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“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.”
“Assignments.” She repeated the word that had caught her attention. “Who do you work for, sir?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, Augusta,” he said reluctantly, offering her no excuse, only the firm refusal that halted her questions before they could be given voice.
“All right,” she said. “If you want to spend your time working at a thankless task, with no chance of monetary gain, I won’t attempt to stop you. I can only tell you that God will surely bless you for your interest in the shelter.”
His smile was quick, and his eyes lit with humor as she spoke. “Thank you, Augusta. I may be so bold as to call you that, I hope. After all, if we are to work together, I think we should consider ourselves good friends, don’t you?”
He’d almost blown the whole thing. Almost burst out in laughter when she’d so sweetly told him he could be expecting the Almighty’s blessing for his interest in her work. What he was expecting was a chance to spend time with a woman who appealed to him in a mighty big way.
A female like Augusta McBride was not what he’d ever thought to consider as the most important woman in his life. He’d had in mind a more independent creature, a woman who knew her way around in the masculine world and was able to fend for herself. And then he’d taken one good look at the creature on his front porch and rearranged all of his opinions as they related to females.
He’d spent more years on top of a horse than he wanted to count, and the past eight months had taught him that he wasn’t getting any younger. The shoulder wound he’d suffered in Wyoming ached at night, and various and sundry places on his thirty-four-year-old frame proclaimed that youth had passed him by and left him with scars and wrinkles galore.
If ever a man wanted to settle down and have a family, his name was Jon Cleary. And Augusta McBride was the likeliest candidate he’d met up with—at least the most available woman who’d ever appealed to his instincts.
“I don’t mind if you call me Augusta,” she said now, only a bit of reservation tingeing her words. “Not in front of my ladies, of course, but in private. And I’ll call you…” She turned up an unblemished face, and his gaze swept the vision before him.
“Cleary will do just fine,” he said. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have—”
“Yes, I know,” she said abruptly, interrupting him mid-thought. “I have blue eyes and yellow hair and my features are nicely formed. But that’s not the part of me that’s important, Cleary. Don’t give me compliments. They make me very distrustful.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he said hastily. “Wouldn’t even consider the idea. What I was about to say was that you have a fine mind, with a bent toward organization. Why, just the way you gave orders for the day was enough to let me know that you have things nicely under control here.”
And wasn’t that a lie, if he’d ever told one. She was a female knocking herself out for the benefit of a string of ponies who’d come in last. He could only hope that those female creatures she’d taken under her wing were appreciative of the effort she made in their behalf.
“Thank you,” she said, writing furiously on her pad of paper. Then she looked up at him again, and he lost track of his thoughts. “What else do I need to list? For the henhouse, I mean?”
“I think we’ve got it about covered,” he told her. “Now let’s head for the lumberyard and the general store and see how much money we can spend.”
Harriet Burns had two boarders looking for work, and they were pleased to find a job at which to show their talents. Their quick looks in Augusta’s direction were squelched with one glance from Cleary’s dark eyes, and he pointedly told them they were under his direct supervision, no matter that Miss McBride was paying their wages. They agreed to show up after dinner to lay out the chicken yard, and Cleary told them he would be there to set the four corners of the henhouse.
“Now for the lumberyard,” he said, satisfied at the progress gained at their first stop. In half an hour, he’d ordered the wood and tar paper for the roof, then they’d gone on to the general store. Hardware was heavy stuff, he told Augusta, not allowing her to lift the box of nails and hinges.
“Can we stop at the post office?” she asked. “I think it’s about time for my catalogue order to come in.”
He obliged her by lifting her from the buggy and waiting patiently outside the barbershop, where the postmaster shared space with haircutting equipment. She emerged with a large bundle in her arms, and he quickly lifted himself from the side of the buggy as she appeared in the doorway.
“Why didn’t you call me? You shouldn’t try to carry such a heavy load by yourself.” His hands were careful lifting the bundle from her arms, aware of the soft curves of her breasts that tempted his touch. The backs of his knuckles brushed against her dress fabric, and he was nonchalant as he relieved her of the weight.
