The Texan

“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.