“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.”
“You were right. And we’ll talk more at dinner, when Glory’s had a chance to recuperate from her travels.”
She glanced down at her letter. “I wonder…” Augusta turned the missive over, as if the sender might be revealed by looking at the back of the soiled envelope. “It looks as though it’s gone through a great number of hands to arrive here, doesn’t it? And some of them none too clean, I’d say.”
“You’ll probably find out more if you just open it, ma’am,” Pearl said dryly.
And if her barely concealed curiosity was anything to go by, the woman would no doubt be peering over her shoulder, Augusta thought. Her index finger slid beneath the flap, and she carefully tore at the sealed edge. The paper was wrinkled, the ink smeared, and she opened it with care. Only a few lines met her eye, but they were filled with portent.
“My brother…” she began, seeking Pearl’s con
cerned face.
“Where’s my water?” came a call from the back stoop, and an audible gasp sounded from Glory’s lips.
“Fill this for Cleary,” Augusta said, lifting the empty glass from the table and handing it to Pearl. To her credit, the woman took it and did as she was asked, opening the back door to give the waiting man his drink. He downed it and Augusta watched from the middle of the kitchen, her mind filled with the message she’d just read.
“Thanks,” Cleary said. “Where’d Augusta go?”
“Inside,” Pearl said briefly, accepting the empty glass and backing from the door.
“Tell her I want to talk to her,” Cleary said, peering now past the screen door.
“She’s busy.” Pearl’s voice left no room for discussion, but Cleary would not be foiled in his purpose.
“Augusta!” His calling of her name was loud and clear and she cast a glance at Pearl as she stepped to the door. He smiled at her. “I need you out here to tell me which green things along the edges are flowers and which are weeds.”
“Yes, all right,” she told him, folding the letter and tucking it into her pocket.
She faced him on the stoop and his eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? What happened to make you look like you’ve just lost your last friend?”
“I may have,” she told him quietly. She felt her eyes fill with tears, and through the mist was aware of his hands lifting to cradle her cheeks.
“Tell me, Gussie,” he said quietly. “What’s happened?”
His callused palms lent comfort and she stifled a sob, lest she lean her head on his shoulder and cry aloud for the loss she felt. Reaching into her pocket, she drew forth the envelope and unfolded the single piece of paper it contained. “Shall I read it to you?”
He shook his head. “No, I will,” he said, taking it from her hand, his fingers long and tanned against the white paper. “‘Dear Sis,”’ he read aloud, and she winced as she braced herself for the next words. “‘I’ve escaped from prison in Colorado. I won’t bring shame on you, but I have to see you one last time. I’m on my way to Texas, but it may take a while, as I’m on the run.”’
A muttered oath escaped Cleary’s lips and his voice was brittle as he read the closing line. “‘I love you, Sis. Wilson.”’
“Did you know he was in prison?” he asked.
She shook her head. “He was working on a ranch in Wyoming last I heard. But that was months ago. I assumed—”
“Never assume. It’ll cause trouble every time.” His voice was harsh, its timbre unfeeling as he set his jaw in an uncompromising fashion. “How old is he?”
“Twenty-one.”
“When did you see him last?” His hands crumpled the letter and she reached to take it from him, lest it be destroyed.
He looked down, as if unaware of his hands folding into solid fists, and muttered another phrase. Twice now, she’d heard him curse, and her hands rescued the missive quickly, smoothing the paper and folding it carefully.
“It’s been well over a year,” she said. “Since he left home to go west. He said he’d send for me when he found a place and bought a piece of property. I got one letter that told me he was working as a cowhand, and he stood to come into a decent amount of cash.”
Cleary’s head lifted, his gaze shooting to meet hers as she spoke. “A decent amount of cash?” he asked. “From where?”
“He didn’t say. Maybe he’d had his boss hold his wages until they mounted up to an appreciable amount,” Augusta offered, even as she eschewed the idea. It simply didn’t sound like Wilson to do such a thing.
“Didn’t he have a decent amount of cash when he left home?” Cleary asked quietly. “What do you suppose he did with it?”
Augusta was at a loss for words. She’d wondered the same thing herself, and deep inside knew that Wilson had probably gambled away his share of their parents’ legacy. He was not a strong man, and her mother had spoiled him. And yet, Augusta had let him go with her blessing, hoping that somehow he would grow up, that his travels would teach him the values he’d ignored during his youth.
