The Texan

“Well, that beats walking, any day of the week,” Bertha said flatly. “You better snatch up that offer in a hurry, I’d say, Miss Augusta.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” Augusta told Cleary, then watched his eyes light with some emotion she couldn’t decipher.

“I’d be glad to accommodate you, ma’am,” he said politely, his words accompanied by Pearl’s subdued snort of laughter. He glanced at the buxom blonde, and her hand flew to cover her mouth.

In the midst of a conversation that bore undertones she couldn’t interpret, Augusta turned to Bertha. “When is John Burgess bringing the hens?” she asked.

“First of the week,” Bertha said. “Gives us four days to have a coop ready, and a fenced yard for them to scratch in.”

“It sounds to me like you’re going to need a load of things delivered from the lumberyard,” Cleary told Augusta. “We can go by and place an order if you like.”

She hesitated. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how to go about building a henhouse. Nor do I know how much lumber to order.”

“Let’s ask Harriet Burns if she has any gentlemen living in her boardinghouse who might be looking for work for a couple of days,” Cleary suggested. “I don’t think you ladies are up to building such a thing, unless you’ve got experience at swinging a hammer.”

Augusta rose from the table. “I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. Cleary. If you really want to help, you can figure out what we need from the lumberyard, and I’ll provide the cash to buy it.” She glanced at him quickly, thinking of the wad of bills he’d pressed into her hand two days ago. It had been a generous contribution, and she hadn’t properly thanked him for it. Her own account was satisfyingly healthy, but Cleary’s contribution had provided enough to buy more than a load of lumber, if she was any judge of the price of wood.

“Let’s take a walk out to the back,” he suggested, placing his fork on the table and nodding politely at the watching women. With one hand on the small of her back, he opened the screened door and led her out onto the back porch.

It burned there, that wide palm and the four outstretched fingers. His thumb rode the line of her spine and she felt a shiver spin from that spot, vibrating down the length of her back. Whatever it was Mr. Cleary’s touch did to her, she could not afford to allow it. With a quick double step, she moved ahead of him and heard his stifled laughter at her back. It served only to stiffen her spine and renew her determination, and she walked briskly toward the spot she’d chosen for the proposed building project.

“We’ve got two dozen chickens coming, all pullets hatched early this spring,” she told him. “They’re already laying. The eggs are small, but given a couple of months, we’ll have plenty of them, good-sized, too, every day. And then, once they’re old enough, we can let some of them hatch their eggs, and we’ll have a steady supply.”

Pleased with her plan, she turned her head to observe his reaction. It was not what she expected. A wide grin exposed white, even teeth, and his hands were deep in his trouser pockets as he rocked back on his heels.

“I think you’ve forgotten one small item, ma’am,” he said. “In order to have eggs hatch, you’ll need a rooster in your little flock.”

“Well, yes, of course,” she said hastily. “I’m sure Mr. Burgess will be happy to provide us with a rooster.” She made a mental note to bring the subject up when the gentleman came to deliver his white leghorns on Monday, next.

“You’ll need roosts and nesting boxes,” Cleary told her. “A henhouse with a sloped roof, a door, a couple of windows and a small exit for the hens to get out into the yard.”

She dug into her pocket and brought forth a tablet and a pencil stub, kept handy for just such a purpose. With a glance, she tore off the top sheet, folded it and placed it back in her pocket, then offered Cleary a speaking look. “List what we need, and I’ll make note of it,” she said.

He did, itemizing two-by-fours and wooden siding, nails and hinges, chicken-wire fencing and upright posts. And then he had her read it back to him. “They’ll need to cut some of the two-by-fours in half and you’ll need about twenty feet of dowel rod for the roosts.”

“Dowel rod.” She wrote it down, then glanced up. “What’s dowel rod?”

“Same thing you’re going to need to hang curtains on in the parlor,” he said. “Have you already bought them?”

“I’m ordering from the catalogue,” Augusta said. “Surely they must sell rods also.”

“You’ll do better to buy it from the lumberyard and paint it yourself. Costs a lot less than ordering it cut to size from Sears, Roebuck. And we’ll need to have paint for the henhouse, too.”

