The Texan Page 13

  She nodded, a silent reply, and bit at her lip until surely it would bleed beneath the pressure of her teeth.

  He apparently would not have it. Reaching for her, he set aside the plates they held, placing the glasses on the ground carefully, lest they spill. And then she was on his lap, her face buried in the crease of neck and shoulder, and she felt the tears beneath her cheek and knew they soaked through his shirt to dampen his skin.

  “I love you, sweetheart,” he said, his lips moving against her temple. “I want to take you home with me and put you in my bed and never let you loose.”

  “That’s what Pearl said you wanted,” she mumbled against his skin.

  “She did, did she? Smart lady, that one.”

  Augusta lifted her head to peer into his eyes. “If you really want…that is, when you get back—”

  His hand over her lips halted the offer she would have made, and he shook his head. “Not on your life, Augusta McBride. I won’t take advantage of you. Not without your promise to stand before the preacher and say the vows with me.”

  “I mean it, Cleary. I won’t deny…” Her voice trailing off, she repeated the offer, yet stopped short, unable to speak the words that would deliver her soul into his hands.

  “I do want. But only when I can call you my wife. You’re a lady, Gussie. I won’t turn you into a whore. Your mama would roll over in her grave if she knew you’d made such an offer.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she said mournfully. “But thank you for turning me down. I don’t know what I was thinking of.” And if that wasn’t a lie, she’d never told one.

  The thought of spending nights in Cleary’s bed brought forbidden dreams to her mind, and she yearned to know the reality of those visions that plagued her nightly. She knew. Oh, yes, she knew what she’d been thinking of. But it was not to be. No matter how seductive his kisses were, how tender his hands and lips.

  Fate had decreed that she would never be a bride.

  Chapter Eight

  Beth Ann set off with a new dress, Augusta’s valise stuffed full of remade clothing, and high hopes for her future back home with her family. Augusta, on the other hand, watched with an aching heart as the girl climbed on the morning train, heading for Saint Louis and stops in between. One of which was Beth Ann’s hometown.

  A quiet settled over the big house as its occupants went about their duties throughout the day, as though they mourned her departure. And indeed, they did. She’d become a part of their lives, and had only begun to shed her cocoon, emerging as a young woman capable of making a place for herself. To return to a father who might again be abusive could destroy Beth Ann, and that knowledge cast a pall over the ladies she left behind.

  Augusta went to bed with a heavy heart. Not only had she waved a final farewell to Beth Ann, she also missed Cleary. There was no getting around it. He’d woven a web and she’d fallen headlong into it. And now she would pay the price for her foolishness. She lay beneath the sheet, hands folded beneath her breasts and thought of what words she might use to explain herself insofar as Cleary was concerned.

  I’m the daughter of a whore. Well, that was direct and to the point, all right, and she laughed, a stifled sound of despair as she considered it. My mother was called Little Dove. My father took her out of a house of ill repute and married her. Now that might sound a bit better, she thought. Not quite as forthright, but again, to the point.

  And either route would earn her his scorn. No, not scorn, for Jonathan Cleary was a gentleman, for all his secrecy and down-to-earth ways. But at least he would look at her with new eyes, casting aside the layers of respectability she’d assumed, and recognize that she had come from a woman whose living had been earned in a whorehouse.

  She rolled to her side, covering her mouth with an open palm, lest her mournful sobs be heard through the walls of her bedroom. It was only here she could let down her guard, only in the silence of the night hours that she could allow herself to grieve for the future she was denied.

  Sleep came late and morning early. The rooster in the chicken yard greeted the dawn with his usual chant. Three times in a row, echoed by another rooster a few houses away. Augusta pulled her pillow over her head and groaned, then set it aside. It was no use. She had responsibilities and looking at the ceiling would not accomplish a thing.

  Breakfast was nearly ready by the time she reached the kitchen, and Bertha shot her a concerned look. “You all right, Miss Augusta? You’re lookin’ kinda peaked this morning.”

