The Texan Page 3

  It had hung over her shoulders as she’d leaned from the window, and she scolded herself silently for being so lax in her deportment. Cleary would surely think she was not much of a lady.

  She looked like an angel, he decided, golden waves falling to either side of her head, her eyes as blue as the back of a jaybird. Bending from the window above him, she put him in mind of the heavenly beings his mother had read to him about from the Bible. Surely, the angels who sang to the shepherds bore some resemblance to Augusta McBride.

  Augusta. Much too dignified a name for the delightful woman he’d been thinking about over the past two days. Augusta. He’d call her Gussie, he decided, although even that did not suit her. But it was less off-putting, and he’d warrant his speaking it as he addressed her would bring quick color to that creamy skin.

  He tore loose the final cracked board and removed the old nails, adding them to the pile he’d accumulated during his task. One more board remained, and he lifted the length of yellow pine, eyeing the edge and decreeing it straight before he placed it on the upright stringer. With six nails and a dozen swings of his hammer, it was in place and he stood, stepping on it to test its firmness.

  It was done, the job completed in fifteen minutes or so. A coat of paint would cover the newness of the wood and provide protection from moisture. He looked up as Augusta stepped out onto the porch and closed the screened door quietly behind her.

  “Do you have any paint?” he asked.

  “Paint?” Her gaze swept over the steps he’d replaced. “You mean for the stairs?” Her foot touched the first step and she bounced on it a bit, smiling as she met his gaze. “I didn’t plan on replacing all of them, just the one that was missing.”

  “Several had cracked boards,” he told her. “They were unsafe, and I hated the idea of you falling and getting worse than a splinter for your trouble.” He reached for her hand and, without thinking, she placed her own in his palm. “Let me see,” he said, bending over to inspect the spot where Bertha had removed the splinter. It was scabbed over nicely, and a bit swollen around the edges, but Augusta had decided to leave the bandage off for today, allowing it to heal.

  His index finger traced the line of her injury, and she felt the warmth of that touch send a cascade of heat up her arm, bringing gooseflesh to the skin that was, thankfully, hidden by her long sleeve. The man presented a danger, she decided. Though not in an evil way, such as Roger Hampton did.

  But a danger, nonetheless. She could not afford to have her reputation sullied in any way, shape or form. Not with the success of her shelter hanging in the balance.

  “Looks pretty good,” he said, releasing her hand and placing his palm on his hip. “You might want to soak it in Epsom salts. It’ll draw any infection out, lickety-split.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cleary,” she said softly, slanting a grin in his direction, then cradling her left hand in her other palm as he returned it. He made it too easy to be free and friendly, and she must be wary of following the dictates of her impetuous streak.

  “I’ve been called a number of things in my life, but not that,” he told her, running his index finger the length of his mustache, lifting a brow as he spoke. “But I do have some experience with wounds and healing.”

  “Well, if you’re done lollygaggin’ out there,” a voice said from the doorway, “come on in and have some breakfast.” Bertha spoke from behind the screen and Augusta was thankful for the reprieve. That, and the chance to spend more time with the man in front of her.

  “Coffee’s poured,” Bertha mumbled, making her way back down the hallway to the kitchen.

  “That invitation included you, sir,” Augusta said, reaching for the door handle, and holding it open for her impromptu handyman.

  “Are you certain?” His hands swiped ineffectively against his trousers and he glanced down at them. “I’ll need a good wash before I’m fit company at anyone’s table. And I suspect you’re not used to itinerant workmen in your kitchen for meals.”

  “Well, we just happen to have a basin and lots of warm water,” Augusta told him. “You’d better come along before Bertha changes her mind and feeds the hogs instead.”

  He brushed himself off, then climbed the sturdy stairs and walked past her, careful not to allow his trousers to touch her dress. “You don’t have hogs.” The words trailed behind him as he entered the kitchen and Augusta heard Bertha’s quick retort.

  “Well, who said we did?”