“He’s in trouble with the law, Gussie,” Cleary said bluntly. “You can’t afford to harbor him if he shows up here.”
“You think I should turn him away?” The idea was reprehensible, and she shuddered as she considered closing her door against her only living relative.
“I think he’ll take advantage of you.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But if he shows up here, I’ll open the door to him, Cleary. He’s my blood kin. And if I can take in a whole houseful of women and give them refuge, I can’t deny my own brother. He can sleep in the attic, or in the yard if need be.”
He turned his back and she recognized the anger he would not reveal to her face. His broad shoulders stiffened and his dark hair was ringed with a line of perspiration as it lay against his neck. The back of his shirt bore a wide, damp patch down its center and she thought suddenly that his labors had been on her behalf, and all she’d done was argue with him.
“Don’t be angry with me,” she said quietly, reaching a hand to touch his back. He jerked and she wrapped her fingers inside her palm, allowing it to drop to her side. “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 know what I’m talking about, do you? I couldn’t even tend to business the way I was supposed to, what with thinking about the kiss I almost snatched before I left.”
It was just as well she not dwell on his revelations, she decided, and focused instead on the last admission he’d spoken aloud. “Business.” Something about tending to business. He’d made the opening and she forged ahead as Roger’s visit came to mind. “What business called you away?” she asked.
He frowned and his words were slow, as if he chose them carefully. “I got a telegram notifying me that my presence was required in several places over the past four days,” he explained. “Three towns, including Dallas, where problems have occurred lately. I’m working on—” He halted, glaring his frustration.
“What sort of problems?” she asked, plunging beyond his explanation, determined to pin him down.
“Having to do with the banks I represent,” he told her, softening his tone. “Including the one here in town.” And then his brow lifted and he slid his hands into his back trouser pockets. “Why the sudden interest in my travels, Gussie?”
She shrugged, looking past him to where the grass grew thick beneath the blue sky. He’d begun on the edges and mowed in a huge square, and now only a patch the size of the parlor remained, tall and unkempt. “I just wondered,” she said. “And it’s not really sudden, as you well know. I’m aware that the topic of your occupation is off-limits in our conversations.” Her gaze returned to his chest, then moved upward until his dark eyes narrowed again as she spoke a challenge. “I have to wonder at your reticence on the subject.”
“There are some things I can’t discuss with you right now,” he said. “I thought I’d made that clear, and now you’re intent on digging for information. And my good sense tells me there has to be a reason.” He was even more persistent than she, and like a dog with a bone, he pushed for her reasons.
“Who set you to thinking and wondering?” And then his eyes sparked and glittered and she caught a glimpse of fury she could only hope was not to be directed at her. “Did the sheriff come out here and ask about me?”
“The sheriff?” She was astounded that he would fear the sheriff’s interest, and yet knew in her depths it was not fear that fed his anger. “No, I haven’t seen the sheriff. Although I heard that he was making inquiries about you and your secretive travels.”
“Did you, now?” His hand cupped her chin in a quick movement and he held her firmly in place, tilting her head back, the better to look into her eyes. “And who brought you that information?”
“Roger Hampton.”
“Roger Hampton,” he repeated slowly. “Your erstwhile beau from Dallas. The one who wanted to marry you.” His fingers tightened their grip and she winced, fearful he would leave a bruise. “Did he tell you I’m a criminal of some kind?”
She felt the loosening of his hold, as if he’d only now become aware of the strength that long-fingered hand possessed. “No,” she denied hastily. “Nothing of the sort.” And felt a flush suffuse her cheeks as she spoke the lie.
His smile was chilled by the dark glitter of his eyes, yet his words touched her ears as softly as a sigh. “You’re too honest for your own good, Augusta McBride. You don’t lie well. This is the second time.”
“The second time?” She searched her mind for the first, not willing to compound her sin by adding another untruth upon the last one.
“The first was on the porch, just last night, when you said you didn’t know how to prove you’d missed me.”
“I wasn’t sure,” she said, dithering as she recalled that moment when she’d been so close to reaching for a man for the first time in her life.
“Maybe not, but you’re lying now.”
“He said—” She halted abruptly, not willing to repeat the accusations Roger had spewed forth. “He mentioned train robberies in the area surrounding Dallas.”
His mouth twitched, and then he laughed aloud. “He thinks I’m a train robber? And you believed him?”
“No,” she said, denying the words he spoke. “I didn’t. I knew better than that.”
The Texan Page 7