"Perhaps because he's known you so long, he only sees one side of you." He leaned forward and gestured toward her. "He doesn't really see those enchanting emerald eyes, or the gold highlights in your thick brown hair, or the very feminine curves your masculine clothing does little to conceal."

Reg's voice was like velvet, purring out compliments Abbie might have thought meant for another woman. But when she raised her eyes she found his gaze fixed on her. The heated look he gave her made her mouth go dry and her heart race.

Abruptly, he looked away, and rose from his seat on the stump. "I propose you and I enter into a business arrangement," he said brusquely.

She blinked, made dizzy by the sudden shift in the conversation. "A business arrangement? What for?"

"By all accounts, you're a good rancher. I must learn everything I can about ranching, as quickly as possible, if I'm to make a success of this job. The sooner I succeed, the sooner I can return to England." He stood in front of her, hands clasped behind his back, his expression grave. "If you'll agree to teach me what I need to know, I'll coach you on the proper behavior for a lady. I've no doubt once Alan Mitch.e.l.l sees the more feminine side of you, he'll be swept off his feet."

Abbie stared up at him, breathless. What he was proposing was unbelievable, preposterous. Did he really think he could turn her into a lady? She thought of Lady Cecily Thorndale, the British beauty who had been Charlie Worthington's fiance, and tried to imagine herself walking and talking and acting like Lady Cecily. She shook her head. "How could that ever work?"

"We would make it work." He held out his hand. "Do we have a deal?"

Her heart raced, though whether in antic.i.p.ation of the bargain before her, or from the warmth she thought she'd glimpsed in the depths of Reg's brown eyes, she could not at that moment have said. Hesitantly, she slipped her hand into his. "It's a deal."

Chapter Three.

In the pale light of early morning, Reg sat alone at the long dining table in the Ace of Clubs ranch headquarters, sipping tea and battling a familiar enemy, doubt. Mounted heads of deer and elk stared down from the corners of the room, their gla.s.s eyes solemn with mute accusation. What kind of man would have agreed to the bargain he'd made last night? they seemed to ask. Who but a simpleton would trust a woman to teach him what he needed to know to succeed as a rancher?

And who but a fool would think he could turn a hoyden like Abbie Waters into a proper lady?

He frowned and studied his reflection in the heavy silver teapot the housekeeper, Mrs. Bridges, had set before him. The face that stared back at him might as well have been his father's, scowling in disapproval. People said that of the three boys, Reg looked most like the Earl. But he didn't have his father's knack for always coming out on top. The Earl could spin straw into gold, turn defeat into triumph. He made success seem effortless, and couldn't hide his disdain for losers.

The Earl would laugh himself into an apoplectic fit if he knew of Reg's 'bargain' with Abbie Waters. Reg shoved the teapot away and looked out the tall front windows. From here he could see the pens where the saddle horses stood. Two cowboys leaned against the board fence, smoking cigarettes. They'd probably laugh too, if they learned of the scheme.

Then too, there was Reg's end of the bargain to consider. Could he really turn the awkward, inept creature he'd seen last night into a woman that a man most specifically Alan Mitch.e.l.l would rush to marry?

He winced as he remembered Alan's kindness toward him. Already he'd begun to think of the rancher as a friend. It hardly seemed cricket to make him the prize in this highly unorthodox game.

He pushed these guilty thoughts from his mind and turned from the window, reaching for the silver bell on his breakfast tray. The delicate peal echoed through the silent house. In a few moments a short, stout woman waddled into the room. "Would you be needing anything else, Mr. Worthington?"

"The ranch books, Mrs. Bridges. Do you know where they're kept?"

She tipped her head to one side in thought, and the white cap she'd pinned to her halo of slate-colored curls slipped toward her ear. "Why, that'd be in the study, I suppose."

He followed her into the small, dark chamber across the hall from the dining room. "Mr. Grady wasn't the most orderly gentleman I've ever met," Mrs. Bridges said as she opened the heavy drapes.

