Titled Texans: Educating Abbie Part 17

Abbie smiled. "I see. And do you have one, too?"

"Oh, indeed I do, Miss. Plus me St. Christopher's for travelers you know, and me rosary, me rabbit's foot, a caul from a seventh son. . . "

Abbie stepped back, half afraid Maura would pull this a.r.s.enal of good luck from her reticule. She opened her mouth to speak, but a whistle blast from the approaching train drowned out her comment. "Thank G.o.d," she breathed, and grabbed up her carpetbag. The sooner she was on the train and out of sight of the prying eyes of the town, the better.

She and Maura found their seats in the forward car and had just settled in when a conductor approached. "Miss Waters?" he inquired, tipping his hat.

"Yes, I'm Abbie Waters."

"If you and your companion will follow me, ma'am, I'll show you to your car."

"Excuse me. Have we taken someone else's seats?" Abbie looked around, confused. She checked the ticket in her hand.

"It's all right, Miss. If you'll follow me, please."

Reluctantly, Abbie gathered her belongings and she and Maura followed the conductor through the cars until they came to a private Pullman at the rear of the train. Abbie balked at the door. "There must be some mistake," she said.

The conductor shook his head and opened the carved wooden door. "No mistake, Miss. Mr. Worthington gave strict instructions that you were to share his car."

Abbie would have protested, but the train lurched forward and she was thrown off-balance, into the Pullman, and into Reg's arms.

"h.e.l.lo, there, Abbie," he said, smiling down on her, a roguish gleam in his eye. "How nice to see you."

She was uncomfortably aware of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed against his chest, his strong arms enfolding her. The starched linen and polished leather scent of him filled her senses even as she struggled to push away from him. A moment too long in Reg's arms and she might forget herself altogether. "Let me go," she said through clenched teeth.

"I was merely standing here when you launched yourself at me." He sat her upright and stepped back. "Would you care for some refreshment?" He reached toward an embroidered bell pull.

"What I want is to go back to my seat," she said. "What did you mean, telling the conductor we're sharing the same quarters?"

"I merely took the liberty of arranging more comfortable accommodations for you." He motioned toward a velvet-upholstered Chesterfield sofa. "Please, sit down."

He was so infuriatingly calm. So frustratingly regal. "You had no right to do that," she said.

He raised one eyebrow, obviously skeptical. "Do you mean to tell me you would prefer to sit up all night in the second cla.s.s coach, having cinders blown on your dress and the sounds of crying babies and coughing strangers to lull you to sleep?"

"I thought we agreed it would be best if people did not know we were traveling together."

"Precisely my reason for hiring a private car. No one can see in " He gestured to the velvet-draped windows. "No one can pa.s.s through " He nodded toward the closed door. "And with every convenience, you'll have no need to venture outside these private walls. No one will even know you are on this train, much less traveling with me."

"Perhaps he's right, Miss," Maura said from behind her. "And it's ever so lovely."

Abbie looked around the well-appointed car. Gilt-framed oil paintings adorned walnut-paneled walls and many-crystalled chandeliers hung from a ceiling trimmed in gold medallions. Two sofas and half a dozen chairs were arranged around the room, all upholstered in royal blue velvet, the cushions thick and heavily tufted. Plush carpeting m.u.f.fled the sound of footsteps on the floor. There was even a walnut writing desk, should the urge strike one to compose a letter. She couldn't imagine a more comfortable way to travel. But where would she sleep? The thought of reclining on the sofa in Reg's presence made her feel flushed.

As if reading her thoughts, Reg walked to a set of folding doors and pulled them back to reveal a four-poster bed and trundle, washstand and clothes press. "You and Maura can sleep here. I'll make myself comfortable on one of the sofas."

She hated to admit Reg was right, but she could find no fault with his argument. Reluctantly, she nodded. "All right. I guess we'll have to stay."

"I'll see to our things, Miss. You and Mr. Worthington will be wanting to discuss business, I know." Maura picked up their bags and bustled into the bedroom.

