The Texan. Carolyn Davidson

shook her head. “I’m not the sort of female men look at that way, sir. And I wouldn’t have the least idea what to do in a place…like…that.” Her words trailed off as his gaze swept her form. “What?” she asked, her voice sharp.

      “I’d say you’re exactly the sort of female men look at,” he told her.

      “You haven’t looked at me…like that,” she said primly.

      “Haven’t I?”

      She glanced aside, and then, with a swift movement that left him grasping his glass, she rose from the swing. “I’m sorry I bothered you, sir. I’ll be on my way now. Thank you for the lemonade.” Bending, she deposited her empty glass on the wicker table and marched to the porch stairs.

      “Miss McBride.” He called her name firmly and her feet came to an abrupt halt, right on the edge of the first step. “I’d like to make a contribution.”

      “What sort of contribution did you have in mind?”

      “If you’ll turn around, I’ll tell you. I’ve never been fond of speaking to a woman’s back.” Though there was a lot to be said for the shape of this particular woman’s backside, he decided. What little he could make out through the fabric of her dress was rounded and pleasing to the eye.

      She turned on her heel and her blue eyes were steely, in direct contrast to their earlier softness. “Yes?”

      “I’ll make it a cash contribution.” He stood, towering over her, and reached into his trouser pocket, where his money clip held several bills together. Without looking at their value, he pulled them from the clip and, reaching for her hand, pressed them into her palm, then curled her fingers around the wad of bills.

      “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your plan,” he said nicely.

      Her blue eyes widened and her hand tightened around the considerable amount of cash she held. “I’ll tell the ladies how kind you are,” she said after a moment.

      He lifted a hand to brush at his mustache. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather this be an anonymous contribution.”

      “Certainly, whatever you desire,” she blurted out, her gaze focused on his mouth.

      He touched the underside of the dark hair he kept trimmed neatly above his upper lip, watching closely as her tongue touched her mouth again. “Whatever I desire?” His words were whisper, but they apparently caught her ear, for she jerked and then retreated from him, almost tumbling backward down his porch steps, one heel trying to catch hold of thin air.

      He reached for her, hauling her with a total lack of dignity against the long length of his body. His thoughts had been right on target, he found, as firm breasts made an impression on his chest. She was not lacking in any way so far as he could ascertain, his hands gripping her hips through the starched fabric of her dress.

      In fact, he’d say that Miss Augusta McBride was exceedingly well formed.

      Exceedingly.

      How she could have made such a complete and utter fool of herself was a point she would ponder later, Augusta decided. Her gait was rapid, her high-buttoned shoes sending up small clouds of dust behind her as she made the return journey toward the north side of Collins Creek, where the tall, white house held the first contingent of her—what had he called them?—her soiled doves.

      And little did the gentleman know how fittingly that name described the women she had a burning desire to help. She thought of her own mother, whose working name had been Little Dove, when she’d been a resident in a high-class establishment in New York, a fact Augusta had only discovered two years ago.

      Claude McBride, an Irishman with a heart as big as all outdoors, had fallen in love with the woman who sold him her favors. Had fallen in love and rescued her from the place that was a dead end for most of its occupants. That Dove McBride became a wife and mother, and made Claude happy until his dying day, were facts that her diary had established in detail.

      After the funeral, when Augusta was sorting out her parents’ belongings, she’d come across the leather book filled with her mother’s flowing handwriting, and over the next several weeks had come to know the woman from a whole new perspective. Apart from being a beloved mother and devoted wife, Dove McBride had been a woman who would have been deemed unacceptable in polite society during her early adulthood.

      Augusta had dutifully divided the proceeds from the family home and its contents with her brother and cried bitter tears as he’d left to seek a new life in the western part of the country. Alone, yet financially able to support herself until she decided in which direction to turn, she’d followed her instincts.

      “I’ll make a place for myself, and then send for you, sis,” Wilson had told her earnestly. “If you leave here, be sure to let me know where you’re going.” And she had, sending a letter in care of the postmaster in Cheyenne, Wyoming, before she left New York City.

      If Wilson could seek a new life in the West, so could she. And Texas promised to be more cosmopolitan than Wyoming or Colorado, she decided. With cities like Dallas and Houston developing into social communities that commanded respect, she’d headed in that direction.

      How she’d ended up in Collins Creek was another story, one she refused to think about today. Her head high, her steps swift, she passed the bank, then the general store, waved at the minister who stood before the hotel’s double doors, and smiled nicely at the barber, who nodded his greetings.

      “Good morning, Miss McBride,” came a salutation from her right.

      “Good to see you out and about, Mrs. Pemberton,” she said properly. “I hope you’re feeling better.” And then she went on her way, aware that the white-haired widow would more than welcome a chance to describe the details of her latest illness. Not today, Augusta thought. Not now.

      She marched past the schoolhouse, the church and the cemetery, crossed the street and headed toward the row of simple two-story houses that made up the second street of Collins Creek. Five of them, there were. Two turned into boardinghouses for men without families, two owned by families who scrabbled to keep body and soul together, and the fifth, set a little apart due to a fence and a row of trees with low-hanging branches, designated as the shelter.

      Without a proper name, and with no desire to advertise it should they come up with one, the ladies who ran the establishment merely considered it their good deed. Not for a day, or year even, but a project into which they’d vowed to devote their time for the foreseeable future.

      It stood now, its majesty faded by wind and rain, and as it came into sight Augusta viewed it anew, moving through the gap in the front picket fence, where a gate hung with but a single hinge, leaning against the ground, awaiting repair. As were several other items that caught her eye. A porch step lacked a board and she carefully maneuvered over it, mentally adding it to her list of things she would get to this very afternoon.

      Inside, the parlor was almost empty of furniture, a sofa against one wall, and, before the window, a library table upon which a lamp, complete with fringed shade, stood in graceful splendor. Two chairs sat on either side of the fireplace, mismatched but sturdy. Augusta’s footsteps clicked against the bare floor as she walked on down the hallway and into the kitchen at the back of the house.

      “Miss McBride.” Pearl offered a greeting as she looked up from the bread she was kneading. Flour decorated her cheek, almost concealing the remnants of a black eye, now faded to a dull yellow hue, and the presence of two stitches next to the bottom lid. “I’m almost done with this, and Bertha said I should make the loaves next.”

      “Don’t forget to grease the pans,” Augusta reminded her, aware that learning basic household chores was important to these women. “Who’s cooking supper tonight?”

      “I hope it’s gonna be Bertha,” Pearl said glumly. “It’s Janine’s turn, but she’s not real handy with pots and pans, yet.”

      “She can sew well, though,”