The Texan

by Carolyn Davidson

  “I hope so.” Her words were fervent. “Now to find some nice man for Honey.”

  Cleary inhaled a drop of coffee as Augusta sweetly announced her next goal. He choked for a moment; then, wiping his mouth with the linen napkin, he shook his head. “Are you saying you believe some young fella from around here will take Honey—baby and all?”

  “I think she’s a deserving young woman,” Augusta said.

  “That may be. But most men want to raise their own children, not a nameless…”

  He halted, unwilling to speak aloud the word most children in those circumstances were known by.

  “The right man would do it,” Augusta said firmly. “I just need to locate him.”

  Their meals were delivered then and Cleary thought it was just in time, since words could not describe his feeling about that particular sentiment.

  They ate slowly, quietly, enjoying what passed for elegance in the hotel dining room. And then, as Cleary paid the bill, Augusta looked around the room, aware of more than one pair of eyes on her and the man who’d invited her here. Two of the ladies who’d been instrumental in establishing the shelter sat with their husbands and smiled timidly at her.

  That some of the men in town saw Augusta’s place as just another house of ill repute, no matter that male visitors were not welcomed through the doors, was a fact she’d tried to overlook. Now, as Cleary took her arm and led her from the room, she wondered what she had done, placing him in the position of escorting a woman whose reputation might not be white as the driven snow.

  It was a position he didn’t seem to mind, his hand warm in the center of her back as he ushered her through the door onto the sidewalk. She relished the warmth, regretting its loss as he offered her his arm. The cool of the evening surrounded them as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, and they walked at a steady pace toward her home.

  “I don’t want you to suffer any loss of respect because of your association with me,” she said as they left the sidewalk to stroll past picket fences and flower gardens.

  “Do I look like I’m suffering?” he asked, his brow lifted, his grin insouciant.

  “No,” she admitted. “But I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  “Yes, I do,” he told her. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about that very thing lately.”

  She looked perplexed. “What very thing?”

  “There is one solution to the problem we face that you may not have considered.”

  “I didn’t know we were facing a problem,” she said, slowing her steps. The sun was settling behind a cloud bank, and brilliant hues of pink and blue painted the sky above the thunderheads that held the promised rain.

  “Just look at the sky,” she told him, coming to a halt. “I’ve never seen such colors right ahead of a rainstorm.”

  “Let’s move along, Gussie,” he said, urging her to pick up her pace. “I don’t want to be caught under a tree if it starts to rain before we get to your house.”

  “Pooh,” she said, admonishing him. “We have hours before the clouds arrive overhead.”

  “I’d still rather be on your porch,” he told her. “I’ve taken a fancy to your swing.”

  Several of Harriet Burns’s boarders were on the front steps as they passed by, and two of them lifted hands in greeting. Augusta nodded a response, and Cleary lifted his own hand in a salute before opening the new latch on the front gate. He allowed Augusta to precede him, and, latching the gate behind himself carefully, he followed her.

  “Where’s your horse?” she asked as they gained the shelter of the porch.

  “I walked over this afternoon. Decided I needed the exercise, and I thought you’d enjoy a stroll.”

  “Oh, I did,” she said quickly. And then she looked at the swing that hung invitingly at the far end of the porch. “Will you have time to sit a while before the rain begins? I hate to think of you walking all the way home in a downpour.”

  “I’ll sit.” He steered her to the swing, waited as she settled herself at one end, then joined her, placing himself almost in the middle. “Scoot over here a little, Gussie,” he told her. “I want you right beside me. The swing works better that way.”

  His foot touched the floor and the wooden swing moved at his bidding.

  “Now, about the solution to our problem,” he said. And at her puzzled look, he lifted a brow. “I mentioned it on the way home, and you said you didn’t know we were facing a problem.”

  “Are we?” Her skirt was tucked nicely next to his trousers and her toes barely brushed the porch as the swing obeyed his command.

  “I’d say so, ma’am,” he said. “You’re worried about my reputation, as I recall.”