“You must think I’m awfully dumb,” she said quietly. “I just assumed it would be so easy to put things together, and the further I go, the less I know what I’m doing.”

“Well, aren’t you just fortunate I came along?” he said slowly, his grin matching his droll manner of speech. “I happen to know a lot about such things. I think what you need, ma’am, is a man around the house.”

“Oh, I can’t have that,” she said quickly, looking back at the kitchen door, where shadows moved within the room. “I think they’re watching me.” A flush climbed her cheeks, and she turned away from the women who were no doubt straining their hearing as they tried to listen in on the conversation their benefactress was having in the middle of the yard.

“Well, maybe a man who’d come and go on a regular basis. Not a fellow who’d expect to stay nights.”

“Did you have anyone in particular in mind?” she asked, looking stalwartly toward the back of the lot.

“I think you’re a fine lady, Miss McBride, who’s bitten off quite a mouthful. If I can be of assistance without jeopardizing your reputation in this town, I’d like to help.”

“And what of your own business?” she asked, shooting him a look of inquiry. It wasn’t likely he’d divulge his method of livelihood to her, but curiosity bade her ask.

“I’m on hiatus right now,” he said. “Sort of between assignments. Which means I have time on my hands, and enough to live on very comfortably, so you wouldn’t have to pay me a wage.”

“Assignments.” She repeated the word that had caught her attention. “Who do you work for, sir?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, Augusta,” he said reluctantly, offering her no excuse, only the firm refusal that halted her questions before they could be given voice.

“All right,” she said. “If you want to spend your time working at a thankless task, with no chance of monetary gain, I won’t attempt to stop you. I can only tell you that God will surely bless you for your interest in the shelter.”

His smile was quick, and his eyes lit with humor as she spoke. “Thank you, Augusta. I may be so bold as to call you that, I hope. After all, if we are to work together, I think we should consider ourselves good friends, don’t you?”

He’d almost blown the whole thing. Almost burst out in laughter when she’d so sweetly told him he could be expecting the Almighty’s blessing for his interest in her work. What he was expecting was a chance to spend time with a woman who appealed to him in a mighty big way.

A female like Augusta McBride was not what he’d ever thought to consider as the most important woman in his life. He’d had in mind a more independent creature, a woman who knew her way around in the masculine world and was able to fend for herself. And then he’d taken one good look at the creature on his front porch and rearranged all of his opinions as they related to females.

He’d spent more years on top of a horse than he wanted to count, and the past eight months had taught him that he wasn’t getting any younger. The shoulder wound he’d suffered in Wyoming ached at night, and various and sundry places on his thirty-four-year-old frame proclaimed that youth had passed him by and left him with scars and wrinkles galore.

If ever a man wanted to settle down and have a family, his name was Jon Cleary. And Augusta McBride was the likeliest candidate he’d met up with—at least the most available woman who’d ever appealed to his instincts.

“I don’t mind if you call me Augusta,” she said now, only a bit of reservation tingeing her words. “Not in front of my ladies, of course, but in private. And I’ll call you…” She turned up an unblemished face, and his gaze swept the vision before him.

“Cleary will do just fine,” he said. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have—”

“Yes, I know,” she said abruptly, interrupting him mid-thought. “I have blue eyes and yellow hair and my features are nicely formed. But that’s not the part of me that’s important, Cleary. Don’t give me compliments. They make me very distrustful.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” he said hastily. “Wouldn’t even consider the idea. What I was about to say was that you have a fine mind, with a bent toward organization. Why, just the way you gave orders for the day was enough to let me know that you have things nicely under control here.”

And wasn’t that a lie, if he’d ever told one. She was a female knocking herself out for the benefit of a string of ponies who’d come in last. He could only hope that those female creatures she’d taken under her wing were appreciative of the effort she made in their behalf.

“Thank you,” she said, writing furiously on her pad of paper. Then she looked up at him again, and he lost track of his thoughts. “What else do I need to list? For the henhouse, I mean?”

“I think we’ve got it about covered,” he told her. “Now let’s head for the lumberyard and the general store and see how much money we can spend.”

