Proving Herself Read online

  Appropriate advice, that.

  What was he doing?

  The girl blushed, then readjusted her hold on him and slid partly off his lap, stretching for the stirrup to escape him. At that sensation, Collier blushed too. He quickly slid his foot out of the way of her smaller, filthier boot.

  Then, when she slipped, he found himself with an armful of cowgirl yet again. The cow itself was now grazing at the end of its lead, looking as docile as a beast with such de­monic horns could ... but it was better that they not push their luck.

  Miss Garrison's hair smelled lovely. Like pine trees, moun­tain flowers, and rainwater—and mud. Only slightly like cow.

  Clinging to him, all damp curves and warmth, she finally found the stirrup. Then she swung behind him, as proper as they might manage at the moment, despite one of her arms being draped loosely about his waist.

  Not as improper as they'd been.

  That she said nothing in the face of their transgression nod­ded either toward her upbringing or her unease. Collier owned that responsibility. "Please accept my apology for my boldness. I do not normally behave so."

  The voice behind him asked, "You think I do?"

  Was there any way he could not insult this girl? "No. I could tell you do not."

  He felt her shift, felt her fingers press slightly against his waist and her chin brush his arm as she leaned around him. "You could? How?"

  By turning his head and slanting his gaze, he could glimpse one of her curious, suspicious blue eyes.

  He wanted to see her mouth. Thinking it better that he did not, he turned forward again. "Trust me."

  "I don't know you, Mr. Pembroke." He did feel the fool, not introducing himself for so long. "Or is it Lord Pembroke?"

  He liked the way her words felt, so near his spine. "Lord Collier, actually. But only as a courtesy."

  "Really?"

  "Yes." He noticed that she'd not agreed to trust him.

  "Well, my word. Lord Collier."

  "For all that Americans claim to abhor aristocracy, you cer­tainly are impressed by the most token of titles."

  "Did I say I was impressed?"

  So impertinent! So why did Collier want to laugh? Other than the unbelievably blue, sunny sky above him and the mountain air crisp in his lungs at midsummer? Other than how lovely this girl's kisses had tasted, no matter how im­probable or unwise?

  "So are we stranded here, tied to a cow?" he demanded, as a distraction. "Or do you know how to end this little stand­off? You being the better rancher than I."

  "Hand me the lariat," she said. "Please."

  "The what?"

  "Tied to the saddle horn. Connecting us to the cow."

  "Ah. The rope." When he didn't untie the rope fast enough for her, her two muddy arms wrapped around him and fum­bled at it too, getting in his way. "Excuse me. I know a few knots."

  "Fine." And she accepted the lariat as he freed it. "Now ride closer to the cow."

  He waited.

  "Please."

  So he did, and she began the job of jiggling the loop loose from the cow's horns, which, unfortunately, jiggled her against Collier's back as well. He desperately searched for distraction. "So what does impress you?" he asked. "If not titles."

  From what time he had spent in America, he'd met far more young ladies with Cinderella dreams than not.

  "I hadn't given it much thought." A particularly violent shake of the rope rocked her against him. He gritted his teeth. "A hard worker, I guess."

  "A laborer?" That seemed about as far from a Cinderella dream as one could imagine.

  "And an American," she added archly. "Preferably from Wyoming, though I could make an exception for a man from Montana, I suppose. Maybe Idaho. As long as he knows cat­tle."

  "Then why ever did you kiss me?" he demanded.

  "I don't know," she admitted. "You did help rescue me." To his relief, she at last slipped the lariat off the cow's long horns. Then she began to reloop the rope, which incited more wiggling. "I hope not to need rescuing in the future."

  "You will if you fraternize with beasts like this," he noted. "How many of them do you own?"

  She said nothing. She even stopped looping the rope.

  "Aren't you starting some sort of ranch?" At her continued stillness, he even twisted around in the saddle to look at her.

  She ducked her head, then mumbled, "None."

  "Excuse me?"

  "None. I don't have any cattle yet."

  "Not even this one?"

  "It's my father's. I just have my horse and my land."