Dust motes swirled in the shaft of bright light that poured from the window. Reg walked over to the desk and shoved aside an Indian war bonnet, one of the many odd artifacts left behind by the ranch's previous owner, former sheriff John Grady. The memory flashed through his mind of Abbie Waters and her absurd feather-trimmed hat. He smiled in spite of himself, remembering the way her green eyes had flashed when she'd returned Joe Dillon's insult with that flippant remark about keeping the flies from her face.

He couldn't deny Abbie intrigued him. Part of him wanted to unravel the mystery of the bold woman who wore men's clothing with such ease, yet looked like the ragman's daughter in a dress. She'd challenged him with a gun on the prairie, but had dissolved into tears when confronted by something as innocent as a dance. His father would not have approved, of course, but then, his father would never know. By the time Reg returned to England, having secured the family fortune in Texas, Abbie would be no more than an interesting memory of his time spent here. Right now, she was a means to accomplishing his goal.

"Is this what you're lookin' for, Mr. Worthington?" The housekeeper blew the dust from an oversized book bound in maroon leather.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bridges." Reg took the book from her. "Now if you'd be so kind as to send for Mr. Jackson."

She squared her shoulders, like a pigeon fluffing her feathers, and scowled at him. "I hope you're not taking it into your head that I'm to be some kind of maid-of-all work here. I was hired to cook, and I've got work to do in the kitchen. I can't be running here and there, fetching and carrying."

He bit back a long-suffering sigh. Charles, from whom Reg had appropriate the cook, had warned him of her 'tetchy' nature. With effort, he fixed what he hoped was a charming smile on his lips. "Of course not, Mrs. Bridges. I would not dream of taking advantage of your generous nature. Once you've let Mr. Jackson know I wish to speak with him, by all means, hurry back to your kitchen and the culinary delights I know await me at luncheon."

This decidedly overdone speech seemed to please her. Solemn-faced, she nodded, sending the cap dipping down over her brow. "All right. As long as you understand, then."

He turned away, hiding a smile, while she shuffled from the room. He cleared a s.p.a.ce on the desktop, then settled into the chair and opened the ledger. Starting with the most recent entries, he worked his way back through the book. A picture quickly began to form in his mind of the ranch's financial situation. His spirits sank as he studied Grady's cramped script. Despite good calf crops and relatively high market prices, the ranch had been steadily losing money. He frowned, trying to make sense of this conflicting information.

The sc.r.a.pe of spurs on the hardwood floor disturbed his scrutiny of the ledgers. He looked up and saw his foreman, Tuff Jackson, striding toward him. Jackson was a compact, sinewy man, legs permanently bowed from years on horseback, the skin of his hands and face tanned to leather by long hours in the brutal sun. He regarded his new boss with a sour expression. "Got a lot of work to do to get ready for roundup," he said. "Can't waste time talking."

"It would be in your best interest to speak with me." Reg ignored the scowl Jackson directed at him and turned back a few pages in the ledger. "Can you explain this series of entries?" He pointed to a column of figures dated the previous fall.

Jackson sidled up to the desk and peered over Reg's shoulder. He squinted at the numbers, then turned and aimed a stream of tobacco juice at a spittoon, narrowly missing Reg's trouser leg. "Can't say as I ever concerned myself with numbers much. My job is to see to the cattle, not lollygag around with bookwork."

Reg bit off a sharp retort. From his insolent slouch to his barbed remarks, Jackson was doing his best to challenge his new boss. Reg refused to take the bait. "Your job is also to keep count of the stock, is it not?" he asked, his voice deceptively even.

Jackson shrugged. "What about it?"

"Then it is time you concerned yourself with these numbers." He jabbed a finger at the ledger. "According to these entries, this ranch had a record increase last spring. Yet by the time of fall sales, only half the stock are accounted for."

"A lot can go wrong in half a year. Rustlers, lobos, rattlesnakes." He tipped his hat back, giving Reg a better look at his milky blue eyes. "Of course, you bein' green and a foreigner to boot, you wouldn't know that."