“I’m used to doing for myself,” she said quietly. “There’s another bundle inside, if you have room for it in the buggy.”
“We’ll make room,” he told her, placing the paper-wrapped package on the edge of the seat. The second one was settled on the floor in less than a minute, and then his hands surrounded her waist as he lifted her into the buggy on his side of the vehicle. He watched as she scooted across the leather seat to wedge herself firmly against her package, making room for him as he climbed in beside her.
“Got room enough there?” he asked cheerfully, noting the pressure of her thigh against his, the warmth of her shoulder beneath his arm.
“Yes, of course,” she said, a trifle breathlessly to be sure, but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a sleek squirrel as they rode slowly back toward the north side of town.
He had her right where he wanted her. Under his wing and unable to back off. He kept the mare to a walk, talking quietly about the places they passed, tipping his hat to ladies who watched from the sidewalk and grinning at men who eyed him with a trace of envy.
Augusta McBride was perched beside him and the whole town was taking note. He’d managed to do a good stroke of business this morning.
Chapter Three
The day held promise. Cleary grinned to himself as he entered the livery stable and greeted the sturdy gentleman who leaned on his pitchfork and tilted his hat back in a silent salute. “Good morning, Sam. I’m in need of my horse this morning.”
The genial owner nodded and asked dutifully about Cleary’s health, having apparently received the story through the local grapevine that Cleary had instigated upon arrival in town. “You back in shape yet?” And then he answered his own question, to Cleary’s delight. “Must be, the way you’ve been workin’ over at the old Harvey place the other side of town.”
“Feeling better every day. I figure swinging a hammer is good for what ails me,” Cleary said with a friendly smile. That he’d never stipulated what ailed him was a moot point.
“Here’s your horse,” Sam Ferguson said, leading the gelding from its stall. He located Cleary’s saddle and blanket and, in moments, had the animal ready for its owner’s use. Hands deep in his pockets, he watched as horse and rider rode off at a sedate pace, down the main street and then between buildings to the side road leading to the old house Augusta McBride had made her own.
Lifting his face to inhale the morning air, Cleary sensed the promise inherent in a new day, one in which he planned to move his friendship with Augusta McBride into a new arena. But first, his reasons for heading toward her shelter must be in place.
The gate repair was next, Cleary figured. Then the shutter, hanging by a single nail and due to land on the ground should a wayward wind catch it. He’d had a hiatus over the past week, and perhaps it was only the calm before the storm, but he’d best enjoy it while he could. Should a message arrive and he be forced to leave town for any length of time, explaining his absence to Augusta might be a problem.
Mounting his horse, he nudged its barrel with his heel, his heart lifting as he viewed the cloudless sky, his thoughts speeding ahead with the anticipation of seeing Augusta again. She was melting a bit, her natural defenses against a stranger giving way to the friendship he was working to develop between them. And more than a friendship was in the offing, he’d determined.
The henhouse was a finished project, the fence drawn taut and secured to upright posts surrounding it. It swarmed now with white leghorns, each of them willing to donate to the cause in exchange for a steady diet and a pan of water. He grinned as he recalled the look on Honey’s face as she’d ventured within the gate to feed the hungry pullets. She’d backed up, holding the pan of feed over her head as the noisy birds clustered around her feet, awaiting their meal.
The pan had hit the ground, scattering seed in a wide circle, and Honey had flown through the gate, shrieking loudly, as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. Obviously, the girl was not a product of country living, and yet she could be appealing, should the right young man in need of a wife’s assistance come along.
Augusta was a different sort. Used to city living, yet more than willing to blend in with the small town atmosphere she’d sought in which to open her haven. Even in the chicken coop, her character had emerged. Facing the hens head-on, she’d reached swiftly beneath them for their eggs, scolding a possessive creature who ventured to threaten her with a vicious beak. Not a word of scorn passed her lips as she’d showed Honey how to face down the squawking pullets, scattering the feed before her, then filling the water pan with a pitcher before she left the pen.
