“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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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.

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.”

“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.”

“Nor so dangerous,” Augusta reminded her.

“Well, there is that,” Janine agreed. “And I have the marks to prove it.” She shuddered involuntarily as she spoke, and Augusta felt a moment’s curiosity as she wondered at the events that had driven Janine from the Pink Palace to this place. It was an unspoken rule that no one need divulge any more than they wanted to regarding their past or their reasons for being here.

And that included Augusta, thankfully.

“If you don’t get your mess out of my way, we’ll be eatin’ dinner on top of your mending,” Bertha said from her place before the stove. “You’d better ask that man if he wants to sit down with us,” she told Augusta, grudgingly offering the hospitality of her kitchen to Cleary.

Even now, his hammer rang out sharply as he put shutters in place on the front of the house. Augusta nodded and hastened toward the hallway, her heart strangely affected by the prospect of speaking to the tall gentleman. She exited through the front screened door and turned to where he labored at the furthest window. A glance at the gate proved his ability. It hung straight and was fastened with a shiny new latch.

“Mr. Cleary?” She halted six feet from him, her eyes drawn by the muscles in his upper arms, straining the material of his shirt as he swung the hammer one last time, a final blow that set the nail firmly in place. His vest lay over the porch railing and his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, allowing him to work without the hindrance of fabric pulling and tugging as he used the hammer.

He was strong, not overly thick through the upper body, but muscular nonetheless. And she felt a slow flush climb her cheeks, reproving herself for noticing such a thing.

“Yes, Miss Augusta?” he answered, turning his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were warm, regarding her with a look of pleasure, as if he took delight in the sight of her there before him. His lips curved beneath his mustache, and she felt her heart beat a bit faster as his smile widened.

“We’re about ready to eat dinner, if you’d like to join us.” Her words were stilted, delivered in a breathless fashion, and his smile tweaked a corner of his wide mouth.

“I’d appreciate that, ma’am,” he told her politely. “Would you like to hold this shutter in place while I finish up the last bit of securing it to the house?”

“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, stepping to his side, wondering briefly how he’d accomplished hanging the others without help.

Cleary looked down at her as she awaited his instructions. “I need to make it readily available, should you want to close it,” he said, explaining his method. “But it needs to be firmly attached when it’s opened.” Grasping her right hand, he placed it on the edge of the wide slats.

“Hold it right there,” he instructed her, speaking past several nails he held between his lips, and she obeyed.

Aware of the faint scent of masculine flesh, she breathed carefully, drawing shallow gasps of air into her suddenly inadequate lungs. It was no use. He was male, a bit warm, sweaty even, she decided. Yet it was a pleasing smell, that of soap and perhaps hair tonic, along with an undefinable aroma that teased her into edging just a bit closer.

Her hair brushed against his chest as he leaned over her to ply his hammer to the latch he imposed on the wooden siding. And then his hand touched her shoulder as he fit the hook into the latch, holding the shutter immobile and in place.

“You can let go now,” he told her, and her hand fell from the shutter as she stepped aside. His palm against her shoulder tightened its grip, and she halted in her retreat. She looked up at him, aware that, though he held her firmly, he exhibited no force, only a touch that warmed her to the tips of her fingers.

“Thank you, Miss Augusta,” he said politely. His eyes were heavy lidded, she noted, their depths dark as he took her measure. “When will you learn to call me Cleary, without the formality of a title attached?” he asked quietly. “Once you do, I’ll be able to use your name as I please.” His mouth twitched and widened to a smile that lured her.

“Cleary,” she said obediently, softly, with a whisper of anticipation, as if she waited for some momentous occasion to present itself.

“Augusta,” he replied, his gaze focused upon her lips as they spoke his name.

She held her breath, the heat from his body extending to hers, warming her from top to bottom, her spine tingling as she edged half a step closer to him. His head bent a bit and his mouth opened a fraction. As though in a trance, Augusta tilted her chin, the better to watch that mobile arrangement of lips that lured her in a foreign, forbidden way.

The edges of his teeth showed as he smiled, white beneath his dark mustache, and he bent inches closer. Almost close enough to touch her mouth.

“Dinner’s on the table.” The words echoed in her mind as the screened door opened and Pearl stepped onto the porch.

“Yes.” Augusta’s eyes closed for just a second, ruing the loss of…what? Had he been about to place those firm, chiseled lips upon hers? Such a thought did not bear pondering, she decided quickly. Pearl had interrupted but a moment of flirtation on his part.

The urge to shake her head in denial of that thought was strong. She considered the man a gentleman, far above stealing a fleeting kiss in broad daylight, in full view of any passerby who might glance in their direction.

Her own gaze flew to the empty road in front of the house, and she blessed the porch roof and the sheltering hedge of bushes that hid them from the boardinghouse next door.

