Educating Abbie: Titled Texans -- Book Two

  Educating Abbie

  Titled Texans: Book Two

  By Cynthia Sterling

  Copyright 2000 by Cynthia Sterling Myers

  Cover Design by Melody Simmons of eBookindiecovers

  This book was originally published

  in print under the title Last Chance Ranch

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be copied or re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination, with the exception of real historical personages who may be mentioned in passing.

  Chapter One

  Texas Panhandle, March 1882

  You seem to have a peculiar talent for snatching failure out of the jaws of success.

  His father’s words echoed in his head as Reginald Thomas Worthington surveyed the ocean of grass spread out before him in all directions. This time of year, his native England would still be dormant in the dregs of winter, but Texas had already rushed into spring, like a headstrong colt leaving the gate before the starter’s gun had fired.

  Reg felt time running away from him, like that colt. One week in this country, and already he felt behind, his father’s words goading him. He had one year to turn a profit on the Ace of Clubs Ranch. One week of that precious time was already passed, and he was no closer to seeing his way to success than he had been when he stepped off the train at the Fairweather station.

  “I won’t fail this time!”

  His horse, a raw-boned gray with the ignoble name of Mouse, flicked its ears at this exclamation. There was no one else to hear him on this lonely stretch of prairie. Not for the first time, he wished his older brother, Charles, had remained in Texas. Charming, likeable Charles had always known the right thing to say and do. He’d deftly managed the Earl’s first ranch, the Double Crown, with nary a problem, and made himself one of the most popular men in town in the process. Reg didn’t have Charles’s talent for fitting in, and had counted on his older brother to help smooth the way.

  As eldest and heir, Charles had been called back to England to help care for their ailing father. When Reg had watched Charles’s buggy pull out of the drive, he’d felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, like a shipwrecked sailor cast ashore on a deserted island. It might well be months before Charles was free to return to Texas. In the meantime, Reg had to muddle through on his own.

  He wiped the back of his neck with the red bandanna the storekeeper in Fairweather had insisted he’d need. The man had also sold him the stiff canvas trousers, heavy cotton shirt and high-heeled boots he now wore. The new clothes were ill-fitting and uncomfortable, and the boots hurt his feet. Thinking of the perfectly tailored linen suit he’d left hanging in his room and the butter-soft English leather riding boots in his wardrobe, he shook his head and nudged the horse forward. With the sun high overhead, he had no idea which direction they were traveling and at this point he didn’t particularly care. He was in the mood to ride and mope about the poor hand he’d been dealt this time around.

  He squinted into the glaring sunlight, searching for some familiar landmark. A stunted grove of trees broke the straight line of the horizon off to his right. Trees in this arid land meant water, and shade. He’d ride there and water the horse and himself, then debate his next move.

  As he neared the trees, he saw a cowboy working to pull a cow out of a mud bog along the creek bank. A black and white dog danced around the perimeter of the mud hole, barking. The skinny cowhand had roped the cow around the neck and tied the rope to his saddle horn. At his command, the horse began backing up the slope away from the mud hole, but the cow didn’t budge.

  Reg waited to cross the creek, not wanting to interrupt the man’s work. Horse and heifer both bore the markings of the Running W ranch, his neighbor to the west. At least now he knew in which direction his own land lay.

  He admired the efficient way the cowboy and the horse worked together. He himself was a good rider, but he couldn’t claim to have that kind of command over these half-wild Texas mounts.

  “Are you going to sit there gawking all day, or are you going to help?” The cowboy’s high-pitched voice startled Reg. He looked closer at the small-framed figure on the horse, at the delicate curve of cheek showing beneath the shading brim of the hat. The cowboy looked up and Reg found himself staring into a pair of emerald eyes fringed with thick brown lashes.

  The cowboy he’d been admiring wasn’t a boy at all, but a decidedly attractive young woman!