A remarkable woman, he’d decided. One he could easily take into his life. There was not a doubt of her innocence, but she was worldly wise in the ways of women and their needs. And he was a man in need of the solace only a woman could provide. Once he’d managed to locate and bring the gang of ruffians he sought to a courtroom, he was definitely planning on making a more prosaic life for himself.
And that life would include Augusta McBride, if he could manage to bring it about. His gaze raked the house before him, seeking a trace of the woman he’d set his sights on. She would not be happy with his evasive answers for much longer, he’d determined. Augusta was adept at prying, and his current occupation did not lend itself to a courtship. In fact, the thought of the man courting her being a hired gun, albeit the government having sought his services, might turn her totally away from any tender thoughts she might harbor toward him.
The pursuit of a gang of train robbers did not bode well for a man’s health, and Cleary hoped to preserve what remained of his weary bones and scarred body. And when all was said and done, he was using Augusta as a shield, his courtship of her a cover-up for the game he played.
Yet, in his heart, he acknowledged a need that would not be denied. Use her he might, and a niggling shard of guilt accompanied that admission, but the woman herself was a prize he yearned to own. One day, should he survive this operation, she would know the truth about Jonathan Cleary. He only hoped she would forgive him his deception.
He rode the edge of the property line, close beside the hedge of bushes, and tied his mount to a tree, where the animal could graze and remain in the shade. Replacing the bridle with a halter, he loosened the saddle cinch and headed for the woodshed. His gaze was satisfied as he beheld the pile of lumber he’d ordered for various projects, and he set about seeking the hardware necessary to mend the gate.
“Mr. Cleary?” Augusta’s voice spoke his name and he looked up to find her in the doorway. “Can I help you find something?” she asked, and then stepped into the confines of the small shed. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning. I’d thought you might be weary of working by this time.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, denying her concern. “I’m exercising my shoulder every time I swing a hammer.”
She frowned. “What’s wrong with your shoulder? Did you fall and injure it?”
He hesitated, ruing his words, and then aimed a smile in her direction. “You might say that. It’s almost as good as new now, but it’s given me some trouble getting it back in shape.” Not to mention the neat hole where a bullet had gone in and the torn, scarred flesh where it had made its exit.
Augusta McBride was not the sort of woman who would receive that confidence with a smile. Rather, she would be full of questions, and her persistence would know no end.
“I thought I’d fix the gate this morning,” Cleary said, lifting a bag of hinges from a shelf. “These will work for the gate and the shutters, too. You have several that need to be secured.”
“Hinges for shutters?” she asked, a brow lifting as she questioned his intent.
“When you get a good wind hereabouts, you might need to close them in order to keep the windows safe from flying debris,” he told her.
“Will they fasten inside?” she asked, and he nodded a reply.
“To keep out intruders, perhaps?” Her words were slow, as if her mind worked a problem.
“I suppose they could be used in that way,” he conceded. “Though I doubt you’ll need them for that purpose.”
She stepped backward through the doorway and her hand beckoned him to follow. “I’ll be available if you need help, Mr. Cleary. Can I carry something for you?”
“No,” he said, bending to collect a board. The shutter had a cracked slat, and he might as well make a decent job of it. “But you can keep me company if you like.”
“No, I believe I have more than enough to do indoors this morning,” she told him. “We’re teaching the ladies how to do simple sewing tasks. Janine is quite a talented seamstress, and she’s willing to share her knowledge.” Her smile was quick, as if she’d allowed a bit of humor to intrude on her serious endeavors.
“Are they willing pupils?” he asked, needing to keep her company as long as he could without being too forward.
“Willing, perhaps, but not as capable as Janine. Buttons and seams and darning might be the limit of Beth Ann’s talents, but Honey is eager to learn.”
“And Pearl?”