  “The lady of the house tried to feed me a line of guff, but I’m too bright to fall for her nonsense,” she heard Cleary reply, and stifled a chuckle as Bertha murmured agreement. Breakfast was indeed ready, as was Bertha, a skillet full of sausage gravy in one hand, a large ladle in the other. As Augusta entered the room, she shot her a look of warning.

  “The girls are up and around,” she said nonchalantly. “Should I tell them to wait a while so y’all can eat in peace and quiet?”

  “I think it’s too late for that,” Augusta told her as footsteps clattered on the front stairway.

  “I can feed ’em in the dining room.” A bowl of biscuits appeared on the table and the sausage gravy was poured into a deep bowl.

  “Is there any chance you might know any of our ladies?” Augusta asked Cleary in an undertone. She would not have him embarrassed, should he have been a regular customer at Lula Belle’s place. On the other hand, if he were of that ilk, she’d better know now and keep her distance, lest his evil shenanigans give her shelter a bad name.

  “Doubtful. I can’t imagine how,” he said, his glance meeting hers with an honesty she found assuring.

  “Well, lookie here. We got company,” Pearl said, posing in the doorway as if readying herself for a photographer. Sauntering into the big kitchen, she peered into the warming oven where a pan of cinnamon rolls waited, then wandered to the round table. “Got room for a couple more?”

  Cleary stood promptly and nodded. “I’m sure you’re welcome to join us. Are you alone?” he asked, and then, as Beth Ann cleared the doorway, he paused, his gaze taking a quick survey of the fragile woman.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, backing into the hall. “I’ll eat later on. I didn’t know you had company, Miss Augusta.”

  Augusta shot around the table, her hand outstretched. “Come in, Beth Ann.” Not for the world would she allow the girl to feel unwanted in this house, no matter who came to call. And Cleary didn’t seem to have any qualms about the additional seats required around the table.

  “Can we use that for seating?” he asked, motioning toward a backless bench sitting against the wall.

  “I’ll help you get it,” Pearl offered, her sidelong glance taking in his masculine form. Augusta thought the woman’s cleavage could have been less noticeable, and she watched as Bertha gave Pearl a push and nodded at the front of her wrapper. Reluctantly Pearl tugged the sides of her bodice closer and sat on the bench, patting the area beside her.

  “Why don’t you come over here, and we’ll get acquainted?” Her invitation was directed at Cleary, but he patently ignored it, holding a chair for Beth Ann, instead, as she edged her way back into the kitchen. With barely a whisper of fabric or an audible sound from her lips, she nodded her thanks and slid onto the seat.

  “Give me a hand here, Pearl,” Bertha said gruffly. “Y’all spend half the day layin’ in bed and then expect me to wait on you. You’ll find out that ain’t the way it’s gonna work here.”

  Without protest, Pearl rose and did as she was asked, her hips swaying as she placed plates and silverware around the table. “Should we lay a spot for Janine and Honey?” she asked, looking to Augusta for instructions.

  “Are they up?” she asked, and then nodded in reply to her own query when they could be heard coming down the stairs. “Go ahead. They’ll be hungry, too.”

  And wasn’t Mr. Cleary getting an eyeful this morning? she thought, lifting the bowl of biscuits from the middle of the table and passing them in his direction. He took two, and she note
d Bertha’s pleased expression. “The way to a man’s heart,” was an adage that could be reversed, her mama had said, more than once. The way to a woman’s heart lay in compliments on her cooking, and Cleary was obviously adept at that type of behavior.

  Janine settled in a chair, and Honey slid onto the bench beside Pearl. “Did we forget anything?” Bertha asked, and Pearl shook her head, breaking a biscuit in half and waiting for the gravy to be passed in her direction.

  None of the women seemed to recognize Cleary, and for that Augusta was grateful. It would have been embarrassing had they known the man by name. Instead, she performed introductions as they began to eat, and he was inundated by questions from the women surrounding him.

  Not known for their reticence, Pearl and Janine were vocal in their curiosity, but Cleary was not forthcoming with information, merely turning their queries in another direction, until they exchanged glances and returned to eating breakfast.