“We’ll be right there, Pearl,” she said quickly, sending a smile in the woman’s direction. “We’ve just finished the final touches on this shutter.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Pearl drawled, backing into the front hallway as she cast a mocking grin at Cleary.

“She thinks we were…” Flustered and at a loss for words, Augusta backed off.

“We were, ma’am,” he told her softly. “I was about to place my lips against yours, and now I’m regretting the interruption.”

“I can’t have you saying such things to me, sir,” Augusta told him with a haughty glance. “I am not available for a dalliance, no matter that I owe you my thanks for the work you’ve done on behalf of our shelter.”

“I’ve been happy to donate my time and limited talents, ma’am,” he told her as he reached for his vest. “And I have no intention of dallying with you. My intentions have never been less than honorable where you’re concerned. It just happens that I almost fell prey to your sweetness a moment ago.” He turned, meeting her gaze, and his eyes burned with a warmth she knew was intended to disarm her. As were his final words. “I regret if I’ve caused you any distress,” he murmured.

She watched as he rolled down his shirtsleeves, sorting through his words. Losing track when she recalled dallying and honorable, she managed to recall another phrase, words that sounded like an apology. He’d called her sweet, in a roundabout way. And that thought made her blood hum in her veins. She’d never been described as sweet, not by anyone in her life.

But this man, this strong, handsome man whose very presence made her heart beat just a bit faster, thought she was attractive enough to spend his niceties upon. Her smile wobbled as she took another step toward the door, and her words were proper and ladylike, even to her own ears, as she invited him to join the household for dinner.

And if there was a sudden look of relief on his face, she chose to ignore it, setting aside the small disagreement they’d sorted through. He followed her into the house and down the hallway to the kitchen at the back. As he soaped his hands in the pan provided, she poured additional warm water over them from the reservoir at the side of the stove.

It was moments later, as they sat around the table, that she realized his words had held a note of promise she would do well not to ignore.

I was about to place my lips against yours. And now I’m regretting the interruption.

In order to succeed, her shelter must remain first and foremost in her thoughts. Mr. Cleary, with his dark eyes and neatly trimmed mustache, was a distraction she could not afford.

He’d been called out of town. The note was short and to the point. And Augusta was filled with a sense of desolation. One she quickly worked to obliterate, plunging into a cooking lesson as if it were of utmost import this morning. The minister’s wife had cried off again, and Augusta was beginning to recognize that she alone, of the original five ladies who’d met to organize this effort, was left to do this sort of thing.

Her ladies watched her warily, and she gathered herself together. It would not do for them to recognize her attachment to Mr. Cleary. Indeed, she had no business even thinking about him. The shelter was her first obligation. That and teaching her ladies in order to make them eligible for marriage or a life of their choice beyond the doors of this place.

“I’ll never get the hang of gravy,” Honey said, stirring the lumpy concoction she’d managed to devise from bacon drippings and flour.

“When it’s browned nicely, you’ll add a cup or two of water, and be amazed at what occurs,” Augusta said, doing her best to encourage the girl.

“I know what occurred last time I did this,” Honey told her, her mouth turning down in discouragement. “I ended up with a pan full of paste. Lumpy paste.”

“Well, my bread didn’t rise the way Bertha’s does,” Beth Ann said sadly. “I think it’ll only be good for toast. Or maybe to feed the chickens.”

“That’s one good thing about having chickens,” Augusta agreed. “Although a pig might be even better at getting rid of our mistakes.”

“You don’t make mistakes,” Beth Ann said, lifting her gaze to Augusta, as if she beheld a woman beyond reproach. “You always seem to know the right thing to do and say, and you’ve even got Mr. Cleary hanging on your every word.”

“Mr. Cleary?” Augusta repeated the name as if it were foreign to her. “What on earth are you talking about?” It would not do to have the ladies thinking she was carrying on with the man, and if Pearl had made untoward remarks after seeing them together on the porch, she’d have to speak to her.

“He’s sweet on you, ma’am,” the girl said shyly. “I never had anybody look at me the way he looks at you. Never even had any man act like I was fit to spit on.” Her mouth drew into a moue, and she sighed deeply.

“Well, by the time we get finished with you, you’ll be a fit companion for any man out looking for a wife,” Augusta determined. “You’ll be able to cook and sew a bit and keep house with the best of them.” Deep within, she doubted the total truth of that bold statement, but lest Beth Ann see her doubtfulness, she smiled widely and patted the girl on the shoulder.

Keeping house was an accomplishment all of the women were able to attain, and the inside of the place was as neat as a pin these days. Floors shiny and windows spotless, it had taken on the appearance of a home. A home such as Augusta hadn’t had in several months. She cherished each room, adding to the furnishings gradually as pieces became available through the lady at the general store, who advised her of folks willing to sell various items at a good price. Nothing matched precisely, but it all began to blend with a homey charm that pleased her.