  She ducked her head. “Well, yes. I’m feeling vibrations from some of the husbands, and though their wives are still contributing to the effort here with a bit of cash and boxes of foodstuffs, they’re starting to make themselves scarce.”

  Her hands twisted in her lap, and he was reminded of the first time they’d met, when those fingers had done that very thing. Augusta was upset over the withdrawal of moral support the ladies in town had offered at first through their physical presence.

  “I understand how their husbands may feel, Gussie,” Cleary said softly. “Did you ever consider that some of those men may have been customers at the Pink Palace? They may not want their wives to hear such rumors from your ladies, should any gossip take place here.”

  “Do you think so?” Her face paled, then flushed at the thought, as though such a thing being possible was beyond her limited experience. “The men who go to church every Sunday? You really think some of them visit the…” She apparently could not mention the Pink Palace in the same breath with such dignified gentlemen.

  Cleary smiled, nodding his reply. “It’s a worldwide condition, sweetheart. Men are what keep women like Lula Belle in business.”

  “Do you go there?” she asked, and then her hand flew to cover her mouth. “I already spoke of that, didn’t I?”

  “You asked me if any of your ladies would recognize me, honey, and I told you they wouldn’t.” For which he was exceedingly thankful. “And no, I don’t go there.”

  “Do you have a lady friend?” Her hand dropped from her lips and made a fist in her lap.

  “A lady friend?” He felt a grin stretch his mouth and lifted his hand in a casual gesture to brush his index finger beneath his mustache. “Only you, Gussie.”

  Her blush deepened. “I’m just a friend, Cleary. Not a lady friend.”

  Tilting his head to one side, he surveyed her with a long, calculating, heavy-lidded look. “I’d say you look like a lady to me.”

  “I am a lady.” Exasperation emphasized every syllable, and she rolled her eyes at his obtuse observation.

  “Well then,” he said patiently, “what’s the problem? You asked if I have a lady friend, and I said I have, and then identified her as Miss Augusta McBride. Who, by the way, is the most ladylike lady I know.”

  “You’re teasing me,” she accused him, jaw upthrust, eyes narrowed, and her mouth pinched as tight as an old maid’s.

  His thought halted abruptly at that. She might be considered an old maid by virtue of her age and unmarried condition, but Gussie was far from being on the shelf.

  He reached for her, ignoring her defensive position, her hands swatting at him, her mumbled imprecations about good taste and broad daylight. “It’s almost dark, sweetheart,” he murmured, grasping her shoulders and drawing her stiff, arching body toward him. “And even if it were broad daylight, I’d still be kissing you.”

  Her hands dropped, her eyes opened, crossing a bit as she peered closely into his. Their faces only inches apart, he could smell the scent of tea, and the sweet aroma of the lilac soap she used. And then he leaned forward, his mouth taking aim with precision, hers opening to protest.

  It was a handy thing she’d done, he thought as his mouth touched the soft inner surface of her lips. He was right where he wanted to be, where
his tongue could taste the alluring flavor of Augusta McBride’s mouth. He slid it inside her upper lips and she squirmed. From there it moved to skim the surface of her teeth and she inhaled sharply.

  “Wha—?”

  Ah! He slid home, between pure white enamel into a hot cave, where her pliant tongue resisted his efforts to tangle with its length. She whimpered, her hands lifting to grip his shoulders as his own found the curves of waist and hip, moving the length of her back. She gasped, and he slid his tongue against hers, gently nudging, agile as he suckled it into his mouth. Her fingers tightened, her body slumped against him, and she tilted her head a bit as her lips relaxed their rigid stance.

  And then she moaned, a quietly despairing sound of surrender, her hands sliding to encircle his neck, her fingers delving into his hair, then gripping as if she must somehow anchor herself to him.

  Her back was narrow, her clothing restrictive, when all he wanted to do was touch her skin. For tonight he’d be satisfied with caressing her through the crisp linen of her dress, one hand seeking the rounding of her hip, his fingers pressing into her resilient flesh, the other pressed against her waist, holding her fast against his needy self.

