The Texan
All true, Augusta agreed. But Beth Ann was willing, and once they had fed her properly and taught her some basic elegance, she’d make a fine wife for some discriminating man, whether Lula Belle agreed with their theory or not.
And then there was Janine, who was content to sit and sew a fine seam, a talent that had come in handy, but certainly wasn’t enough to find her a husband. Although Janine had quietly and firmly denounced that idea anyway.
They weren’t cooperating the way Augusta had foreseen. Certainly, women misused as they had been should be eternally grateful for the chance to remake their lives into productive channels. She bent to pull a stray weed, left behind during Honey’s travels through the garden.
“I’ve got a pan,” Honey announced, standing beyond the pea patch.
“Well, pick the stuff that’s ready,” Augusta told her, “and then I’ll show you how to shell the peas for supper.”
And that should give her just about enough time to fix the front step, she decided, turning toward the woodshed, where their pitiful collection of tools hung on one wall, and where she might find a board fit to be used. In a few minutes, she’d managed to come up with what she needed from the dimly lit interior of the building. A can filled with nails, screws and assorted bits of hardware in one hand, a hammer in the other, and a piece of two-by-ten board under her arm, she advanced toward the front of the house.
She’d barely had time to roll up her sleeves, place her hat on the floor of the porch and lay out her equipment when a tall figure walked through the opening in the fence, bypassing the hanging gate with a scornful look.
“When you going to give up on this foolishness and come on back to Dallas?” Roger Hampton’s voice was harsh, his drawl hardly audible beneath the strident tones.
She offered him barely a glance. “You might as well get on the next train,” she said, wiping her hands on the front of her skirt. “I’m not going back to Dallas, not with you or by myself. This is my home.”
“Huh! This dump is what you want to call your home? A place where you’ve chosen to gather up the scum of the earth under one roof and then waste your time and talent redeeming them?” His taunt was familiar. She’d heard it almost daily for the past week, ever since he’d followed her here from Dallas.
“You forgot to list my inheritance in that rendering of my assets,” she told him bluntly, picking up the hammer and hefting it in her right hand. She looked up at him then, focusing on the pale hair, close-set eyes and sharp, narrow nose that made up his face. His lips were thin and she almost shuddered, recalling her narrow escape from his pursuit as he’d attempted to press his cool mouth against hers.
“Your money doesn’t enter into it, Augusta,” he blustered.
“That’s a crock of—” She stopped, her mouth almost set to say the dreadful, unspeakable word she’d found on the tip of her tongue.
“Well,” Roger said slyly, “where’s the lady I proposed to, less than a month ago in Dallas?”
“She’s right here,” Augusta said quietly. “But she’s a lot smarter and busier than she was then.” She lifted an eyebrow as she scanned his length with a scornful air. “I probably should thank you for making Dallas so unpalatable for me. Collins Creek is a much better choice for my work, I think.”
Her chin tilted upward as she smiled cooly. “Go away, Roger. I don’t have time for you.” Turning her back, she pried the hammer beneath the broken step and applied her weight to levering up the board. Wood splintered, and a piece of it slid beneath her skin, piercing her hand just beside her smallest finger.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Roger said, stepping forward swiftly, reaching to take the hammer.
But she would not allow it, instead swinging her arm back and the hammer into the air. “Don’t touch me,” she warned him, painfully aware of the splinter that even now dripped blood onto the board she was trying to pry up.
“I don’t think you’ve retained many of your ladylike qualities here in Collins Creek,” Roger said spitefully. “Threatening a gentleman with a hammer when he’s only trying to help you—”
“Get out of here,” Augusta said, raising her voice as she swung the hammer in a downward arc. It missed his hand by a good margin, but he moved quickly, apparently fearing she might step forward, weapon in hand.
“I’m going,” he said, settling his hat at a jaunty level. “I’ll drop by again, Augusta. I think another week or so will be sufficient to make you see things more clearly.” And then as he left, he muttered words she made no effort to hear, aware only of the sounds of his buggy wheels rolling down the road and the jingling of his horse’s harness.
Her back to the gate, she looked at the broken step, then eyed the splinter in her hand. “I doubt it, Mr. Hampton. I’ve seen you clearly for more than a month already, and you’re running out of time here,” she muttered beneath her breath, and then turned around to sit on the top step, the better to inspect her wound.