“I think we’ve accomplished enough today,” she said as Honey surveyed her gravy, stirring in vain to dissolve the lumps. “Bertha will fix a new pan for dinner,” she told the girl. “Next time will be better.”

“My cookies came out good,” Honey said quietly. “Maybe I can find a fella to marry who has a sweet tooth.” Her smile was trembling, and Augusta’s heart went out to the girl who would soon be a woman with a child, and with no husband in view.

“Where’s Mr. Cleary gone to?” Pearl asked idly, glancing up from her task of cutting out biscuits. Her eyes were sharp, her query far from idle, and Augusta hesitated a moment, forming a reply.

“He was called out of town on business,” she said, wiping the table with a damp cloth and preparing it for dinner. “He’ll be back in a few days, I suppose.”

“He didn’t tell you?” Pearl asked.

August sent her a glance meant to subdue her curiosity, but Pearl was not to be deterred from her purpose.

“I’d think a man as smitten as he is would be here tellin’ you goodbye, not just sending you a note.” Her eyes lit with humor as Pearl leveled her remark at Augusta.

“He’s not smitten,” August said sharply, “and I don’t appreciate your innuendo, Pearl. Mr. Cleary has been more than generous with his time, helping us do the outside work and supervising the building of the chicken yard and coop. He doesn’t, however, owe us an explanation for his absence.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am,” Pearl replied, her submissive tone at odds with the grin she made no attempt to conceal.

Augusta halted midway across the kitchen and turned to Pearl, her lips pursed, her eyes flashing. And then she let out a deep breath. For the first time in years, she was being teased, and by a master. Pearl meant no harm, she realized, only poked fun. The sight of Augusta and Cleary on the porch had given her a tool, and she was wielding it with a skill Augusta could only admire.

She was a part of a family here, she realized. These women, with checkered backgrounds, unlike her own luxurious beginnings, had joined forces to give her the security of a sisterhood, something she’d never enjoyed.

“Gracious, I don’t even know the man’s first name,” Augusta said.

“Jonathan,” Beth Ann said quietly.

“Jonathan?” Augusta swung to face the girl, her eyes wide with surprise. “How did you know that?”

“He told me. He saw me pulling weeds in the garden and he came over to lend a hand, and he said my name was pretty. So I asked him what his was, and he told me. I didn’t do anything wrong, did I?” Her blue eyes filled with tears and Augusta was stricken as she watched Beth Ann’s mouth tremble.

Her arms surrounded the young girl and she held her closely. “No, of course you didn’t do anything wrong. It was kind of him to help you, and even nicer to share his name with you.” She set her away and met the teary gaze. “Maybe it’s you he’s sweet on, Beth Ann, and not me, as Pearl believes.”

A flush crept up the wan cheeks and Beth Ann protested, her head shaking, her words spurting forth in a quick denial of any such thing.

The women halted their work and gathered around the girl, and even Pearl touched Beth Ann’s nondescript hair with a kind hand as they assured her that Augusta was only teasing. Bertha watched from the stove and flashed a look of understanding, nodding wisely as if she condoned the development of this clutch of women into a family.

A sharp rapping on the front door caught Augusta’s ear and she hastened down the hallway to answer the summons. Her footsteps lagged as she set eyes on Roger Hampton, hat in hand, peering through the screen. “What do you want, Mr. Hampton?”

“I thought I’d stop by since your handyman seems to have taken a hike out of town. Thought you might enjoy a gentleman’s company.”

“And you consider yourself as such?” Augusta asked, a haughty note coating each word. She stood back from the door and slid her hands into her apron pockets. “Did you come for any particular reason? Or were you just riding through the neighborhood?”

“I suppose my visit is to ascertain your reasons for staying here instead of coming with me back to Dallas,” he said quietly, apparently deciding to present his better side.

“I have a home here, and responsibilities,” she told him firmly.

“And a man chasing after you,” he added with a frown. “A man who is operating in a most secretive manner. Even the sheriff is checking up on him.”

“And what makes you think that concerns me?” she asked, her mind spinning as she wondered again where Cleary had gone.

“There’s been a rash of robberies—train robberies—lately. The gang is hitting shipments of cash and gold in an area surrounding Dallas, and your Mr. Cleary seems to be spacing his out-of-town trips to coincide with each event.” He rocked back on his heels and his features formed a smug grin. “Just thought you might want to chew on that bit of information while you’re awaiting his return.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate your coming out here to fill me in on all the latest news. But I doubt very much if Mr. Cleary’s business has anything to do with bank robbers. He is a gentleman of the first order.”