  "Even I know that one needs livestock to produce more livestock," he pointed out, an attempt at delicacy.

  "And I will," she insisted. "Once I can afford some. There. Now we can go get your mare. If you please, Lord Collier."

  Guiltily, he remembered the beautiful, borrowed thorough­bred Alexandra had offered him. Refusing it as anything other than a loan took almost more self-control than he had, so he called the mare Foolish Pride.

  Thoughts of Alexandra distracted him even from Miss Gar­rison's sarcasm as, finally, he figured it out. "Good Lord."

  "I am not calling you Good Lord Collier."

  What? "No, of course not. I believe I know why Alexandra sent me to see you."

  "She sent you to see me?"

  Collier guided the pony down the hill, glad to spot his mare watching them warily some distance away. "She sent me here. I assume you're the person I'm most likely to have met. So..."

  "She really sent you to see me? But why? That's not proper, is it? I mean, we weren't, but..." Wisely, she fell silent.

  "Yes, that bit was wholly unexpected," he agreed. Enjoya­ble or not. "No, I believe she wants me to invest in your ranch."

  The prettiest man Laurel had ever seen had kissed her.

  And she'd sure kissed him.

  And now ... "You're investing in ranches?" she asked war­ily. She'd already used up her savings repairing the cabin, which was why she'd needed the bank loan. But banks weren't people....

  "I hope to do business during my time in Wyoming."

  "I thought you were just a remittance man."

  He stiffened but said nothing.

  She'd taken his help. She'd kissed his soft lips. But some­how, this time Laurel summoned the willpower to do the right thing. "Well, I appreciate Lady Cooper's kindness, but if you were hoping to invest in my ranch, I can't accept."

  "I wasn't," clarified the Englishman—rather rudely, she thought—as they reached his horse.

  She scooted back on Snapper's hindquarters, transferring her grip to the saddle's cantle, so that the Englisher could dismount without kicking her. "You don't want to invest in my ranch?"

  "Of course not. You are, after all, a woman."

  Only her father's strict training around animals kept Laurel from grasping the fancy boot that went by her and pushing the Good Lord Collier off her horse headfirst. Then, when he reached the ground properly, caught his mare's reins, and glanced back up with those bright, bright eyes, she realized he was teasing her.

  She flushed—but she kind of liked it. It was almost as if he agreed how foolish such ideas were. Who would've thought?

  Silly saddle or not, he was clearly a horseman, too. Pem­broke murmured to his mare, held her bridle, and drew her attention patiently back to him even when she stared, star­tled, off toward the mountains. But Laurel didn't like admir­ing him.

  She pulled herself forward and into her mustang's empty, warm saddle. She took satisfaction in thrusting her boots into the stirrups again, taking the reins. "Well, I couldn't accept."

  Not as long as Papa threatened to pull her off the claim.

  "I do not believe I offered." Pembroke swung himself onto the thoroughbred with far more grace than should be possi­ble, especially with the stirrups hanging so short.

  Laurel winced to see just how muddy she'd gotten his suit.

  "Would you have offered? If I didn't say no first?"

 
"Really, I couldn't say."

  More courtesy. She preferred the banker's honest conde­scension. "Try some honesty," she suggested, too bold with this man but unable to stop herself. He wasn't like the fellows who'd started mooning around her ever since she went to long skirts. His clothes and speech and posture and saddle made him something wholly apart from her world, somehow not as threatening—on the range, anyhow.

  Kisses aside.

  Looking slightly down at her, saddle to saddle, he said, "I am sorry, but I'd hoped for a better-established business."

  There. Was that so hard? "I'd turn you down if you did."

  His eyes flared, but otherwise he kept that unruffled air about him. Then everything is as it should be."

  She nodded. But it didn't feel as it should be.

  "Shall I escort you home, Miss Garrison?" Laurel guessed he asked from some misplaced, gentlemanly duty.

  "No," she assured him. "But thank you for helping with the cow. I'm not sure—" Oh, this was hard. "I'm not sure I would have managed alone."

