The Texan. Carolyn Davidson
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she looked at the broken step, then eyed the splinter in her hand. “I doubt it, Mr. Hampton. I’ve seen you clearly for more than a month already, and you’re running out of time here,” she muttered beneath her breath, and then turned around to sit on the top step, the better to inspect her wound.
“I’ll be glad to give you a hand, ma’am.” The offer came without warning, and she turned her head abruptly. Beside the front gate, a horse and rider stood motionless, apparently having been privy to the discussion between Augusta and Roger.
“Sir?” He was nameless but certainly familiar, he of the lemonade, and the wad of cash money she even now had tucked in her reticule. And on top of that, his dark eyes and smiling lips seemed still more attractive this time around.
“I didn’t introduce myself when we first met,” he said. “My name is Cleary. I thought I might drop by and properly make your acquaintance, seeing as how I have a vested interest in your…” He looked up at a drooping shutter, then back at the broken step. “Your project,” he finished nicely.
“I should have mentioned my name when you came calling earlier,” he told her, dismounting easily and tying his mount to the gatepost. “And when I recognized that I’d been less than gentlemanly, I thought I’d best make amends and see if there was something I could do to set things right.”
Augusta’s mouth refused to stay closed. She inhaled deeply, concerned at the lack of air available for her needy lungs, and then began awkwardly to roll down her sleeves. It would not do to receive a caller so dreadfully unclad.
“Don’t bother,” he told her, reaching one hand to halt her endeavor. “I’ll take a look at your splinter if you like,” he offered. “I have a dandy knife that will probably set things right in less than a minute.”
She could only nod as he settled on the top step beside her and took her hand in his. One long finger tilted his hat back on his head, and as she watched, he turned her hand over in his, her fair skin looking even more pale against the tanned flesh of his palm.
His fingers were gentle, his skin callused, and the scent arising from him was a blend of citrus and leather. Augusta held her breath against its lure, and he glanced up quickly. “Am I hurting you?”
She shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all.”
“I wondered. You caught your breath, and I thought perhaps—”
But what he thought was not revealed as the front door opened and Bertha’s firm voice interrupted his healing mission.
“I didn’t know we had company,” Bertha said firmly. “Did you want to bring the gentleman inside, ma’am?”
“Uh, no. As a matter of fact, he only stopped by to…” Augusta looked up into his dark eyes. “Why did you stop by?”
He smiled and bent closer. “I already told you, ma’am. I hadn’t properly introduced myself, and when I found you were being verbally assaulted by the man who just left, I thought it prudent to keep an eye on things.”
“Oh. Oh, I see,” Augusta said. And then she looked over her shoulder at Bertha, whose arms were folded firmly across her ample bosom.
“Was that rascal here again?” she asked, her voice booming a challenge. “I told you. We need to send him off with a load of buckshot in his behind one of these days.”
At that, Augusta felt a torrid blush climb her cheeks and she rose to her feet. “I’m sure Bertha can take care of my hand, Mr. Cleary. But I do appreciate you stopping by and offering your help.”
“Most folks just call me Cleary,” the visitor said politely, and smiled at Bertha. Whether it was the look he flashed in her direction or the easy, elegant way he carried himself, Bertha nodded and lowered her arms to her sides as Cleary stepped down to ground level.
He looked up at Augusta and offered his hand. “It was good to make your acquaintance, ma’am. I hope you won’t have any problem with your wound.” He settled his hat more firmly over his forehead and turned aside. “I’ll stop by again.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter Two
The sound of a hammer against wood woke her, and Augusta sat upright in bed, unaware, for just a moment, of where she was. The walls of the bedroom were covered with faded pink flowers against a nondescript wallpaper, and brighter patches signified the absence of pictures, apparently taken by the house’s former owners. Not a room she would have chosen in days gone by. But, she decided, looking around at the shabby walls, it could only get better.
She slid from the bed, cocking her head to the side to consider the silence surrounding her. Perhaps the banging of a hammer had been part of a dream, she thought. Certainly she’d been plagued with a number of scenarios throughout the night, ranging from a woman with hatchet in hand chasing her down the streets of Dallas, to the sight of a man’s large, tanned hand holding hers captive.
She’d preferred the latter, she admitted to herself, thinking of her visitor the other day. Cleary, he’d said she should call him, but she hadn’t. Instead she had only touched her palm to his offered hand before he left. I’ll stop by again. A promise of sorts, she supposed, and a smile curved her lips as she tied her petticoat and slid a clean dress over her head.
From the front of the house, another flurry of pounding met her ears, and she went to the window, bending to peer from the open frame. Dark hair, topping a pair of broad shoulders, met her gaze and she watched in awe as the hammer rose and fell. Only two blows required to set a nail in place. Another nail was held between long fingers, and the hammering resounded again. He lifted the hammer a third time, and then as he ran a thumb over the nail, he looked up to where she watched from the window.
“Good morning,” Cleary said, a cheerful grin lighting his dark features. “Hope I didn’t wake you.” And from the look on his face, she was certain he knew he had.
“Oh, no,” Augusta said quickly, aware that her voice still held early morning huskiness. “I was just getting up.” She bent forward a little, viewing the three boards that lay beside him, noting the two he’d already nailed onto the uprights of her front steps. “Things have been piling up on me,” she told him. “I was going to get back to that today.”
“Well,” he said, drawing out the single syllable, “now you won’t have to. I’m sure there are other chores more suited to your hands.”
“I’ll be right down,” she said quickly. “Has Bertha offered you coffee?”
“She came to the door and frowned at me,” Cleary said. “I suspect she’ll be back to make sure I haven’t walked off with anything that isn’t nailed down.”
“She’s not at her best in the morning,” Augusta said in a loud whisper. She ducked back into the room to find her housekeeper standing in the bedroom doorway.
“I’m always at my best,” Bertha said stoically. “I didn’t think seven in the morning was a good time for the man to come calling. But if you want him to have a cup of coffee, I’ll pour one for him.”
“Well, he isn’t really calling,” Augusta told her, bending to find her shoes beneath the bed. Her slippers were there and she donned them quickly, deciding they’d do as well as the high-buttoned shoes she generally wore. “I think we should be thankful for his help, Bertha. The ladies in town have not been receptive to their husbands coming here to lend a hand.”
“Huh!” Bertha was a woman of few words, but the sounds she made were generally easy to understand. “Breakfast is pret’ near ready,” she said, turning to go back to the first floor. Bertha’s heavy shoes clumped on the uncarpeted stairs and Augusta snatched up her hairbrush, bringing quick order to her long hair.
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