“Is he, now?” Roger’s mouth tilted in a smile that did little to increase his appeal in Augusta’s eyes. “I heard that he was taking liberties with you, right here on the front porch of your place, just a few days ago.”

“Liberties?” she asked, thinking furiously of the kiss she’d almost received. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Hampton.”

“Don’t you?” He smiled, his mouth a taunt. “Well, I just wanted you to know that I’ll be leaving town before long. My work in Dallas will no longer wait for my appearance there. If you change your mind, I’d be delighted to purchase a ticket for you to accompany me.” He stepped back from the screened door and placed his hat on his head.

“I’d think the atmosphere there would be more conducive to a woman of your stature, Miss Augusta. In fact, I’ll be willing to marry you here, before we even got on the train together. And I’ll warrant that’s a better offer than what you’ll get from your Mr. Cleary.”

“I told you I wasn’t interested in your offer before I left Dallas, sir. I haven’t changed my mind.” Scathing words spun in her mind, but she set them aside, simply bowing her head and speaking one last phrase as she backed away from the door. She could not help but recognize that her inheritance was more appealing to Roger Hampton than she, herself, was. And that thought galled, tainting her final words.

“I wish you well, Mr. Hampton. Good day.”

His mouth was grim as he narrowed his eyes, peering through the screen as she turned aside. “When you discover what a scalawag you’re tangled up with, I’ll expect to hear from you, Miss Augusta.”

She heard his footsteps as he clattered down the steps, and her mind clung tenaciously to his words as she stood facing the flowered wallpaper in the hall.

…a rash of train robberies lately…spacing his out-of-town trips to coincide with each event. Even the sheriff is checking up on him.

She been trusting all of her life, certain of her instincts. Learning that she was the child of a woman of ill repute should have made her more wary of her intuition, yet she’d accepted Jonathan Cleary’s appearance on her doorstep and refrained from questioning him about his circumstances.

The man had almost kissed her. Good grief! And she’d been more than willing, had he but bent a bit closer, had Pearl not interfered with her call to the table. Apparently she’d lowered all her barriers to him, and all but given him permission to ply her with his attentions. She shook her head at her own foolishness and stiffened her spine.

Just wait until he reappeared. Just wait.

The fourth day came and went, and still there was no reappearance of the man she yearned for. Cleary. Jonathan Cleary, Augusta reminded herself, a tinge of hurt creeping into her thoughts as she reflected that he’d not deemed her worthy of such a confidence. She looked from her bedroom window, scanning the starry horizon.

It was almost a mile to his house, she mused. Perhaps he’d returned already and was even now readying himself for bed. As if she cared, she thought, tossing her head.

And yet, he crept further into her thoughts and she closed her eyes, visualizing his muscular form. Maybe he was undressing, freeing himself from the constriction of shirt and tie, for surely he would be dressed as a gentleman to pursue his business.

Whatever his business was, it was sure to be something refined, she decided, no matter what Roger Hampton’s veiled accusations had implied. Maybe he was in charge of…she inhaled deeply as her mind balked, and her thoughts churned with various occupations the man might be involved with.

Cleary didn’t appear to be a businessman, although his manners were impeccable. He was adept with tools, and his intelligence could not be disputed, but his talent seemed to lie in getting things accomplished. Like the chickenyard and coop. And like repairing the shingles on the roof, supervising the men from the boardinghouse next door as they worked to his specifications.

She opened her eyes, leaning her forehead against the upper windowpane. It was warm, holding the heat of the day, and she lifted from it. A movement beneath a tree in the front yard caught her attention as a figure stepped from under the low branches. A man, tall, wide through the shoulders, his hands at his sides.

It was Cleary. How she knew for certain was not important. Maybe it was his size, or the broad expanse of his shoulders, his stance seeming taut as he looked up at her window. Whatever inner message filled her mind with the knowledge, it was the beating of her heart and the quickening within her body that made her aware of his presence. She stepped back from the glass and bent to peer through the lower half of the window, where the screen kept night bugs from her room yet allowed soft breezes to enter.

The man watching lifted his hand in a salute of greeting, or perhaps a gesture willing her to come to him, then tucked it neatly in his trouser’s pocket. And waited.

She turned to the bed, snatching her wrapper and sliding her arms into the sleeves. He’d seen her, beckoned her with his uplifted palm, and her head swam with the knowledge that he’d come to her. No matter his reason. Whatever the cost, she ached for his presence, for the sound of his voice, for the touch of his hand. Her feet were silent on the steps as she flew down the curving staircase to the front door.

It closed without a sound behind her, and she stood at the edge of the porch as he approached. She leaned heavily against the upright post beside her, and his name was a whisper on her lips. “Cleary?”

He stood below her, as if to approach nearer would be a blemish on her reputation. One hand lifted his hat and held it against his thigh, and still he watched her, silent and sober in the shadows. And then he spoke, the words quiet in the night, touching her heart like the song of a nightingale.

