"Time's a wastin', chief," Jackson said. "Don't take long for those calves to freeze."

"You know where to move them move them!" Reg's voice was raspy with anger as he faced the foreman once more. "You're wasting my time and yours with this 'twenty questions' routine." Jackson had the audacity to smile. Reg gripped the edge of the desk to keep from lashing out at the man. "We ought to move them to Oxcart Canyon," Jackson said. "But we'll need every man's help to make it in time. Should have been done this morning, really."

Reg ignored the goad and followed Jackson to the door. As the foreman shrugged into the bearskin, Reg reached for his lighter wool greatcoat. "Goin' somewhere?" Jackson asked.

"You said you needed every man to help."

"I didn't mean you, Chief. You'd best stay here warm and dry with your books."

"I can ride, dammit." Reg jerked open the door, the shoulder cape of his coat blown back by the fierce wind. "Don't waste any more time arguing about it."

The cold wind cut through Reg's clothing as if he were naked. Any other time, he would have gone back inside and dressed more warmly for the task. But he wouldn't give Jackson the satisfaction of riding off without him. He clenched his teeth and leaned into the wind, counting on the heat of his anger at the foreman to help warm him.

Mouse balked at being forced from his warm stall into the cold. He fought against the bridle and bowed his back when Reg threw the saddle on him. Reg elbowed him in the belly and tightened the girth, then leapt into the saddle and held on while the gelding bucked and tossed. At least the exercise warmed us up, Reg thought as he rode out of the corral at last, Jackson's figure already a dark blur in the distance.

Jackson must have a.s.sembled the cowboys before riding to the ranch house. They waited on the edge of the pasture closest to the house, a string of horses bunched behind them. With a few mumbled orders from Jackson, they rode toward the Plum Creek pasture, where most of the cows and calves had spent the winter.

Reg followed Jackson, and watched the other men for a clue as to what he should do. The cattle were restless, and reluctant to get moving in the cold wind. The work of driving them consisted mainly of riding among them, shouting and waving, forcing them to bunch tightly together and move slowly toward the sheltered canyon.

Within minutes, Reg's hands and feet ached with the cold. Ice clung to his moustache and he couldn't feel parts of his face anymore. But he forced himself to keep riding, to keep working. Jackson's comment about leaving him behind with the books still rankled. He'd show the foreman he could work as hard as any man here.

Some time after they left Plum Creek, it began to sleet, the icy needles stabbing his face, melting and re-freezing in his lashes and on his moustache. He clenched his jaw to keep his teeth from chattering, and thought with envy of Jackson's bearskin coat.

The sleet became snow, and the men's shouts took on a new urgency. Reg saw a calf stumble. A skinny cowboy stopped his horse and scooped the calf into his arms, then rode off again with the animal cradled in front of him.

That cowboy had saved one calf from freezing to death. But what if more fell too many to pick up and carry? This year's calves represented the ranch's future profit. If they died in this storm, Reg would have to sail home without a penny to show for his efforts, defeated before he'd even gotten started.

Despair washed over him as he thought of having to face his father with the news that he'd failed once again. He shut his eyes and let his head fall forward until his chin touched his chest. Anything would be preferable to seeing the scorn in his father's eyes. Even letting go of the reins and slipping from his horse right here, freezing on this foreign prairie. Even that would be better than knowing he'd never live up to his father's dreams.

"Are you all right? Hey, Reg, wake up. Are you okay?" Someone was shouting at him over the howling wind and driving snow. He looked up and saw the skinny cowboy who'd picked up the calf. Except the cowboy wasn't a boy. It was Abbie, wearing a long shearling coat and wool mittens, a red wool scarf wrapped around her neck. Reg blinked and shook his head, trying to push back the fog that enveloped him. He remembered seeing her pick up the calf. . . yes there it was, draped over her saddle, half-covered by her coat tails. Then he'd dreamt about cattle freezing and his father's disapproving face. . .

"Reg, answer me!" Abbie leaned over and grabbed his arm and shook him hard. "My G.o.d, you're nearly frozen! You've got to wake up."

His limbs felt like lead weights, and even breathing required a great effort as he fought an overpowering lethargy.