  * * * *

  Abbie glared at the stranger who’d ridden up just as she was roping the cow. He hadn’t bothered to say a word, just sat there staring, as if he’d never seen anyone try to work a heifer out of a mud bog.

  He was riding an Ace of Clubs horse; she recognized the brand on the gelding’s hip. But she’d never laid eyes on the man before, and she generally knew all the hands on the neighboring spreads.

  He didn’t really look like your average cowboy, she decided. For one thing, he wasn’t wearing a hat. The wind ruffled his thick dark hair, which was cut short, just above his collar. His face was close-shaven, with a neatly trimmed moustache above a full mouth. He didn’t slouch in the saddle, but sat erect, broad shoulders squared in an almost military bearing. He was altogether too neat and too well-groomed to be a cowboy.

  So what was the stranger doing way out here on the Rocking W?

  Her dog, Banjo, grew bored with harrying the stuck heifer and turned his attention to the stranger. He rushed forward, barking, and the gray gelding danced nervously sideways.

  “Calm down, old boy,” the stranger said in a deep voice full of both comfort and command.

  To Abbie’s amazement, Banjo obediently quieted and wagged his tail at the stranger.

  The bogged heifer let out a distressed moan. Abbie glanced at the cow. This time of year the cattle tried to get away from nagging heel flies by standing in any available puddle of water. The weaker ones ended up stuck and Abbie and the Rocking W vaqueros stayed busy pulling them out. This poor old thing wouldn’t last the night if Abbie didn’t free her soon.

  Exasperated, she turned to the stranger again. “Are you going to help me or not?” she asked.

  He gave an elegant formal bow. “Madam, I would be happy to assist you in whatever way I may.”

  The cultured British accent and formal manner were as out of place here on the prairie as his clean-shaven chin and uncovered head. She stared, at a loss for words, until another moan from the heifer reminded her of her duty. “Fine, then. Just drop a loop around her neck. If we both pull we’ll be able to haul her out.”

  The stranger frowned. “Drop a loop?”

  She sighed. “Lasso? You know – rope her?”

  The stranger looked around him, then cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t appear to have a rope with me.”

  “If you did have a rope, could you get a loop around her neck?”

  His scowl deepened and he squared his shoulders. “There is not much call for that sort of thing in the Devonshire Hunt Club.”

  The man was next to useless! “Then you’re about the poorest excuse for a cowboy I’ve come across yet,” she snapped.

  His face flushed, and his eyes flashed with an anger that made her shrink back. Looking into those eyes was like staring down an enraged bull. She bit her tongue, cursing herself for once again letting it get her into trouble. She ought to know better than to rile a stranger out here in the middle of nowhere. As unobtrusively as possible, she slid one hand toward the pistol at her side.

  The man’s gaze flickered to the gun. “First you insult me. Do you
intend to shoot me also?”

  He nudged the horse toward her. Abbie pulled the gun from its holster and leveled it at the man, though it took both hands for her to hold it steady. “Don’t come any closer,” she said. “Put your hands up.”

  “I heard Texans were trigger-happy, but this is absurd.” He ignored her order to raise his hands, but did stop closing the distance between them. “I also heard the women here were rather outspoken, but I never expected they would have taken to wearing men’s clothing as well.” A half-smile curved beneath the moustache as his eyes swept over her. “Though I must say, those trousers do a rather nice job of emphasizing the feminine form.”

  The heat of his gaze lingered in the blush that engulfed Abbie. She steadied the heavy pistol against her saddle horn and studied the man more closely, looking for clues as to his intentions. He was dressed like a typical cowboy, in denim pants and heavy cotton shirt like her own, except that his clothes were so new the creases still showed. And he lacked one essential component of cowboy garb. “Why aren’t you wearing a hat?” she asked.

  He looked up, as if gazing at an imaginary hat. “I enjoy the feel of the wind in my hair.”

  A cowboy would as soon be caught out without a gun than to ride around minus his hat. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He made another of his formal bows. “Reginald Thomas Worthington, at your service.”

