Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

by Cynthia Sterling

  * * * *

  Abbie could hear the fiddles tuning as she steered the buggy into line among the others waiting beside the Mitchells’ well-lit house. Lamplight glowed in every window, spilling in yellow pools onto the ground. Men stood in groups along the broad front porch, or gathered around a keg of beer set under the lone tree beside the front gate.

  “Oh do hurry, Miss. I’m not wanting to be late for me first Texas ball.” Maura gathered her shawl about her and stood, ready to leap from the wagon box before the wheels had even stopped rolling.

  “Ma’am allow me to help you down.” A cowboy in a red and white striped shirt rushed up to offer Maura his hand, while a second man assisted Abbie.

  “Sure is nice to see two such pretty ladies,” Abbie’s escort said. “I’d be pleased if you’d reserve a dance for me.”

  Abbie studied the mustached man with the slick-backed hair. He reeked of pomade. “Tim O’Rourke, is that you?” she asked.

  He blinked in confusion, then squinted at her. “Abbie Waters, is that you?” He laughed, braying like a donkey. “Didn’t recognize you all dolled up.” He stepped back and looked her up and down. “You clean up real nice.”

  “I could say the same for you,” she said, feeling the heat of a blush sweep across her cheeks.

  “Don’t forget you owe me a dance,” he called after her as she and Maura made their way toward the house.

  Alan and Brice Mitchell stood at the door, welcoming their guests. “Abbie. Maura. You both look lovely,” Alan said. Was it Abbie’s imagination, or did his gaze linger on Maura? “So glad you could come.”

  Abbie moved past her hosts, into a room warm with lamplight. The air was heavy with the scents of lamp oil, leather and the pomade cowboys used to slick back their hair. A dozen or more men, and a few women, were already gathered in the large room that spanned the front of the house. The furniture, except for a line of straight-back chairs, had been removed to make room for dancing. A band, consisting of a fiddle and two guitars, was tuning up in front of the fireplace.

  At the sight of the instruments, her stomach fluttered. Would she remember the steps Reg had taught her? Or would she once again make a fool of herself in front of Alan and her neighbors?

  “We’ve got enough women here now to make a set,” Brice said, coming up behind her. “I’ll tell the fiddler to get started.”

  “What would they do if we hadn’t come?” Maura asked Abbie as they made their way to the back bedroom that had been set aside for ladies’ shawls. “Would they hold the dancing until more women arrived?”

  “No. Some of the men would tie bandannas around their arms and take their turn dancing the women’s part.” She smiled. “Nothing would keep a cowboy from a chance to cut loose and dance.”

  Alan and Brice claimed the privilege of starting the dancing, and led Abbie and Maura into the first set. Abbie watched Alan’s face as he swung Maura into the first steps of “Virginia’s Reel.” The rancher was grinning from ear to ear – from the fun of the dance, or pleasure in his dancing partner?

  She had little time to contemplate the question, as Brice pulled her smartly along. Despite a few false steps, she finally got the hang of dancing without getting tangled in her skirts and petticoats and lost herself in the delight of the movement. She liked the fast songs best, but she danced every one, fast or slow. Even if she’d wanted, the cowboys wouldn’t have let her or Maura sit down.

  Several men expressed surprise at seeing her dressed up, but all were quick to compliment her transformation. They brought her punch and cookies and entertained her with funny stories and generally went out of their way to see that she was well looked after.

  Maybe there’s more to this being a lady than meets the eye, Abbie thought as she sipped her second cup of punch, which Tim had eagerly fetched for her. Dancing was thirsty work. The punch was heavily laced with whisky. Most of the women pretended they couldn’t taste it or refused to drink it altogether, but Abbie enjoyed the smooth way it slid down her throat, and the warm feeling it kindled inside her. When she smiled, the men around her smiled back. For once instead of having to fight for a place among a group of men, she found herself at their center. She felt lightheaded and happy enough to float right out of the room.