Reg slammed the ledger shut and rose from his chair to face Jackson. With a small feeling of satisfaction, he realized he was a good two inches taller than the foreman, though he had an idea Jackson hadn't earned the nickname 'Tuff' by looks alone. "What I do know is that those kind of losses show you aren't doing a very good job of 'seeing to the cattle.' I expect a better performance or I'll find someone who can do the job to my satisfaction."

Jackson's nostrils pinched as he sucked in a deep breath. "Are you threatening me?" he growled.

"I'll do whatever I have to in order to make this ranch successful."

Jackson's lip curled in a sneer. "Without me and my men you'll fall flat on your a.s.s inside of a month." He pointed a tobacco-stained finger at Reg's chest. "You need me a h.e.l.l of a lot more than I need you. Don't be forgetting that."

Reg's stomach clenched as he balled his hands into fists at his sides. He'd like nothing better than to banish that sneer from Jackson's face with a good left jab. But underneath the sneer and the insolence lay enough truth to stay his hand. Until he'd learned more about ranching, and this ranch in particular, he needed the foreman and the men he commanded.

Of course, he would never admit that out loud. He couldn't afford to show any weakness to these men. Untamed by society's niceties, they circled around him like wolves, ready to pounce if he faltered or fell behind.

He couldn't back down, and he couldn't lash out with his fists. He could, however, use a skill that had served him well in past skirmishes. He looked down his nose at Jackson with aristocratic disdain and spoke in his best upper-cla.s.s Brit diction. "It is not my intention to argue with you. Your reputation as a top foreman is undisputed in this area. See that it stays that way." He gave a nod of dismissal, then turned back to the opened ledger.

Jackson hesitated, his mouth working as though ready to fire off a retort. But none came, and after a moment, he turned and hurried from the room, spurs jangling.

Reg sank into the chair and let out a heavy sigh. He felt like a man who'd thrown down the gauntlet and now was waiting for his opponent to choose his weapon and name the date and time. This isn't England, he reminded himself, frowning at the war bonnet draped across the corner of the desk. Jackson would no doubt prefer a quick and dirty ambush over the code duello. From now until he boarded a ship for home, he'd be wise to watch his back.

"Anybody home?"

Alan Mitch.e.l.l's broad shoulders filled the doorway to the study. "I knocked but n.o.body answered," he said.

"Come in, Alan, please." Reg rose and pulled up a chair for his neighbor. "I hadn't expected to see you again so soon. What a pleasure."

"I just stopped by to talk for a few minutes." Alan pulled off his tan Stetson and smoothed back his blond hair. "I met Tuff Jackson on the way out. He looked madder'n a wet hen. What did you say to get him so riled?"

Reg frowned. "We had a discussion about what I felt were some discrepancies in the books." He tapped the ledger. "Mr. Jackson and I didn't exactly see eye to eye."

Alan nodded and rubbed his chin. "Don't suppose you'd care for a bit of advice?"

Reg leaned back and looked at his neighbor. This burly blond Texan was the least threatening man he'd met in his life, like a tame bear. He was also one of the few people Reg felt he could trust in his new home. "I'd welcome anything you have to say."

"You want to walk easy around Tuff. Folks around here respect him and he's good with cattle."

"So I gather from talking with people at the barbecue."

Alan ran his thumb around the brim of his hat, as if testing it for sharpness. "He's not as book smart as some, and he can be ornery at times, but he's a good man if he's on your side."

Reg picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. "And if he's not on my side?"

Alan shrugged. "You might find yourself in trouble. I don't have to tell you, syndicates like the one you represent aren't very popular in these parts."

"My brother didn't report having any problems."

Alan grinned. "Yeah, well, would Charles ever have problems? He was one of those guys everybody seemed to like right off. Not that you're not "

Reg shook his head. "You don't have to explain it to me. Reg never met a man he couldn't befriend. I tend to be more reserved. I take it I can't expect to be welcomed with open arms by everyone."