“I needed to see you.” Music to her ears, the message he sent vibrated through her mind. I needed to see you.

Her reply seemed prosaic, witless and drab, yet she could not speak above a whisper, in a breathless, timid voice. “Whatever for, Mr. Cleary?” She should have called him Jonathan, she thought, ruing her formality. He’d have lifted a brow and smiled at her with delight and…

“I missed you,” he said after a moment. His hat moved as he touched it against his leg and then shifted it in his hand. “I wasn’t sure you’d see me out there. Or that you’d come down to speak with me.”

She yearned to ask where he’d been. Wanted desperately to wonder aloud at the occupation that sent him hither and yon without notice, needed to hear an explanation for his absence. But mostly she ached to greet him warmly, and only the essential dignity she possessed forbade her to extend a hand and allow him the steps to where she stood, perhaps sit beside her on the swing that hung in the shadows at the end of the porch.

“We’ve missed you, too.” It was a pale imitation of what her heart yearned to speak. But it would suffice, she decided, deliberately including the other occupants of this house in her words.

“We?” he asked. “And you, Miss Augusta. Did you miss me most of all?”

She saw a smile touch his lips, noted the lowering of his eyelids until only a faint gleam revealed his attention focused on her. The moon touched his hair with silver and the stars attended his smile, bringing to light the white, straight edges of his teeth. He was all male, powerful in his masculine beauty, and she sensed the disintegration of her defenses, if, indeed, she’d ever possessed any where this man was concerned.

“Yes.” It was a single word, spoken quietly, accompanied by a small nod that reminded her of her dishabille, her hair falling past her shoulders to wave against her back. She’d taken the pins out, then shaken her head to loosen the locks. Now they tumbled where they would and she was stricken with embarrassment.

A lady did not allow her hair to be seen by a gentleman in such a manner. A fact her mother had dutifully listed, along with several other such rules, all of them written in stone. There were some things a lady definitely did not do.

Augusta feared that one of them surely included standing in the dark with only her nightwear on while a gentleman watched with knowing eyes. Especially when that gentleman had the ability to stir the lady’s emotions with only a look or touch.

Cleary’s smile held a hint of satisfaction as he heard her soft admission. Yes. The single word hung between them and he inhaled swiftly.

“I’ll be here tomorrow,” he said. “Do you have a number of things for me to do?”

She shook her head. “None that I can think of right now.” Her mind was blank, all but his image before her having faded to oblivion.

“I’ll come anyway,” he promised. “There’s nothing in my cupboard for breakfast. Perhaps Bertha will allow me to join you.”

“I’m sure,” she whispered.

He stretched out his hand, his palm open to the moonlight, and her gaze flew to rest there, where she knew calluses hardened the skin. “Step down here with me, Gussie,” he said quietly. Her hand twitched at her side and she doubled her fingers into a fist. Yet it would not obey her command, not even when she forced it into her pocket and clutched at the fabric there.

It trembled in her pocket, her fingertips tingling as she considered resting them on that open palm. “Why don’t you step up here?” she countered, her head tilting to one side.

As if he had been waiting for the words of invitation, he lifted a foot to the porch, touching the upright post for balance, and, eschewing the stairs, stood before her. She backed from him with haste, but he was immobile, only the rise and fall of his shirt with each breath he drew marring the statue he became.

“You really missed me?” he asked, his voice taking on a husky note that stirred her heart into a more rapid pace.

“Yes.”

“Then show me.”

Chapter Four

“Show you? I don’t understand.”

She lied, he thought smugly. Though her wide eyes were confused, her body arched, leaning toward him as if she yearned to be in contact with his own solid frame. Escaping the pocket where she’d thrust it, her hand rose, fingers clenched tightly. And then they unfolded and her fist was no more, having become a narrow palm whose trembling fingers lifted toward his wide chest.

“I think you do,” he said quietly, denying her words. “Shall I help you?” he asked.

Her gaze was shuttered by drooping eyelids now, as if she concentrated on the movement of her fingers as they brushed against his leather vest. “I thought you’d wear a suit in your pursuit of business. A white shirt and tie, perhaps.” And then, as if his words penetrated her mind, she glanced up at him and he saw heat in the depths of her blue eyes, a warmth she was unable to conceal.

“Help me? What do you mean?” Her lips trembled and he fought the urge to cover them with his own. He’d almost done that very thing, less than a week ago, there at the corner of the house as she held the shutter for him. An unnecessary task he’d invented for his own pleasure.

“Like this.” He bent his head, and one wide palm lifted to cover her hand as it pressed finally against his chest. She was warm to his touch, her slender hand more than capable of bringing him to a state of arousal with barely a whisper of pressure against his clothing. And what he would do next would perhaps thrust him beyond that initial state of yearning.