  "You might surprise yourself," he said, then ducked his head. "In fact, for the sake of reputation, it might be best if we weren't to speak of..."

  Oh, golly. She'd kissed him! "I'll forget it if you will."

  "Perhaps it's for the best," he agreed.

  "Papa doesn't take real kindly to things like that."

  Lord Collier blinked at her, as beautiful in confusion as in his other expressions. "He dislikes gentlemen assisting you?"

  Now she stared—until he shut his eyes in realization. "Ah! You meant the, uh ..."

  "What else should we keep on the quiet other than that?"

  He squinted at her. "That I helped with manual labor."

  Surprised, Laurel laughed aloud. "Can't let that get abroad!"

  He looked relieved. "Exactly."

  But she thought, as he reined his thoroughbred away from her, that she wouldn't be forgetting either the kiss or the help anytime soon—even if Lord Collier wasn 't the sort of man to impress her.

  Despite how he seemed to float on horseback.

  * * *

  Alexandra's head came up in surprise when Collier passed the parlor en route to the stairs. "Good heavens! Did she throw you?"

  For a moment, Collier wasn't certain whether she meant the mare or the cowgirl.

  "Yes," he answered, choosing the latter for his own strained amusement. "She did."

  And he climbed the stairs for a change of clothes.

  Chapter Four

  When he'd first arrived in the United States, Collier traveled to San Antonio, in Texas, to meet a college friend and play polo in San Pedro Park. Capt. Glynn Tourguard had offered him a position on his ranch—all of his trainers were English­men. Collier, though oddly flattered, had turned him down. If he hoped to convince his father to accept him back to Brambourne, he had to. Pembrokes did not work for wages.

  Eventually, though, inertia had begun to drain him as surely as did the ungodly summer heat. As desperate to re­claim his sense of purpose as to escape the Texas summer, Collier had accepted Alexandra Cooper's invitation to Wyo­ming.

  But that inertia had begun to creep up on him again here.

  By mid-July, Collier stopped telling people he was in Wy­oming for business, for fear they would ask after his success. By late July he sought legal help to locate even a modest investment opportunity, since the bankers proved of no use.

  A modest opportunity was all he could afford.

  "Not that you're impoverished," insisted the lawyer. He was

  Miss Laurel Garrison's older brother. A family photograph hung on his wall. Collier tried not to stare at the pictured sister—one of many—with the intriguing tilt of determination to her chin.

  "I've had dealings with other remittan—second sons, over the last few years," explained Thaddeas Garrison. "Generally they get more than this."

  "The rest is to live on," Collier reminded him evenly. Unlike some British expatriates, he understood at least the rudiments of budgeting. Once the Coopers moved on, he would do well to afford a boardinghouse. How many lonely, degrading weeks would it take before he, like many true remittance men, started living from check to check, seeking solace in drink, and reducing himself to squalor?

  Garrison nodded with something that looked like grudging approval. "The problem is, most operations that could use what you're offering are one-horse spreads. Small ranches... maybe some mining claims, which are even worse invest­ments. They won't earn enough to survive on for a few years, much less pay dividends."

  Collier had gathered that much. "What about without ex­pecting a profit?" Once, the idea would never have occurred to him, much less firmed itself into words. This was Brambourne's money, after all.

  But it was also his reputation. Better to lose every pound than to report an inability even to invest it... to admit that the money from home was, in fact, nothing more than a re­mittance.

  Even to himself.

  Thaddeas Garrison exhaled—almost a snort—and shook his head. "This is about saving face?"

  "As I said, what if turning a profit were not my main crite­ria?" prompted Collier evenly.

  For a moment he thought the lawyer would order him out. But apparently he overcame his prejudices—with effort.

  "Well, you still have to start small. And find someone trust­worthy. I'm guessing you don't want the reputation of being defrauded, even if you don't care about the profit. There are people around here who wouldn't mind cheating an English­man."

  "Do you have any suggestions?"

  "Pembroke, I am not going to help you lose money."

