me to never leave the house without rations for a couple of nights. You never know what you’re going to come across out here.”

  His eyes seemed to burn into her. “Yes, isn’t that true?”

  She forced her gaze away from his, and rummaged in the saddlebags again. “Are you hungry? There’s biscuits and ham.” He took the biscuit she offered. “Looks good. Did you make it?”

  She shook her head. “Maura did.”

  He smiled, and again she felt that uncomfortable stab of jealousy. Would a man ever smile at the mere mention of her name? “And how is Miss O’Donnell working out?”

  “That was a dirty trick to play on me, dumping her on my doorstep like that.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  She shrugged. “She’s a sweet girl, a long way from home.”

  “Then you’re enjoying having a female companion after all.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He was regarding her with a satisfied look, a look that made her reluctant to admit he was right. “I never had a female friend before,” she said after a moment. “I don’t rightly know how to behave.”

  “I take it you’ve no sisters.”

  She shook her head. “Or brothers. My Mama died when I was very young. I never really knew her.”

  He set the coffee mug between them, the tin ringing against the rock. “I lost my mother when I was seventeen,” he said quietly. “I still miss her.”

  She missed the idea of a mother, but she had no memory of an actual person to miss. Her father had filled the role of both parents for her; his passing had left an emptiness too big to measure.

  “I have two brothers, though,” Reg said. “And a sister.”

  “That must be nice.”

  “Sometimes it is.” He sighed. “I’m closer to my older brother, Charles. He’s the sort of man it would be easy to despise. He’s handsome and talented and as heir to the earldom, quite wealthy besides. But he’s also one of the nicest chaps you could ever hope to meet, very much a hale-fellow-well-met sort. Never a care in the world.”

  Abbie nodded. “I’d say that describes Charlie Worthington right down to a T.”

  “Of course, my younger brother, Cam, is much quieter, as I suppose is fitting a vicar.”

  A version of Reg as clergyman? She bit back a smile. No, that didn’t work either. “And you’re in the middle?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m the middle son. The one no one knows what to do with. Certainly my father doesn’t know how to take me.”

  The bleakness in his voice surprised her. “But he sent you here to represent him,” she said.

  “He sent me here to test me.” He plucked a pine needle from the pile he sat on and launched it toward the fire. It burned in a flash of brightness, then crumbled to ash. “He expects me to fail at this as I have everything else.” He looked past the fire, at the looming darkness outside the cave. “It appears I’m already well on my way.”

  “How can you say that? It’s hardly your fault we had a late spring storm. You can’t control the weather.”

  “A more experienced man would have known to move the cattle earlier.” He turned to her. “You knew.”

  “A person isn’t born with that kind of experience,” she said. “It has to be learned. You learned today.”

  He clenched both hands into fists. “I haven’t got time to learn every lesson through trial and error.”

  She leaned toward him, wanting desperately to break through the gloom he’d wrapped around himself like a cloak. “That’s why you’ve got me. Remember? I’ll teach you.”

  His eyes locked to hers, dark and challenging, the eyes of a wounded animal. She fought the urge to reach for him. Would he accept any gesture of comfort, or lash out in pain or fear?

  And if she dared to touch him, would she be content to know only the feel of his hand in hers, or would she pursue greater intimacies? She’d never thought to have this curiosity about a man. What would it feel like to touch him more intimately? To kiss him, even?

  Her heart pounded at the thought. She’d never spent this much time so physically close to a man before. She couldn’t recall wanting to touch a man this way, or wanting to be touched. But here, in the darkness, with the storm raging outside and the fire burning within, with the brandy warming her blood and awakening some primitive need deep inside her, she felt anything was possible.

  She drew back, away from Reg as well as away from the direction her thoughts were turning. Forcing a laugh, she gave him what she hoped was a teasing look. “Well, don’t forget, you’ve got your end of the bargain to keep up,” she said.

  He nodded, and gave her a long look. “Your hair,” he said. “You’re wearing it differently.”

