The Texan

by Carolyn Davidson

  The streetlights in Dallas lit the interior of his room, and he watched the flickering glow on the ceiling as he considered the days ahead. First, he had to notify the men of his arrival, then follow the designated member to the hideout, a place he’d not been privy to until now.

  He’d be in danger, but the plan Nicholas was setting into motion would cover that angle, once the men gathered and heard their instructions. He’d given the nod when Nicholas told him that the Pinkerton Agency was involved. The knowledge that those men were unrivaled in their skill, and that the results of their work were without blemish gave him an edge that would allow him to concentrate fully on the task at hand, knowing that his backup was secure.

  The banks were paying a high price for the Pinkerton promise, but unless this group of outlaws was caught and sent to prison, they would lose much more than the cost of hiring the detectives. The net was closing, and the Pinker-tons were arriving in town one by one, their disguises as close to perfection as his own.

  He closed his eyes, counting sheep, secure in the knowledge that not only was his room locked, but any touch on his doorknob or the heavy wooden structure itself would rouse him from slumber.

  He’d been here before. Not in this place, perhaps, but in many other such situations. He touched the butt of his revolver, moved it closer to the edge of his pillow and closed his eyes.

  Augusta rose behind his eyelids and he allowed himself a long look at the beauty of the woman he’d married. And then he forced himself to play through the schedule for the next few days.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The days passed more rapidly than she’d expected. But the nights were long, her bed chilled with the cool night air and the absence of Cleary beside her. Whether it was because she was a dutiful wife, or because he might think of her and picture her waiting in his bed, Augusta went home at night.

  The image of a dutiful wife made her smile, knowing she was far from that state of perfection. Cleary had married an independent woman. What she gave him, she gave gladly and from her heart, not because of a vow she’d spoken the day she’d accepted his ring. And yet, he’d given more—a spoken promise of his love—on more occasions than she could count. And her own avowal had come sandwiched in the midst of a quarrel, barely significant enough to take his attention.

  She walked the distance from one house to another, smiling as she thought of her loyalty to both of her homes. That Cleary’s white, comfortable house on the better side of town would be her home in the years to come was a given. She would live there gladly. But her own place, the shelter in which she’d invested more than a good share of her nest egg, would always have a place in her life. She owed that to her mother.

  The mother she still had not acknowledged in Cleary’s hearing. And for that, she knew regret. It would be first on the agenda, once he came home and they took up their lives again. She owed him much, the least of which was her trust in this matter.

  Once he came home. Those words were a litany she spoke daily, planning the small things that would please him, her memory of their last, ambiguous moments together becoming a tender parting between two lovers in her mind.

  She could not afford to dwell on what might happen, on the danger he might even now be in, wherever he might be.

  A knock on the door halted her hands in their task as she sorted through a box of belongings she’d carried home last evening. The last of her boxes, found in the dark corner of a closet, not taken when she’d moved into Cleary’s house.

  Wiping her fingers on the rag she’d used to dust the small collection of colored glass ornaments gathered through the years, she walked quickly toward the front door. The shadow apparent through the leaded glass panes was large, broad through the shoulders and too tall to be a woman. Perhaps Nicholas had come to call.

  “I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me, Miss Augusta.” Roger Hampton stood on the porch, his thumbs tucked nonchalantly into his front trouser pockets, his grin tainted by a hint of sadistic pleasure. “I come bearing good news for you.”

  “I somehow doubt that.” Her heart beat heavily in her chest as she announced her skepticism. “The only thing you’ve ever given me has been trouble, Mr. Hampton.”

  “Tut-tut,” he said, his smile denying her claim. “I distinctly recall offering you a proposal of marriage, and the promise of a diamond ring to grace your lily-white hand.”

  She glanced down at the delicate band she wore, and her eyes blurred as she recalled the day Cleary had settled it into place on her finger. “My hands are not lily-white,” she said quietly. “And as I recall, I turned down your proposal—several times, in fact.”