  “Didn’t sleep well,” Augusta admitted, reaching for a stack of plates from the buffet. Glory took them from her and placed them on the table before the assembled chairs. The table had gained the use of a leaf, with the coming of another occupant of the house, and with Cleary’s frequent visits. It was no longer round but oval.

  “If there’s time, I’ll go out and feed the chickens while y’all put the food on,” Glory offered.

  “Take the basket along and gather up the eggs while you’re at it,” Bertha told her. “We’ll wait for you. Janine ain’t outta bed yet, I’ll warrant. I heard Pearl yatterin’ at her a minute ago.”

  Glory nodded agreeably and snatched up the egg basket, then opened the back door and inhaled deeply. “Sure smells like morning out there,” she said cheerfully, leaning to look past the chicken coop. “That’s a dandy doghouse Mr. Cleary made.”

  “Where’s the dog? I don’t hear him.” Augusta moved to the doorway, peering over Glory’s shoulder to catch a glimpse of Henry. If he stretched his rope to its furthest point, he should be visible, yet there was no sign of him. And as Glory set off for the chicken coop, she was not greeted with puppy sounds of welcome.

  “The dog’s not out there,” Bertha said, shooting a glare at the direction of the back stairway. “Somebody went out and hauled him in the house last night. I heard the door open and a few minutes later, somebody took him upstairs.”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Augusta said.

  “You were too busy cryin’ into your pillow,” Bertha told her.

  “No such thing,” Augusta denied, and then was silent as Bertha turned the full force of her disapproving look in her direction.

  “Honey had that dog in her bedroom all night,” Pearl announced from the kitchen doorway. “She said he was howling and she didn’t want the neighbors to complain. Now she’s kneeling on the floor mopping up a puddle.”

  Augusta didn’t have it in her to admonish Honey as she carried Henry into the kitchen minutes later. She looked shamefaced as it was, shooting an apologetic smile in Augusta’s direction as she hurried out the back door to tie Henry to his house. By the time she returned, Glory was at her heels, egg basket half full of good-sized eggs, and Bertha had the food on the table.

  Augusta trailed across the yard, aware that her half-eaten meal had gained the notice of all the occupants of her house. But Henry was properly grateful for his morning repast, barely sniffing at the leftover sausage gravy and biscuits scraped from everyone’s plates, before he dove into the pie pan half full of food. His water bowl was an old washbasin, and Augusta filled it with well water as he ate, then took the pie plate back to the house.

  All mindless tasks, she realized, all designed to keep her mind from Cleary and what he was doing, wherever he might be this morning.

  By suppertime, she’d managed to put him out of her mind, sitting down at the table with a list of accomplishments she’d made note of throughout the day. Between bites of Bertha’s cold offering of leftovers and a bowl of fresh potato salad, she praised the work the ladies had accomplished. And then made plans for the garden, which was overflowing with tomatoes.

  Bertha had looked askance at the basket from Carl Wilson’s farm, muttering about “carrying coals to Newcastle,” which went completely over the heads of most of the women gathered around the table that day. Augusta had nodded agreeably, not for the first time aware that her house mother had hidden depths.

  Now a trip to the general sto
re to purchase canning jars was in order, and Augusta made note of the requirements for the next day’s chores. Too late today to accomplish the trip, but early morning would be better anyway, she decided, before the sun was overhead.

  It wasn’t until bedtime that she allowed herself once more to consider Cleary’s whereabouts, and then only in a perfunctory manner. She must rid her mind of the man, she decided, punching her pillow and setting her jaw. And then she heard the puppy begin to howl, and she rolled to her back, heaving a sigh of aggravation.

  It would never do, she decided, after a full minute of listening to his plaintive carrying-on, and she sat on the edge of the bed, reaching for her slippers and robe. It was dark on the back stairs, the kitchen even darker, and she stubbed her toe on a chair as she passed the table. Limping, she headed out the back door, shushing the noisy dog as she went, wishing for the moon to come out from behind a cloud to light her way.

