The Texan

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.