The Texan. Carolyn Davidson

all her curves sufficiently and did not offer a tempting peek at one square inch of skin, save a part of her throat. And that lack only served to whet his interest in what lay beneath its fabric. Starched percale could not subdue the lift of her full bosom, nor could the dress’s long sleeves hide the perfection of slender fingers and pink, oval nails.

      “The shelter for…what?” he asked quietly, commanding his eyes to rest on her rosy cheeks, lest he frighten her away with the full survey he wanted to repeat. He’d only caught a glimpse of her slender form for a moment before his gaze was captured by the perfection of a straight nose and wide-set eyes.

      She was lovely, and where she’d been hiding since his arrival in Collins Creek, Texas, was a mystery he wouldn’t mind exploring. For sure, he hadn’t laid eyes on her until three minutes ago.

      “The ladies of the community church have purchased a house on the north side of town, sir,” she began, her voice an earnest, soft contralto. “It is designed as a shelter for women who need a place to live until they can…rebuild their lives.”

      “Rebuild.” He repeated the word slowly, already dead certain of the problems the women in question might have in doing such a thing. “What’s wrong with their present circumstances?” he asked, frowning a bit, as if he were truly puzzled over her explanation.

      “Most of our residents come from a lifestyle that makes them unappealing to most of the citizens of Collins Creek. We are offering them a shelter while they make the appropriate changes that will give them an opportunity to—”

      “Unappealing? Are they crippled or disfigured in some way?” he asked, cutting off her faltering explanation. He furrowed his brow, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets as he leaned against the doorpost.

      “Oh, no!” she said firmly. “Not in any way.”

      “Then I guess I don’t understand their problem,” Cleary said, puzzlement alive in his voice.

      She just about had her fingers twisted off, he noted, stifling a grin. Her hands were clenched so tightly her knuckles were white, and her eyes sought some destination over his left shoulder as she began a halting explanation.

      “These women come to us from various places, several from the Pink Palace just south of town,” she said, allowing her glance to touch his face briefly, as if she sought his understanding.

      “The Pink Palace.” He narrowed his eyes and met her apologetic look head-on. “You mean to say you’re in the business of rescuing a bunch of soiled doves?” he asked.

      “Um…I believe they’ve been called that. Among other things,” she said quietly.

      “And you want me to donate to your cause?”

      She nodded quickly, and he watched as the feathers on her hat blew in the breeze. “Well, yes. We’re asking the good folks of Collins Creek to help us in our fight against the evils incarnate in such establishments. Our ladies are only seeking a chance for employment in another—” her hand waved ineffectively as she searched for a phrase “—line of work. Yes,” she said abruptly. “Another line of work.”

      “What are they suited for?” he asked, and then stepped back, offering her the opportunity to enter his parlor. “Why don’t you come in, and we can discuss this further?” Her eyes looked past him into the shadowed room and she swallowed, a convulsive movement that drew his attention to the line of her throat, the only spot of pale skin available to his view.

      “I don’t think it would be proper of me to step inside your home, sir,” she said, her eyes round, her voice a prim reproof. “I only wanted to offer you an opportunity to aid us in the worthy project we’ve undertaken.”

      “Hmm…” His index finger scratched negligently at his jaw and he tilted his head to the side, as if he were seriously considering such a thing. “I suppose I’d need to hear a bit more about your plans, first,” he said, after a moment’s pause.

      She glanced up and down the street, where not a soul had ventured on this hot afternoon. “Perhaps you could come out onto your porch,” she offered, a trembling smile forming her pink lips into an invitation.

      “Certainly,” he conceded. “I’ll just get us each a glass of refreshment first. Have a seat on the swing, why don’t you?”

      He watched as she stepped to where the swing dangled at the end of the porch and then carefully seated herself, allowing her feet to rise from the floor as the swing moved in a gentle rhythm. Her smile in his direction lent wings to his feet as he raced toward the kitchen, where a jar of lemonade stood in the icebox. Pouring two glasses, he placed them on a tray and headed for the front porch.

      “Here we go,” he said, allowing the screened door to slam behind him. The tray found a spot on a small wicker table, and Cleary planted himself on the opposite end of the swing. Bending, he fetched a glass for his visitor, then the second for himself.

      She swallowed carefully, sipping in a ladylike manner from the glass, and her mouth glistened from the residue. “Thank you so much. I was terribly thirsty. I suppose I didn’t realize what a long walk it was from the middle of town, and I wanted to call on each house, lest I not give everyone the opportunity to help in our worthwhile endeavor.”

      “Well, I certainly admire your devotion to the cause,” he said judiciously. “But I suppose I’m having trouble trying to figure out just what line of work your ladies might be capable of training for.”

      “We’d like to be sure our ladies know the basics of homemaking,” Augusta began. “And that they would know how to work on a farm or ranch, should we find men available to take them as wives.”

      Cleary almost sputtered as he swallowed a mouthful of lemonade. “If you try to pass them off as typical brides, you might have a problem,” he said. “On the other hand, some of the men I’ve known, who are on their own, would welcome most any female creature into their homes. It gets pretty lonely out in the open country where the best a man can do is find a dog to talk to.”

      “Well,” she said primly, “we know they aren’t typical brides, but most of them will make wonderful wives, given the chance.”

      “I’d say you’ve bitten off quite a challenge,” he told her. “Who all is involved in this business?”

      “Why, the minister’s wife and a couple of the ladies who are willing to teach classes to our pupils. And we’ve hired a widow lady to live in and be a chaperon.”

      A chaperon. If any group of women on earth were less in need of such a dragon guarding the doorway, he didn’t know where you’d find them. And he’d be willing to bet that those self-same pupils could teach her churchgoing friends a thing or two that might put grins on their husbands’ faces.

      “What sort of contribution did you have in mind?” he asked her, and was pleased by the quick smile she shot in his direction.

      “Money will do very well,” she told him. “Foodstuffs would come in handy, but I doubt you have an assortment of canning jars filled with fruit or vegetables in your pantry. We need clothing for a few of them whose wardrobes are somewhat limited.”

      “I’ll just bet they are,” he murmured beneath his breath, and was delighted as she bent closer to better hear his remark. A line of perspiration touched her temple and a single drop of sweat trickled the length of her jaw. Her eyes were not only blue, he noted, but that color was emphasized by a darker circle rimming it.

      “How many ladies do you have at your shelter?” he asked smoothly, admiring the clear, soft skin on her cheeks. Though her hair was light, her lashes were golden brown and he noted the sweep of them as her lids closed for a split second.

      “Four right now,” she said. “But there are two or three more arriving before too long, I believe, from a place on the outskirts of Dallas.”

      “How did they hear about the availability of such a place?”

      She sipped again