Titled Texans: Educating Abbie Part 25

He flinched. How could he explain to her his reasons for leaving her behind? He stroked her work-roughened hands, fighting the urge to pull her close, to hold her and kiss her until they'd both forgotten about anything but their need for each other. "Tell me, Abbie," he said softly. "Your father spent his life teaching you to run the ranch, did he not?"

She nodded.

"Would you ever have considered going against his wishes and doing something else, something besides ranching?"

"No. Of course not."

He sighed. "My father instilled in all his sons a desire to please him, to do his will a sense of duty to the family name, he called it. It's something we can't quite shake."

"So if your father wants you to return to England, you will?"

"I'll have no peace unless I do. Not that it will improve his opinion of me, but he will never be able to say that I have not done my duty." Silence stretched like a chasm between them. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was to be leaving, how he wished there was a way he could see her again. But he knew, once he was back in England, his father would have other plans for him. He doubted he would ever return to Texas. He wanted to tell her these things and more, but what good were words in the face of the sorrow he was feeling?

She drew a deep breath, as if gathering her strength, then slipped her hand from his grasp. "You're right. You have to go. I have to stay here. That's all there is to it." She stood and walked to the window, her back to him. "Tell me what it is you need from me in order to drill your well."

For the next half hour, they discussed possible locations for a new well, pump sizes and windmill designs. Abbie gave him the name of a driller to contact. For the right price, Reg hoped he could persuade the man to begin work right away.

Often as they talked, he felt Abbie's eyes on him, searching. When he glanced her way, he saw the hurt he'd never meant to inflict upon her. Why had he ever let things go as far as they had? If only he'd controlled himself. If he'd never laid a hand on her, she wouldn't feel the way she did now.

"I hope it works out for you," she said. Reg wasn't sure if she was speaking of the well, or his return to England. Though her words were encouraging, her voice was heavy with regret.

Banjo's barking interrupted them and they turned to watch Alan's buggy roll up the drive. Was it Reg's imagination, or was Maura sitting closer to Alan than she had been when they'd departed?

Abbie hurried onto the porch, Reg close behind her. Alan set the brake on the buggy and grinned at them. "She said yes," he announced, and put his arm around Maura.

Abbie squealed and ran to hug them both. Reg stood on the porch, watching the scene, understanding beginning to dawn. Alan left the women and came to stand beside him. "You can congratulate me, Reg. Maura has agreed to be my wife."

He clapped Alan on the back. "Congratulations, indeed." He shook hands, smiling all the while, though behind the smile he felt the pinch of envy. If only he were free to make such decisions.

His gaze drifted to Abbie, locked in a joyful embrace with Maura. It hurt to look at her, knowing she could never be his. He was afraid the pain he was feeling now was only a prelude to the misery he'd endure when he did finally leave this place. If regret was any measure of depth of feeling, he had lost his heart to Abbie, in spite of his every effort to resist her.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Abbie agreed to help Maura plan her wedding, though it might as well have been a funeral, for all the sadness weighing her down. She was happy for her friend, but she couldn't escape the feeling that Alan's wedding to Maura, coupled with Reg's looming departure, spelled the end of all her dreams for a husband and children of her own. Alan, the most suitable match for her, loved someone else, and Reg, the man she loved, was determined to leave her.

"I call it a real shame that Mr. Worthington will be leaving us afore the wedding," Maura observed one morning almost two weeks after she and Alan had declared their intention to marry. She and Abbie sat sewing linens for her trousseau.

"Ouch!" Abbie stabbed at the sheet she was attempting to hem and p.r.i.c.ked herself instead. She sucked on the bleeding finger and frowned at the uneven row of st.i.tches before her. Despite Maura's lessons, her sewing ability hadn't improved. "When is it he plans on leaving, Miss?"

Abbie smoothed the sheet over her lap in an attempt to hide her shaking hands. "Today."

"So soon!" Maura sounded alarmed. "Couldn't you persuade him to stay, Miss?"

Abbie shook her head. "I haven't seen him since the day Alan proposed to you." She'd started to ride to him more than once, but she wasn't about to stoop to begging. Her father was right independence was best. She didn't need anyone else.

"Well, I imagine he's been busy, what with the well going in and all." She knotted her thread and neatly clipped it. "Still, if anyone could convince him to stay, I'm thinking it's you, Miss."

Abbie's frown changed to a scowl. "No one can change Reg's mind. He's the most obstinate man I've ever met."

"Now, Miss, Mr. Worthington has been ever so kind to the both of us." She studied Abbie through lowered lashes. "It's been me opinion that he's positively sweet on you."

"Hah!" Abbie tossed aside the sheet and stood. "Reg Worthington is the last man I want to have anything to do with." She began to pace. "I've never known anyone so arrogant in my life. And I could write books about what he doesn't know about ranching."