  She put one hand to the elaborate twist of braids. “Maura arranged it for me.”

  He leaned closer. “And your face. There’s something different around the eyes.”

  She blushed. “Maura, uh, she plucked my eyebrows.” She’d also sewn lace trim on every single pair of Abbie’s drawers and put more lace and ribbons on her plain cotton camisoles. But she wasn’t about to tell that to Reg.

  He smiled, his dark mood seemingly passed. “Perhaps, to pass the time, I should conduct a lesson now.”

  She regarded him warily. “What kind of lesson?”

  “A lesson in the art of flirtation.”

  “Flirting is an art?”

  “Done properly, it is.” He crossed his legs in front of him, barely brushing her knee in passing. A jolt of feeling shot through her at the brief contact.

  Reg raised one hand in a lecturer’s pose. “Now the first rule of flirtation is to remember it is a game. In order to get the most enjoyment from a game, both parties must participate. For every movement or gesture one party makes, there is a proper response. For instance, suppose I catch your eye from across the room and I do this,” He lowered his right eyelid in a slow wink. “Now how would you respond?”

  She tried to ignore the rush of heat to her face. “I might think you had something in your eye,” she teased.

  “Would you really?” He leaned toward her. “Suppose I approached you and said, ‘Miss Waters, I believe that is the most charming outfit I have ever seen.’ How would you answer?”

  She glanced down at her faded woolen trousers and grinned. “Then I’d say you really ought to get out more, Mr. Worthington.”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps that is how Texans flirt. But in the rest of the world it is understood that my compliment was directed not so much to the clothing itself as to the woman wearing it.”

  “Well, you tell me what I’m supposed to say.”

  “Let’s try again.” He took her hand, cradling it in the warmth of his palm. “Your hands, Miss Winters, I could never tire of watching them. I believe you can tell much about a person’s character from their hands.”

  “You do?” she breathed, barely able to speak around the sudden tightness in her throat.

  He nodded. “Your hands speak of honest work.” He brushed the tips of his fingers across her knuckles, sending shivers of sensation up her arm. “And a high degree of skill in that work.” He flattened his palm against her own. “A skill I admire, even as I envy it.”

  She felt dizzy and hot, mesmerized by his touch, and the velvet sound of his words.

  “Now you try,” he said, releasing her hand. “Pretend I am Alan Mitchell. What would you say to me to hint at your true feelings?”

  She swallowed, unable to even remember what Alan looked like. All she could see was Reg. She closed her eyes, and the memory of Alan’s open, familiar face swam into view. “Why, Alan, I. . . I never knew anybody who could. . . who could cut a calf the way you do,” she blurted.

  Reg made a choking noise. She opened her eyes and found him staring at her, red-faced. “By ‘cut a calf’ may I assume you are referring to, uh –”

  “Well, yeah, castrate.” She felt the heat of a blush engulf her own face as she said the word.
“But it’s true!” she protested. “Nobody’s faster with a knife than Alan, and with roundup coming up I just thought of it and. . . “

  Reg was laughing now, his whole body shaking as he collapsed against the cave wall. Abbie looked away, blinking back tears. How could she be so stupid? Of course that wasn’t the kind of thing a real lady would say. A lady would probably go on about Alan’s blue eyes or something. “I’m no good at this,” she said.

  “No one becomes an expert after a single lesson,” he said. “As you have so rightly pointed out to me. Come now, let’s try again. You’re on the right track. Women appreciate an appeal to their vanity. Men like to be admired for their strength and skill. What’s something else you could say to Alan at roundup?”

  She took a deep breath. “I. . . I really admire that new mare you’re riding,” she said. “You always have had a good eye for horseflesh.”

  “Excellent. Now next you should suggest consulting him about a horse you wish to purchase.”

  “But I don’t want to buy a new horse.”

  He smiled. “You want Alan Mitchell to come to your house and spend some time alone with you, discussing the purchase of a horse. You want to give him the chance to get to know you better.”

