"You seem eager to divest me of my garments," he said, sitting across from her.

Laughter sparkled in his eyes as he spoke, but she couldn't suppress the blush that heated her skin once again. "Charlie said something once about having a brother who'd been in the Navy. Was that you?"

He nodded, looking wary.

"Well, on a ship, everybody knows the ship's captain, or the admiral or whoever, by the uniform they wear, don't they?"

"Of course."

She nodded. "Well, you don't have the years of experience, or the benefit of having grown up in these parts to establish who you are. So you need clothes a uniform of sorts that will let everybody know from the start that you're the boss."

He leaned forward. "What do you suggest?"

"Nothing too flashy." She frowned at his spotted vest. "Something you're comfortable in. What do you wear in England?"

He straightened and struck a dignified pose, hands clutching the front of his vest. "I wear suits from my personal tailor."

She bit back a smile. He sounded impossibly vain, but the dignified posture suited him. He reminded her of portraits she'd seen in books of European monarchs and war heroes. In fact, she decided, that regal air of his was the reason Reg Worthington looked so out of place in a common cowboy's clothes.

"Wear your suits here, too," she said. "You'll do better work if you're comfortable. But nothing too fancy. Remember, you're liable to get pretty dirty."

His moustache twitched in the beginnings of a grin. "Especially if I'm anywhere near you and a mud hole."

"I'm beginning to think you say things just to make me blush," she said as her cheeks once again grew uncomfortably warm.

"You do it so beautifully." He leaned forward, chin in hand, and fixed her with an intense gaze. "I find you such a contradiction, my dear. An independent woman who can rope and ride like a man but hasn't mastered the simplest dance steps. A woman who talks of using a gun as a chaperon, who blushes like the greenest girl."

"You're making fun of me," she protested, looking away.

"On the contrary. I find you intriguing." He lowered his voice to a soft purr.

A not unpleasant shiver danced up her spine. She shifted in her chair. "You're changing the subject," she said. "We were talking about you, and your clothes." She nodded toward the boots on his feet. The fancy lizard-skin uppers were barely scuffed. "What about those boots? Are they comfortable?"

He grimaced. "They hurt my feet."

"What do you wear to ride in England?"

His expression relaxed. "English leather riding boots. The finest made."

"Of course." She rolled her eyes. Nothing but the best for Sir Galahad. "They'll do here as well, though you might want to talk to someone about fitting your stirrups with tapaderos."

"Tapaderos?" He stumbled over the foreign word.

"Stirrup covers to keep your feet from slipping through and hanging up." She raised one foot to show him the worn heel of her boot. "The high heel keeps your foot from slipping through. If your horse throws you and you hang up, you could easily be dragged or trampled to death."

He nodded. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Now that leaves the hat."

He waved his hand toward the Stetson hanging on the rack by the door. "Now that's one piece of Western dress I rather admire."

"Then keep it. It suits you." At his pleased look, she fought back another blush. "Let's see. What else? From what I've seen you're not a bad rider, and I'm a.s.suming that revolver you're wearing is for more than show."

He raised his chin. "I can hit the bulls-eye nine times out of ten at 50 paces."

"That's great, but could you hit a running lobo, or a striking rattlesnake, or even a two-legged varmint up to no good?"

He stiffened, his expression fierce. "I am not the total incompetent you obviously believe me to be. Despite your inflated opinions of yourselves, you Texans are not the consummate experts in everything. The British were riding and shooting and hunting and tracking when your state was still overrun by savages."

"Speaking of inflated opinions of oneself "

He flattened his hands on the table and shoved himself up out of the chair. "I do not have to submit to these continued insults."

Abbie shot up to face him. "The truth hurts, does it?"

"You are the most insufferable woman "

"I'm the woman who's going to save your bacon "

He strode to the door and plucked his Stetson from the rack. "I don't need any woman to save me, much less a sharp-tongued shrew like you."

"Then why are you here?"

He froze in the act of putting on his hat. "I came because we agreed to a bargain and I am a man of my word," he said stiffly.

"This 'bargain' was your idea. Why did you propose it?"

He turned to face her, still looking as if he had a steel rod for a backbone. "It is my desire to make my first season at the ranch profitable. The sooner I do that, the sooner I may return home to my own affairs."

"But you don't know enough about ranching to do that on your own, do you?"

His jaw worked, as if it took great effort to dredge up words. "No," was his single clipped answer.

"Then you'd better leave your precious pride with your hat on that rack and come sit down. The sooner we get to work, the sooner we'll both have what we want."

They glared at each other for a long minute. The steady beat of the mantle clock sounded loud as a blacksmith's hammer on iron in the silence. Her flood of anger ebbed as quickly as it had risen, replaced by a jittery antic.i.p.ation. She found herself wishing for Reg to stay; despite his aggravating manner, she'd never met a man who intrigued her more.

Banjo trotted over to lean against her leg. She glanced down at the dog and when she looked up again, Reg had replaced his hat on the peg. "I suggest we begin," he said, and took his seat at the table.

Smiling to herself, Abbie went to sit across from him.

Chapter Four.