"Could you now, Miss?" Maura rethreaded her needle. "And what'd be wrong with a man having a little pride?"

"Nothing. Unless he lets his pride get in the way of good sense."

"Oh, you think Mr. Worthington's pride is getting in the way of his good sense, do you now?"

"I don't know if Reg ever had any good sense. If he did, he sure enough wouldn't be high-tailing it back to England just because his father said so."

"Well, maybe you're right, Miss." Maura smiled at the pillowcase she was st.i.tching. "You wouldn't be wanting for common sense yourself. I imagine you and your father disagreed many a time, may the good Lord rest his soul."

Abbie stopped in her third pa.s.s across the room. "No. Daddy and I seldom argued."

"Oh. So you agreed on everything?"

"I learned everything I know from my father. He knew all there was to know about ranching. I respected his judgment. Why shouldn't I agree with him?"

"Well, then maybe Mr. Worthington is feeling the same way about his father. Like he ought to follow his advice and come back home."

"That has nothing to do with it." She resumed her pacing. "Reg told me himself he was only going home because he thought it was his duty to do so."

"Oh." Maura made a row of neat st.i.tches along the edge of the pillowslip. "If that be the case, then perhaps you can find a way to persuade him to stay for the sake of me wedding, of course. What would your dear departed father have done?"

Abbie frowned. What would her father have done, if he had been in her shoes? "Daddy was one for letting people make up their own minds," she said after a moment. "He believed in always standing on your own feet looking after yourself. That way you never needed to ask anyone for help." He taught me to be the same way, she thought. I never needed anyone for anything until now.

"Begging pardon, Miss, but I can't very well walk meself down the aisle. I was counting on Mr. Worthington for that."

I was counting on Reg to stay here and love me. The thought came suddenly, like a sharp pain in her chest.

Maura laid aside her sewing and came and put a hand on Abbie's shoulder. "I know you Texans set a great store by independence," she said softly. "But there's times when it's good to let people know you're needing them. It's a far sight better than ending up alone."

Abbie looked at her maid, wondering at the wisdom behind the words. Had Maura seen all along what Abbie had been afraid to acknowledge that she loved Reg, needed him?

Maura gave her an encouraging smile. "I'd best be checking on the muslin I set to bleach," she said, and walked away, leaving Abbie with a pile of unhemmed sheets, and her own unraveling thoughts.

Reg stood on a small rise overlooking the pasture the cowboys had dubbed "Dugout Draw". Half a mile downhill sat the sod-roofed cabin that served as landmark and namesake for the area. A horse-powered cable drilling rig had been set up beside the cabin. Reg had paid double to persuade the owner of this rig to postpone other projects and come at once to the Ace of Clubs. For the past two days, man and horses had labored, sinking a shaft in search of water.

He watched as the team of horses pulled the drill from the shaft. The driller, Pete Emerson, knocked hard clay from around the drill bit. Even from this distance, Reg could tell the soil was dry as dust.

He sighed and looked away, at his shadow stretched out in front of him. The outline of a broad-shouldered, Stetson-crowned man was sharp against the sandy earth. Anyone seeing the shadow might have supposed the man to be the equal of any cowboy in Texas.

But any cowboy would not have been standing here now, watching his last hope for redemption slipping further away with each dry foot of shaft sunk into the ground before him. Any cowboy would not have made the mistakes that led Reg to this place.

Even the poisoned water hole had been his fault, in a way. If he'd only checked his temper, bit back his anger against Tuff Jackson, he might have avoided the man's hatred, and the subsequent ruin of the water hole.

"Do you think if you stare at it long enough, you'll conjure water out of that hole?"

He whirled and saw Cam striding toward him, a tin pail in his hand. The black stallion stood nearby, tethered to a scrub oak beside Mouse. "Here, Cooky sent this." Cam handed him the pail.

"What is it?" Reg held up what looked to be an old lard bucket.

"'Grub,' he called it. Food." Cam squinted toward the sod cabin. "I don't know why you don't come back to the house where you can eat a decent meal and sleep in your own bed."

Since the arrival of the drilling crew, Reg had been staying in the cabin. "I want to be here when they find water," he said.

"If they find water." Cam looked back at him. "You don't fool me, you know. You're staying out here because you hope it will discourage vandalism."

He didn't answer. There were other reasons he'd retreated to the isolation of the sod house. Out here he was that much further from Abbie, as if by separating himself from her physically, he could somehow come to accept the knowledge that they must always remain apart. These past two nights he'd lain on a narrow cot in the primitive shack, like a monk in his cell, contemplating his sins. He knew his decision to leave Abbie to her life here in Texas was the right one but would he ever overcome the pain it caused him?