Her eyes closed as he surrounded her waist with his other arm, tugging her gently against himself. Lest he frighten her with the evidence of his longing, he allowed only their upper bodies to touch, and that just enough to feel the soft curves of her breasts against the back of his hand.

She inhaled, a deep, quivering breath, and he rested his lips against hers, barely brushing the soft surface. They trembled at his touch and he pressed more firmly, wanting the further intimacy of tongue and teeth exposed to his own. But not tonight, he realized. She kissed like the innocent she was, and so he was dutiful in his behavior, only whispering a soft word of pleasure as he lifted his head.

“Nice,” he said quietly. “Your mouth is soft and sweet, Miss Gussie.”

“Gussie?” she inquired, as if she’d only now realized his use of a derivative of her name. “You said that a few minutes ago, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he agreed with a nod. “I think it suits you.”

“My brother called me Gussie,” she told him. “A long time ago.”

“I won’t call you that in front of others,” he promised. “Only when we’re alone.”

“I hadn’t planned on us being alone, Jonathan,” she replied, using his given name for the first time, emphasizing each syllable. Her eyes met his with a direct gaze that demanded a reply.

“Beth Ann told you, didn’t she?” His smile was gentle as he thought of the ungainly young woman who had caught his attention and inspired his gentleman’s instincts. “She needed to feel special that day, Gussie. I told her she had a lovely name, and…”

“She told us. And you succeeded at your task. You made her feel good, just by paying attention to her.”

“You don’t mind? Not only that I told her my name, but that I didn’t tell you first. I didn’t intend it, but she’s a needy female, Gussie. I just thought…”

She shook her head, effectively halting his words. “Every woman needs to know that there is something about her that is attractive to a man. Beth Ann has never felt worthy of anyone’s attention. I think now she recognizes that she may have something to offer one day. In fact, I think we’re attacking that problem in the proper fashion now.”

It was not the way he’d wanted these few moments to be spent, speaking of another woman, yet Augusta went on, and he allowed it, easing himself a bit as he held her against his body.

“We’re showing her how to fix her hair. Pearl’s good at that, and she has her using lemon juice to rinse it with to bring out the gold. Janine is fixing her clothes a bit, making them fit better, and showing Beth Ann how to stand up straight with her shoulders back.”

“And what are you doing for her?” he asked, his voice amused as her earnest words told of her plan.

“I’m helping her to read better and teaching her how to write more clearly. She is sadly lacking in schooling, I fear.”

“You have a kind heart, Gussie.”

“I have a need to help, Jonathan.” As if she tasted his name on her tongue, she pronounced the syllables slowly. “Someday I’ll tell you about it, when I’m brave enough.”

Brave? Did Augusta need to gather her courage to confide her reasons for what she did here, in this place, with these women? “Someday soon, I’ll remind you of that promise,” he said quietly. And then pushing all else aside, he bent to her again, catching a whiff of sweet scent he could not identify, mixed with the warm aroma of her flesh. “I think I must leave,” he told her, pressing his lips against her forehead. “I don’t want anyone to see us and think badly of you.”

“I missed you.” She repeated his words and her smile was tremulous as she tilted her head to look up at him. “I’ve never been kissed before,” she confessed. “In all my days, no man has ever gotten this close to me.”

“Not for lack of trying, I’ll warrant,” he said quietly. “You are an appealing woman, Gussie.” His mouth touched hers, a fleeting caress.

“Appealing?”

“I’m not going to make a list of your charms, ma’am. You’ve already chastened me on that score once.” He softened the words with another quick touch of his mouth against hers. “Besides having lovely hair—” His lips brushed like fairy wings against the wispy curl that lay against her temple “—and beautiful eyes—” He kissed the lids, carefully, with butterfly touches. And then his words were wistful, clinging to her ears like honey dripping from the comb. “Augusta, my love, you have a bountiful supply of attributes which could easily bring a man to his knees.”

“My hair is down,” she blurted out, as if unable to respond to his elaborate descriptions of what she obviously considered rather ordinary features.

“I noticed,” he murmured. “I feel privileged to see it revealed. I’d lay odds that no other man has had such a viewing.” His hands yearned to tangle in its golden waves and he forbade himself the intimacy. Next time.

“You’d win,” she admitted with a sigh. “My mother would roll over in her grave if she saw me here with you. She taught me to be a lady.”

“She did a good job of it,” Cleary said. “You are every inch a gentlewoman.”

“Even with my nightclothes on and my hair in disarray?”

He nodded. “Especially in such a state. Your womanhood does not depend on what you’re wearing or your hairpins remaining in place. Right now, you’re every bit a lady, and I respect you as such.”