"Here, drink this." Abbie unhooked a canteen from her saddle horn and started to hand it to him. She shook it and he could hear the ice rattle. "Oh blast it!" she cried, dropping the canteen and reaching back toward her saddle bag. Reg watched, dazed, as she fumbled with the buckles, then threw back the flap and pulled out a tin flask. She unscrewed the cap, and thrust the flask into his hands, shaping his stiffened fingers around the container. "Drink it!" she commanded, forcing his hands toward his mouth.

He smelled the brandy before he tasted it, and felt the liquid sloshing down his chin and over his gloves. But he managed to swallow a good amount, the burning liquor reviving him somewhat even as he began coughing.

Abbie took the flask away and pounded him on the back. She leaned forward and peered into his face. "That's better," she said, nodding. "You don't look so gray anymore." She held out the flask. "Take another swig, then we'd better see about catching up with the others."

He took another swallow, feeling steadier now, and returned the flask to her. "What are you doing here?" he asked, when he could finally speak again. "Don't tell me I'm all the way over on your land."

She shook her head. "I came over to help you." She urged her horse forward and Mouse fell into step beside her.

"What about your own cattle?" he asked.

"We moved them this morning, when I saw the weather turning bad. Most of them were already over by Apache Canyon anyway, so it didn't take long."

He winced. Abbie had known enough to move her cattle this morning. How much time had they lost through his ignorance?

They rode up behind the main herd and began driving them toward the canyon. The snow grew thicker, until Reg was able to see only a few feet in front of his face. Even when he couldn't see her, he was aware of Abbie working beside him. He could hear her higher-pitched voice above the bawling cattle and the shouts of the other men.

Reg knew the moment they entered the canyon. The wind calmed and the cattle began to move faster. Tuff Jackson rode by, brushing drifts of snow from his shoulders. "All right, men. Let's head back to the house before the worst of it sets it!" he shouted.

Reg removed his hat and shook off a crusting of snow. If this wasn't already 'the worst of it,' he didn't want to linger to experience the rest. He looked out at the cattle. Some were drinking in parts of the creek not yet frozen over, while others settled with their calves in the thick underbrush. "Do you think they'll be all right here?" he asked Abbie as he watched her tuck the calf she'd been carrying in beside its mother.

She pulled herself back up into the saddle and nodded. "They've got fresh water and shelter, and there's gra.s.s under that snow, even if it is frozen. They're in good shape." She looked at him. "I can't say the same for you. What are you doing riding out in this mess with no more of a coat than that? I'll bet you've got your regular suit on under it."

He shrugged off the question. What would Abbie understand about his need to prove himself to Jackson and the other men? "I've been through worse at sea," he said. "At least here the land doesn't pitch about beneath your feet."

"No, only the horses do that."

He glanced at her and saw she was smiling above the red scarf. He hadn't noticed what a nice smile she had before. The expression of good humor lit her eyes and brightened her whole face. Merely looking at her made him feel a little warmer.

"We'd better go," he said. "Too much longer and I'm not sure we could find our way back."

"I think it's probably already too late to try to make it back."

Reg looked around. Snow still fell steadily, piling up in tall drifts on the edges of the canyon. The cattle had spread out across the area, but not a single cowboy was in sight.

"They probably thought we were right behind them," Abbie said. She scanned the canyon walls. "We'll have to find somewhere around here and wait for the worst of the storm to pa.s.s."

Chapter Six.

Abbie guided Toby along a narrow path next to the canyon wall. Reg fell in behind her. "We can't stay here," he said. "We'll freeze."

"Should have thought of that before you ran out of the house in that thin coat," she called over her shoulder. Now that she'd had time to think about it, she was getting angry at the Englishman. When she'd first spotted him, nodding off in the saddle, his skin the color of old ashes, she'd felt as if someone had clamped a hand around her heart and squeezed. All she could think of was what if he died? What if he froze to death right in front of her?

Then, while she poured brandy down him and prayed he'd snap out of it, she'd started blaming herself. She knew how tricky the weather could be this time of year why hadn't she thought to warn him about northers? What kind of a teacher was she anyway?