“I’ll be glad to give you a hand, ma’am.” The offer came without warning, and she turned her head abruptly. Beside the front gate, a horse and rider stood motionless, apparently having been privy to the discussion between Augusta and Roger.
“Sir?” He was nameless but certainly familiar, he of the lemonade, and the wad of cash money she even now had tucked in her reticule. And on top of that, his dark eyes and smiling lips seemed still more attractive this time around.
“I didn’t introduce myself when we first met,” he said. “My name is Cleary. I thought I might drop by and properly make your acquaintance, seeing as how I have a vested interest in your…” He looked up at a drooping shutter, then back at the broken step. “Your project,” he finished nicely.
“I should have mentioned my name when you came calling earlier,” he told her, dismounting easily and tying his mount to the gatepost. “And when I recognized that I’d been less than gentlemanly, I thought I’d best make amends and see if there was something I could do to set things right.”
Augusta’s mouth refused to stay closed. She inhaled deeply, concerned at the lack of air available for her needy lungs, and then began awkwardly to roll down her sleeves. It would not do to receive a caller so dreadfully unclad.
“Don’t bother,” he told her, reaching one hand to halt her endeavor. “I’ll take a look at your splinter if you like,” he offered. “I have a dandy knife that will probably set things right in less than a minute.”
She could only nod as he settled on the top step beside her and took her hand in his. One long finger tilted his hat back on his head, and as she watched, he turned her hand over in his, her fair skin looking even more pale against the tanned flesh of his palm.
His fingers were gentle, his skin callused, and the scent arising from him was a blend of citrus and leather. Augusta held her breath against its lure, and he glanced up quickly. “Am I hurting you?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all.”
“I wondered. You caught your breath, and I thought perhaps—”
But what he thought was not revealed as the front door opened and Bertha’s firm voice interrupted his healing mission.
“I didn’t know we had company,” Bertha said firmly. “Did you want to bring the gentleman inside, ma’am?”
“Uh, no. As a matter of fact, he only stopped by to…” Augusta looked up into his dark eyes. “Why did you stop by?”
He smiled and bent closer. “I already told you, ma’am. I hadn’t properly introduced myself, and when I found you were being verbally assaulted by the man who just left, I thought it prudent to keep an eye on things.”
“Oh. Oh, I see,” Augusta said. And then she looked over her shoulder at Bertha, whose arms were folded firmly across her ample bosom.
“Was that rascal here again?” she asked, her voice booming a challenge. “I told you. We need to send him off with a load of buckshot in his behind one of these days.”
At that, Augusta felt a torrid blush climb her cheeks and she rose to her feet. “I’m sure Bertha can take care of my hand, Mr. Cleary. But I do appreciate you stopping by and offering your help.”
“Most folks just call me Cleary,” the visitor said politely, and smiled at Bertha. Whether it was the look he flashed in her direction or the easy, elegant way he carried himself, Bertha nodded and lowered her arms to her sides as Cleary stepped down to ground level.
He looked up at Augusta and offered his hand. “It was good to make your acquaintance, ma’am. I hope you won’t have any problem with your wound.” He settled his hat more firmly over his forehead and turned aside. “I’ll stop by again.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter Two
The sound of a hammer against wood woke her, and Augusta sat upright in bed, unaware, for just a moment, of where she was. The walls of the bedroom were covered with faded pink flowers against a nondescript wallpaper, and brighter patches signified the absence of pictures, apparently taken by the house’s former owners. Not a room she would have chosen in days gone by. But, she decided, looking around at the shabby walls, it could only get better.
She slid from the bed, cocking her head to the side to consider the silence surrounding her. Perhaps the banging of a hammer had been part of a dream, she thought. Certainly she’d been plagued with a number of scenarios throughout the night, ranging from a woman with hatchet in hand chasing her down the streets of Dallas, to the sight of a man’s large, tanned hand holding hers captive.
She’d preferred the latter, she admitted to herself, thinking of her visitor the other day. Cleary, he’d said she should call him, but she hadn’t. Instead she had only touched her palm to his offered hand before he left. I’ll stop by again. A promise of sorts, she supposed, and a smile curved her lips as she tied her petticoat and slid a clean dress over her head.
