The Texan

“Don’t be angry with me,” she said quietly

When she reached her hand out to touch his back he jerked and she curled her fingers inside her palm. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you.”

He turned and his eyes burned with a dark fire she’d seen before. “You can touch me any damn time you want to, lady. Just know that when you do, it sets off a jolt of lightning inside me and I’m hard-pressed to keep my own hands where they belong.”

“Lightning?” Was that akin perhaps to the tingling sensation his fingers imposed on her when he gathered her close? When his lips touched hers and a flame arced from that spot to the depths of her body?

“Yeah. That’s what I said. I missed you for four days, Miss Augusta. I dreamed of you every time I crawled into bed. Spent some damn restless nights in fact. And you’re such an innocent you don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”

Acclaim for Carolyn Davidson’s recent titles

Maggie’s Beau

“A story of depth and understanding that will touch your heart.”

—Rendezvous

The Bachelor Tax

“From desperate situation to upbeat ending, Carolyn Davidson reminds us why we read romance.”

—Romantic Times

The Tender Stranger

“Davidson wonderfully captures gentleness in the midst of heart-wrenching challenges, portraying the extraordinary possibilities that exist within ordinary marital love.”

—Publishers Weekly

#616 AN HONORABLE THIEF

Anne Gracie

#617 A WILD JUSTICE

Gail Ranstrom

#618 THE BRIDE’S REVENGE

Anne Avery

The Texan

Carolyn Davidson

Available from Harlequin Historicals and

CAROLYN DAVIDSON

Gerrity’s Bride #298

Loving Katherine #325

The Forever Man #385

Runaway #416

The Wedding Promise #431

The Tender Stranger #456

The Midwife #475

*The Bachelor Tax #496

*Tanner Stakes His Claim #513

*†One Christmas Wish #531

“Wish Upon A Star”

Maggie’s Beau #543

The Seduction of Shay Devereaux #556

A Convenient Wife #585

A Marriage by Chance #600

The Texan #615

Other works include:

Harlequin Books

Wild West Brides

“Second Chance Bride”

Writing for Harlequin has been a privilege. Finding friends among the ranks of their historical authors has been a joy. To Cheryl St.John and Deb Hale, I offer my gratitude, for sharing your strength and wisdom over the past years. This book is for all y’all.

And to my manager, Mr. Ed.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Chapter One

If innocence bore a Christian name, it would be Augusta McBride. For there before him was, without a doubt, the most lily-white specimen of womanhood Jonathan Cleary had ever laid eyes on.

Wearing a wide-brimmed, feather-embellished hat over golden hair, and clad in a long-sleeved, up-to-the-neck, fully buttoned dress, she stood on his doorstep, hands folded and reticule drooping from one wrist. Her eyes were wide, blue and wary. Pink and inviting, her lips glistened, and as he watched, he noted the reason for the moisture evident on that lush, full mouth. Her tongue touched her lips briefly, not for the first time, as if the flesh were dry and taut. He watched with male appreciation as that pink, pointed member dampened the skin and then retreated within her mouth.

“As I said, my name is Augusta McBride,” she repeated, as if she’d been reading the lines in a book and had somehow lost her place and must begin again. “I’m here to collect donations for a shelter for…” Her voice trailed off as if she had become aware of the smile he wore, a smile he was certain signaled his approval of her appearance.

The dress she was bundled in covered all her curves sufficiently and did not offer a tempting peek at one square inch of skin, save a part of her throat. And that lack only served to whet his interest in what lay beneath its fabric. Starched percale could not subdue the lift of her full bosom, nor could the dress’s long sleeves hide the perfection of slender fingers and pink, oval nails.

“The shelter for…what?” he asked quietly, commanding his eyes to rest on her rosy cheeks, lest he frighten her away with the full survey he wanted to repeat. He’d only caught a glimpse of her slender form for a moment before his gaze was captured by the perfection of a straight nose and wide-set eyes.