Harriet Burns had two boarders looking for work, and they were pleased to find a job at which to show their talents. Their quick looks in Augusta’s direction were squelched with one glance from Cleary’s dark eyes, and he pointedly told them they were under his direct supervision, no matter that Miss McBride was paying their wages. They agreed to show up after dinner to lay out the chicken yard, and Cleary told them he would be there to set the four corners of the henhouse.

“Now for the lumberyard,” he said, satisfied at the progress gained at their first stop. In half an hour, he’d ordered the wood and tar paper for the roof, then they’d gone on to the general store. Hardware was heavy stuff, he told Augusta, not allowing her to lift the box of nails and hinges.

“Can we stop at the post office?” she asked. “I think it’s about time for my catalogue order to come in.”

He obliged her by lifting her from the buggy and waiting patiently outside the barbershop, where the postmaster shared space with haircutting equipment. She emerged with a large bundle in her arms, and he quickly lifted himself from the side of the buggy as she appeared in the doorway.

“Why didn’t you call me? You shouldn’t try to carry such a heavy load by yourself.” His hands were careful lifting the bundle from her arms, aware of the soft curves of her breasts that tempted his touch. The backs of his knuckles brushed against her dress fabric, and he was nonchalant as he relieved her of the weight.

“I’m used to doing for myself,” she said quietly. “There’s another bundle inside, if you have room for it in the buggy.”

“We’ll make room,” he told her, placing the paper-wrapped package on the edge of the seat. The second one was settled on the floor in less than a minute, and then his hands surrounded her waist as he lifted her into the buggy on his side of the vehicle. He watched as she scooted across the leather seat to wedge herself firmly against her package, making room for him as he climbed in beside her.

“Got room enough there?” he asked cheerfully, noting the pressure of her thigh against his, the warmth of her shoulder beneath his arm.

“Yes, of course,” she said, a trifle breathlessly to be sure, but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a sleek squirrel as they rode slowly back toward the north side of town.

He had her right where he wanted her. Under his wing and unable to back off. He kept the mare to a walk, talking quietly about the places they passed, tipping his hat to ladies who watched from the sidewalk and grinning at men who eyed him with a trace of envy.

Augusta McBride was perched beside him and the whole town was taking note. He’d managed to do a good stroke of business this morning.

Chapter Three

The day held promise. Cleary grinned to himself as he entered the livery stable and greeted the sturdy gentleman who leaned on his pitchfork and tilted his hat back in a silent salute. “Good morning, Sam. I’m in need of my horse this morning.”

The genial owner nodded and asked dutifully about Cleary’s health, having apparently received the story through the local grapevine that Cleary had instigated upon arrival in town. “You back in shape yet?” And then he answered his own question, to Cleary’s delight. “Must be, the way you’ve been workin’ over at the old Harvey place the other side of town.”

“Feeling better every day. I figure swinging a hammer is good for what ails me,” Cleary said with a friendly smile. That he’d never stipulated what ailed him was a moot point.

“Here’s your horse,” Sam Ferguson said, leading the gelding from its stall. He located Cleary’s saddle and blanket and, in moments, had the animal ready for its owner’s use. Hands deep in his pockets, he watched as horse and rider rode off at a sedate pace, down the main street and then between buildings to the side road leading to the old house Augusta McBride had made her own.

Lifting his face to inhale the morning air, Cleary sensed the promise inherent in a new day, one in which he planned to move his friendship with Augusta McBride into a new arena. But first, his reasons for heading toward her shelter must be in place.

The gate repair was next, Cleary figured. Then the shutter, hanging by a single nail and due to land on the ground should a wayward wind catch it. He’d had a hiatus over the past week, and perhaps it was only the calm before the storm, but he’d best enjoy it while he could. Should a message arrive and he be forced to leave town for any length of time, explaining his absence to Augusta might be a problem.

Mounting his horse, he nudged its barrel with his heel, his heart lifting as he viewed the cloudless sky, his thoughts speeding ahead with the anticipation of seeing Augusta again. She was melting a bit, her natural defenses against a stranger giving way to the friendship he was working to develop between them. And more than a friendship was in the offing, he’d determined.