  Satisfied? Not until he had her flat on a bed without a stitch of clothing between them, he thought desperately. Not until he had the right to touch her curves. Not until he was given the privilege of blessing each and every inch of her pliant form with a string of kisses that would…

  He released her mouth, inhaling sharply as he recognized his loss of control. She’d gone limp in his arms, and he pulled her against his chest, aware of the rapid heartbeat where his nose nuzzled her throat. His lips touched the spot and she murmured a wordless sound that made him feel like soaring beyond the moon and stars.

  “Gussie?” His whisper made her gasp and press her fingers into his shoulders, squirming to sit upright.

  “Oh, my,” she murmured, peering up at him, her hands shifting to cover her cheeks. “Oh, my,” she repeated, struggling to move from his grasp.

  “Shh—” As though he would comfort her, put her at ease with his shushing sound, he repeated it. “Did I frighten you?” he whispered. “I wouldn’t do anything to cause you distress, Gussie.”

  “Cause me—” She looked into his eyes accusingly. “You weren’t treating me like a lady just now, Mr. Cleary. You had your tongue in my—” Her lips clamped tight as if she could not speak the word.

  “You didn’t seem to mind there for a moment, Gussie,” he reminded her.

  “No one, absolutely no one in the world has ever done such a thing to me,” she whispered, brushing with frantic fingers at the front of her dress.

  “Well, I would hope not,” he told her judiciously. “Only a man intent on marrying you would have the right to such liberties, I would think.”

  Her head lifted and her gaze smacked his with the force of a bullet from a gun. She opened her mouth, then closed it abruptly, as if the words she wanted to speak were not available.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked politely. “I want to marry you, Gussie.”

  She nodded, an abrupt movement of her head. And then she stood suddenly, catching him off guard. “You want to marry me,” she repeated, as if she had not heard aright.

  He nodded solemnly as he stood to face her. “That’s my firm intention, ma’am.”

  “I have my hands full with my project here, sir. I cannot take on the additional responsibility of a husband, even if I were tempted to marry.”

  “Don’t you like me, Gussie?”

  “Of course I like you. I just don’t want to marry you.”

  “Not tonight? Or never?”

  “Well, certainly not tonight,” she said firmly. “And never is a long time, but the whole idea of getting married is preposterous, anyway.”

  “Well, I’m not prepared to haul a preacher out of bed tonight,” he said agreeably, “but I certainly have plans for a wedding not too far in the future.”

  “Well, you’d better find yourself a bride, then,” she said tartly. Abruptly she turned to the door, jerking it open with a harsh movement, then stepped inside, allowing it to bang shut behind her. She closed the heavy inner door and leaned back against it.

  Tears slid down her cheeks and she muffled the sobs that begged to escape her lips. He’d treated her as if she were…her thoughts spun. As if she were her mother’s daughter. The daughter of a woman named Little Dove. A woman who’d come from a life of degradation to that of a respectable wife and mother.

  But any man who claimed Augusta McBride as his wife would have the right to know who her mother had been, and from whence she had come. The disgrace of her beginnings brought hot blood to Augusta’s face, bringing heat to every part of her.

  “I’m not ashamed of you, Mama,” she whispered. “Truly, I’m not. I just could never bring myself to tell any man about you. And I’d have to, did I want to marry him.”

  A vision of her mother’s sweet smile appeared before her closed eyes, and Augusta slumped against the door behind her, sliding to the floor in a heap of abject despair. “I’ll never marry,” she murmured, the words a vow she intended to keep.

  Chapter Six

  “We got enough extra eggs to sell, Miss Augusta,” Bertha said, wiping the last gathering of hen fruit with a damp cloth. “Those pullets are doing good.”

  “If they didn’t smell so bad, I could like them a lot better,” Pearl said glumly.

  “No one ever said a chicken coop was akin to a rose garden,” Augusta told her. “And if it gets cleaned regularly, it won’t be nearly so odorous.”

  “Well, that’s easy fixed,” Pearl said bluntly, looking around the breakfast table. “Whose job was it to shovel chicken poop yesterday?”