She was lovely, and where she’d been hiding since his arrival in Collins Creek, Texas, was a mystery he wouldn’t mind exploring. For sure, he hadn’t laid eyes on her until three minutes ago.

“The ladies of the community church have purchased a house on the north side of town, sir,” she began, her voice an earnest, soft contralto. “It is designed as a shelter for women who need a place to live until they can…rebuild their lives.”

“Rebuild.” He repeated the word slowly, already dead certain of the problems the women in question might have in doing such a thing. “What’s wrong with their present circumstances?” he asked, frowning a bit, as if he were truly puzzled over her explanation.

“Most of our residents come from a lifestyle that makes them unappealing to most of the citizens of Collins Creek. We are offering them a shelter while they make the appropriate changes that will give them an opportunity to—”

“Unappealing? Are they crippled or disfigured in some way?” he asked, cutting off her faltering explanation. He furrowed his brow, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets as he leaned against the doorpost.

“Oh, no!” she said firmly. “Not in any way.”

“Then I guess I don’t understand their problem,” Cleary said, puzzlement alive in his voice.

She just about had her fingers twisted off, he noted, stifling a grin. Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white, and her eyes sought some destination over his left shoulder as she began a halting explanation.

“These women come to us from various places, several from the Pink Palace just south of town,” she said, allowing her glance to touch his face briefly, as if she sought his understanding.

“The Pink Palace.” He narrowed his eyes and met her apologetic look head-on. “You mean to say you’re in the business of rescuing a bunch of soiled doves?” he asked.

“Um…I believe they’ve been called that. Among other things,” she said quietly.

“And you want me to donate to your cause?”

She nodded quickly, and he watched as the feathers on her hat blew in the breeze. “Well, yes. We’re asking the good folks of Collins Creek to help us in our fight against the evils incarnate in such establishments. Our ladies are only seeking a chance for employment in another—” her hand waved ineffectively as she searched for a phrase “—line of work. Yes,” she said abruptly. “Another line of work.”

“What are they suited for?” he asked, and then stepped back, offering her the opportunity to enter his parlor. “Why don’t you come in, and we can discuss this further?” Her eyes looked past him into the shadowed room and she swallowed, a convulsive movement that drew his attention to the line of her throat, the only spot of pale skin available to his view.

“I don’t think it would be proper of me to step inside your home, sir,” she said, her eyes round, her voice a prim reproof. “I only wanted to offer you an opportunity to aid us in the worthy project we’ve undertaken.”

“Hmm…” His index finger scratched negligently at his jaw and he tilted his head to the side, as if he were seriously considering such a thing. “I suppose I’d need to hear a bit more about your plans, first,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

She glanced up and down the street, where not a soul had ventured on this hot afternoon. “Perhaps you could come out onto your porch,” she offered, a trembling smile forming her pink lips into an invitation.

“Certainly,” he conceded. “I’ll just get us each a glass of refreshment first. Have a seat on the swing, why don’t you?”

He watched as she stepped to where the swing dangled at the end of the porch and then carefully seated herself, allowing her feet to rise from the floor as the swing moved in a gentle rhythm. Her smile in his direction lent wings to his feet as he raced toward the kitchen, where a jar of lemonade stood in the icebox. Pouring two glasses, he placed them on a tray and headed for the front porch.

“Here we go,” he said, allowing the screened door to slam behind him. The tray found a spot on a small wicker table, and Cleary planted himself on the opposite end of the swing. Bending, he fetched a glass for his visitor, then the second for himself.

She swallowed carefully, sipping in a ladylike manner from the glass, and her mouth glistened from the residue. “Thank you so much. I was terribly thirsty. I suppose I didn’t realize what a long walk it was from the middle of town, and I wanted to call on each house, lest I not give everyone the opportunity to help in our worthwhile endeavor.”

“Well, I certainly admire your devotion to the cause,” he said judiciously. “But I suppose I’m having trouble trying to figure out just what line of work your ladies might be capable of training for.”