  “Then why don’t I come right out and say so?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t know as I see the purpose in all this talking in circles, anyway.”

  He took her hand again and gently drew it toward him. “People talk in circles when their feelings for each other are too deep, too heartfelt, to be exposed in public. If you rebuff my efforts at flirtation, I may be wounded, but the wound is not fatal. If I declare my affections more bluntly and you turn me away, I would be hurt indeed.”

  She could feel her pulse throbbing against his fingers as he clasped her wrist. She stared at him, wide-eyed, hardly daring to breathe. When he looked up, she leaned toward him, drawn by an invisible longing to be even closer to him.

  “Abbie,” he whispered.

  “Shhh.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply of his cologne and leather scent, losing herself in the wonderful flood of sensation as her lips met his.

  The first touch was all softness: the feather brush of his moustache and the satin caress of his lips. She slipped her free hand about his neck and pulled him even closer. With a groan, he deepened the kiss, opening his mouth to cover her fully. She tasted coffee and felt the hard slickness of his teeth, and then the hot sweep of his tongue drove away her last virginal fantasies of a chaste caress between friends. This was a kiss as she’d only imagined it, full of heat and need and raw longing. She abandoned herself to a wildness she’d never felt before, unable to think in the face of such passion.

  A sound like gunfire shook her, and she wondered if it was simply the thundering of her blood in her ears. The noise came again, echoing in the rock canyon. Reg pushed her away and staggered to his feet. “Sounds like a bloody cannon,” he said, and headed for the door.

  Chapter Seven

  Reg stumbled out of the cave, shielding his eyes against the onslaught of swirling snow. His lips still burned with the memory of Abbie’s mouth upon his, even as the icy wind cut through his thin coat. Her boldness in kissing him had surprised him, but not as much as his own powerful reaction to the kiss.

  The thunder of gunfire shook the air once more. Looking toward the front of a canyon, he saw dark shapes moving through the curtain of falling snow. He blinked and the shapes coalesced into riders on horses, thrashing through the drifts. As he watched, the lead rider paused and fired a shotgun straight into the air.

  An answering shot sounded almost at Reg’s side. He staggered back and gaped at Abbie, who stood in front of the cave entrance, smoking pistol in her hand. “Just letting them know we’re here,” she said as she holstered the weapon.

  Reg turned away, afraid to look at her too long, fearful of betraying the confused feelings that wrestled in his chest. His body still craved her woman’s touch even as his mind told him what he was feeling was improbable – impossible.

  The lead rider gave a shout, and spurred his horse forward. Reg’s first thought was that these others were stranded too, like he and Abbie. Safety in numbers, he told himself, even as he savored the already fading rush of passion their interlude alone had produced.

  No, he shook his head as the riders drew nearer. Abbie Waters is nothing to me. Can be nothing to me.

  The lead rider brought his horse to a halt in front of them. One thick-gloved hand came up to pull down the bandanna that covered his mouth and nose. “Glad to see you two alive and well,” Alan Mitchell said, grinning.

  “Alan! What are you doing out in this storm?” Abbie hugged her arms around her body and rocked back and forth in the snow.

  “When you didn’t come back with Jorge and Miguel, Maura – I mean, Miss O’Donnell – rode over to my place and insisted I go out after you.” He swung down off his horse as two other men rode up beside them, leading a pair of extra mounts. “I tried to tell her you had sense enough to hole up somewhere ‘til the weather cleared, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “I can’t believe you let her talk you into coming out in a storm like this,” Abbie said. “And for nothing. Reg and I are fine.”

  Alan glanced around, at the blazing campfire and the cave. “Yep, looks like you folks are settled in real cozy.” He chuckled and Reg felt his face grow hot. Did Alan think that he and Abbie. . . ?

  “And now I suppose we’ve got no choice but to ride back out in the snow with you.” Abbie gave him a mock scowl. “Really, Alan, I thought you had better sense than that.”

  So much for the lesson on flirting, Reg thought. Nothing like a good scolding to endear a man to a woman.