Reg set out the next morning for the nearby town of Fairweather, his head still reeling from the information Abbie had rattled off to him. She'd lectured on the supplies he'd need and terms he must know and had him parrot the information back to her like some dull-witted schoolboy. She seemed to enjoy seeing him brought down to this level, her emerald eyes alight with glee as she drilled him.

He'd never met such a forward woman in all his life. She said exactly what was on her mind, without the slightest simpering or feminine hesitation. He was accustomed to women who deferred to his judgment; Abbie contradicted him at every turn and never hesitated to let him know every time he was in the wrong.

In short, she spoke to him exactly as a man would have. It was d.a.m.ned unnerving at times, to gaze into that delicate face and meet her unwavering stare. A proper woman never looked at a man that way.

A proper woman never made his heart race the way his had when confronted with the ocean depths of Abbie's eyes. That moment of arousal had caught him completely off guard. He shook himself. He'd be foolish to think such feelings were anything more than a reaction to the novelty of Abbie's beauty and brashness. Now that his head had had a chance to clear in the cool morning air, he could see Abbie was so far from his ideal of the proper woman as to make him laugh.

He studied the lengthy list she'd made of the items he'd need for the chuck wagon. Two hundred pounds of flour. Fifty pounds of beans, twenty pounds of raisins. She'd written down enough food to feed a ship's crew for a month! Some of the items listed sounded strange to him. Two gallons of sorghum. One hundred pounds spuds. Twenty-five pounds Arbuckles. What the devil were Arbuckles? And why did he need so many of them?

Scowling, he shoved the list into his shirt pocket. He wouldn't put it past that little minx to write down a bunch of nonsense in order to play him for the fool. He remembered the way she'd smiled at him when she'd given him the list. "Be sure you get everything on here," she'd said.

"Hmmmph. We'll see about that," he muttered as he turned the gray down the town's one main street. "I've got a few ideas of my own about what's needed from town." Abbie Waters wasn't the only one who would give orders in this 'business arrangement' of theirs.

Despite its lofty name, Fairweather was a feeble excuse for a town. Most of the buildings were little more than hovels, constructed of sc.r.a.p lumber covered with tar paper. Some of the more substantial structures were made of mud bricks, which the locals referred to as adobe. A few buildings, including the general store and the train station, were built of sawn lumber, though even this was left unpainted.

Pickens General Mercantile sat on one side of the street in the center of town, directly across from the Texas and Pacific depot. Reg tied Mouse to the rail in front of the Mercantile and crossed the broad front porch. A trio of Texans by the door eyed him suspiciously as he pa.s.sed. He was glad he'd taken Abbie's advice and traded his cowboy clothing for his more usual mode of dress. The short cutaway jacket, fitted trousers and high boots made him stand out more, but at the same time, he felt more at ease. He nodded formally to the men by the door and stepped into the cool darkness of the only shopping emporium for twenty miles.

"Mr. Worthington, sir. So happy to see you back so soon." The proprietor, Hiram Pickens, a small man with a nervous manner who reminded Reg of a cairn terrier he'd once known, rushed forward to shake hands. On their first meeting, the day after his arrival in town, Reg had let slip that his father was the Earl of Devonshire, and Pickens had almost fainted. You would have thought the little man was entertaining the Prince Consort the way he bowed and sc.r.a.ped whenever he and Reg crossed paths. "Come to buy some more clothing, or perhaps another hat?" He eyed the Stetson on Reg's head.

Selling two of his finest, and most expensive, hats in two days would no doubt send Pickens to new heights, or perhaps depths, of obsequiousness. "I'm in town to pick up a few supplies," he said, pulling the list from his pocket.

"Anything you need, Mr. Worthington, sir. You just say the word and I'll fix you right up."

As Pickens led the way through the store, Reg read from his list. Aware of the many interested ears straining his way, he left off the more questionable items. Even with the omissions, purchases piled up at an alarming rate. By the time Pickens and his a.s.sistant carried everything to the counter, the little man could hardly see over the stack. "Oh, I almost forgot." Pickens reached into a cubbyhole behind the counter and withdrew a slim envelope. "This came for you yesterday afternoon." He leaned forward and placed the letter carefully in Reg's hand. "I think it's from the Earl," he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Reg frowned at the familiar crest on the pale blue envelope. He recognized the copperplate script of Avery Endicott, his father's secretary. The old man felt it more efficient to dictate all his correspondence, thus Endicott was privy to every bit of scandal or petty gossip brewing in the Worthington household and its spheres.

Reg shoved the letter into his coat. He didn't have to read it to know what it would say: a formal greeting, followed by several pages detailing what he was doing wrong so far, and why his plans, whatever they might be, would never work. He'd received many such letters in India. Before that, they'd awaited him in every port of call, like land mines set to destroy whatever good feelings he might have mustered about himself in the intervals between communications.

"Are you sure there won't be anything else?" Pickens licked his pencil and began calculating his column of numbers.

"That will do for today, thank you." Reg laid a twenty dollar gold piece on the counter. "Have your boy deliver it at your earliest convenience."