Still, she reasoned now as they picked their way around snow-dusted boulders, who would have thought you'd have to tell a grown man to put on a decent coat?

"What are you doing?" Reg asked. She could hear his teeth chattering in the silence that followed.

"I'm looking for a cave." She tilted her head back and scanned the ledges along the canyon walls. It was snowing harder now; fat flakes melted on her cheeks. "There's lots of them around here. Cougars and bears use them as dens."

"I can't imagine they'd appreciate us dropping in unannounced," he said.

She started to hurl back a sarcastic reply, then looked over her shoulder and saw that he was smiling A tight grimace formed by lips frozen blue, but a smile none-the-less. She turned around again, so he wouldn't see her answering grin. "I thought maybe I'd let you go in first and make sure n.o.body was home," she said. She spotted a shadowed depression in the canyon wall ahead of them. "I think I see a place."

The scooped out place in the wall wasn't very deep; Reg wouldn't even be able to stretch out without exposing his feet to the elements. She dismounted and walked closer for a better look. "Rather small, don't you think?" he asked, walking up beside her.

"Too small for a cougar or a bear." She crouched down and stuck her head inside. "Something was in here at one time; there's a pile of leaves and stuff, like a bed. But I don't think they've been here in a while."

Backing out, she b.u.mped into Reg's legs and almost fell over. He reached down and helped her up. "Careful there," he said.

"Don't worry about me. What about you? How are you feeling?"

He flexed his fingers in the fine leather gloves. "I stopped feeling anything hours ago."

"Here." She pulled the saddlebags and canteen from Toby's back and shoved them into his arms. "Get inside and clear out a place for us. I'll gather some wood for a fire."

He started to protest. "Please?" she said. "This once, let's do something without a debate."

He stiffened, then gave a curt nod. "All right."

The gray pallor had returned to his skin. Alarmed, Abbie realized he'd stopped shaking, one sign that he might be freezing to death. "Hurry up and get out of this wind." She urged him toward the cave. "I'll be back in a jiffy."

It took longer than she'd thought it would to collect a load of deadfall limbs and broken branches. "You shouldn't have brought so much," Reg scolded, coming out to help her.

"I wanted enough to last all night." She knelt and began stacking twigs and branches to start a fire. "I'll go for more in a minute."

Reg grabbed her arm. "What do you mean, all night? I thought we only had to wait out the storm. Will it last that long?"

"It could." She searched through her saddlebags and found a tin of sulfur matches and struck one on the side. Sheltering the flame with her hands, she guided it to the nest of dried leaves and twigs at the base of the fire. "Even if it doesn't, it'll be dark soon. Better to stay put until morning." She watched the flame lick at a curl of peeled bark, then catch. "Don't let that go out," she said to Reg as she rose.

"Where are you going?"

"For more wood."

The snow was falling steadily now, and she had trouble finding wood in the drifts. She'd collected all the bigger pieces during her first search and had to settle this time for half-rotten logs and green limbs she tore from trees. When she staggered back to Reg once more she was relieved to see the fire blazing brightly in the entrance to the cave. Reg crouched before it, warming his hands.

Her skin felt p.r.i.c.kly and numb with cold and the ends of her fingers ached. She wanted nothing more than to sink down beside Reg, but there was still work to do. She dumped her load of wood near the blaze, where it would act as a windbreak and be handy during the night. "I'm going to see to the horses," she called to Reg.

"I'll help." He started to his feet.

"No!" The last thing she needed was Reg wandering off in the storm and getting lost, or falling over frozen at her feet. "Why don't you make some coffee?" she suggested. "The pot's in my saddlebags."

By the time she'd hobbled the horses in a nearby grove, the snowstorm had escalated to a full-fledged blizzard. She squinted into the blinding whirl of flakes, feeling her way along the canyon wall until she came to the cave, and its welcoming blaze. Squeezing in beside Reg, she stripped off her thick gloves and crouched down, holding her hands to the fire and inhaling deeply of the reviving scent of brewing coffee.

When the feeling had returned to her fingers and face, she looked over at Reg. He sat as far away from her as possible in the close confines of the cave, his back pressed against the rock wall, legs drawn up to his chest. He'd stopped shivering, and his moustache had thawed, but he still looked cold, his arms hugging his body, lips compressed in a thin line.