  She couldn’t help but notice, however, that Reg was not part of her string of admirers. She searched the room and spotted him. He was handing a cup of punch to Hattie Simms. The pretty banker’s daughter smiled up at Reg, perfect dimples forming on either side of her mouth. Reg returned the smile and leaned forward to say something. Abbie felt a sharp pain in the stomach. Perhaps the punch doesn’t agree with me, she thought, and dragged her gaze away from Reg.

  Obviously, he wasn’t aware she was here, or he would have stopped by to at least say hello. She looked back toward him, hoping to catch his eyes. She was anxious to hear what he thought of her dress. Everybody had said it was ‘first-rate’ but what did a bunch of cowboys know about fashion? Reg was the only one in the room who would know if she was suitably outfitted for a lady.

  The fiddler sawed out the opening bars of a waltz and Reg bowed low before Hattie Simms. The banker’s daughter simpered again, and allowed Reg to lead her onto the dance floor. Now what was he dancing with her for?

  Abbie whirled around and almost collided with Alan. “I was coming to ask you to dance,” Alan said. He nodded toward the dance floor. “Care to give it a whirl?”

  She turned her best smile on him. So what if she didn’t have dimples? “I’d love to, Alan.” She slipped her hand into his and they walked out onto the floor and began the waltz.

  Abbie’s heart pounded as she moved into Alan’s arms. She reminded herself of her vow to think of Alan as a potential lover and not just a neighbor she’d grown up with. She admired the solid feel of his shoulder beneath her hand, and his admirable height, which made it necessary for her to tilt her head back to look up at him. “It’s a lovely party,” she said, to get the conversation started.

  “Yeah, it turned out right nice.” He guided her easily among the other dancers. Abbie didn’t have any trouble following his lead, but something was missing. She didn’t feel any tingles on her skin, or rush of warmth through her body. Maybe it was the way he was holding her. He rested his hand lightly on her waist, keeping her a dignified arm’s length away. She was sure she and Reg had danced closer together.

  “Um, you can hold me closer, Alan,” she said.

  “But then I might tromp all over your skirts.” He shook his head. “Hate to ruin a pretty dress like that. Where’d you get it?”

  “Maura made it.”

  “She did?” His smile broadened. “Is there anything that gal can’t do? I never met anyone like her before.”

  “No. Neither have I.”

  “I reckon she made the dress she’s wearing too,” he said. He raised his head and searched the room until he spotted Maura, who was dancing with a cowboy from the Ace of Clubs. “She looks as pretty as a picture in it.”

  Abbie’s heart sank. Alan had finally asked her to dance, and all he could talk about was Maura. She was grateful when the song finally ended and he returned her to a spot by the front window. “I think I’ll go say hello to Maura,” he said, and departed.

  Abbie twisted one of the bows on her skirt until it was a wonder it didn’t fall off. Where was Reg when she needed him? Maybe he’d have some ideas about what she could do to catch Alan’s eye. The new dress and dancing lessons hadn’t helped a bit.

  She spotted his Lordship over by the buffet table and decided to head him off before he delivered a plate of goodies to Hattie Simms or some other hapless female. She had business to attend to. The ladies could fetch their own food.

  “We need to talk,” she announced, stepping up beside him.

  He glanced at her, then quickly looked away. “Hello, Abbie. You’re looking lovely tonight.”

  She flushed. “Hello, Reg. Uh, thank you.” She smoothed her suddenly damp palms down her skirts. “I ne
ed to talk to you,” she tried again.

  He selected a tea cake and added it to his plate. “I’m listening.”

  “Not here. In private.” She put her hand on his arm. “Come outside with me.”

  He frowned, but set aside his plate and allowed her to lead him out the door. They walked to the end of the porch. Lanterns hanging from the eaves cast a soft light over the area, and the lilting notes of the fiddle serenaded them. The group of cowboys around the beer keg had grown more raucous; from time to time they burst into loud laughter. Another group of men stood in a far corner of the yard, the glowing embers of their cigarettes marking their places. But in their corner of the porch, Abbie and Reg enjoyed a measure of privacy.

  “What is so important you felt it necessary to interrupt me?” Reg leaned against the railing and folded his arms across his chest.

