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Chapter
One
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.
"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 mudbog
along the creekbank. 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 saddlehorn. At his command, the horse began backing
up the slope away from the mudhole, 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 creekbank." 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. "What?
Oh, no. Thank you. You've done enough already." She scrambled to her feet
and looped the rope coils over her saddle horn, then swung up into the saddle.
That was better. She was more comfortable facing him here, on horseback.
She'd practically grown up in the saddle, after all. He
nodded. "I'll take your leave, then. I would say it has been a pleasure,
but I make it a point to never lie. So I will say it has been interesting."
He bowed low, then turned the horse away and set off toward the east, and
the Ace of Clubs. Abbie
watched him until he was a dim figure on the horizon. More than once she
thought he looked back in her direction, but perhaps that was just a trick
of the light, like a mirage shimmering on the prairie. She shook her head
and turned Toby to continue her ride along the creek. Until heel fly season
ended, she and Banjo and Toby would take their turn on patrol here, and
spend more than a few nights camped under the stars. It
wasn't the kind of life most women would have enjoyed, but it suited Abbie
fine. At least most of the time it did. Then something would happen, like
Reg Worthington kissing her hand today, to remind her of the things most
women had that had passed her by. Things
like a husband and a nice home, and children. For the past few years, children
had been on Abbie's mind a lot. She couldn't pass a child on her infrequent
trips to town, or even ride by a passel of calves, without feeling a funny
tightness in her belly, and a longing for a baby of her own. She'd
always meant to marry up and raise a family, the way other women did. But
after her father had died and left the ranch for her to run, time had gotten
away from her. Now here she was, twenty-six years old and well on her way
to permanent spinsterhood if she didn't get busy. Still,
overseeing five thousand head of cattle didn't leave much time for polishing
up her flirting skills or keeping up with the latest fashions. And despite
the fact that men outnumbered women at least ten to one up here in the Texas
Panhandle, most of those fellows weren't exactly what you'd call prime husband
material. Most cowboys would as soon have rocks tied around their ankles
and be thrown in a stock tank as be lassoed into holy matrimony. The
other ranchers gave Abbie their grudging respect, but she'd earned that
by being as unlike the women they knew as possible. Her father had taught
her early on that the only way to do business in this man's world was to
act like a man. That attitude had kept her safe and made her successful,
but lately that success was a pretty lonely pill to swallow. She had nothing
in common with the women who lived in the area, and she didn't fit in with
the men, either. The
only men she really counted as friends were her neighbors on the A7, Alan
Mitchell and his father Brice. She sighed as she thought of Alan. The blond,
blue-eyed rancher had a smile that would set any woman's heart to racing.
Abbie had fancied herself half in love with him from the first time they'd
met, when he'd reprimanded a cowboy for cussing in the presence of a lady.
When the cowboy had denied seeing any ladies around, Alan had fired him
on the spot, and won Abbie's heart. If only she could take the friendship she and Alan shared and turn it into something more. She was sure they'd make a good match. They were both skilled ranchers and they loved the half-wild Texas Panhandle. Together, they could build up a fortune and a family. She smiled, imagining the blue-eyed, blond-haired children they'd raise. Twenty-six wasn't too late to start a family. All she had to do was find a way to make Alan see her the way she really was inside -- as a warm-hearted woman, ready for love. |
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Copyright ©Cynthia Sterling |
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LAST
CHANCE RANCH