"Daddy insisted on seeing her back to your place. I told them to wait for us there."

They stopped at the cave while Abbie went inside and retrieved her saddle bags. Alan kicked snow over the dwindling fire, then they remounted and headed out of the canyon.

They rode single file, horses nose to tail, taking turns breaking the trail through the heavy drifts. Though the wind kicked up swirls of flakes around them, new snow had stopped falling. In the frosty light of a half moon, the land looked soft, smothered in down. The snow m.u.f.fled the sounds of the horses' shod hooves and swallowed up all noise but the huffing breath of the laboring animals and the creak of stiffened leather saddles.

Alan paused from time to time to study the sky. Reg realized he was using the stars to guide them home. He tilted his own head back. The bright star Isis winked back at him from the eye of Draco, the dragon tail of the constellation curved around the Little Dipper. How many nights had he stood on deck and watched this same pattern of stars in the sky overhead? Finding them here now was like seeing a friend's face in a crowd of strangers. When it came his turn to take the lead, he did so with confidence. He may not have known all there was to know about surviving in this rugged land, but his years at sea had taught him to read the sky like a map. If necessary, he could have found his way home unaided.

Abbie's cabin glowed like a lit jewel box, golden light pouring from every window, spilling out onto the snow. As the line of riders rode into the yard in front of the cabin, Reg heard barking. The front door burst open and Banjo raced out, followed by Maura. "I've been worried nigh to death," she said, over the dog's joyous cries. She held aloft a beaded rosary. "I've about worn the beads smooth with prayin'."

Brice Mitch.e.l.l came to help Alan's men lead the horses toward the barn. Maura shooed Abbie and Reg and Alan inside. "I've a great roaring fire going, and a pot of stew that'll be warming your bones up right," she said.

The warmth of the house hit Reg like a blanket, draining his last reserves of strength. He managed to slip the heavy coat from his shoulders, then sank into the chair Maura offered him by the stove. Maura shoved a mug of brandy-laced coffee into his hand, and he drank it in one long, greedy draught.

Warm and sated, he listened, half-dozing, to the swirl of conversation around him. Brice and the others came in from the barn, like rowdy school boys followed by a swirl of snow. They laughed and slapped each other on the back, jostling for a place in front of the stove.

Maura fluttered among them, distributing bowls of stew, refilling cups. Her lilting Irish voice was a pleasant melody over the men's deeper tones.

Abbie left the room and returned a few moments later, dressed in trousers and a man's white flannel shirt, the tails left out, hanging almost to her knees. Wisps of hair escaped from the braids piled atop her head, framing her face like a bronze halo. Reg smiled at the sight of her. Maura might have the pink and white prettiness of a Botticelli cherub, but Abbie looked more like an angel to him. Who else but an angel would have saved him tonight?

His thoughts were rambling wildly, he knew, but he hadn't the energy to reign them in. He watched Abbie move among the men gathered around the stove and felt again that awareness of her he'd experienced when they were alone in the cave. In that cramped, cold shelter he'd counted every breath she drew, felt her every movement in his bones.

Even so, her kiss had caught him unawares. The wanton pa.s.sion of her action had made his heart race and his blood heat to a fever pitch. Yet when he'd looked at her again he'd seen only innocence. She hadn't been brought up to think of what she was doing as wrong. Abbie had responded to him with a yearning as real and honest as breathing.

Abbie's father may have raised her as a boy, but he hadn't been able to smother the woman's heart within her. The glimpse she'd given Reg today of that part of herself moved him at the same time it made him wary. He'd have to make certain Abbie understood that nothing more would come of their brief indiscretion.

"Alan, I was wondering if you could stop by for a spell one evening next week. I need your advice on something." Abbie's voice pulled Reg from his musings. She was seated next to Alan on a long bench pulled up beside the stove. Cheeks flushed, lips slightly parted in antic.i.p.ation of his answer, she leaned toward the rancher.

"Advice? Since when did you need my advice on anything?" Alan gave her a sleepy grin.

Abbie shifted on the bench and stared down at her folded hands. "I, um, I'm thinking of buying a new horse and I want your opinion on some things."

"You don't need my advice," Alan said. "You know horses as good as any man I ever met."

"Come and you can stay for dinner." Abbie glanced at Maura, who was adding another stick of wood to the stove. "I'm sure Maura won't mind."

At the mention of the Irish maid, Alan raised one eyebrow slightly. "Well, now, it might be nice to sit and visit with you girls for a spell at that," he drawled.

