Читать книгу The Texan - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 10

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.”