  “Just goes to show you aren’t the only stubborn female around. Ain’t that right, Reg?”

  Reg shook his head. “This country is infested with obstinacy.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re one to talk. I heard tell you were so set on riding out with Jackson and the others you braved the elements in a cloth coat.” Alan pulled a bundle from behind his saddle and tossed it a Reg. “We all believe Limey blood’s about half-frozen anyway, but humor me and put that on.”

  Reg unrolled a blanket-lined shearling coat. The weight of it dragged at his shoulders when he slipped it on, but it succeeded in blocking the Arctic wind. He’d be able to ride back to the ranch without fear of freezing in the saddle.

  Did anyone but Abbie know how close he’d come to doing just that on their way to the canyon? he wondered as he followed her and Alan toward the sheltered nook where she’d left their horses. He hadn’t found a way yet to thank her for saving his life. If she hadn’t come along when she had. . .

  He shook his head. Even if he’d avoided freezing then, he’d never have made it this long in the canyon alone. He had no doubt Tuff Jackson had been happy to leave him behind. If he had failed to return, then everyone, Alan included, would have shrugged off his disappearance. After all, here in Texas every man – and in Abbie’s case, every woman – was responsible for looking after himself.

  “I’ve got to hand it to that little Irish gal,” Alan said as they rode the horses back toward the cave. “She rode in this storm all the way to my place, like it was a Sunday drive.” He grinned. “Said she stopped every hundred yards or so and tied a piece of red flannel to a fence post so she’d be sure to find her way back. Who would have thought a city girl would come up with an idea like that?”

  Who indeed? Reg wondered. He couldn’t say he’d have been so wise himself. He hunched lower in his coat.

  “Where is she now?” Abbie asked.

  “Daddy insisted on seeing her back to your place. I told them to wait for us there.”

  They stopped at the cave while Abbie went inside and retrieved her saddle bags. Alan kicked snow over the dwindling fire, then they remounted and headed out of the canyon.

  They rode single file, horses nose to tail, taking turns breaking the trail through the heavy drifts
. Though the wind kicked up swirls of flakes around them, new snow had stopped falling. In the frosty light of a half moon, the land looked soft, smothered in down. The snow muffled the sounds of the horses’ shod hooves and swallowed up all noise but the huffing breath of the laboring animals and the creak of stiffened leather saddles.

  Alan paused from time to time to study the sky. Reg realized he was using the stars to guide them home. He tilted his own head back. The bright star Isis winked back at him from the eye of Draco, the dragon tail of the constellation curved around the Little Dipper. How many nights had he stood on deck and watched this same pattern of stars in the sky overhead? Finding them here now was like seeing a friend’s face in a crowd of strangers. When it came his turn to take the lead, he did so with confidence. He may not have known all there was to know about surviving in this rugged land, but his years at sea had taught him to read the sky like a map. If necessary, he could have found his way home unaided.

  Abbie’s cabin glowed like a lit jewel box, golden light pouring from every window, spilling out onto the snow. As the line of riders rode into the yard in front of the cabin, Reg heard barking. The front door burst open and Banjo raced out, followed by Maura. “I’ve been worried nigh to death,” she said, over the dog’s joyous cries. She held aloft a beaded rosary. “I’ve about worn the beads smooth with prayin’.”

  Brice Mitchell came to help Alan’s men lead the horses toward the barn. Maura shooed Abbie and Reg and Alan inside. “I’ve a great roaring fire going, and a pot of stew that’ll be warming your bones up right,” she said.

  The warmth of the house hit Reg like a blanket, draining his last reserves of strength. He managed to slip the heavy coat from his shoulders, then sank into the chair Maura offered him by the stove. Maura shoved a mug of brandy-laced coffee into his hand, and he drank it in one long, greedy draught.

  Warm and sated, he listened, half-dozing, to the swirl of conversation around him. Brice and the others came in from the barn, like rowdy school boys followed by a swirl of snow. They laughed and slapped each other on the back, jostling for a place in front of the stove.