  Then what in bloody hell am I supposed to do? Collier took a long, deep breath. He would not embarrass himself further. "Thank you for your honesty," he said, then pushed his chair back. "How much do I..." But even as he began the ques­tion, Collier again noted the portrait on the wall, the girl with the heart-shaped face, big eyes, wide mouth, and mischie­vous determination.

  A desperate choice, true.

  "Pembroke?" asked Thaddeas Garrison. "You okay?"

  No. He was desperate. "How much do I owe you?"

  "I didn't do anything," protested Garrison.

  "You gave me almost an hour of your time." Collier frowned. "I am not ready for charity quite yet."

  "I don't know how you do things in England," warned the young lawyer, leaning forward. "But in Wyoming we charge for honest work, not for talking."

  Bemused, Collier spread his hands to show the matter fin­ished. Americans took offense at the oddest things. "If I in­sulted you, I apologize. I meant only to pay my own way."

  "If you're going to last around here," warned the lawyer, "you'll pay your own way, all right."

  As if lasting around here were high on Collier's list of goals. But having something about which to write home—some­thing that sounded hopeful, no matter how hollow—that, he wanted.

  And he knew where to get it.

  Laurel almost refused Lady Cooper's luncheon invitation. Not that she disliked the woman. Didn't understand her, maybe, nor Uncle Benj's reasons for marrying up with an Englisher, no matter how pretty. But disliked? Well, Laurel disliked her world of tea parties, fancy gowns, and high manners. But that was because she always felt big and clumsy in that world, no matter how small she really was.

  Sitting across a white tablecloth from Collier Pembroke, she felt all the clumsier. His white summer suit, complete with starched collar, was as fashionable as his neatly slicked-back hair. Duded up like a mail-order catalog on foot, her father would say, but on him it looked somehow sleek and attrac­tive. His heavily lashed eyes seemed particularly bright in the sunny dining room. When he smiled, he lit the room.

  How did one make small talk after having kissed?

  Apparently Lord Collier knew the secrets of making small talk after even the most inappropriate of kisses. Or warnings.

  "Has anybody attended the theater recently?" he asked, his voice richer than the fine soup Laurel
was careful to scoop away from and not toward her. Her mother had taught ..her the rudiments of polite dining, after all!

  "Why, just the other month, in Denver, we saw a fine per­formance," drawled Uncle Benj. And, as Laurel's father often pointed out, once his partner started talking, everyone else could give their jawbones a holiday. While Uncle Benj de­scribed the play, Laurel sneaked another peek across her mother's dining room table at Lord Collier, and she felt in­adequate.

  She might be the better rancher, but he was clearly the winner at polite soup eating.

  "Why don't you tell us about this ranch of yours, darlin'?" asked Uncle Benj, as the maid showed up to clear their dishes. When Lady Cooper cleared her throat he added, "Af­ter we retire to the parlor like civilized folks, that is."

  Young Alec said, "Yes, do tell us, Laurel!"

  Even Lord Collier looked interested.

  But Laurel couldn't think of what she would say, other than that she had a month, maybe two, before she would lose her land.

  And that hurt too much to think, much less put into words!

  In the parlor, Lady Cooper played piano, Uncle Benj told Laurel how wonderful she was, and Lord Collier mainly watched. That unsettled her more than anything else.

  "I wish I could file on my own claim," announced Alec, swinging his feet. "I love the Circle-T, but it's already... done."

  "Is that a bad thing?" asked Lord Collier.

  "Laurel gets to create something all her own."

  "And you get something solid," the Englishman replied. "Something created by your father, and his father before him, and—"

  "Just me," Uncle Benj interrupted, grinning. "And Jacob and Lillabit. The Circle-T’s only existed twenty-odd years."

  Laurel tried to turn the conversation. "I suppose that your family's estates are pretty old then, Co—Lord Collier?"

  "Yes," he echoed, an odd bitterness in his voice. "Pretty old indeed."

  She flushed and looked away.

  After what seemed like forever, Lady Cooper finished her piano piece and said, "Benjamin, would you be so good as to have our horses saddled, so that we might all take some fresh air?"

  "I can help," said Laurel quickly, gratefully.