"It has more to do with business than where you're born." Alan gestured toward the ledger. "Most of the folks around here have close ties to the land. They live here, raise their families here, give up their own sweat and blood to succeed or fail. Whereas a syndicate is a group of people living somewhere else, far away, buying up land and using it as long as they turn a profit. They don't necessarily care if the land is preserved for the next generation, as long as the board of directors and stockholders get their money now."

Reg looked away from Mitch.e.l.l, out the window to his right. An ocean of prairie stretched toward the horizon, silvery green gra.s.s undulating like waves rolling beneath the steady wind. He thought of his family's estate in Devonshire, land pa.s.sed on through six generations of Worthingtons, deeded and entailed and shackled to the family name in an unbreakable bond.

Yet Reg could honestly say he had no more feeling for that parcel of land than he'd had for the Indian tea plantation he had managed. Land was a means to an end, a source of income and position in society. Everything Alan Mitch.e.l.l had said about what he was doing here was true, but Alan made it sound so wrong.

Reg felt the first uncomfortable stirring of guilt. He shifted in his chair and gave Alan a slight smile. "The syndicate sent me, rather than hiring a local manager, to demonstrate that they are personally concerned with what happens here," he said.

Alan grinned. "I'm glad to hear it."

Reg felt the warmth of that smile wash over him. He relaxed some and settled back in his chair. "If there's anything I can do to help you or my other neighbors, please let me know," he said.

"I stopped by to see if you'd be willing to supply a chuck wagon and cook for the round-up. I'd like to have a couple of the smaller outfits throw in with you. They'd pitch in to help with the work and expenses."

Reg nodded, careful not to show his ignorance. He made a mental note to ask Abbie what exactly supplying a chuck wagon entailed. "I'd be happy to help. Who do you have in mind to work with me?"

"I thought the Rocking W crew and maybe Fred Lazlo's Lazy L to the southwest. They're both pretty small outfits. Not more than three or four men each."

Reg raised one eyebrow. "I was under the impression the Rocking W was quite a large ranch."

"Large in territory. Small in manpower." Alan grinned. "Or maybe I should say 'womanpower.' It's just Abbie and two Mexicans who run the place, with the help of that herding dog of hers. She hires extra hands for some ch.o.r.es, but most of the time it's just them."

"I would have thought she could afford more."

Alan shook his head. "It's not a matter of being able to pay or not. Abbie's probably got more money in the bank than some of the rest of us. She's just conservative. And truth be told, it's probably hard to find men who'll work for a woman. She probably sees it as easier to do the work herself than put up with the grief some cowboys would give her."

"From what little I saw, she'd have no trouble 'giving them grief' in return." Reg chuckled, remembering the way she'd sized him up on their first meeting. Her words had stung like the lash of a whip.

Alan gave him a considering look. "Say, what happened between you two?" he asked. "Did you really help her pull a heifer out of the mud?"

Reg nodded. "I'd heard American women were quite liberated, but I'd hardly expected to meet one in trousers, la.s.soing cattle."

"Well, our Abbie's not the usual female," Alan said. "But she holds her own with the other ranchers." He stood and replaced his hat on his head. "One thing you'll find out here. If you do your share of the work and mind your own business, n.o.body much cares how you choose to live your life. We tend to be a little rough around the edges, but we're sure of the things that really count." He extended his hand. "I'll see you at my place in two weeks."

Reg shook Alan's hand, the firm grasp of two men who had taken the first steps toward friendship.

When Alan was gone, Reg resumed his study of the ledgers. But five minutes with the dry columns of numbers left him feeling restless as a sailor who'd been three months at sea. He pushed aside the stack of books and grabbed his new Stetson from the rack by the door. Two weeks would pa.s.s quickly enough and he had plenty to do to get ready. The time had come for his first lesson with Abbie Waters.