Abbie sat back and sighed. She continued to smile at Alan, her face glowing. Reg's stomach tightened. How could Alan be so ignorant of Abbie's feelings for him?

"I've never seen a storm this fierce." Maura came and sat on the bench on the other side of Alan. "And it came on so sudden."

Alan nodded. "Still and all, I'm grateful for the moisture. It's been entirely too dry for my liking this year. Without more rain, the gra.s.s won't last through the summer."

"Then we'll just have to burn pear," Abbie said.

"Won't matter if the tanks dry up," Alan said.

Reg struggled to make sense of this exchange. How could burning fruit help the gra.s.s grow? And what kind of tanks was Alan talking about? Water tanks? He didn't recall seeing any on his ranch.

He stared into his half-empty coffee cup, as if he might divine the answers to his questions in the cooling brown liquid. So much he needed to know, and so little time to learn. He couldn't afford many more mistakes like the one he'd made today.

"You're right about the storm coming up fast, though." Alan turned toward Maura. "They say if you don't like Texas weather, wait a minute and it'll change. Daddy and I had just come in from seeing to our own herds when you rode up. I knew something had to be wrong to bring you out in that weather."

"It was sweet of you to worry, but it really wasn't necessary." Abbie leaned over and gave Maura's hand a squeeze. "Reg and I were fine."

"But I didn't know you was with Mr. Worthington at the time." Maura flashed Reg a grin. "If I had I'm sure I wouldn't have worried so much."

"I don't know when I've met a braver young woman," Alan said, beaming at Maura.

Of course, Abbie had braved the blizzard first, to save her own animals and then to help him, Reg thought. Or did Alan not think of Abbie as a young woman? He shifted his gaze from the rancher to Abbie. She was still smiling fondly at Alan despite his unwitting snub. Reg felt his heart sink. Abbie was as besotted as ever with his friend, but from what he could tell, Alan felt nothing in return. In fact, all indications pointed to a growing infatuation with Maura.

As if feeling his gaze upon her, Abbie turned toward him. Her lips curved in a sleepy smile lips that had pressed against his own only a few hours ago. He knew he should look away, avoid encouraging any lingering attraction she might feel. Today in the cave, he'd glimpsed the volatile emotions smoldering beneath her almost masculine practicality. Abbie was a banked fire; at the touch of a right man, she'd blaze.

Reg knew he wasn't the man to warm himself at that fire. In a few months, he'd return to his gentleman's life in England. Abbie belonged here in Texas, with a man who could share her love of ranching.

A man like Alan Mitch.e.l.l.

He shifted his gaze to Alan, who was still deep in conversation with Maura. What would happen if all his efforts at turning Abbie into a 'lady' did not help her win Alan's notice? Would she blame him for her unrequited love?

Would he have to add Abbie to his growing list of failures?

Reg awoke the next morning to an awareness of someone else in his bedroom. He opened his eyes and stared up at a short, rounded form looming over him. He blinked and the image sharpened into that of his housekeeper. He sat upright. "Mrs. Bridges, what are you doing in my chambers?"

The elderly woman blushed to the shade of a ripe raspberry. "There's a man here to see you," she said. She turned even redder. "A colored man. He refuses to leave the parlor until I fetch you."

Reg leaned forward and plucked his dressing gown from the end of the bed. "What does he want to see me about?"

She shook her head. "He won't say. But he asked me half a hundred questions about my kitchen. Impertinent, he was."

"All right then. Tell him I'll be down momentarily. And please bring a pot of tea into the dining room."

"He asked for coffee." She sniffed.

"Tea, Mrs. Bridges."

"Yes, sir." She sailed out of the room on a wave of offended dignity. Reg dressed, trying to shrug off the weariness that plagued him like a hangover. It couldn't have been much more than five hours since he'd made the cold ride back to the Ace of Clubs from Abbie's house. The newly fallen snow made the Texas prairie look like a wedding cake, thick with frosting. He hoped the cows and calves had managed to survive the night in the canyon. As soon as he dispensed with the man in his parlor, he'd ride out to check on them.

A man with a blacksmith's shoulders and skin the color of walnut sh.e.l.ls stood when Reg entered the parlor. He held a flop-brimmed black felt hat in his hands. A faded feed sack bulging with unidentifiable objects rested at his feet. "Mister Worthin'ton, suh,' he said before Reg had a chance to speak. "Ah'm here for the cook's job."