Pickens' eyes widened. He swallowed hard, his Adams apple bobbing like a fishing float in his throat. Everyone in the room had gone silent. Reg stiffened. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Well, Mr. Worthington, sir, it's just that, uh, folks usually take what they buy with them." Pickens loosened his collar, then wiped his suddenly sweating forehead.

"He means he ain't got no 'boy' to do your beck and call," one of the men by the door called out. "Out here, we do our own haulin'."

The back of Reg's neck burned as the room erupted into laughter. He took a deep breath, struggling for calm. No sense in making things worse by losing his temper and shoving the oaf back there out the door.

"Just put the order in my wagon." He turned at the sound of the familiar voice and saw Alan Mitch.e.l.l striding toward him, hat tipped in a friendly greeting. "I was headed out your way this afternoon, anyway," he said, shaking Reg's hand.

"Thank you, Alan. I'll accept your kind offer."

Alan clapped him on the back. "Come on, then. I'll help you load up." He hefted a fifty pound sack of flour over one shoulder and tucked a can of lard under his arm, then led the way out of the building. Reg picked up another sack of flour and followed him, casting a scowl at the hangers-on by the door that sent them rushing back like chickens in the path of a charging horse.

Refusing Pickens' nervous a.s.sistance, the two men loaded the supplies in the back of Alan's wagon. As Reg shoved the last sack of sugar into place, Alan stepped back and surveyed the purchases. "Getting ready for round-up?" he asked.

Reg nodded. "I thought it best to get the chuck wagon stocked now."

Alan brushed flour off his hands. "Mind if I make a few suggestions?"

Reg smiled at his easygoing friend. "Considering how you helped me save face just now, it would be ill-mannered to object."

Alan nodded toward the load in the wagon. "If you show up at round-up without coffee you're liable to have a mutiny on your hands in a hurry. You English may prefer tea, but out here, coffee's the fuel that keeps us going."

"Coffee. How could I forget?" He'd already noted that he could not go anywhere without being offered a cup of the black, strong brew Texans drank by the gallons. Had Abbie purposely left it off the list?

"Ask for Arbuckles. Pickens'll know what you mean."

"Arbuckles?" Reg gave himself a mental kick.

"It's the most popular brand. Comes in a red sack." Alan walked around the side of the wagon and peered in. "While you're at it, don't forget the lick."

Reg swallowed, almost afraid to ask. This was an item definitely not on his list. "Lick?"

Alan looked at him and grinned. "Sorghum syrup. It's a kind of sweetener." He nodded. "Gotta have lick. Cowboys like a little something sweet after working all day."

Feeling slightly foolish, Reg turned on his heels and went back to purchase the rest of his supplies. He would know better than to question Abbie's judgment next time. Perhaps the gleam in her eye when she'd given him the list was merely amus.e.m.e.nt over his reluctance to unbend enough to ask the meaning of the unfamiliar terms.

While he and Alan were loading the last of his purchases, the door of the depot across the street flew open and slammed back against the wall. A flame-haired woman ran out, struggling to free herself from the grasp of a disheveled, disgruntled man. "Take yer filthy hands from me at once!" she ordered, and bashed him on the head with an oversized carpetbag.

The man staggered, but kept his grip on her arm. "I paid six hundred dollars for you, woman!" he bellowed. "I don't intend to let go."

"You bought me pa.s.sage, sir. You did not buy me." She readied her carpetbag for another swing, then stomped down on the man's booted foot. Howling like a kicked dog, the man sprang away.

The woman backed up against the train station, carpetbag clutched in one hand. "You needn't be complainin' about your money. I'll find me a job and repay every last copper."

"You said you'd come to Fairweather and be my wife." The man shook his finger at her.

"You said you was a handsome gentleman." She swept her gaze over his doughy face and dirty clothes. "You said you had a fine ranch and a home fit fer a queen." He flinched at the disdain in her voice. "You never said nothin' about a soddy shack on the edge of a prairie and a few sorry cattle the knacker wouldn't pay to take."

The man straightened and folded his arms across his chest. "You won't find work in these parts, and I know you don't have the train fare out of here. You might as well take me up on my offer. You'll starve if you try to fend for yourself."

"I'd rather be taking that chance than be spending me life shackled to the likes of you." Her face was stern, but Reg thought he detected a glint of tears in her eyes. She pinched her lips together, as if trying to keep them from trembling.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?" Alan said softly.

Reg shrugged. "Apparently one of those 'mail-order bride' schemes that didn't quite work out. She sounds a long way from home, though. Judging from the accent, I'd say Ireland."

"Her hair. Have you ever seen that shade of red on a woman?"

Startled, Reg looked over at his friend. Alan's gaze was locked on the woman, a hint of a smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "It's almost the color of a Hereford calf," Alan murmured. "It looks as soft, too."

Reg looked back at the woman. She was pretty in a common sort of way. Her figure was well-rounded, plump even, and she wore a dusty black skirt and white shirtwaist. Her one striking feature was her hair, which had come loose and tumbled from beneath her crumpled porkpie hat. The trailing locks were the same russet shade as the dress Abbie Waters had worn to the barbecue. And like Abbie, this woman appeared capable of defending herself against all comers.

"Come on, we've got to help her." Alan started across the street.