“We’d like to be sure our ladies know the basics of homemaking,” Augusta began. “And that they would know how to work on a farm or ranch, should we find men available to take them as wives.”

Cleary almost sputtered as he swallowed a mouthful of lemonade. “If you try to pass them off as typical brides, you might have a problem,” he said. “On the other hand, some of the men I’ve known, who are on their own, would welcome most any female creature into their homes. It gets pretty lonely out in the open country where the best a man can do is find a dog to talk to.”

“Well,” she said primly, “we know they aren’t typical brides, but most of them will make wonderful wives, given the chance.”

“I’d say you’ve bitten off quite a challenge,” he told her. “Who all is involved in this business?”

“Why, the minister’s wife and a couple of the ladies who are willing to teach classes to our pupils. And we’ve hired a widow lady to live in and be a chaperon.”

A chaperon. If any group of women on earth were less in need of such a dragon guarding the doorway, he didn’t know where you’d find them. And he’d be willing to bet that those self-same pupils could teach her churchgoing friends a thing or two that might put grins on their husbands’ faces.

“What sort of contribution did you have in mind?” he asked her, and was pleased by the quick smile she shot in his direction.

“Money will do very well,” she told him. “Foodstuffs would come in handy, but I doubt you have an assortment of canning jars filled with fruit or vegetables in your pantry. We need clothing for a few of them whose wardrobes are somewhat limited.”

“I’ll just bet they are,” he murmured beneath his breath, and was delighted as she bent closer to better hear his remark. A line of perspiration touched her temple and a single drop of sweat trickled the length of her jaw. Her eyes were not only blue, he noted, but that color was emphasized by a darker circle rimming it.

“How many ladies do you have at your shelter?” he asked smoothly, admiring the clear, soft skin on her cheeks. Though her hair was light, her lashes were golden brown and he noted the sweep of them as her lids closed for a split second.

“Four right now,” she said. “But there are two or three more arriving before too long, I believe, from a place on the outskirts of Dallas.”

“How did they hear about the availability of such a place?”

She sipped again from her glass, and a slowly advancing blush rose from her throat to color her face as she avoided his gaze. “I went to Dallas and approached them. I let it be known that help was available, should any of their number be interested in a new start in life.”

He choked on a mouthful of lemonade, and his cough brought consternation to her blue eyes. “Are you all right, sir?” she asked, reaching to pound ineffectually on his broad shoulder.

“Yes.” He gasped, inhaling air, then coughed again. “I’m fine.”

She settled back in her corner and eyed him over the rim of her glass. “I think you doubt my word that I went to see those women,” she said accusingly.

“No, I just doubt your intelligence that you allowed yourself to enter such a place. Don’t you know what might have happened to you? You’re exactly what some of those madams are looking for, Miss McBride. You might have been imprisoned in a room and never seen the light of day again in your lifetime.”

She shook her head. “I’m not the sort of female men look at that way, sir. And I wouldn’t have the least idea what to do in a place…like…that.” Her words trailed off as his gaze swept her form. “What?” she asked, her voice sharp.

“I’d say you’re exactly the sort of female men look at,” he told her.

“You haven’t looked at me…like that,” she said primly.

“Haven’t I?”

She glanced aside, and then, with a swift movement that left him grasping his glass, she rose from the swing. “I’m sorry I bothered you, sir. I’ll be on my way now. Thank you for the lemonade.” Bending, she deposited her empty glass on the wicker table and marched to the porch stairs.

“Miss McBride.” He called her name firmly and her feet came to an abrupt halt, right on the edge of the first step. “I’d like to make a contribution.”

“What sort of contribution did you have in mind?”

“If you’ll turn around, I’ll tell you. I’ve never been fond of speaking to a woman’s back.” Though there was a lot to be said for the shape of this particular woman’s backside, he decided. What little he could make out through the fabric of her dress was rounded and pleasing to the eye.