Reg paused halfway across the room. Mrs. Bridges did an adequate job preparing his meals. What made this man think he wished to replace her? "I already have a cook," he said.

"Beggin' pardon, suh. I was made to understand the position was still open." He squared his jaw and nodded. "Miss Abbie sent me; she was right certain about it."

Reg groaned and crossed to the wing chair by the window. Abbie again. Was there no escaping the woman? "I'm afraid Miss Waters was indeed mistaken," he said. "Mrs. Bridges cooks and keeps house for me."

As if on cue, the door flew open and Mrs. Bridges marched in, bearing a loaded tea tray. She glared at the visitor, and set the tray on a low table before Reg. "Will there be anything else, Mr. Worthington?" she asked.

Reg shook his head, then waited until Mrs. Bridges had stalked out of the room before pouring the tea. He carefully added two lumps of sugar, and a dollop of cream to his cup. He was stirring this brew when he heard a loud chuckle from his visitor's direction. "What do you find so amusing?" he asked, giving the man a sharp look.

"That old hen ain't gonna cook for no crew of cowboys, that fo' sho'."

Reg frowned. "Of course not. The men do their own cooking."

"Not on round-up they don't." The man shook his head. "But maybe I mis-heard. I thought Miss Abbie said you was furnishin' a chuck wagon this year."

Understanding slowly dawned. Did furnishing the wagon and food mean he was also supposed to supply a cook to prepare the meals? "So you're a chuckwagon cook?" he asked.

"I cooked for Miss Abbie's pa." He took a step closer and peered down at Reg's teacup. "I kin brew up a batch of coffee that'd wake the dead."

"I would prefer the dead stay safely asleep." Reg sipped his tea, considering. If Abbie had sent this man, he knew better than to ignore her judgment. Still, he was the one who'd pay if the man turned out to be incompetent. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Clarence Green. But most folks jus' call me Cooky."

"Well, Mr. Green, what other qualifications do you have for the job, besides the ability to brew strong coffee?"

"I can show you." Green walked over to the feed sack and hefted it to his shoulder. "I got my tools right here."

"Your tools?" Reg raised one eyebrow in question.

"My knives and frying pan, rollin' pin, and a few other things I use." He shook his head. "Don't trust other folks' tools. Half the time the knives are dull as spoons and the fryin' pans ain't seasoned proper." He threw out his chest, muscles straining the faded fabric of his shirt. "Jus' show me the kitchen and I'll fix you a breakfast better'n you ever had."

An hour later, Reg was enjoying a three-inch high stack of what Green described as "flapjacks", along with half a rasher of thick-sliced bacon and fluffy eggs cooked in b.u.t.ter. He'd enjoyed his share of Cordon Bleu cuisine in his time, but none had satisfied as this plain fare did. He'd be sure to thank Abbie for sending Green his way.

Mrs. Bridges having accepted the rest of the day off in exchange for the use of her kitchen, there was no one to announce Tuff Jackson's arrival. The foreman stalked into the dining room with his usual bravado and helped himself to the pot of coffee that sat, untouched, on the sideboard.

Reg fought the urge to confront Tuff about abandoning him and Abbie in the canyon. He had his doubts that they'd been left behind purely by accident. But he didn't see how he could accuse the foreman without admitting his own incompetence. "How are the cattle?" he asked instead.

Tuff turned one of the dining room chairs around and straddled it, then poured a measure of coffee into his saucer and blew on it. "They're all right." He took a sip of the cooled coffee. "Only lost half a dozen calves."

Reg frowned. Every calf lost was profit the ranch would never see. If they'd gotten the cattle to the canyon sooner, would they have been able to save more? He laid aside his fork and shook his head. No good would come of brooding over past mistakes. "The Lazy L and the Rocking W will be working with us during the round up," he said.

Tuff nodded. "There's some decent hands there, though I don't trust those Mexicans over at Waters' place as far as I could throw them." He drained the last of his coffee and set the cup and saucer down with a thump. "I heard about Alan Mitch.e.l.l riding out last night to rescue you."

Reg stiffened. He hadn't missed the derisive tone of Tuff's words. "Mr. Mitch.e.l.l came at the insistence of Miss Waters' maid," he said. "There was no need. We were perfectly fine."

"That's right. Abbie Waters was with you, wasn't she? I heard you two was snuggled up in a cave, real cozy-like." He leered at Reg. "I always wondered about her. Acts like a man, but I reckon all women are the same once you get their clothes off, huh?"