  She looked up to meet his gaze and surprised a look of avid desire on those harsh features. Mr. Hampton’s eyes roved her body and a dark flush covered his cheeks.

  “Perhaps you won’t be so hasty the next time,” he told her. His voice had taken on a rough texture, and as he stepped forward, her natural instinct for protection caused her to reach for the door. His brow lifted in surprise. “Do you think to keep me on the porch while I tell you the news?” he asked. “I think not, ma’am. You’ll want privacy to hear the sad tidings I carry.”

  “You told me you had good news to report, sir,” she said. “And you can tell me right here, without coming into my home.”

  “Well, the news can be considered either good or bad, depending on which viewpoint you assume.” He opened the screened door, and with a swift movement, captured her waist in his hands, lifting her and setting her aside to insure his entry. The heavy interior door closed behind him and he leaned back against it, releasing her from his hold.

  “Now, isn’t this better?” His chest rose and fell, but to Augusta’s eyes it was not because of the effort of moving her from his path. He inhaled again, deeply, as if he drew in a scent from her clothing and the body beneath that caused his lungs to expand in a deliberate effort. “You must have used rosewater on your hair, ma’am. I declare I can catch a hint of flowers when I stand this close to you.”

  “Then by all means, step away, sir,” Augusta said stiffly. “I did not invite you in.”

  “Your husband told me you wouldn’t be eager to see me.” His voice was musing as he uttered the words, and his eyes narrowed, taking in her lush figure. She wore a formfitting dress today, and it emphasized a problem she’d noted over the past weeks. This simple cotton shirtwaist seemed to be the only one in her wardrobe that buttoned easily at her waist. And beneath its smooth, ironed surface, her breasts felt stifled by the bodice that clung to her like a well-fitted glove.

  “You are looking lovely this morning, Miss Augusta,” he said politely. He lifted one hand and touched her cheek with his index finger. “Hmm…no tears visible. I’d thought you might be pining for your husband, him being gone for a week already, and you waiting here like a good wife, all by yourself.”

  She flinched beneath the subtle brush of his fingertip against her skin and turned her head. Never in her life had she felt so vulnerable, so unable to cope with a situation.

  Roger looked around the foyer and through the wide doorway into the parlor. His gaze roamed up the curving staircase to the second floor and then returned to her. “It seems you are alone.”

  “Yes,” she said shortly. “I’m alone. Does that suit your purpose?”

  “Well, it seems I’m to be designated to comfort you in your loss. I won’t deny that I’m planning on obtaining a certain amount of satisfaction at that thought.”

  She felt the color drain from her face, and her legs trembled beneath her. “What loss are you talking about?”

  “Why, the missing gentleman who can’t quite seem to decide which role he should play in the general scheme of things, ma’am. He’s dabbled in banking, owns a silver star that proclaims him a U.S. Marshal, and now, as of last week, I do believe his name and face are on Wanted posters.” His smile was feral, his teeth glittering as his lips drew back to expose them. “Although they’ll be able to tear those down very
soon.”

  Augusta lifted her chin, determined not to allow this man access to her fear. “I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about.”

  “He’s been deeply involved in a series of train and bank robberies, ma’am. I warned you about him, but you chose not to listen to me. And now, he’s been shot. They tell me he probably won’t live long enough to hang with the rest of the gang.”

  Her back met the wall, and Augusta’s hand dropped to clutch the curved arm of a small bench that graced the foyer. “What are you talking about?”

  “Exactly what I said, Augusta.” His facade of elegance disappeared as easily as did the polite edge his voice had worn. “I think you’d better sit down, before you fall down,” he told her coolly.

  “Cleary is wounded?”

  His nod confirmed the image in her mind, of Cleary bloody and unconscious. She had prior knowledge of such a thing, recalling the night when he had lain on the kitchen floor as she’d cleaned and bandaged his wound. And now, he was…She lifted a hand to her temple, feeling the blood rush from her head.

  “Where is he?” Her eyes closed as her mind sought frantically for a plan that would take her to him.

