The Texan. Carolyn Davidson

her, turning to the icebox, bending to retrieve the bottle from its depths. “Here,” she said. “You start the biscuits and I’ll get stuff from the pantry.”

      Within minutes the fire was crackling with the addition of kindling and a few stout pieces of wood. The bacon was sliced and in the pan, and Augusta was demoted to finding a biscuit pan while Bertha made it her business to cut out the pale rounds of dough and place them on the greased surface.

      “I heard y’all out here talkin’,” she grumbled. “Seems like we could’ve had another half hour to sleep. Sun’s barely up.”

      “It’s just as well we get organized early,” Pearl said cheerfully, shooting a wry grin in Augusta’s direction. “I have a notion we’re gonna have company for breakfast.”

      In fact, it was barely ten minutes later when a faint rapping at the back door caught Augusta’s ear. Jonathan Cleary stood to one side of the door, seeking her gaze through the fine wire mesh as she reached to unlatch the screened door.

      “Thought I’d stop by and see if there was a chance of cadging breakfast,” he said cheerfully.

      “Do you suppose you can find something to do to earn it out?” Augusta asked him, as if she were not fully aware that his mind was no doubt already swarming with tasks to be accomplished.

      “I’ll manage,” he said, his words droll. Walking to the sink, he washed his hands and then turned, seeking a towel.

      “Towels are in the pantry,” Pearl said shortly. “And there’s need of a few more shelves in there, if you’re of a mind to nail up a couple of boards.”

      “I could manage that,” he said, his glance mocking as he met the woman’s gaze. “Anything else you think I need to tend to?”

      Pearl’s eyes took on a gleam that warned Augusta she’d best be stepping between the two adversaries. “I’ve got a short list of things,” she said quickly. “We can talk after breakfast.”

      The short list involved using a lawn mower, a new one Augusta had ordered from the Sears, Roebuck catalogue. “Am I the first one to use it?” Cleary asked. “It’ll be a far sight easier to push than the one I used back home as a boy. I well remember having to rake up the clippings to feed the goats.”

      “Why didn’t your father just stake the goats in the yard and let them do the work?” Augusta asked with a grin. Looking at Cleary beneath the hot sun, his forehead wearing a handkerchief to halt the pouring of sweat into his eyes, was a treat.

      Now he halted, midway in his rounding of the yard and eyed her boldly. “You think you’re smart, don’t you, lady? All cool and crisp while I’m sweating like a horse, doing your chores. And for your information, when I was growing up, the other ladies in town would have thought we were peasants had we tied the goats in the yard.”

      “Where was home?” Augusta asked quietly, her gaze resting on his strong body, outlined by the dampness of his clothing. Another time, with another man, she might have considered her thoughts forward, would have looked anywhere else but at the flex of muscles in his arms as he reached for the glass of lemonade she held. But not with Cleary.

      After last night on the porch, she’d become aware of him in a new way. She knew that he wanted her, as a man wants a woman, and that knowledge made her brave, bold in her scrutiny.

      He took the glass, and she reveled in the touch of callused fingertips against her finer skin. Tilting his head back, he drank, his swallows readily draining the glass. And then he held it out to her. “We lived not too far from here, as a matter of fact.”

      Perhaps she hadn’t expected his honest reply, and yet, somehow she’d known that when he could, Jonathan Cleary would be honest with her. “Do you see your folks?” she asked, looking up at him.

      He shook his head, and his words held a ring of harshness she had not expected. “They’re gone.” And that seemed to be all he would say on the subject as he glanced up at the sky. “Might as well get this job done. I think we’re in for a good rain before nightfall.” His grin was quick, as though his moment of brusque behavior was forgotten. “And that will only make it grow quicker.”

      Augusta looked upward, where clouds gathered at the western horizon. “Well, you’ll have to come back for breakfast next week then, won’t you?” she heard herself saying.

      His laugh rolled forth and she looked at him warily. “Go get me some more lemonade, sweetheart, or a glass of water from the well. Any sort of liquid will do. I’m still dry.”

      She turned to walk away, and his words were a whisper in her ear. “I’ll be back for breakfast, all right. You won’t be getting rid of me, honey.”

      Sweetheart. Honey. The simple endearments clutched at her heart as she hurried to the house, hearing the mower’s blade spin behind her. He’d called her names she’d only heard before from her father when he spoke to the woman he adored, in those times when her parents thought their children were abed and out of hearing. Words she’d cherished, knowing how deeply her mother loved him, and how devoted her father was to the woman he’d married.

      A woman whose passions she seemed to have inherited.

      In the house, a letter awaited her on the kitchen buffet, and a stranger sat, stiffly upright in a chair at the table, a cup of tea before her. “This is Glory,” Pearl said, nodding at the woman who looked as though she were in need of a hiding place. “Came in on the morning train from Dallas.”

      “Hello again, Glory,” Augusta said quietly. The new resident had looked healthier the first time Augusta had laid eyes on her, a couple of weeks ago. Now she bore fresh bruises and a bandage on her forehead.

      “Ma’am.” Glory’s gaze was fleeting, touching Augusta’s face, then over her shoulder. “Am I still welcome here?” she asked quietly.

      “You can share a room with Beth Ann,” Augusta told her, casting a silent request in Pearl’s direction.

      “I’ll take care of getting you settled, Glory,” Pearl said. “Miss Augusta’s kinda tied up right now, giving orders in the backyard. And I’m thinking you could use a nice long nap, anyway.”

      She picked up the letter from the buffet, and handed it to Augusta. Addressed in a scrawling hand, it was simply sent to Miss Augusta McBride, in care of the postmaster in Collins Creek, Texas. “Bertha brought this from town,” Pearl volunteered. “I was just about to bring it out to you, when I saw you heading for the house. And then I thought maybe you’d like to say hello to Glory here.”