Abbie sank into a chair, and Reg settled himself across from her on the sofa. "That's another advantage in traveling this way," he said. "You can instruct me on everything I need to know about the auction."

As the train rolled further and further away from Fairweather, Abbie began to feel further and further removed from her 'normal' life. She sat in that ornate parlor, dressed in one of the new traveling dresses Maura had made, and discussed cattle prices and breeding lines with Reg as if she'd merely stopped by his ranch for afternoon tea. Toward evening, in fact, Reg did order tea, which a red-coated porter delivered and Maura poured. Abbie nibbled sandwiches with the crusts cut off and diminutive fruit pastries and began to feel as if she'd slipped into another life, another body even. She balanced a delicate china cup on one knee and ate a whole meal with her gloves on as if she'd been doing it all her life.

"I discovered the advantages of the private railcar after a particularly harrowing trip across India," Reg said, stirring milk into his second cup of tea.

"Oh, m'lord. When was you in India?" Maura stared at him, wide-eyed. "Was it very awful there, with all them heathens and what not?"

"Actually, I rather enjoyed it there." He sipped the tea. "I found the country beautiful, and the people were most interesting, and very peaceful. I enjoyed getting to know them."

"What did you do in India?" Abbie asked.

"I managed a tea plantation."

"And if you liked it so much, why did you leave?" she asked.

His hands, holding his tea cup, were as steady as ever, but Abbie could have sworn she saw him flinch. His eyes took on a shuttered look. "The plantation I managed went bankrupt."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Abbie stared into her teacup, and thought of Reg riding through fields of dark green plants. She had never seen India, but she imagined it to be a tropical, verdant place, very different from the stark Texas plains. What had led to the failure of his plantation? Had weather conspired against him, or had his own poor judgment brought about his defeat?

"Before that, I was a sailor for a time," he said abruptly. He leaned forward and set his cup on the low table between them. "My father thought it might make a suitable career for me."

"That's a romantic life, traveling from port to port," Maura said, a dreamy look in her eye.

"I enjoyed the travel."

"But in the end, you decided against a naval career?" Abbie tried to affect the right tone of idle curiosity, when in reality she was anxious to hear what had led Reg to once again fail to meet his father's expectations.

"The Navy decided against me," he said. "I had the unfortunate habit of questioning the judgment of my superior officers."

"Anyone could see, m'lord, that you should be one as who gives orders, not takes them," Maura said. She plucked a peach tart from a tray on the table. "What would be the most exciting place you ever visited?" she asked.

Abbie set aside her cup and leaned back against the chair cushions, lulled by a combination of rich food, warm tea and the gentle sway of the train. She watched Reg as he related an entertaining story of derring-do in foreign ports to a starry-eyed Maura. He was full of such stories this evening, but had said precious little about England, his home and family. Had he spent so little time there in recent years he'd ceased to think of it as home? Or had the friction she sensed between him and his father tainted his feelings for his country as well?

She let her gaze wander around the Pullman. Every possible thought had been given to a travelers' comfort. A nickel plated parlor stove could provide heat in winter weather, while transoms could be opened above the windows to improve circulation in the summer. The bell pull would summon a porter to fetch water or food or answer any other request. Reg seemed perfectly at home in the luxurious suite of rooms, and even Maura perched in her chair and poured tea and made conversation as if she'd been born to a life of ease.

Abbie looked on in wonder. Despite her success so far, she could never be comfortable for long in such close quarters. The velvet drapes and paneled walls squeezed the breath out of her as tightly as any corset.

While Reg and Maura reminisced about sea voyages, Abbie stood and made her way to the door at the rear of the car. She stepped out onto the platform, and leaned on the railing, the rumble of the wheels on the tracks filling her ears.

All around her was black; she had the feeling of being suspended in s.p.a.ce. But as her eyes adjusted, she could make out the shadows of bushes and trees, or the single, winking light of a homestead in the distance. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply of the cinder-scented breeze. She swayed with the rhythm of the train, feeling the vibration in her feet, traveling up through her body. She absorbed the motion and the sound, taking its rhythm for her own.