From the front of the house, another flurry of pounding met her ears, and she went to the window, bending to peer from the open frame. Dark hair, topping a pair of broad shoulders, met her gaze and she watched in awe as the hammer rose and fell. Only two blows required to set a nail in place. Another nail was held between long fingers, and the hammering resounded again. He lifted the hammer a third time, and then as he ran a thumb over the nail, he looked up to where she watched from the window.
“Good morning,” Cleary said, a cheerful grin lighting his dark features. “Hope I didn’t wake you.” And from the look on his face, she was certain he knew he had.
“Oh, no,” Augusta said quickly, aware that her voice still held early morning huskiness. “I was just getting up.” She bent forward a little, viewing the three boards that lay beside him, noting the two he’d already nailed onto the uprights of her front steps. “Things have been piling up on me,” she told him. “I was going to get back to that today.”
“Well,” he said, drawing out the single syllable, “now you won’t have to. I’m sure there are other chores more suited to your hands.”
“I’ll be right down,” she said quickly. “Has Bertha offered you coffee?”
“She came to the door and frowned at me,” Cleary said. “I suspect she’ll be back to make sure I haven’t walked off with anything that isn’t nailed down.”
“She’s not at her best in the morning,” Augusta said in a loud whisper. She ducked back into the room to find her housekeeper standing in the bedroom doorway.
“I’m always at my best,” Bertha said stoically. “I didn’t think seven in the morning was a good time for the man to come calling. But if you want him to have a cup of coffee, I’ll pour one for him.”
“Well, he isn’t really calling,” Augusta told her, bending to find her shoes beneath the bed. Her slippers were there and she donned them quickly, deciding they’d do as well as the high-buttoned shoes she generally wore. “I think we should be thankful for his help, Bertha. The ladies in town have not been receptive to their husbands coming here to lend a hand.”
“Huh!” Bertha was a woman of few words, but the sounds she made were generally easy to understand. “Breakfast is pret’ near ready,” she said, turning to go back to the first floor. Bertha’s heavy shoes clumped on the uncarpeted stairs and Augusta snatched up her hairbrush, bringing quick order to her long hair.
It had hung over her shoulders as she’d leaned from the window, and she scolded herself silently for being so lax in her deportment. Cleary would surely think she was not much of a lady.
She looked like an angel, he decided, golden waves falling to either side of her head, her eyes as blue as the back of a jaybird. Bending from the window above him, she put him in mind of the heavenly beings his mother had read to him about from the Bible. Surely, the angels who sang to the shepherds bore some resemblance to Augusta McBride.
Augusta. Much too dignified a name for the delightful woman he’d been thinking about over the past two days. Augusta. He’d call her Gussie, he decided, although even that did not suit her. But it was less off-putting, and he’d warrant his speaking it as he addressed her would bring quick color to that creamy skin.
He tore loose the final cracked board and removed the old nails, adding them to the pile he’d accumulated during his task. One more board remained, and he lifted the length of yellow pine, eyeing the edge and decreeing it straight before he placed it on the upright stringer. With six nails and a dozen swings of his hammer, it was in place and he stood, stepping on it to test its firmness.
It was done, the job completed in fifteen minutes or so. A coat of paint would cover the newness of the wood and provide protection from moisture. He looked up as Augusta stepped out onto the porch and closed the screened door quietly behind her.
“Do you have any paint?” he asked.
“Paint?” Her gaze swept over the steps he’d replaced. “You mean for the stairs?” Her foot touched the first step and she bounced on it a bit, smiling as she met his gaze. “I didn’t plan on replacing all of them, just the one that was missing.”
“Several had cracked boards,” he told her. “They were unsafe, and I hated the idea of you falling and getting worse than a splinter for your trouble.” He reached for her hand and, without thinking, she placed her own in his palm. “Let me see,” he said, bending over to inspect the spot where Bertha had removed the splinter. It was scabbed over nicely, and a bit swollen around the edges, but Augusta had decided to leave the bandage off for today, allowing it to heal.
His index finger traced the line of her injury, and she felt the warmth of that touch send a cascade of heat up her arm, bringing gooseflesh to the skin that was, thankfully, hidden by her long sleeve. The man presented a danger, she decided. Though not in an evil way, such as Roger Hampton did.
