Carolyn Davidson - The Texan

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.