China cups rolled to the floor and shattered as Reg shot up. He glared down at the foreman. What he would give to teach this oaf some manners. But a fight would give Jackson the perfect excuse to leave. That's what he wants isn't it? Reg thought. Why else would he be baiting me?

"You'll show Miss Waters the respect due a lady or you'll answer to me," he said, his voice heavy with menace.

"Since when is Abbie Waters a lady?" Tuff shoved away from Reg and gave a harsh laugh. "You might as well try to turn some grizzled old cowpuncher into a Knight of the Round Table as make the likes of her into a lady."

Reg clenched and unclenched his fists. What made Tuff so sure Abbie was irredeemable? Couldn't he see the tender woman beneath her rough exterior? Or did it take a stranger to this land to recognize her potential?

He gave Tuff a withering look. "I would never have mistaken you for a man who had had much a.s.sociation with ladies," he said in his haughtiest voice.

An angry red color washed Tuff's face. "Why I'll "

"What the devil is goin' on in here?" The door swung open and Clarence Green stalked in, flour-covered rolling pin raised in one hand. He surveyed the broken dishes on the floor, then turned to the two men squared off in front of him. "If you be wantin' more flapjacks, why don't you jus' say so, 'stead of fightin' over 'em?"

Tuff's gaze swept over the cook, taking in the white ap.r.o.n tied around his waist, and the streak of flour across his nose. "Who is he?" he demanded.

"Cooky to you, cowboy," Green answered. "That is, if you 'spect to eat at my chuckwagon."

Tuff took a step back, then scowled at Reg. "I won't eat anything cooked up by the likes of him."

Reg took a deep breath, struggling for calm. "Then I guess you won't eat," he said evenly. "I've hired him to cook on this round up."

"You can't do that," Tuff protested.

In the silence that followed, Reg could hear the steady tick of the mantle clock over the fireplace, and the whistle of the wind around the corner of the house. "I can and I will," he said after a moment.

"That's the foreman's job," Tuff said. He folded his arms across his chest. "Mr. Grady left those decisions to me."

Reg took two steps toward the foreman, until barely a handspan separated them. "I am the boss here now. From now on I have the final say on all decisions." He glared at Tuff for a long moment, allowing that announcement to sink in.

Tuff stared back at him, nostrils flaring with each enraged breath. But he held his tongue.

"You can choose your course," Reg continued. "You can choose the role of my adviser and prove yourself a valuable a.s.set to this organization, or you can fight me all the way. But I warn you now. You will not win."

A shiver ran down Reg's spine as he stared into the foreman's hate-filled eyes. But he refused to back down.

"We'll see about that," Tuff growled. He turned on his heels and pushed past Green, out the door.

The cook watched him go. "Looks like a bad 'un there, boss," he said.

Reg nodded. Tuff was a bad one, all right. Had he made a mistake alienating the one man who might stand between him and success or failure? He shook his head and moved back to his seat at the table. He had to prove himself here on his own terms. He'd take the blame for his own failures, but he wanted to savor the sweetness of victory as his alone as well.

Chapter Eight.

"For certain, I'll be going on round-up with you." Maura looked up from the skirt she was pressing. "Whatever made you think I'd be wanting to stay home, missing all the fun?"

Abbie frowned. The Irish maid's view of things continued to startle her at every turn. "It's not fun, Maura. It's work. Hard, dirty work."

"Beggin' your pardon, Miss. I'd be knowing all about hard work." She bore down on the iron, pressing perfect, straight pleats down the length of the wool skirt. "I started as scullery maid when I was ten. Up to me elbows in hot water and lye all day, lifting iron pots almost as big as meself, I was." She set the iron on the stove to reheat and picked up a second one. "When I moved upstairs, I thought life would be easier. But if you've never polished nine rooms of baseboards on your hands and knees, you don't know what a sore back is. Then of course, I got to stretch me legs a bit whenever the master came home and felt like a game o'slap and tickle with whatever maid was unlucky enough to be in sight at the time." She looked at Abbie and winked. "Lucky for us the old man suffered from gout somethin' awful. Cook looked out for us girls, always temptin' him with rich foods and such."

Abbie listened to this recitation in awe. "I suppose there are different kinds of hard work," she said. "But I still don't think you'd enjoy a round up."

"If your ownself be going, then I'll be going as well. After all, you can't very well go out there with all those men by yourself."