But a danger, nonetheless. She could not afford to have her reputation sullied in any way, shape or form. Not with the success of her shelter hanging in the balance.
“Looks pretty good,” he said, releasing her hand and placing his palm on his hip. “You might want to soak it in Epsom salts. It’ll draw any infection out, lickety-split.”
“Thank you, Dr. Cleary,” she said softly, slanting a grin in his direction, then cradling her left hand in her other palm as he returned it. He made it too easy to be free and friendly, and she must be wary of following the dictates of her impetuous streak.
“I’ve been called a number of things in my life, but not that,” he told her, running his index finger the length of his mustache, lifting a brow as he spoke. “But I do have some experience with wounds and healing.”
“Well, if you’re done lollygaggin’ out there,” a voice said from the doorway, “come on in and have some breakfast.” Bertha spoke from behind the screen and Augusta was thankful for the reprieve. That, and the chance to spend more time with the man in front of her.
“Coffee’s poured,” Bertha mumbled, making her way back down the hallway to the kitchen.
“That invitation included you, sir,” Augusta said, reaching for the door handle, and holding it open for her impromptu handyman.
“Are you certain?” His hands swiped ineffectively against his trousers and he glanced down at them. “I’ll need a good wash before I’m fit company at anyone’s table. And I suspect you’re not used to itinerant workmen in your kitchen for meals.”
“Well, we just happen to have a basin and lots of warm water,” Augusta told him. “You’d better come along before Bertha changes her mind and feeds the hogs instead.”
He brushed himself off, then climbed the sturdy stairs and walked past her, careful not to allow his trousers to touch her dress. “You don’t have hogs.” The words trailed behind him as he entered the kitchen and Augusta heard Bertha’s quick retort.
“Well, who said we did?”
“The lady of the house tried to feed me a line of guff, but I’m too bright to fall for her nonsense,” she heard Cleary reply, and stifled a chuckle as Bertha murmured agreement. Breakfast was indeed ready, as was Bertha, a skillet full of sausage gravy in one hand, a large ladle in the other. As Augusta entered the room, she shot her a look of warning.
“The girls are up and around,” she said nonchalantly. “Should I tell them to wait a while so y’all can eat in peace and quiet?”
“I think it’s too late for that,” Augusta told her as footsteps clattered on the front stairway.
“I can feed ’em in the dining room.” A bowl of biscuits appeared on the table and the sausage gravy was poured into a deep bowl.
“Is there any chance you might know any of our ladies?” Augusta asked Cleary in an undertone. She would not have him embarrassed, should he have been a regular customer at Lula Belle’s place. On the other hand, if he were of that ilk, she’d better know now and keep her distance, lest his evil shenanigans give her shelter a bad name.
“Doubtful. I can’t imagine how,” he said, his glance meeting hers with an honesty she found assuring.
“Well, lookie here. We got company,” Pearl said, posing in the doorway as if readying herself for a photographer. Sauntering into the big kitchen, she peered into the warming oven where a pan of cinnamon rolls waited, then wandered to the round table. “Got room for a couple more?”
Cleary stood promptly and nodded. “I’m sure you’re welcome to join us. Are you alone?” he asked, and then, as Beth Ann cleared the doorway, he paused, his gaze taking a quick survey of the fragile woman.
“I’m sorry,” she said, backing into the hall. “I’ll eat later on. I didn’t know you had company, Miss Augusta.”
Augusta shot around the table, her hand outstretched. “Come in, Beth Ann.” Not for the world would she allow the girl to feel unwanted in this house, no matter who came to call. And Cleary didn’t seem to have any qualms about the additional seats required around the table.
“Can we use that for seating?” he asked, motioning toward a backless bench sitting against the wall.
“I’ll help you get it,” Pearl offered, her sidelong glance taking in his masculine form. Augusta thought the woman’s cleavage could have been less noticeable, and she watched as Bertha gave Pearl a push and nodded at the front of her wrapper. Reluctantly Pearl tugged the sides of her bodice closer and sat on the bench, patting the area beside her.
“Why don’t you come over here, and we’ll get acquainted?” Her invitation was directed at Cleary, but he patently ignored it, holding a chair for Beth Ann, instead, as she edged her way back into the kitchen. With barely a whisper of fabric or an audible sound from her lips, she nodded her thanks and slid onto the seat.