"You prefer the out of doors."

The words were spoken so close to her ear she could feel Reg's warm breath. Her eyes snapped open and her body gave a jolt of surprise.

He reached out to steady her, wrapping his hands around her upper arms and pulling her toward him. "I didn't mean to startle you," he said. "I thought you heard me come out."

She shook her head. "I was listening to the train," she said, realizing how foolish that sounded as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

Reg didn't laugh at her. He moved his hands as if to release her, but instead turned her so that her back rested against his chest, his chin brushing the top of her head. It was an intimate gesture, a scandalous one even, but in the concealing darkness, with the rumble of the train shutting out the sounds of the world around them, Abbie welcomed the closeness.

"You're like a wild bird," he said. "Unhappy in a cage, no matter how gilded."

"I appreciate your hospitality," she said. "But I'll admit I feel hemmed in when I spend too much time inside. I've spent all my life working the land, not even setting foot in a house for weeks at a time."

"You've only been away from your ranch a few hours and already you sound homesick."

She hugged her arms across her chest. "I suppose I am."

"I've spent most of my life wandering. I've never known that feeling of being rooted to one specific place." He sounded almost wistful.

"It's not too late, you know."

"Too late for what?"

She pulled away and turned to face him. She could barely make out his features in the darkness, but she could feel his warmth, sense his gaze upon her. "It's never too late to put down roots," she said. "To find a place and make it your own."

"Brand it?" He sounded amused. "Like a maverick calf?"

"In a way, yes."

He turned his head, staring out at the landscape rushing by them. "Maybe it's the other way around," he said. "Maybe the right place makes its mark on you, and then you know you belong." He turned to her again. "Or maybe the right person in that place touches something inside you and ties you to one place."

Would she tie Reg to her, if she could? She closed her eyes against the thought she might as well try to turn a race horse into a ranch pony. A smile curved her lips. That didn't mean she couldn't enjoy that fine race horse, even if he'd never be hers to keep.

The solid sound of a closing door made her open her eyes. Reg was gone, leaving her alone in the darkness once more.

"No, don't take that one. See how she's all matted around the eyes. Could mean it's sick. Now that one. Number sixteen. Yes, bid on her. See how broad she is through the shoulders?" The auctioneer called for bids on sixteen and Reg raised his hand for the opening offer. A red-haired man across the ring made a challenge, but quickly lost interest. No one raised the price and the animal was led off for Reg to claim at the end of the day.

"That's good," Abbie whispered, leaning on his arm. "Now let's see if we can spot something with a feisty personality."

Reg studied the steady parade of young heifers through the auction ring before them, but his mind was only partially on the scene before him. The rest of his attention was fixed on the young woman on his arm. His head was full of the lavender scent of her and every nerve of his body was attuned to her slightest movement. She stood so close he could feel the tensing of the muscles of her thighs when she shifted her weight. When she leaned forward to get a closer look at the ear markings of a particular heifer, her breast brushed his arm, sending a shiver of sensation through his already strained nerves.

"There. I like number thirty-two. See how she shakes her head and almost swaggers when she walks? She has a good spirit." Her breath was moist in his ear, and a wayward curl peeking beneath her straw bonnet tickled his neck. He shifted to accommodate the uncomfortable stiffness in his crotch. Standing like this for hours on end was sheer torture; torture he was reluctant to see end.

He forced his mind back to the job at hand. "What about eighty-six? The one with the star-shaped blaze on her forehead." He nodded toward the heifer in question.

"Yes. She's such a lovely deep red color."

He looked at her in surprise. "And here I thought all your selections were made purely on the basis of business and scientific principles."

She flushed. "Well, she has good shape to her, too. But there's nothing wrong with choosing an animal who looks nice, is there?"

He smiled and shook his head. Just when he'd deluded himself into thinking he could predict her behavior, she would confound him with a new response. Like a many-sided children's puppet, she constantly presented a new facet of her personality for him to wonder at. She could go from hard-riding cowgirl to kittenish flirt while his back was turned, from Puritan-practical rancher to a woman who would choose her stock as much for their color as for their conformation.