She turned on her heel and her blue eyes were steely, in direct contrast to their earlier softness. “Yes?”

“I’ll make it a cash contribution.” He stood, towering over her, and reached into his trouser pocket, where his money clip held several bills together. Without looking at their value, he pulled them from the clip and, reaching for her hand, pressed them into her palm, then curled her fingers around the wad of bills.

“Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your plan,” he said nicely.

Her blue eyes widened and her hand tightened around the considerable amount of cash she held. “I’ll tell the ladies how kind you are,” she said after a moment.

He lifted a hand to brush at his mustache. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather this be an anonymous contribution.”

“Certainly, whatever you desire,” she blurted out, her gaze focused on his mouth.

He touched the underside of the dark hair he kept trimmed neatly above his upper lip, watching closely as her tongue touched her mouth again. “Whatever I desire?” His words were whisper, but they apparently caught her ear, for she jerked and then retreated from him, almost tumbling backward down his porch steps, one heel trying to catch hold of thin air.

He reached for her, hauling her with a total lack of dignity against the long length of his body. His thoughts had been right on target, he found, as firm breasts made an impression on his chest. She was not lacking in any way so far as he could ascertain, his hands gripping her hips through the starched fabric of her dress.

In fact, he’d say that Miss Augusta McBride was exceedingly well formed.

Exceedingly.

How she could have made such a complete and utter fool of herself was a point she would ponder later, Augusta decided. Her gait was rapid, her high-buttoned shoes sending up small clouds of dust behind her as she made the return journey toward the north side of Collins Creek, where the tall, white house held the first contingent of her—what had he called them?—her soiled doves.

And little did the gentleman know how fittingly that name described the women she had a burning desire to help. She thought of her own mother, whose working name had been Little Dove, when she’d been a resident in a high-class establishment in New York, a fact Augusta had only discovered two years ago.

Claude McBride, an Irishman with a heart as big as all outdoors, had fallen in love with the woman who sold him her favors. Had fallen in love and rescued her from the place that was a dead end for most of its occupants. That Dove McBride became a wife and mother, and made Claude happy until his dying day, were facts that her diary had established in detail.

After the funeral, when Augusta was sorting out her parents’ belongings, she’d come across the leather book filled with her mother’s flowing handwriting, and over the next several weeks had come to know the woman from a whole new perspective. Apart from being a beloved mother and devoted wife, Dove McBride had been a woman who would have been deemed unacceptable in polite society during her early adulthood.

Augusta had dutifully divided the proceeds from the family home and its contents with her brother and cried bitter tears as he’d left to seek a new life in the western part of the country. Alone, yet financially able to support herself until she decided in which direction to turn, she’d followed her instincts.

“I’ll make a place for myself, and then send for you, sis,” Wilson had told her earnestly. “If you leave here, be sure to let me know where you’re going.” And she had, sending a letter in care of the postmaster in Cheyenne, Wyoming, before she left New York City.

If Wilson could seek a new life in the West, so could she. And Texas promised to be more cosmopolitan than Wyoming or Colorado, she decided. With cities like Dallas and Houston developing into social communities that commanded respect, she’d headed in that direction.

How she’d ended up in Collins Creek was another story, one she refused to think about today. Her head high, her steps swift, she passed the bank, then the general store, waved at the minister who stood before the hotel’s double doors, and smiled nicely at the barber, who nodded his greetings.

“Good morning, Miss McBride,” came a salutation from her right.

“Good to see you out and about, Mrs. Pemberton,” she said properly. “I hope you’re feeling better.” And then she went on her way, aware that the white-haired widow would more than welcome a chance to describe the details of her latest illness. Not today, Augusta thought. Not now.

She marched past the schoolhouse, the church and the cemetery, crossed the street and headed toward the row of simple two-story houses that made up the second street of Collins Creek. Five of them, there were. Two turned into boardinghouses for men without families, two owned by families who scrabbled to keep body and soul together, and the fifth, set a little apart due to a fence and a row of trees with low-hanging branches, designated as the shelter.