She cast him a glance from beneath long eyelashes and her mouth was taut. “Pearl is another story, I fear. She’s adept in the kitchen these days, but she’s so used to being waited on and cosseted, it’s sometimes a problem, trying to expand her education.”
“Waited on?” His brows rose in pure skepticism as he tried to envision that woman as a lady of leisure.
“She was in demand at the Pink Palace, I understand, and had the nicest room and all the benefits of being Mrs. Simpson’s pet, according to Honey.”
Apparently a most talented lady, he decided. Surely talent was her only attraction, for the woman was almost beyond the age of selling herself by seductively revealing her face and form to the gentlemen who sought out such an alliance. And next to Augusta, Pearl was blowsy and wore the look of a horse who’d been ridden hard and put away wet. No matter Pearl’s tricks of the trade, he’d take Augusta McBride over any amount of experience any day of the week.
Even now, Augusta’s cheeks bore a hint of embarrassment, their tone definitely rosy as she discussed the women she sheltered within the walls of her home. An almost overwhelming need to touch that fine skin arose within him, and Cleary blessed the fact that his hands were filled with the supplies he needed to complete his work this morning.
“Well, you go on ahead, ma’am,” he told Augusta. “I’ll try not to make too much noise when I work on the shutters. But I’m going to be working on all of them, and you’d do well to stay in the back of the house for your sewing class.”
“Yes, we’d planned on that. The kitchen table will do well for our needs,” she told him, lifting her skirt as she hastened toward the back door.
He watched, aware of the fine lines of her ankles, his gaze narrowing as he caught a glimpse of the lower curve of her calf as she climbed the three steps to the back porch. And then the sight of Bertha standing on the other side of the screened door drew his eyes. The look of warning she flashed in his direction made his mouth twitch with amusement. He’d be facing a veritable dragon in that one, he decided, should he lay one finger on her lone chick.
Let her do her worst. It would be more than a finger he placed on the delicate skin of Augusta McBride. Before many more days had passed, he planned on initiating a slow seduction.
Gussie. He tasted the single word on his tongue, and his smile became full-blown. Bertha be hanged. He’d faced worse adversaries in his day. And in this case, the prize was worthy of his finest efforts.
“I’m not ever going to be a seamstress,” Beth Ann announced at the end of an hour of attempting to sew on missing buttons, suffering numerous tiny wounds from the needle that refused to cooperate.
“You don’t need to be,” Janine told her, preening as she held up her own work. A dress from the missionary barrel had been remade into a garment for Honey. It would tie in the back, making allowances for her increasing girth as time passed. “I think this will do,” Janine pronounced, folding the dress and presenting it to the young woman.
“I can’t thank you enough,” Honey said, humbly accepting the gift. “My things are all but tearing out at the seams already.”
“If you can learn to do mending and sewing on buttons, it will be sufficient for now,” Janine told the two young women. “Not everyone can sew a fine seam, but with practice, you’ll do better.”
“Why didn’t you become a dressmaker?” Augusta asked her bluntly. “Surely it would have been a more—” She halted, not knowing the words to describe her thoughts.
“More acceptable occupation?” Janine supplied with a quirk of her eyebrow. “Perhaps, but not nearly so lucrative.”
“Nor so dangerous,” Augusta reminded her.
“Well, there is that,” Janine agreed. “And I have the marks to prove it.” She shuddered involuntarily as she spoke, and Augusta felt a moment’s curiosity as she wondered at the events that had driven Janine from the Pink Palace to this place. It was an unspoken rule that no one need divulge any more than they wanted to regarding their past or their reasons for being here.
And that included Augusta, thankfully.
“If you don’t get your mess out of my way, we’ll be eatin’ dinner on top of your mending,” Bertha said from her place before the stove. “You’d better ask that man if he wants to sit down with us,” she told Augusta, grudgingly offering the hospitality of her kitchen to Cleary.