Since they'd left the ranch to come to Amarillo, he'd enjoyed more glimpses of the lady inside the rancher. Away from the day to day drudgery of ranch work, minus the rough work clothes, Abbie revealed a softer side. She smiled more, and took more care with her appearance.

But it would be a mistake to underestimate her. More than one man in this auction ring had flinched at a piercing look from her emerald eyes. She refused to be outbid on an animal she wanted; the roughest man in boots and spurs could not force her to back down.

Reg admired that kind of confidence even more than he admired her beauty. Abbie might not realize it, but she was teaching him in more ways that one.

"That's an even dozen," he said now, looking at the card where he'd been keeping track of his purchases. "That's enough for me, don't you think?"

She glanced at her own card. "Yes. For me, too. It looks as if the rest of the sale is steers and odd lots." She slipped her hand out of his arm. "You did very well for yourself today."

"Except for the two I lost to you." He winked at her.

She blushed. "I couldn't let you take everything good." She looked around the auction barn. Reg followed her gaze across the rows of wooden bleachers surrounding the dirt ring, and the raised booth where the auctioneer surveyed the steady flow of livestock. The air was redolent with the odors of manure and tobacco smoke. "Spending the day here with you today makes me think of my father," she said.

He winced. He wasn't that much older than Abbie. "So I remind you of your father, do I?"

"Not you. This place." She swept her hand out to take in the arena. "I can't help but think of him when I walk in here. He brought me with him from the time I could walk. He'd hold me in his arms so I could see the animals, and talk to me about the ones he was bidding on."

"He was training you even then."

"I suppose so."

They began to walk toward the exit. Reg tried to imagine Abbie as a little girl, carried in the arms of a tall man in a Stetson, who even then treated her less like a child and more like the business partner she would one day be. "You're very fortunate that your father trained you to take over his business," he said as he and Abbie stepped out into the yard in front of the auction barn.

She nodded, her expression pensive. "He wanted me to be able to look after the ranch, and myself, even when he wasn't around to help me any longer."

"My father spent time with my brother, Charles, grooming him to follow in his footsteps. Naturally, as the eldest, he will inherit the t.i.tle and the duties that come with it." He shook his head. "There was never any specific duties for a middle son, no prescribed training one can give." He tried to keep his voice light, but he feared she would sense the bitterness he could never quite block out. G.o.d, here he was, thirty-four years old, and he was still picking at that old wound like a schoolboy.

Abbie looked at him as if she wanted to ask a question, but after a moment she looked away. "So much of what Daddy taught me wasn't really specific to ranching," she said. "Most of all, he taught me to think for myself to make my own decisions and stand by them. He taught me to live independently, to be responsible for myself."

"Unconventional training for a woman."

She raised her chin. "Is that so bad, then?"

"It's stood you in good stead, made you successful."

"And left me alone." She hugged her arms across her chest. "I wonder sometimes if my failure to marry has been more because I am a woman who insists on standing on my own, than because of any lack of femininity on my part." She stopped and turned to face him. "I can go through the motions of being a lady all right, Reg, but I can't change what I am inside."

He stared into her eyes, green as meadow gra.s.s, dark with concern. "Do you want to change?"

She bowed her head. "I don't see why taking a man's name should mean I take his direction also."

Reg reached out and lifted her chin, and stroked his thumb along her velvet cheek. Hard and soft. Independent and longing for union. Such a lovely contradiction. "You'll find the right partner one day. Maybe not Alan but a man who'll see your value. A man who's looking for a partner as well as a wife."

She gazed back at him, clear-eyed and unwavering. "What do you want, Reg?"

He sensed her probing him for answers he wasn't prepared to give. "I want to take you to dinner this evening," he said lightly. "To celebrate a successful day at the auction."

If she was disappointed in his answer, she did not show it. She looked away, and nodded. "All right. Give me a chance to clean up and change."

"Six o'clock, then? I'll meet you and Maura in the lobby of our hotel."