  “I didn’t notice you doing anything so awful important,” she said. She straightened the bow at her waist. “Why haven’t you said a word to me all evening?”

  “I’ve been. . . distracted.”

  “Yes, I noticed. Do you think Miss Simms’ voice is that high naturally, or is it something she worked at?” She stuck one finger at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, Lord Worthington, I’d be delighted to dance with you,” she simpered.

  Reg stared at her. “What the devil are you carrying on about?”

  She dropped her arms to her sides. “I thought you were my friend, Reg. I’ve been on pins and needles all week about this dance. The least you could have done was stop by to say hello, and tell me if my dress was all right.”

  His gaze wandered over her. Her skin began to tingle, as if he’d made a more physical examination. “The dress is very nice,” he said softly. He paused, then added. “Beautiful.” He looked away. “Forgive me, Abbie. I did not intend to bruise your feelings. I truly am distracted by some disturbing news.”

  “What is it?” She moved closer to study his worried face. Small lines creased the corners of his eyes and his mouth was set in a thin line. “What’s wrong?”

  He hesitated, as if reluctant to reveal his woes.

  “You can tell me,” she said softly.

  He looked away, toward the corral where the horses stood. “I received a letter in the mail today from my father. To put it mildly, he is not exceedingly pleased with my progress so far.”

  “What did he say?”

  He unfolded his arms and gave a heavy sigh. “The usual. He reminded me I have never had a head for business, and reiterated my past failures. He even berated himself for sending me here in the first place.”

  “That’s awful. How could he say those things about his own son?”

  “He’s said those things before, and worse. That was not the part of the letter that most concerned me.”

  “What else did he say?”

  He scowled into the darkness. “He railed at me for the loss of the cattle during the blizzard and the stampede. Said at the rate I was going I’d have him bankrupt before fall.”

  “But that’s unfair! You can’t control the weather. You couldn’t have done anything to prevent that stampedes either. Everyone experiences losses like that. It’s a part of ranching.”

  “The Earl doesn’t see it that way. To him, every one of those cattle represents a sum of money. In his opinion, I am flagrantly wasting his and his investors’ pounds and pence.”

  “There isn’t a rancher here who hasn’t had losses like that, and we’ve all managed to stay in business just fine, and make a profit to boot.” She raised her chin. “I’d tell your father so myself if I could.”

  He glanced at her, then began to chuckle. “I imagine you would at that. I wonder what the Earl would think of you, ‘A. B. Waters?’“

  Was it his smile or the whiskey-laced punch she’d drank that made the blood sing in her veins? Whatever the cause, she was suddenly anxious to feel his arms about her, to experience again the sensation of floating in time to the music.

  “Dance with me, Reg,” she said, taking him by the arm and pulling him toward the door.

  “A lady never asks a gentleman to dance,” he said. But nevertheless, he let her lead him onto the floor.

  His arms went around her as naturally as if they’d been dancing all their lives. She rested her head on his shoulder and gave a contented sigh. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get the hang of this ‘lady’ stuff,” she said. “Why can’t I just be me?”

  “Would you have worn a silk gown and danced every dance a few months ago?” He spoke low in her ear. “I think whether you like it or not, you’re becoming more of a lady.”

  She raised her head and looked into his eyes. They were dark, glinting with amusement, and a hint of desire that sent a shiver up her spine. His breath stirred her hair and she realized she was not the only one who had sampled the spiked punch. He pulled her closer and she thought he might kiss her, without thought to who was watching.

  But the music ended and he released her. She moved out of his arms slowly, reluctantly. “I may never be a real lady,” she said, her hand lingering in his. “But you’ve taught me what it means to be a woman.” She squeezed his fingers, then released them and turned and walked away. But she could feel his gaze on her all the way across the room.

  * * * *

  Reg stared after Abbie. The lavender scent of her perfume lingered in the air around him, and the warmth of her body still clung to him. Where other women were rigid from the boning of their corsets, Abbie was soft and yielding. His fingers had shaped themselves to the curve of her waist, caressing her. He could still feel the lush fullness of her breasts, pressed against his chest.