Even as I yearn to lay you down and make you a woman. The thought raced through his mind and he inhaled deeply, stepping away from her, releasing her from his embrace, lest he frighten her with his barely controlled desire.

She backed a few steps, coming up against the door, and her fingers groped for the handle. Her face was in shadow and he heard her whisper a soft farewell, watched as she slid within the narrow opening she allowed, into the hallway, where she stood like a wraith beyond the screened door.

“Good night,” he said, turning to step down from the porch, making his way to where his horse awaited his return, there beneath the widespread limbs of the tree at the front of her yard. He heard the faint click of the latch as she closed the door, and he led his horse from concealment. With a lithe movement, he mounted, groaning at the firmness of the saddle against his throbbing arousal.

With a last glance at the dark house, he lifted the reins and traveled a roundabout route to his home.

To the house that seemed less a home than the one he left behind.

“Thought I saw somebody out in the front yard last night,” Pearl said from behind her as Augusta stood at the back door. Morning had been a relief, her sleep broken by dreams of Cleary. The sun was just above the chicken coop now, almost time for breakfast. She’d thought herself alone in the kitchen, until Pearl’s words made her aware that her midnight foray to the porch had not gone unnoticed.

“Did you?” Her voice was quiet, the words deliberate as she turned her head to face the other woman’s gaze. “It was Cleary, as you well know.”

“Is he leadin’ you down the primrose path?” Pearl asked, and Augusta sensed real concern behind the casual query. A crease drew her brows together as Pearl spoke her mind.

“He’s not what he seems, Miss Augusta. I’ve been around the track a few times, and I’ve known men like him. I think he’s a good man, deep down where it counts, but I don’t think he’s being honest with you. With anybody, for that matter.”

Augusta digested the woman’s words, reluctantly agreeing with her theory, and then shrugged. “Maybe not. But I know he’s done a lot to help us here. And until I find out otherwise, I have to trust him not to do harm.”

“Don’t go losing your heart to a man who can’t make you any promises,” Pearl advised. “I’ll lay odds he has other fish to fry, and we’re just helpin’ him mark time while he does whatever it is he does.”

“And what do you suppose that is?”

Pearl grinned. “We’re both probably better off not knowing. The only difference is that you’re the one likely to get hurt before this is over. Now if you were like me,” she paused and laughed aloud. “I’m tough as old boots, and I lost my heart in the shuffle a long time ago.”

“To a man?” Augusta asked with a smile. For the first time she began to see through Pearl’s tough exterior, into the woman’s heart she’d just claimed to have forfeited along the way.

“There’s always a man,” Pearl said with a laugh. “The thing is, you gotta learn how to keep yourself clear of the loving part.” Her head cocked to one side as she examined Augusta’s face, and her smile faded. “Damn if I don’t believe you’ve already got in over your head, Miss Augusta.” She shook her head and her eyes mourned Augusta’s loss of innocence. “Damn.”

“I’m not in over my head,” Augusta denied quietly. “He’s a gentleman in every way. And he didn’t molest me last night.”

“I didn’t think he had,” Pearl said agreeably. “But he’ll either marry you quick as he can, or take you to bed and tie you to him in ways you’ve never imagined. And then you’ll be…” Her eyes narrowed as she watched Augusta. “He’ll answer to me, does he hurt you. And you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll tell him so.”

“No.” The single word resounded like a rifle shot in the room. “No. I won’t have anyone interfering in this. I’ve already been warned, but for the first time in my life, I’ve found a man I’m willing to trust with everything I have to give, and I won’t let anyone else be involved. I need to do this on my own.”

“Well, you’d better know I’ll be watching him,” Pearl said grudgingly. “And so will a couple other people I know.”

“It’s time for breakfast,” Augusta said with a glance at the kitchen door. If she knew anything at all, it was that Bertha would be strolling through that doorway in minutes, and the conversation of the hour didn’t need to include another living soul.

“I’ll get out the milk,” Pearl told her, turning to the icebox, bending to retrieve the bottle from its depths. “Here,” she said. “You start the biscuits and I’ll get stuff from the pantry.”

Within minutes the fire was crackling with the addition of kindling and a few stout pieces of wood. The bacon was sliced and in the pan, and Augusta was demoted to finding a biscuit pan while Bertha made it her business to cut out the pale rounds of dough and place them on the greased surface.

“I heard y’all out here talkin’,” she grumbled. “Seems like we could’ve had another half hour to sleep. Sun’s barely up.”

“It’s just as well we get organized early,” Pearl said cheerfully, shooting a wry grin in Augusta’s direction. “I have a notion we’re gonna have company for breakfast.”

In fact, it was barely ten minutes later when a faint rapping at the back door caught Augusta’s ear. Jonathan Cleary stood to one side of the door, seeking her gaze through the fine wire mesh as she reached to unlatch the screened door.