The henhouse was a finished project, the fence drawn taut and secured to upright posts surrounding it. It swarmed now with white leghorns, each of them willing to donate to the cause in exchange for a steady diet and a pan of water. He grinned as he recalled the look on Honey’s face as she’d ventured within the gate to feed the hungry pullets. She’d backed up, holding the pan of feed over her head as the noisy birds clustered around her feet, awaiting their meal.

The pan had hit the ground, scattering seed in a wide circle, and Honey had flown through the gate, shrieking loudly, as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. Obviously, the girl was not a product of country living, and yet she could be appealing, should the right young man in need of a wife’s assistance come along.

Augusta was a different sort. Used to city living, yet more than willing to blend in with the small town atmosphere she’d sought in which to open her haven. Even in the chicken coop, her character had emerged. Facing the hens head-on, she’d reached swiftly beneath them for their eggs, scolding a possessive creature who ventured to threaten her with a vicious beak. Not a word of scorn passed her lips as she’d showed Honey how to face down the squawking pullets, scattering the feed before her, then filling the water pan with a pitcher before she left the pen.

A remarkable woman, he’d decided. One he could easily take into his life. There was not a doubt of her innocence, but she was worldly wise in the ways of women and their needs. And he was a man in need of the solace only a woman could provide. Once he’d managed to locate and bring the gang of ruffians he sought to a courtroom, he was definitely planning on making a more prosaic life for himself.

And that life would include Augusta McBride, if he could manage to bring it about. His gaze raked the house before him, seeking a trace of the woman he’d set his sights on. She would not be happy with his evasive answers for much longer, he’d determined. Augusta was adept at prying, and his current occupation did not lend itself to a courtship. In fact, the thought of the man courting her being a hired gun, albeit the government having sought his services, might turn her totally away from any tender thoughts she might harbor toward him.

The pursuit of a gang of train robbers did not bode well for a man’s health, and Cleary hoped to preserve what remained of his weary bones and scarred body. And when all was said and done, he was using Augusta as a shield, his courtship of her a cover-up for the game he played.

Yet, in his heart, he acknowledged a need that would not be denied. Use her he might, and a niggling shard of guilt accompanied that admission, but the woman herself was a prize he yearned to own. One day, should he survive this operation, she would know the truth about Jonathan Cleary. He only hoped she would forgive him his deception.

He rode the edge of the property line, close beside the hedge of bushes, and tied his mount to a tree, where the animal could graze and remain in the shade. Replacing the bridle with a halter, he loosened the saddle cinch and headed for the woodshed. His gaze was satisfied as he beheld the pile of lumber he’d ordered for various projects, and he set about seeking the hardware necessary to mend the gate.

“Mr. Cleary?” Augusta’s voice spoke his name and he looked up to find her in the doorway. “Can I help you find something?” she asked, and then stepped into the confines of the small shed. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning. I’d thought you might be weary of working by this time.”

“No, ma’am,” he said, denying her concern. “I’m exercising my shoulder every time I swing a hammer.”

She frowned. “What’s wrong with your shoulder? Did you fall and injure it?”

He hesitated, ruing his words, and then aimed a smile in her direction. “You might say that. It’s almost as good as new now, but it’s given me some trouble getting it back in shape.” Not to mention the neat hole where a bullet had gone in and the torn, scarred flesh where it had made its exit.

Augusta McBride was not the sort of woman who would receive that confidence with a smile. Rather, she would be full of questions, and her persistence would know no end.

“I thought I’d fix the gate this morning,” Cleary said, lifting a bag of hinges from a shelf. “These will work for the gate and the shutters, too. You have several that need to be secured.”

“Hinges for shutters?” she asked, a brow lifting as she questioned his intent.

“When you get a good wind hereabouts, you might need to close them in order to keep the windows safe from flying debris,” he told her.

“Will they fasten inside?” she asked, and he nodded a reply.

“To keep out intruders, perhaps?” Her words were slow, as if her mind worked a problem.