Banjo's barking alerted Abbie to the presence of a visitor. Tossing aside the harness she'd been mending, she walked to the open doorway of the cabin and looked out. Her jaw dropped at the sight of Reg Worthington riding up on the gray. The Englishman was dressed in his ridiculous imitation-cowboy garb, made worse today by the addition of a black and white cowhide vest. She bit back a smile. Old Hiram Pickens had been trying to unload that vest for a year or more. He must have about fell over himself when Reg walked into the store.

At least the Englishman had the sense today to wear a hat. She had to admit the broad-brimmed Stetson made his dark hair and square jaw look even more masculine and handsome.

"h.e.l.lo, Abbie," Reg said, swinging down from the gray and leading the horse to the watering trough. Banjo ran out to greet him, barking."I thought it time we had our first lesson,"

She put both hands on her hips and looked him up and down. "The first thing we have to do is get you out of those clothes." "I beg your pardon?" He looked up from petting the dog. "Madam, I'm flattered at your interest, but I a.s.sure you, that is not what I had in mind."

Abbie's eyes widened and her face grew hot with shame. "I didn't mean. . . I wanted. . . you don't really think. . ." There she went again, speaking rashly and getting herself into trouble. She put one hand to the porch post to steady herself, and took a deep breath. "I only meant that the clothes you're wearing don't suit you at all. The newest hand could spot you as a greenhorn from half a mile across the prairie."

Reg glanced at his stiff denim trousers and starched plaid shirt. "This is the same sort of outfit every cowboy and rancher around here wears." He frowned at her, and she was conscious of his gaze sweeping over the pants she had stuffed in her boots. Her cheeks grew even hotter as he took in the oversized shirt she knew still failed to disguise her feminine form. "They're the same kind of clothes you're wearing," he said.

"Except that those cowboys, and me too, for that matter, were practically born in these duds. They make you look exactly like what you are a foreigner playing at being a cowboy." She stepped off the porch and walked around him, studying him with a critical eye.

Reg stiffened under her disapproving stare. "I fail to see what my mode of dress has to do with my abilities as a rancher."

She paused in her circuit around him. "You'll have better luck with the men who work for you if you present yourself as someone in authority."

"Would you stop pacing around me like that? I'm beginning to feel like a cobra being stalked by a mongoose." He took her arm. "Why don't we go inside and discuss this?"

She shrugged out of his grasp and led the way up the single step to the porch, across the plank floor and into the house. She walked on into the kitchen, Banjo at her heels. When she looked back, she saw Reg stopped in the doorway, hat in hand. A frown creased his brow as his eyes swept the room. Suddenly the scrubbed wooden table, ladder-backed chairs and open cupboard looked so plain and drab. Everything was clean and functional, but not so much as a crocheted doily or an embroidered cup towel lent the slightest femininity to the room. Reg Worthington was probably used to polished mahogany furniture and Turkish carpeting. She flushed and looked away, busying herself with stoking the fire in the cook stove. "I know it's not much," she said. "But it's just me here and a lot of the time I'm out with the cows "

"You live here by yourself?" he interrupted.

"Well, there's Banjo, of course." At the sound of his name, the dog thumped his tail against the wooden floorboards. "Jorge and Miguel live in a bunkhouse over by Buffalo Draw."

He hung his hat on the rack by the door and stepped into the room. "Don't you have a maid? Or a companion?"

"Why would I need one of those?" She moved the coffeepot over one of the stove eyes.

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "To keep your clothing in order. To arrange your hair. To act as a companion and chaperon."

She fought back a smile. "I can't say my clothing needs much upkeep. I can brush and braid my hair myself. Banjo makes a good enough companion and as for a chaperon, well, my daddy always said a revolver was the best chaperon any girl could want."

He made a noise in his throat which she took for disapproval. "Holding a gun on a man in case he should decide to behave unseemly is not the best way of charming potential suitors," he said. "A maidservant would serve the purpose far better."

She shook her head. "Over here in America, most of us don't have servants like you do in England." She filled two mugs with the reheated coffee and brought them to the table. "Now about your clothes," she said, taking a seat and motioning for him to do the same.