“Give me a hand here, Pearl,” Bertha said gruffly. “Y’all spend half the day layin’ in bed and then expect me to wait on you. You’ll find out that ain’t the way it’s gonna work here.”
Without protest, Pearl rose and did as she was asked, her hips swaying as she placed plates and silverware around the table. “Should we lay a spot for Janine and Honey?” she asked, looking to Augusta for instructions.
“Are they up?” she asked, and then nodded in reply to her own query when they could be heard coming down the stairs. “Go ahead. They’ll be hungry, too.”
And wasn’t Mr. Cleary getting an eyeful this morning? she thought, lifting the bowl of biscuits from the middle of the table and passing them in his direction. He took two, and she noted Bertha’s pleased expression. “The way to a man’s heart,” was an adage that could be reversed, her mama had said, more than once. The way to a woman’s heart lay in compliments on her cooking, and Cleary was obviously adept at that type of behavior.
Janine settled in a chair, and Honey slid onto the bench beside Pearl. “Did we forget anything?” Bertha asked, and Pearl shook her head, breaking a biscuit in half and waiting for the gravy to be passed in her direction.
None of the women seemed to recognize Cleary, and for that Augusta was grateful. It would have been embarrassing had they known the man by name. Instead, she performed introductions as they began to eat, and he was inundated by questions from the women surrounding him.
Not known for their reticence, Pearl and Janine were vocal in their curiosity, but Cleary was not forthcoming with information, merely turning their queries in another direction, until they exchanged glances and returned to eating breakfast.
“Today, we’re going to hang curtains in the parlor and work at building a place to keep chickens,” Augusta told her charges. “I’d like Honey to water the garden and paint the front steps. Mr. Cleary has kindly finished repairing them for us, and I’ll purchase some paint at the general store.”
“It’s easier to buy eggs at the store,” Janine said bluntly. “Keeping chickens is a messy job.”
“Raising chickens is a profitable venture,” Augusta told her firmly. “Not only can we eat the young roosters, but we can sell the eggs at a nice profit.”
“Next you’ll be talking about a cow,” Janine said. “I’m not sure we’re gonna be allowed to keep livestock in town.”
“Lots of folks have chickens in the backyard,” Augusta said. “I’ve checked, and there are no ordinances against animals for your own use.”
“Did you hear from that lady at the store that wants me to do some sewing for her?” Janine asked. “That brings in good money.”
“Yes, and so does laundry,” Augusta told her. “Mrs. Stevens and her husband own the hotel, and she’s about persuaded him to let us do all the linens twice a week. Harriet Burns, our neighbor, wants us to keep her in clean sheets for her boarders, too.”
“I’m not real fond of using a scrub board,” Pearl said darkly. “We had a laundry lady when I was at the Pink Palace.”
“That wasn’t all you had,” Augusta reminded her with a pointed look at her eye, where the lid still wore two stitches. “It was your choice to leave there, Pearl. If you want to go back to the lap of luxury, be my guest. But once any of you leave here, it’s for good. We’ve already talked about that.”
“I’m not going back,” Pearl said quickly. “I’ve done worse things than scrub sheets in my day.”
“We need income,” Augusta told them. “That’s the whole reason for working. We can’t run this place without money, and we have to do the things that are within our capabilities. Laundry and sewing, keeping a kitchen garden, raising chickens and selling eggs to our neighbors are all moneymakers for us.”
“Well, if you’ll get the paint, I’ll do the front steps. I noticed Mr. Cleary working on them this morning,” Honey said shyly. “And in the meantime, I’ll tend the garden and help in the kitchen.”
“Can I be of assistance?” Cleary asked Augusta. She thought he looked almost hopeful as he met her gaze.
“You already have been,” she told him. “You probably don’t want to be associated too closely with our endeavors. It might not look good for you in town, whatever your business might be.” And if she waited long enough, he might tell her just what it was he did for a living, she thought.
“I’ve never been one to worry about what folks think,” he said bluntly. “If you need my handyman skills, I’ll be happy to pitch in and help. And in the meantime, I’d be glad to run you into town in my buggy to get your paint, ma’am.”