  She had rounded the chicken coop when she became aware that Henry had stopped his noisy serenade and her steps slowed. Perhaps he’d given up and she could return to bed. Maybe…she peered ahead, only to see a tall figure standing near the doghouse, Henry in his arms. He slumped against the structure as she watched and she stepped forward again.

  “It’s me, Gussie.” Cleary’s voice sounded strained, his posture uneven, leaning a bit to one side and she approached him with caution.

  “What’s wrong?” Her intuition might be working overtime, but she sensed disaster as she neared him. “When did you get here?”

  “A few minutes ago,” he said, his voice sounding hollow. “I was riding past the house and I heard Henry raising a fuss out here. Thought I’d take a look and see if I could calm him down.” And then with a quick look at her, Cleary slid to sit on the ground, the dog still clutched against his chest.

  “Are you all right?” Augusta asked, crouching beside him. The odor of blood rose from his clothing, acrid in her nostrils, and she bent closer. “You’ve been wounded. Where are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine, just a bit groggy,” he said, his voice wavering on the words. “I guess I could use a hand, honey.”

  “What can I do?” All of her dithering had come to naught, she realized, for the reality of Cleary before her negated her every thought about putting him from her mind and life. “Are you bleeding now?” she asked.

  He nodded, a barely perceptible movement of his head. “I need to be home, Gussie, in my own bed. I didn’t want you involved in this, but I don’t think I have a choice right now.” He sighed deeply and his breath shuddered. “Help me get home, will you, sweetheart?”

  “I’ll take the pup,” a voice said quietly from behind them, and Honey strode into sight from the shadows of the chicken coop. “You go on and do whatever you have to, Miss Augusta.” She approached Cleary, arms outstretched, and he allowed her to take Henry from his grasp.

  “Thank you, Honey,” Augusta said quietly, and then turned back to Cleary. “Can you walk?”

  “Well, if I can’t you’re gonna have a tough time getting me on that horse.” His words were slurred, but as though he would reassure her, he tried to inject a note of humor. Leaning on the roof of the doghouse, he attempted to rise, and Augusta moved quickly to place her shoulder in his armpit for support. His long arm draped across her and his hand clutched at her as she turned him toward the shelter of the trees alongside her property line, where his horse blended into the shadows.

  With a great deal of shifting and lifting, he was in the saddle, and Augusta placed a hand on his thigh, unaware of the intimacy of her gesture. All she knew what that Cleary needed her and she could not fail him.

  “I’ll go in and put on my clothing and find my container of bandages and medicants,” she told him. “Wait right here for me, will you?”

  He nodded, and she turned away, her steps hurried as she crossed the yard and entered the house.

  In less than five minutes she was at the door, taking her leave, when Pearl spoke from the back stoop. “Everything’s quiet out there, Augusta. You watch your step, you hear? Honey told me what’s going on, and I don’t want you gettin’ into a peck of trouble over any man. If you want me to, I’ll go instead. My reputation’s already about as plastered with mud as it can get.”

  “No, Pearl,” Augusta said quietly. “I’ll be back before sunrise, and I’ll be sure no one sees me. You just take care of things here.”

  She ran the length of the yard and was breathless by the time she reached Cleary. “Slide your foot from the stirrup,” she said, “and I’ll climb on behind you.”

  He nodded, slumping over the saddle horn as if his strength was almost at an end, and she handed him her satchel, then clutched at his arm as she managed to gain the horse’s backside. Her arms circled his waist and she leaned her head against his back as they rode in a roundabout route to his home on the other end of town.

  He slid with a groan from his horse’s back to land on his knees. Augusta almost collapsed, his weight dragging her with him as she attempted to keep him from landing fully on the ground. A muttered imprecation gave notice of his pain and she whispered encouragement, battling to catch his arm across her shoulder and lift him to his feet. The scent of blood, both dried and fresh was stronger now and she recognized that somewhere he had begun to bleed anew.