  “Today, we’re going to hang curtains in the parlor and work at building a place to keep chickens,” Augusta told her charges. “I’d like Honey to water the garden and paint the front steps. Mr. Cleary has kindly finished repairing them for us, and I’ll purchase some paint at the general store.”

  “It’s easier to buy eggs at the store,” Janine said bluntly. “Keeping chickens is a messy job.”

  “Raising chickens is a profitable venture,” Augusta told her firmly. “Not only can we eat the young roosters, but we can sell the eggs at a nice profit.”

  “Next you’ll be talking about a cow,” Janine said. “I’m not sure we’re gonna be allowed to keep livestock in town.”

  “Lots of folks have chickens in the backyard,” Augusta said. “I’ve checked, and there are no ordinances against animals for your own use.”

  “Did you hear from that lady at the store that wants me to do some sewing for her?” Janine asked. “That brings in good money.”

  “Yes, and so does laundry,” Augusta told her. “Mrs. Stevens and her husband own the hotel, and she’s about persuaded him to let us do all the linens twice a week. Harriet Burns, our neighbor, wants us to keep her in clean sheets for her boarders, too.”

  “I’m not real fond of using a scrub board,” Pearl said darkly. “We had a laundry lady when I was at the Pink Palace.”

  “That wasn’t all you had,” Augusta reminded her with a pointed look at her eye, where the lid still wore two stitches. “It was your choice to leave there, Pearl. If you want to go back to the lap of luxury, be my guest. But once any of you leave here, it’s for good. We’ve already talked about that.”

  “I’m not going back,” Pearl said quickly. “I’ve done worse things than scrub sheets in my day.”

  “We need income,” Augusta told them. “That’s the whole reason for working. We can’t run this place without money, and we have to do the things that are within our capabilities. Laundry and sewing, keeping a kitchen garden, raising chickens and selling eggs to our neighbors are all moneymakers for us.”

  “Well, if you’ll get the paint, I’ll do the front steps. I noticed Mr. Cleary working on them this morning,” Honey said shyly. “And in the meantime, I’ll tend the garden and help in the kitchen.”

  “Can I be of assistance?” Cleary asked Augusta. She thought he looked almost hopeful as he met her gaze.

  “You already have been,” she told him. “You probably don’t want to be associated too closely with our endeavors. It might not look good for you in town, whatever your business might be.” And if she waited long enough, he might tell her just what it was he did for a living, she thought.

  “I’ve never been one to worry about what folks think,” he said bluntly. “If you need my handyman skills, I’ll be happy to pitch in and help. And in the meantime, I’d be glad to run you into town in my buggy to get your paint, ma’am.”

  “Well, that beats walking, any day of the week,” Bertha said flatly. “You better snatch up that offer in a hurry, I’d say, Miss Augusta.”

  “I don’t want to put you out,” Augusta told Cleary, then watched his eyes light with some emotion she couldn’t decipher.

  “I’d be glad to accommodate you, ma’am,” he said politely, his words accompanied by Pearl’s subdued snort of laughter. He glanced at the buxom blonde, and her hand flew to cover her mouth.

  In the midst of a conversation that bore undertones she couldn’t interpret, Augusta turned to Bertha. “When is John Burgess bringing the hens?” she asked.

  “First of the week,” Bertha said. “Gives us four days to have a coop ready, and a fenced yard for them to scratch in.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re going to need a load of things delivered from the lumberyard,” Cleary told Augusta. “We can go by and place an order if you like.”

  She hesitated. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure how to go about building a henhouse. Nor do I know how much lumber to order.”

  “Let’s ask Harriet Burns if she has any gentlemen living in her boardinghouse who might be looking for work for a couple of days,” Cleary suggested. “I don’t think you ladies are up to building such a thing, unless you’ve got experience at swinging a hammer.”

  Augusta rose from the table. “I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. Cleary. If you really want to help, you can figure out what we need from the lumberyard, and I’ll provide the cash to buy it.” She glanced at him quickly, thinking of the wad of bills he’d pressed into her hand two days ago. It had been a generous contribution, and she hadn’t properly thanked him for it. Her own account was satisfyingly healthy, but Cleary’s contribution had provided enough to buy more than a load of lumber, if she was any judge of the price of wood.