  “Almost fifty miles from here,” Roger said, and his words were fuzzy in her ears.

  As if in a dream, she felt his hands on her, moving her to sit on the bench beside her, and then his palm pressed against the back of her neck as he pushed her head to her knees. Her mouth filled with bile, as her breakfast threatened to erupt from her stomach, and she gagged, causing him to step back hurriedly.

  “If you’re going to vomit, please turn aside,” he said roughly. “I don’t care to have my boots soiled.”

  And wasn’t that typical of the man? She swallowed with effort and lifted her head. “I have no intention of losing my breakfast in the foyer,” she told him, encouraged by the clarity of her vision and the warmth that returned to her body.

  “I’ll be happy to take you to see him,” Roger said politely, and she thought he resembled the snake in the Garden of Eden. The apple he held before her was tempting, but the messenger was Satan personified, and she was not going to allow him to involve her in a wild-goose chase.

  “Is he dying?” she asked, amazed at the cool tones of her query.

  He pursed his lips and thought about it. “Most likely,” he said finally. “Train robbers don’t get the best of care, ma’am. The Pinkerton men likely feel they’ll be saving the price of a length of rope if he gives up the ghost on his own.”

  “I doubt he’s a bank robber.” She felt her optimism waver as she thought about the last bullet wound Cleary’d received.

  Roger shrugged. “You’ll have to believe what you please. I’m just trying to make his last hours happy, bringing his wife to his side. As to the rest of it, ask the sheriff if you want the truth.” He drew his pocket watch from his vest pocket. “I’ll be back in an hour if you want to come back to Dallas with me. The sheriff’s in his office, if you’d like to talk to him. I’m sure he can give you the details.”

  With a last piercing look that brought her to her feet, he opened the door and stepped onto the porch, then turned and tipped his hat in a gesture of ironic gentility.

  Augusta watched as he departed, stood in the doorway as he mounted his horse and turned the animal in a tight half circle before he headed back toward the center of Collins Creek. And then she climbed the stairs, hastening to her bedroom, approaching her mirror and peering within its depths. Her hair was a bit disheveled, her cheeks pale, and with a quick swipe of her brush and a splash of cool water, she was ready to visit the local lawman.

  It took ten minutes to walk the distance to his office, and she stood before the closed door for another full minute before she knocked on the solid, wooden panel.

  “Come on in.” It was a gruff, bold invitation and she turned the handle with the tips of her fingers, as if it held the dirt from a hundred filthy outlaw hands.

  “Roger Hampton told me you had news of Cleary,” she said, and was given a look of satisfaction from the broad, lined face of the man behind the desk.

  “Cleary? That rascal you married, ma’am? I thought Mr. Hampton would have already given you the news about your husband.”

  “He told me Cleary was wounded.”

  “And did he tell you that he took a bullet while he was robbing a train, along with a whole slew of fellas?”

  “He’s not a criminal,” Augusta said firmly.

  “Well, I beg to differ with you, ma’am. He was right smack in the midst of the whole thing, they tell me. I sent Mr. Hampton down to tell you the news. He thought you might want to tell your husband farewell, but it doesn’t look like you’re gonna do that now, does it?”

  “No, I’m not.” Her chin held high, Augusta vowed not to give this cretin the pleasure of seeing her wilt before him. “In fact, I’m going to wait until I hear from him before I do anything.”

  “You’ll wait a long time, ma’am,” he said slyly. “Maybe you’d best go to the general store or that there ladies’ furnishings place across the street and buy yourself a black dress to wear to his funeral.”

  She turned from him and walked back out into the sunlight, aware that the interior of the sheriff’s office held a bad odor and she was in dire need of a breath of fresh air. She turned to walk down the sidewalk and felt the presence of hot tears against her eyelids. What if Cleary was, indeed, wounded? And she had refused to go to him. What if he died, without her being there to kiss him and whisper a farewell?