Even now, his hammer rang out sharply as he put shutters in place on the front of the house. Augusta nodded and hastened toward the hallway, her heart strangely affected by the prospect of speaking to the tall gentleman. She exited through the front screened door and turned to where he labored at the furthest window. A glance at the gate proved his ability. It hung straight and was fastened with a shiny new latch.
“Mr. Cleary?” She halted six feet from him, her eyes drawn by the muscles in his upper arms, straining the material of his shirt as he swung the hammer one last time, a final blow that set the nail firmly in place. His vest lay over the porch railing and his shirtsleeves were rolled up above his elbows, allowing him to work without the hindrance of fabric pulling and tugging as he used the hammer.
He was strong, not overly thick through the upper body, but muscular nonetheless. And she felt a slow flush climb her cheeks, reproving herself for noticing such a thing.
“Yes, Miss Augusta?” he answered, turning his head to meet her gaze. His eyes were warm, regarding her with a look of pleasure, as if he took delight in the sight of her there before him. His lips curved beneath his mustache, and she felt her heart beat a bit faster as his smile widened.
“We’re about ready to eat dinner, if you’d like to join us.” Her words were stilted, delivered in a breathless fashion, and his smile tweaked a corner of his wide mouth.
“I’d appreciate that, ma’am,” he told her politely. “Would you like to hold this shutter in place while I finish up the last bit of securing it to the house?”
“Yes, of course,” she said quickly, stepping to his side, wondering briefly how he’d accomplished hanging the others without help.
Cleary looked down at her as she awaited his instructions. “I need to make it readily available, should you want to close it,” he said, explaining his method. “But it needs to be firmly attached when it’s opened.” Grasping her right hand, he placed it on the edge of the wide slats.
“Hold it right there,” he instructed her, speaking past several nails he held between his lips, and she obeyed.
Aware of the faint scent of masculine flesh, she breathed carefully, drawing shallow gasps of air into her suddenly inadequate lungs. It was no use. He was male, a bit warm, sweaty even, she decided. Yet it was a pleasing smell, that of soap and perhaps hair tonic, along with an undefinable aroma that teased her into edging just a bit closer.
Her hair brushed against his chest as he leaned over her to ply his hammer to the latch he imposed on the wooden siding. And then his hand touched her shoulder as he fit the hook into the latch, holding the shutter immobile and in place.
“You can let go now,” he told her, and her hand fell from the shutter as she stepped aside. His palm against her shoulder tightened its grip, and she halted in her retreat. She looked up at him, aware that, though he held her firmly, he exhibited no force, only a touch that warmed her to the tips of her fingers.
“Thank you, Miss Augusta,” he said politely. His eyes were heavy lidded, she noted, their depths dark as he took her measure. “When will you learn to call me Cleary, without the formality of a title attached?” he asked quietly. “Once you do, I’ll be able to use your name as I please.” His mouth twitched and widened to a smile that lured her.
“Cleary,” she said obediently, softly, with a whisper of anticipation, as if she waited for some momentous occasion to present itself.
“Augusta,” he replied, his gaze focused upon her lips as they spoke his name.
She held her breath, the heat from his body extending to hers, warming her from top to bottom, her spine tingling as she edged half a step closer to him. His head bent a bit and his mouth opened a fraction. As though in a trance, Augusta tilted her chin, the better to watch that mobile arrangement of lips that lured her in a foreign, forbidden way.
The edges of his teeth showed as he smiled, white beneath his dark mustache, and he bent inches closer. Almost close enough to touch her mouth.
“Dinner’s on the table.” The words echoed in her mind as the screened door opened and Pearl stepped onto the porch.
“Yes.” Augusta’s eyes closed for just a second, ruing the loss of…what? Had he been about to place those firm, chiseled lips upon hers? Such a thought did not bear pondering, she decided quickly. Pearl had interrupted but a moment of flirtation on his part.
The urge to shake her head in denial of that thought was strong. She considered the man a gentleman, far above stealing a fleeting kiss in broad daylight, in full view of any passerby who might glance in their direction.