  She blinked. “People actually call you that?”

  His moustache twitched as if in amusement. “Among other things. My friends usually address me as Reg.”

  “Any relation to Charlie Worthington?”

  More amusement. “Charles Worthington is my brother. And you are?”

  “I’m Abbie.” No need to tell him her last name. The less he knew about her, the better, as far as she was concerned. “What are you doing on Rocking W land?”

  The stranger shifted in the saddle and cleared his throat. “I was out for a ride and it appears I may have become slightly disoriented and –”

  “You’re lost.” At his look of discomfort, Abbie had to smile. Texas men as a whole, and ranchers and cowboys in particular, were a peacock-proud lot, but this fellow won the prize for being full of himself.

  He raised his chin and regarded her with a disdainful look. “I momentarily lost my bearings. However, I have no doubt now that I have only to ride east to be on Ace of Clubs land once again.”

  She wagged the pistol at him, unable to resist another jab at his haughtiness. “You know what the penalty around here is for trespassing, don’t you?”

  He glowered at her, a look that sent a tremble through her. “No.” The single word was spoken in a commanding tone of voice that no doubt made lesser men cower.

  She cleared her throat. She’d only intended to have a little fun, but Lord Loftiness here obviously didn’t have much of a sense of humor. She struggled to keep her tone light when she spoke again. “In the mildest cases, it’s just a fine. Though folks who make a habit of straying onto other folks’ property, especially if they wander home with a cow or two, usually end up swinging from a rope, or with a few extra holes in their heads.”

  “Well, Miss Abbie, do you intend to hold that gun on me all afternoon, or will you shoot me now and be done with it?” To her shock, the hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Or would you consider my having endured your onslaught of insults as just punishment for my infraction of the rules?”

  Abbie wasn’t sure if all his fancy talk was genuine, or a show for her benefit. For all his attempts at good humor, she couldn’t forget the anger she’d glimpsed in his eyes only moment before. She wouldn’t breathe easy until he was out of her sight. But out of the corner of her eye, she could see the heifer’s head drooping lower by the minute. ‘Reg’ here might be her only chance of freeing the animal.

  She took stock of his broad shoulders once more. He looked strong enough. Maybe he could help her. “How about if you help me get this heifer out of the mud and we’ll call it even?”

  He nodded slowly. “That would seem a fair bargain. A small enough price to pay to be away from here. I assure you I won’t make the mistake of traveling this way again.”

  She shoved the pistol back in its holster. “All right. I’ll lasso her around the neck again.” Still keeping one eye on him, she half-turned in the saddle and untied a coil of rope from behind her. “Then I’ll throw the end to you and you dally it on your saddle horn. With both our horses pulling, maybe we can free her.”

  He swept his gaze over the length of rope that stretched between her saddle and the stuck heifer, then nodded. Abbie suppressed a smile. Of course; he hadn’t understood the term ‘dally’ but he’d figured it out. “I’m ready when you are,” he said.

  The cow was too weak to put up much of a fight, so it was a simple enough matter for Abbie to drop the second loop around her neck. She tossed the rest of the rope coil toward Reg. He caught it with one hand and wrapped the end around his saddle horn.

  “All right now, head that nag of yours uphill,” she said. She clucked to her horse, Toby, and he began to pull also.

  The heifer bellowed in protest as the ropes tightened around her neck. Abbie urged her horse on and heard Reg do the same. Banjo ran around the edge of the mud bog, barking furiously. The cactus fiber braid stretched taut as a guitar string and still the heifer didn’t budge. “Let up!” she yelled, letting her horse fall back until the rope sagged.

  “What now?” Reg asked.

  Abbie studied the heifer. It stood, head drooping until its nose was almost in the mud. “We need a running start,” she said after a minute. She maneuvered Toby until he was facing away from the bog, then looked at Reg. “At the count of three, I want you to dig in your heels and send your horse running up the creek bank.”