  Honey looked up, her mouth pinched tightly. “It was mine, but I kept throwing up, and I quit before I barely got started.” Shamefaced, she turned to Augusta. “I’ll do most anything you tell me, ma’am. I truly will. But when my belly starts churnin’ I just can’t abide the stench of that place.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Beth Ann said quietly. “I’ve cleaned worse back home. I’ll take Honey’s turn at it.”

  “Could you do it this morning?” Augusta asked nicely. “And perhaps Honey will take over one of your chores in exchange.”

  “Anything,” Honey said, her voice fervent with appreciation.

  “I’m supposed to iron the linens for Harriet Burns’s place,” Beth Ann told her. “It’s hot work, Honey.”

  “I can sweat like a trooper, and it won’t make no never mind,” she answered. “I’ll get the irons on the stove soon’s I finish breakfast.”

  “How many extra eggs do we have?” Augusta asked, pleased at the outcome of this morning’s minor hassle.

  “Couple of dozen for now, twice that many by tomorrow, probably.” Bertha held up a specimen. “They’re lookin’ good-sized, too. I’ll warrant you’ll sell every one of them right next door. I’ll ask Harriet myself.”

  And that would eliminate Augusta carrying eggs to the general store. She was relieved at that thought. There’d been a change in the air, even from the ladies who’d begun this project with such enthusiasm. Perhaps Cleary was right in his perception of the situation. The husbands in town might not like their wives so involved in the shelter.

  Augusta stiffened her shoulders. It mattered not, she decided. They were getting off the ground, with Janine working at the dressmaker’s shop. Now, with enough extra eggs to sell, money would be in better supply. Perhaps she could cut down on her withdrawals from the bank. And, by the time the garden came in and they filled the pantry with canned vegetables, things would indeed seem more prosperous.

  She looked on as Honey put the irons on to heat and dragged the ironing board from the pantry. A breeze from the kitchen window kept the heat from the stove under control, and with a laundry basket of rolled, dampened sheets and pillowcases, Honey would be busy for a couple of hours.

  Raking the yard was next on her list, a ta
sk Cleary had promised to complete today. Perhaps after last night…She considered the last part of the evening carefully, aware that she’d spoken harshly and with finality to the man. Probably, he wouldn’t even show up today. Not that she’d blame him.

  She walked to the back door, looking out on the dried grass that lay atop the lush green growth beneath. The cuttings were too heavy to let lie, and she’d better locate the rake and do the job herself. The door to the shed stood open and she caught her breath, trying to remember if she’d left it ajar yesterday. And then she saw a man step from the shadows into the sunlight.

  Cleary. As tall and handsome as he’d been on her front porch just hours ago. As if her words had not penetrated his ego to any degree, he’d come to complete the task he’d begun. She stepped back from the screen, lest he find her gaping at him, and turned to find Pearl’s gimlet gaze on her.

  “That man’s not gonna be happy till he gets his hands on you.”

  He’s already had them on me. All up and down my back, in fact. He no doubt could have shifted them to my front and I wouldn’t have lifted a finger to stop him. The words were alive in her mind as Augusta sorted through a reply. “He looks pretty happy to me,” she said finally, pleased at the tart tone she managed.

  “You know what I mean,” Pearl told her, casting a glance at Honey, whose own gaze was fixed on Augusta.

  “Miss Augusta, don’t let any man take advantage of you,” Honey advised solemnly. “Especially when you’re not even gonna get paid for it.”

  “Wives don’t get paid,” Pearl said dryly. “And I think our handyman out there is planning on turning Miss Augusta into a married lady.”

  Honey’s eyes filled with tears. “What will happen to us?”

  “You’ll have a home here for as long as you need it,” Augusta said quickly. “And don’t listen to Pearl. I’m not getting married.”

  “I don’t advise it,” Bertha said glumly. “Even to a man as easy on the eyes as that fella out in back. Men are a pain in the arse, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so. They make fancy promises and then—” She turned aside, her thought unspoken as she dumped a kettle full of hot water into the dishpan.