  She stiffened her spine, willing the tears to vanish. Before her eyes the sunlight was shredded by a sparkling mist, and through that mist strode the figure of a woman. Pearl. Augusta reached out a hand beseechingly and spoke the single syllable of her name, as if it were a plea for help.

  “Pearl?” An aura enveloped the strong, voluptuous form, a golden haze that blurred into darkness as Augusta felt her knees collapse beneath her.

  “I declare, I never saw such a thing in my life. I knew you was strong, Pearl, but carrying Miss Augusta all the way home must of about wore you down to a frazzle.” Honey’s words were both respectful and disbelieving as she uttered her admiration aloud.

  Rough hands clutched at Augusta’s fingers, and Wilson’s voice was thready as he called her name. “Augusta. Look at me. Open your eyes, sis.”

  Blue eyes, the exact color of her own, met her view as Augusta’s eyelids lifted a bit. “Where’s Pearl?” she asked, amazed at the wispy sound of her own voice.

  “I’m right here,” the woman answered, and Augusta turned her head to see Pearl seated in a chair, a damp cloth in her hand. With a quick swipe she brushed back a stray lock of hair and then ran the cloth over her face. “You ’bout wore me out, girl, totin’ you all the way home.”

  “Miss Augusta told me once you were strong enough to wrestle an ox, bare-handed, but I guess I didn’t believe it before now,” Honey said, her voice subdued. “I never saw anything like it, you carrying her up the street and through the gate the way you did.”

  “Well, I never want to see anything like it again,” Wilson stated firmly. He bent closer to Augusta. “Are you sure you’re all right, sis? I can’t imagine what made you lose consciousness that way. Do you think we should get hold of the doctor?”

  “She’ll be fine if y’all just clear out and let her breathe,” Bertha said from the doorway. Her eyes were shrewd as Augusta sat up, lifting her eyes to meet the older woman’s gaze. “I’m thinking there’s nothing wrong with her that a little more than seven months’ time won’t cure.”

  Augusta pressed her lips together firmly, aware of the intake of breath beside her as Wilson plopped down on the sofa where her feet had been only moments before. “Is that true, sis?”

  “I’ve only just begun to figure it out myself,” she admitted. “How did you know, Bertha?” She caught a glimpse of good humor in the woman’s dour countenance before a frown replaced it.

  “Been there a couple of times
in my life, and seen enough in my years to spot a woman in the family way, right off.”

  Pearl waved a hand, as if dismissing that particular problem in order to search out the answer to another. “What happened to you in town?” she asked, her words not allowing any dithering on Augusta’s part. “Something musta upset you in a mighty way to cause you to faint.”

  With a rush of agony that struck hard at her heart, Augusta recalled the reason for her walk to town. “Roger Hampton told me that Cleary was wounded during a train robbery and the sheriff confirmed it,” she said bluntly.

  “And you believed that Hampton fella?” Pearl asked skeptically. “He’s been after you since the first day I met you. Probably before then, if the truth be known.”

  “You’re right, he has,” Augusta said tonelessly. “But I don’t have any reason not to believe him, I suppose, not with the sheriff backing up his story.”

  “I’d doubt anything that came out of that man’s mouth,” Pearl decreed. “Seems to me that our honorable sheriff ain’t much of a fountain of truth anyway. He’s a scalawag if ever I saw one. He gets his women for free, both at the saloon and the Pink Palace, too, lest he give them any trouble. And he’s left behind more than one bruise, let me tell you. He’s about the most slipshod lawman I ever heard tell of.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do. If Cleary’s really wounded…” Augusta halted, her hands clenching in her lap. She looked up at the concerned faces surrounding her. “Roger said that Cleary was one of the gang, and he was shot by the Pinkerton men.”

  “And you believe that tale, too?” Bertha asked.

  Augusta shook her head. “No, of course not. He’s never told me a whole lot about what he does. But I can’t imagine that he’s a crook of any kind. And I don’t trust Roger any further than I can throw him.” She looked around, her gaze fastening on the mantel clock. “He said he’d be back in an hour to take me to Cleary.”