Without a proper name, and with no desire to advertise it should they come up with one, the ladies who ran the establishment merely considered it their good deed. Not for a day, or year even, but a project into which they’d vowed to devote their time for the foreseeable future.

It stood now, its majesty faded by wind and rain, and as it came into sight Augusta viewed it anew, moving through the gap in the front picket fence, where a gate hung with but a single hinge, leaning against the ground, awaiting repair. As were several other items that caught her eye. A porch step lacked a board and she carefully maneuvered over it, mentally adding it to her list of things she would get to this very afternoon.

Inside, the parlor was almost empty of furniture, a sofa against one wall, and, before the window, a library table upon which a lamp, complete with fringed shade, stood in graceful splendor. Two chairs sat on either side of the fireplace, mismatched but sturdy. Augusta’s footsteps clicked against the bare floor as she walked on down the hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the house.

“Miss McBride.” Pearl offered a greeting as she looked up from the bread she was kneading. Flour decorated her cheek, almost concealing the remnants of a black eye, now faded to a dull yellow hue, and the presence of two stitches next to the bottom lid. “I’m almost done with this, and Bertha said I should make the loaves next.”

“Don’t forget to grease the pans,” Augusta reminded her, aware that learning basic household chores was important to these women. “Who’s cooking supper tonight?”

“I hope it’s gonna be Bertha,” Pearl said glumly. “It’s Janine’s turn, but she’s not real handy with pots and pans, yet.”

“She can sew well, though,” Augusta reminded her. “And she’ll learn to cook. We just have to be patient.”

“Yeah, but in the meantime, we could get awful hungry.”

A second glance at Pearl’s voluptuous form made that prospect doubtful, Augusta thought, and then she walked past the big table toward the back door. “Is Honey working in the garden?” she asked, peering out the screened door to where a patch of vegetables struggled to survive beneath the hot Texas sun.

“Said she was gonna water stuff and pull weeds,” Pearl told her. “She’s probably daydreamin’ about goin’ home to Oklahoma, if I know Honey. She was cryin’ in her tea at noontime.”

“I’ll find her,” Augusta said, stepping out onto the small porch and searching in all directions for the golden-brown hair of the girl she’d brought here only three days since.

“Honey?” she called, stepping from the porch and walking around the corner to where a slender young woman sat, slumped against the side of the house in the shade.

“Ma’am?” Honey looked up, wiping at her eyes, attempting to smile as she got to her feet. The fullness around her waist was proof of her condition, and again Augusta was smitten with pity for the child. For Honey was, indeed, too young to be so far from home, with a baby on its way and no one to care whether she lived or died.

“I pulled the weeds and carried water from the pump, ma’am,” she said quickly. “The lettuce is big enough to eat for supper, I figured, and the first of the peas are pretty near full in the pod.”

“Well, why don’t you go ahead and pick the peas and lettuce, then,” Augusta told her. “Do you have a pan out here?”

Honey shook her head. “No, but I’ll get one, right quick.”

She rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, the sound of the screened door opening and closing giving away her location. Augusta sighed. If only she could find a farmer who would be willing to take on the girl, and more than that, be willing to accept her child. That particular item had been on her list for two days now, ever since she’d brought Honey here from the Pink Palace, once Lula Belle had confirmed the fact of her pregnancy and decreed her unfit for her trade.

Mentally she made a note of Honey’s situation again, listing it just beneath the broken step before the front porch, and then sighed again as she considered the growing length of things to be concerned with. Beth Ann must be lying down upstairs. Slender to the point of skinny, she’d wandered down the road three weeks ago, the second day they’d occupied this house, and announced that if she never had anything to do with a man again, it would be too soon. Lula Belle had pronounced her not pretty enough for her crew of ladies, too skinny for a discriminating gentleman to pay for, and without the proper manners necessary for a resident of her establishment.