“I suppose they could be used in that way,” he conceded. “Though I doubt you’ll need them for that purpose.”

She stepped backward through the doorway and her hand beckoned him to follow. “I’ll be available if you need help, Mr. Cleary. Can I carry something for you?”

“No,” he said, bending to collect a board. The shutter had a cracked slat, and he might as well make a decent job of it. “But you can keep me company if you like.”

“No, I believe I have more than enough to do indoors this morning,” she told him. “We’re teaching the ladies how to do simple sewing tasks. Janine is quite a talented seamstress, and she’s willing to share her knowledge.” Her smile was quick, as if she’d allowed a bit of humor to intrude on her serious endeavors.

“Are they willing pupils?” he asked, needing to keep her company as long as he could without being too forward.

“Willing, perhaps, but not as capable as Janine. Buttons and seams and darning might be the limit of Beth Ann’s talents, but Honey is eager to learn.”

“And Pearl?”

She cast him a glance from beneath long eyelashes and her mouth was taut. “Pearl is another story, I fear. She’s adept in the kitchen these days, but she’s so used to being waited on and cosseted, it’s sometimes a problem, trying to expand her education.”

“Waited on?” His brows rose in pure skepticism as he tried to envision that woman as a lady of leisure.

“She was in demand at the Pink Palace, I understand, and had the nicest room and all the benefits of being Mrs. Simpson’s pet, according to Honey.”

Apparently a most talented lady, he decided. Surely talent was her only attraction, for the woman was almost beyond the age of selling herself by seductively revealing her face and form to the gentlemen who sought out such an alliance. And next to Augusta, Pearl was blowsy and wore the look of a horse who’d been ridden hard and put away wet. No matter Pearl’s tricks of the trade, he’d take Augusta McBride over any amount of experience any day of the week.

Even now, Augusta’s cheeks bore a hint of embarrassment, their tone definitely rosy as she discussed the women she sheltered within the walls of her home. An almost overwhelming need to touch that fine skin arose within him, and Cleary blessed the fact that his hands were filled with the supplies he needed to complete his work this morning.

“Well, you go on ahead, ma’am,” he told Augusta. “I’ll try not to make too much noise when I work on the shutters. But I’m going to be working on all of them, and you’d do well to stay in the back of the house for your sewing class.”

“Yes, we’d planned on that. The kitchen table will do well for our needs,” she told him, lifting her skirt as she hastened toward the back door.

He watched, aware of the fine lines of her ankles, his gaze narrowing as he caught a glimpse of the lower curve of her calf as she climbed the three steps to the back porch. And then the sight of Bertha standing on the other side of the screened door drew his eyes. The look of warning she flashed in his direction made his mouth twitch with amusement. He’d be facing a veritable dragon in that one, he decided, should he lay one finger on her lone chick.

Let her do her worst. It would be more than a finger he placed on the delicate skin of Augusta McBride. Before many more days had passed, he planned on initiating a slow seduction.

Gussie. He tasted the single word on his tongue, and his smile became full-blown. Bertha be hanged. He’d faced worse adversaries in his day. And in this case, the prize was worthy of his finest efforts.

“I’m not ever going to be a seamstress,” Beth Ann announced at the end of an hour of attempting to sew on missing buttons, suffering numerous tiny wounds from the needle that refused to cooperate.

“You don’t need to be,” Janine told her, preening as she held up her own work. A dress from the missionary barrel had been remade into a garment for Honey. It would tie in the back, making allowances for her increasing girth as time passed. “I think this will do,” Janine pronounced, folding the dress and presenting it to the young woman.

“I can’t thank you enough,” Honey said, humbly accepting the gift. “My things are all but tearing out at the seams already.”

“If you can learn to do mending and sewing on buttons, it will be sufficient for now,” Janine told the two young women. “Not everyone can sew a fine seam, but with practice, you’ll do better.”

“Why didn’t you become a dressmaker?” Augusta asked her bluntly. “Surely it would have been a more—” She halted, not knowing the words to describe her thoughts.

“More acceptable occupation?” Janine supplied with a quirk of her eyebrow. “Perhaps, but not nearly so lucrative.”