  They’d ridden as close to the rear of the house as possible. Leaving the horse there, his reins touching the ground, Augusta hauled Cleary up the two steps to the stoop. The back door was unlocked, as she had expected, and they struggled through the doorway into the kitchen. This was new territory to her and she squinted through the darkness to find a doorway leading to the rest of the house.

  It was not to be. Cleary fell to his knees and then, with a groan, sprawled facedown on the floor. Augusta was drawn with him, his arm around her neck hauling her to lie beside him, and she was careful as she slid from beneath its weight, lest she cause more trauma to his body than he’d already suffered.

  The darkness altered as she became accustomed to it, and in the shadows she caught sight of a lamp hanging over the kitchen table. Her hands searched blindly on the surface of the furniture as she went from table to buffet to a cabinet against the far wall. There a pasteboard box met her fingertips. “Thank you,” she whispered, sliding it open to find a supply of matches.

  One rasping swipe against the rough texture on the side of the box brought a blaze of light that made her blink. The match glowed steadily and she stepped to the table, lifting the globe from the lamp and lighting the wick. It flared brightly and she turned to look finally at Cleary’s body, sprawled across the middle of the floor.

  A dark stain on his backside met her gaze. The stain became more red in hue, as fresh blood gathered on the already matted fabric of his trousers. Dropping without heed to her knees, she discovered he’d tried to stanch the flow with a light jacket folded and stuffed inside his trousers.

  Her hands slid beneath his stomach, where she undid his belt and the buttons of his pants, then tugged them down his hips, the better to see the site of his wound. His drawers slid to rest on his bottom, and the site of a bullet’s path was exposed. It rode his hipbone, blood oozing from the long gash, but from what she could tell, he suffered more from loss of blood than the shock of containing a bullet within his body.

  For that she was grateful and a long sigh of relief left her lips as she stood looking around the room, searching for a clean towel of some sort. The pantry was in darkness, but she lit another match and moved inside its cavernous interior. A supply of candles was on one shelf, an assortment of canned goods on another. And there, at eye level, was a stack of clean towels. She snatched them against her breast and reached for several candles, carrying her loot to the kitchen table.

  The reservoir on the side of his cookstove held tepid water and she poured a dipper of it into his washbasin, scrubbed at it with a soapy cloth, then refilled it with clean water. A towel soaked it up quickly and she wrung it hard before placing it over the w
ound.

  Her satchel sat beside her on the floor and she opened it, sorting quickly through the various jars and tubes of ointments. “Cobwebs,” she whispered. “If I just had some cobwebs.”

  “Hell, the parlor’s full of ’em,” Cleary grumbled, his eyes closed, his face ashen in the lamplight.

  “The parlor?” Augusta repeated. She bent closer, her nose almost touching his cheek. “You have cobwebs in your parlor?”

  “Yeah. Haven’t cleaned it since I moved in. Look up in the corners.” One eye opened and he shifted position, an involuntary moan protesting his action. “Whadda you want with cobwebs, Gussie?”

  “They’ll stop the bleeding,” she said, stifling the urge to press her lips against his cheek. He wouldn’t bleed to death at least, not if she could disturb his cobwebs and apply them to the wound. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, and was satisfied as he nodded.

  A clean cloth from her satchel, tied to the end of his mop handle did the trick, and she carefully carried her haul back to the kitchen. For once she’d been pleased at someone’s scarcity of standards of cleanliness.

  Cleary lay where she’d left him, and his eyes were closed again. The towel was stained beyond its limits to absorb the flow of blood and she frowned. Perhaps sending someone for the doctor would have been a better plan. If the cobwebs didn’t work, she might have to go searching for the gentleman’s house herself. It was in a mood of desperation that she found another clean towel and removed the bloody one, sopping up the residue of blood to reveal the open wound. A silent prayer wafted upward as she applied the gob of gossamer film to the shallow trench on Cleary’s hip.

  Folding a piece of clean, soft linen into a thick pad, she placed it atop the wound, holding it with one hand, trying to decide how to keep it there. A roll of bandage, torn from an old sheet nestled in a corner of her satchel, and she placed it over the pressure bandage and began wrapping it around his body.