The Texan. Carolyn Davidson

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      “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.

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