Читать книгу The Texan - Carolyn Davidson, Carolyn Davidson - Страница 9

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.