He set the pail beside him and looked back toward the well. "They're down to one hundred twenty-five feet now."

"What are you going to do if they don't find water?"

"They'll find it. Emerson says it's there."

"And you believe that hocus-pocus of his with the forked stick?"

Reg sighed. "It's called 'witching.' Local people speak very highly of Emerson's ability to find water."

Cam gave a snort of distaste. "I'm surprised at you, Reg. Resorting to such nonsense."

He crossed his arms over his chest. "I need this well. If a Comanche Medicine Man told me performing a certain dance by the light of a full moon while chanting ancient rhymes would produce water, I'd do it."

"Where's your pride, man?"

"This is all about pride." He raised his head. "I want to go home with this victory to show Father. I want him to see I can succeed on my own terms."

"The only terms Father recognizes are his own."

Reg shook his head. He couldn't dispute Cam's words. But neither could he give up the conviction that someday he would prove himself equal to his father's ideal of perfection.

"When does the train for Galveston leave Fairweather?" Cam asked.

"At two o'clock."

Cam looked alarmed. "That doesn't give you much time."

"No, it doesn't."

They were silent for a while, watching the horses strain against the harness as they turned the drilling machinery and listening to the pop of chain tightening. The shadows shrank as the sun climbed higher in the sky. It's after noon, Reg thought. Less than two hours before I have to leave. Less than two hours to find water, and proof that everything I've done here hasn't been wrong. Less than two hours, and I'll never see Abbie again. He tried to swallow against the sudden tightness in his throat.

"Who's that over there?" Cam pointed and Reg saw a figure on horseback, moving toward them from the west. The man wore a black suit coat and a tan Stetson, and rode a gray horse very much like Mouse.

"It's Tuff Jackson," Reg said after a moment, as the man rode closer.

"h.e.l.lo, Worthington. Or maybe I should say 'Worthingtons.'" Tuff reined his horse in a short distance from them and gave a curt nod.

"What do you want, Jackson?" Reg asked.

Tuff looked over his shoulder at the drilling rig. "I came to see the show." He looked back at Reg and flashed a mocking smile. "I wanted to watch you fail again."

"I say, old chap, what do you know about a water hole that was poisoned near here?" Cam asked.

Tuff kept his eyes on the drilling rig. "I heard about it." He shrugged. "Things like that happen sometimes. A good rancher has to be prepared for anything."

"And you're a good rancher, are you?"

Tuff straightened in the saddle and looked down at his questioner. "I'm one of the best cow men in these parts. You can ask anybody."

"Oh, I have made some inquiries." Cam studied his well-manicured nails. Reg wondered what his brother was up to. "One thing I've discovered is that you don't appear to be doing much work with cows these days. It seems you sold off the cattle you had, and I understand that when the man who bought them offered you a position working for him, you turned him down." He looked Tuff in the eye. "In fact, talk is you've turned down several attractive job offers since leaving the Ace of Clubs."

Tuff scowled. "I ain't interested in working for anybody else these days. I'm looking to buy a place of my own."

"A place like this one, perhaps?"

Tuff shrugged. "It's no secret you'll have to sell if your water dries up. Ain't that right, Lord Reginald?"

Reg ignored the goad. "Is that a new horse, Jackson?" he asked. "I don't believe I've see you on him before."

"Yeah, it's new."

Reg narrowed his eyes. "And the hat didn't you have a black one before?"

Tuff looked nervous. "It was about time I got a new one. What about it?"

The coat was a cheaper imitation of Reg's own. The trousers were like his, too. It was as if the rough cowboy he'd known was gradually transforming into a man like himself. The Texas accent and the tooled-leather boots were the only remnants of the old Tuff. He shook his head in amazement.

"You ain't gonna find water. You might as well quit now. I'll give you a decent price for the place not any more than what it's worth, though."

I should be angry, Reg thought. But the only emotion he could muster was pity. There was a time when he'd have given his right hand for the skills, and the respect, that Tuff had possessed. Now the man was losing the respect, and throwing away any chance of using his skills, all for a dream of being what he could not.

How different are we, really? A s.h.i.+ver ran up Reg's spine at the thought. Tuff wasn't the only one who had set his sights on an un.o.btainable goal. How many years had Reg spent trying to be his father's ideal of the ever-successful son? How much had he thrown away, reaching for that elusive bra.s.s ring those words of approval from a man he both loved and hated?

"Reg, it's quarter past one." Cam snapped shut the lid of his watch and tucked it back into his vest pocket.

He nodded and raised his hat, a signal to Pete Emerson. Emerson stopped the lead horse and hauled up the measuring chain. He looked back at Reg and shook his head.

Reg's shoulders slumped. "Still dry?" Cam asked.