"Are you all right?" She patted the s.p.a.ce beside her. "Move here closer by the fire where you'll be warmer."

He shook his head.

"What is it?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"

He cast her a wary look. "I suppose I'm fortunate your father is not alive to come after me with a shotgun tomorrow," he said. "Unless, of course, you intend to do that yourself."

She frowned. Had the cold affected his thinking? She'd heard incoherence was a sign of someone freezing to death. Alarmed, she leaned toward him. "Reg, what are you talking about?"

He cleared his throat, avoiding her gaze. "You will, of course, be thoroughly compromised by spending the night alone with me."

She sat back on her heels, still staring at him. "Compromised?" The word wasn't one she'd heard used much. Then its meaning struck her. "Oh!" She felt a blush heat her cheeks. "But we aren't doing anything!" she protested. "We're just trying to survive."

He glanced at her. "Then you won't insist I marry you?"

"M. . . marry you?" She choked on the words.

He raised one eyebrow and gave her a long look. "More than one woman has been known to trap a man by such means."

"Well, I'm not like that. You can put that out of your head right now. Besides, I'm going to marry Alan Mitch.e.l.l, remember?"

He nodded slowly, his shoulders relaxing some.

"Good. Then there's no need for either of us to worry." She reached for her saddlebags, hoping to hide the trembling in her hands. Marry Reg? Just because they'd spent one night in a cave together? The idea was preposterous.

As she fumbled with the buckles of the bag, she was aware of him seated mere inches away. She could hear his breathing in the stillness of their shelter. The intimate sound sent a tingle up her spine. Surely it was just the after-effects of the cold. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves, and inhaled the male scents of leather and fine men's cologne, along with the aroma of roasted coffee.

Ignoring the sudden racing of her heart, she pulled her tin cup from her saddlebags. "Do you want some coffee?" she asked. "There's only one cup, but we can share." She spotted the silver flask of brandy and pulled it out also. Maybe the liquor would ease this sudden jumpiness she felt.

"Yes, coffee sounds good."

She filled the cup, then added a generous dollop of brandy and handed it to Reg. She watched as he drank, for the first time noticing the p.r.i.c.kle of beard dusting his chin and throat. Before, she'd only thought of him as Reg, the caustic Englishman she'd agreed to help.

But he was also a man. A man with dark, curly hair that looked soft as silk. A man whose full, sensuous mouth had once placed a lingering kiss upon her hand. A man fully capable of 'compromising' her out here in the wilderness. Had he said that because it was something he wanted, or something he feared?

"I was thirstier than I thought," he said, returning the cup.

She looked away, and poured coffee for herself, adding the brandy with a free hand. "The cold's like that. Dries you out without your knowing about it." She took a warming sip from the cup and settled back against the wall.

They didn't speak for a while after that. The only sounds were the crackle of the fire, and the moan of blowing snow. Abbie stared into the flames, savoring the pleasant lightheadedness from the brandy she'd drunk.

"Why Alan Mitch.e.l.l?" Reg asked after a while, pulling her from a doze.

"Huh?" She started and gave him a puzzled look. "What are you talking about?"

"Why are you so set on marrying Alan Mitch.e.l.l?"

She straightened and stretched her stiffened limbs. "He's good, and kind," she said after a moment. "And he's a good rancher." She squirmed. She'd never had to put her feelings for Alan into words before.

"I notice you don't mention anything about love." Reg took the empty coffee cup from beside her and refilled it from the pot.

She looked up and found him watching her, his dark eyes mirroring the glow of the fire. "Well, of course I love him." But was the affection she felt for Alan anything more than friendship? "The best kind of love grows out of friendship," she said firmly.

"You talk like an expert on the subject," he said. "Or is that another of your father's teachings?"

"No, it's my own observation." She looked away from his challenging gaze, into the fire. Her father had never had much to say on the subject of love and romance. When, as a young girl, she had dared to ask him about his feelings for her mother, he had dismissed her question with an impatient shrug. "Don't waste time dwelling on the past," he'd said. "You must always look to the future."

"I wouldn't worry if I were you."