“Thought I’d stop by and see if there was a chance of cadging breakfast,” he said cheerfully.

“Do you suppose you can find something to do to earn it out?” Augusta asked him, as if she were not fully aware that his mind was no doubt already swarming with tasks to be accomplished.

“I’ll manage,” he said, his words droll. Walking to the sink, he washed his hands and then turned, seeking a towel.

“Towels are in the pantry,” Pearl said shortly. “And there’s need of a few more shelves in there, if you’re of a mind to nail up a couple of boards.”

“I could manage that,” he said, his glance mocking as he met the woman’s gaze. “Anything else you think I need to tend to?”

Pearl’s eyes took on a gleam that warned Augusta she’d best be stepping between the two adversaries. “I’ve got a short list of things,” she said quickly. “We can talk after breakfast.”

The short list involved using a lawn mower, a new one Augusta had ordered from the Sears, Roebuck catalogue. “Am I the first one to use it?” Cleary asked. “It’ll be a far sight easier to push than the one I used back home as a boy. I well remember having to rake up the clippings to feed the goats.”

“Why didn’t your father just stake the goats in the yard and let them do the work?” Augusta asked with a grin. Looking at Cleary beneath the hot sun, his forehead wearing a handkerchief to halt the pouring of sweat into his eyes, was a treat.

Now he halted, midway in his rounding of the yard and eyed her boldly. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, lady? All cool and crisp while I’m sweating like a horse, doing your chores. And for your information, when I was growing up, the other ladies in town would have thought we were peasants had we tied the goats in the yard.”

“Where was home?” Augusta asked quietly, her gaze resting on his strong body, outlined by the dampness of his clothing. Another time, with another man, she might have considered her thoughts forward, would have looked anywhere else but at the flex of muscles in his arms as he reached for the glass of lemonade she held. But not with Cleary.

After last night on the porch, she’d become aware of him in a new way. She knew that he wanted her, as a man wants a woman, and that knowledge made her brave, bold in her scrutiny.

He took the glass, and she reveled in the touch of callused fingertips against her finer skin. Tilting his head back, he drank, his swallows readily draining the glass. And then he held it out to her. “We lived not too far from here, as a matter of fact.”

Perhaps she hadn’t expected his honest reply, and yet, somehow she’d known that when he could, Jonathan Cleary would be honest with her. “Do you see your folks?” she asked, looking up at him.

He shook his head, and his words held a ring of harshness she had not expected. “They’re gone.” And that seemed to be all he would say on the subject as he glanced up at the sky. “Might as well get this job done. I think we’re in for a good rain before nightfall.” His grin was quick, as though his moment of brusque behavior was forgotten. “And that will only make it grow quicker.”

Augusta looked upward, where clouds gathered at the western horizon. “Well, you’ll have to come back for breakfast next week then, won’t you?” she heard herself saying.

His laugh rolled forth and she looked at him warily. “Go get me some more lemonade, sweetheart, or a glass of water from the well. Any sort of liquid will do. I’m still dry.”

She turned to walk away, and his words were a whisper in her ear. “I’ll be back for breakfast, all right. You won’t be getting rid of me, honey.”

Sweetheart. Honey. The simple endearments clutched at her heart as she hurried to the house, hearing the mower’s blade spin behind her. He’d called her names she’d only heard before from her father when he spoke to the woman he adored, in those times when her parents thought their children were abed and out of hearing. Words she’d cherished, knowing how deeply her mother loved him, and how devoted her father was to the woman he’d married.

A woman whose passions she seemed to have inherited.

In the house, a letter awaited her on the kitchen buffet, and a stranger sat, stiffly upright in a chair at the table, a cup of tea before her. “This is Glory,” Pearl said, nodding at the woman who looked as though she were in need of a hiding place. “Came in on the morning train from Dallas.”

“Hello again, Glory,” Augusta said quietly. The new resident had looked healthier the first time Augusta had laid eyes on her, a couple of weeks ago. Now she bore fresh bruises and a bandage on her forehead.

“Ma’am.” Glory’s gaze was fleeting, touching Augusta’s face, then over her shoulder. “Am I still welcome here?” she asked quietly.

“You can share a room with Beth Ann,” Augusta told her, casting a silent request in Pearl’s direction.

“I’ll take care of getting you settled, Glory,” Pearl said. “Miss Augusta’s kinda tied up right now, giving orders in the backyard. And I’m thinking you could use a nice long nap, anyway.”

She picked up the letter from the buffet, and handed it to Augusta. Addressed in a scrawling hand, it was simply sent to Miss Augusta McBride, in care of the postmaster in Collins Creek, Texas. “Bertha brought this from town,” Pearl volunteered. “I was just about to bring it out to you, when I saw you heading for the house. And then I thought maybe you’d like to say hello to Glory here.”

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