  He’d spotted her the moment she entered the room, as if her very presence stirred his senses to some heightened awareness. He’d looked up and seen her framed in the doorway, and his breath caught in his throat.

  She’d piled her hair up high on her head, and the wide neckline of her gown exposed alabaster shoulders and a regal neck. His mouth watered at the thought of kissing her there, tracing her delicate collarbone with his lips, blazing a trail to the breasts that swelled against the plunging neckline of the gown.

  Rough and tumble Abbie in bows and silk; a month ago he might have laughed at the idea. Today he could only look on in admiration. The erect carriage of her body, the way she held her head up and met the gaze of every man head-on revealed the confidence she’d gained in making her way in a man’s world. This woman who could rope a wild steer or chase down a fleeing dogie had an alluring strength more polished women sadly lacked.

  He watched her until she disappeared into the women’s cloak room, then turned away and spent the rest of the evening avoiding her. The memory of that moment in her kitchen, when he’d almost kissed her, lingered fresh in his mind. No good could possibly come of any involvement with Abbie.

  But when she’d sought him out, actually taken his hand and led him outside, he’d had no strength to resist. Being with Abbie, talking with her and admiring her, was a welcome distraction from his other worries.

  He still couldn’t believe he’d told her about the letter from the Earl. He’d picked it up this afternoon and the minute Pickens put the crested envelope in his hand, an ill feeling had washed over him, like a wave swamping a ship. This missive was thicker than his father’s usual communications; more words could only mean trouble.

  He stopped to read the letter a little ways out of town, then cursed all the way home. Mouse’s ears had twitched at his rider’s fury; as far as Reg was concerned, his horse was the only one who would ever know of his frustration.

  He had told Abbie everything. Sharing the news with her somehow made the picture seem not so bleak. Of course the losses were not his fault. Of course others had suffered similar setbacks and lived to triumph.

  He imagined Abbie delivering this message to the old man. The Earl would be stunned. No woman ever contradicted him to his face; few people of either sex ever bothered to argue with him. The Earl had the arrogance of centuries of po
wer and wealth on his side. None of those things mattered to Abbie. She would tell the Earl exactly what she thought, and if she did not charm the old man, she would at least intrigue him.

  Reg had no way of intriguing or charming his father. He knew well enough what the old man was up to – the Earl wanted him to quit, to admit defeat and come crawling home. He straightened his shoulders. He wasn’t about to give his father satisfaction. He’d see this through and return home victorious. For once he’d have the last word.

  “Reg, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.” He turned and saw Alan Mitchell walking toward him. “Saw you dancing with Abbie,” Alan said. “You two looked good together.”

  Reg shrugged off the compliment. “Thank you for inviting me. I shall have to return the favor some day soon.”

  “Aww, don’t worry about that.” Alan clapped his arm on Reg’s shoulder. “So how’s Donnie Best working out as your new foreman?”

  “He’s doing quite well.” Reg nodded. “I like him. He’s not afraid to speak up, but he asks for my input and listens.”

  “Good. That’s good.” Alan shoved his hands in his pockets. “I hear Tuff Jackson is still hanging around town, running his cattle on school land and predicting your downfall every chance he gets.”

  He should meet my father, Reg thought. “Tuff doesn’t worry me,” he said.

  Alan frowned. “Maybe he should. It doesn’t take much for some men to step over the line from good to bad. Maybe Tuff’s one of them who doesn’t have to walk too far.”

  “Thanks for the advice.” Reg meant the words. He liked Alan – liked him enough to feel guilty about his own attraction to Abbie. After all, he’d promised Abbie he’d help her win this man for a husband. What did it say about his character when he spent half the time lusting after her himself?

  Brice hailed Alan from across the room and the rancher went to answer his father’s summons. Reg watched him walk away. Strange, Abbie hadn’t said a word about Alan tonight, though he’d seen them dancing together. She’d come to Reg right after that dance, and asked him to accompany her on the floor. He couldn’t deny the pleasure he’d felt, holding her close in his arms.