  “Let’s take a walk out to the back,” he suggested, placing his fork on the table and nodding politely at the watching women. With one hand on the small of her back, he opened the screened door and led her out onto the back porch.

  It burned there, that wide palm and the four outstretched fingers. His thumb rode the line of her spine and she felt a shiver spin from that spot, vibrating down the length of her back. Whatever it was Mr. Cleary’s touch did to her, she could not afford to allow it. With a quick double step, she moved ahead of him and heard his stifled laughter at her back. It served only to stiffen her spine and renew her determination, and she walked briskly toward the spot she’d chosen for the proposed building project.

  “We’ve got two dozen chickens coming, all pullets hatched early this spring,” she told him. “They’re already laying. The eggs are small, but given a couple of months, we’ll have plenty of them, good-sized, too, every day. And then, once they’re old enough, we can let some of them hatch their eggs, and we’ll have a steady supply.”

  Pleased with her plan, she turned her head to observe his reaction. It was not what she expected. A wide grin exposed white, even teeth, and his hands were deep in his trouser pockets as he rocked back on his heels.

  “I think you’ve forgotten one small item, ma’am,” he said. “In order to have eggs hatch, you’ll need a rooster in your little flock.”

  “Well, yes, of course,” she said hastily. “I’m sure Mr. Burgess will be happy to provide us with a rooster.” She made a mental note to bring the subject up when the gentleman came to deliver his white leghorns on Monday, next.

  “You’ll need roosts and nesting boxes,” Cleary told her. “A henhouse with a sloped roof, a door, a couple of windows and a small exit for the hens to get out into the yard.”

  She dug into her pocket and brought forth a tablet and a pencil stub, kept handy for just such a purpose. With a glance, she tore off the top sheet, folded it and placed it back in her pocket, then offered Cleary a speaking look. “List what we need, and I’ll make note of it,” she said.

  He did, itemizing two-by-fours and wooden siding, nails and hinges, chicken-wire fencing and upright posts. And then he had her read it back to him. “They’ll need to cut some of the two-by-fours in half and you’ll need about twenty feet of dowel rod fo
r the roosts.”

  “Dowel rod.” She wrote it down, then glanced up. “What’s dowel rod?”

  “Same thing you’re going to need to hang curtains on in the parlor,” he said. “Have you already bought them?”

  “I’m ordering from the catalogue,” Augusta said. “Surely they must sell rods also.”

  “You’ll do better to buy it from the lumberyard and paint it yourself. Costs a lot less than ordering it cut to size from Sears, Roebuck. And we’ll need to have paint for the henhouse, too.”

  “You must think I’m awfully dumb,” she said quietly. “I just assumed it would be so easy to put things together, and the further I go, the less I know what I’m doing.”

  “Well, aren’t you just fortunate I came along?” he said slowly, his grin matching his droll manner of speech. “I happen to know a lot about such things. I think what you need, ma’am, is a man around the house.”

  “Oh, I can’t have that,” she said quickly, looking back at the kitchen door, where shadows moved within the room. “I think they’re watching me.” A flush climbed her cheeks, and she turned away from the women who were no doubt straining their hearing as they tried to listen in on the conversation their benefactress was having in the middle of the yard.

  “Well, maybe a man who’d come and go on a regular basis. Not a fellow who’d expect to stay nights.”

  “Did you have anyone in particular in mind?” she asked, looking stalwartly toward the back of the lot.

  “I think you’re a fine lady, Miss McBride, who’s bitten off quite a mouthful. If I can be of assistance without jeopardizing your reputation in this town, I’d like to help.”

  “And what of your own business?” she asked, shooting him a look of inquiry. It wasn’t likely he’d divulge his method of livelihood to her, but curiosity bade her ask.

  “I’m on hiatus right now,” he said. “Sort of between assignments. Which means I have time on my hands, and enough to live on very comfortably, so you wouldn’t have to pay me a wage.”