  He stared at her. “You’re insane. You’ll break the cow’s neck. Or the horses’. Or mine.”

  “I’m not crazy enough to let a perfectly good heifer die if I can help it.” She didn’t wait for his agreement, merely braced herself in the saddle. “One, two, three – now!” She dug in her spurs and Toby shot up the bank. He strained forward, hooves scrabbling in the dirt as he came to the end of the rope. Glancing to her left, Abbie saw Reg urge the gray up the slope.

  The heifer let out a strangled bellow, and Banjo’s barking reached a fever pitch. But underneath all this, Abbie heard the noise she’d been listening for: the wet, sucking sound of a cow being pulled from the mud.

  Toby stumbled forward as the heifer slithered free of the bog and Abbie dropped the reins and slid from his back even before the horse had come to a complete stop. She ran to the heifer, who lay on her side, eyes bulging, panting for breath.

  Reg reached the cow before she did, and was already pulling the rope from around the animal’s neck when Abbie stopped beside him. She knelt and wrestled with the second rope. By the time she was freed, the heifer had risen to her knees and was blinking at them. “Go on, girl,” Abbie slapped the animal’s flank. “Get on up!”

  Banjo barked and nipped at the heifer’s heels until she struggled to her feet. Black mud dripping from her red and white hide, she ambled forward a few yards, then put her head down to crop the fresh spring grass.

  Abbie sat back on her heels, relief washing over her. Success didn’t come often enough out here to dull its sweetness. Already this morning she’d found one heifer dead; she’d fought hard not to lose this one as well.

  “May I help you up, madam?” She looked up and found Reg standing beside her. He could no longer claim to be cleaner than the average cowboy; mud streaked the front of his new trousers and shirt and clung in clumps to his boots. Still, he managed to retain his dapper manner. He offered his hand.

  She hesitated a moment, then clasped his palm, realizing too late that, while Reg had removed his mud-caked glove, she’d failed to do so. He stared at the sticky mud smeared across his palm and compressed his lips into a thin line as he wiped his hands on his trouser legs.

 
“I’m sorry,” Abbie said. “And I’m sorry I insulted you, too.” She stared at the toes of Reg’s boots. “I have an awful habit of saying whatever comes to mind, without stopping to think first. My daddy tried to break me of it, but he didn’t have any luck.”

  “I pity the man who would try to teach you anything,” he murmured. But when she raised her eyes to meet his, she found his anger had faded, replaced by a look she imagined might be amusement.

  She stripped off one muddy glove and extended her hand. “Truce?”

  He stared at her hand a moment before taking it gently in his own. His thick masculine fingers made hers look tiny and delicate. She gasped as he brought the back of her hand up to meet his lips. The silken sweep of his moustache brushed across her skin and the warm whisper of his breath blazed a heated trail as his mouth caressed her skin. She closed her eyes, rocked by a tremor of unfamiliar emotions.

  Then, as quickly as he had kissed her, he released her. She opened her eyes and took a step back, afraid of showing how shaken she was. A moment ago, she had feared this man. Now she craved his touch. How could a mere brush of the lips kindle such a fire of feelings?

  But of course, Reg would feel none of this, she reminded herself. In England men probably went around kissing women’s hands with no more thought than a cowboy would give to tipping his hat to the schoolmarm. Reg was merely treating her as he would any other lady.

  She looked away, embarrassed at the trail her thoughts were taking. She was about as far from a lady as anyone could get. It was just that she felt all dainty and feminine in this Englishman’s presence.

  She wasn’t sure she liked the idea. She knew how to handle herself like a cowhand. Being a lady was out of her league entirely. “Thank you,” she mumbled, and hurriedly backed away. She busied herself bundling the rope into two neat coils. But she couldn’t keep from watching Reg from underneath the brim of her hat. He brushed what mud he could from his clothes, leaned down to pet Banjo, then mounted the gray once more. “Would you be needing anything else?” he asked, riding up beside her.