The Texan

by Carolyn Davidson

  “Then you’ll be here, after all?” she asked, following him to the doorway. “Cleary told me when he left that you might be going to Dallas yourself.”

  “He was right. The judge did tell me I need to appear there for the trial, so I’ll be leaving soon, perhaps tomorrow. By the time I’ve been there a day, I should know more about Cleary’s whereabouts. In fact,” he said, turning to face her, “if I have to turn into a grave digger myself, I’ll find out for sure exactly what was in that coffin they buried.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, then lifted a hand to press it against his forearm. “Do you think I should go along?”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re safe here. Don’t go home. Let Wilson and the ladies take care of you.” With long strides, he was out the door and down the steps.

  “I was listening, sis.” From behind her, Wilson’s words were quiet. “I’ll be willing to lay odds that Cleary’s alive. And I suspect the banker thinks so, too.”

  “That’s about what he said,” she murmured, watching as Nicholas stepped into his saddle. She lifted a hand as he looked back at the house, and he touched the wide brim of his hat in silent salute.

  “What do you think?” Wilson’s arm curled around her shoulders and he bent to press a silent kiss against her temple. Before she could reply, he laughed quietly. “My bet is on Cleary. The man’s too ornery to die, sis. Don’t forget, I watched him get shot, and then a week later saw him in a courtroom. He bled like a stuck pig, and I wouldn’t have given him a chance to live through the night.” He smiled, remembering. “A few days in bed had him on his feet, as good as new. They’d have to do more than put a bullet in Cleary to keep him away from you.”

  “I’m trying to be hopeful,” she said. “Nicholas seemed positive, didn’t he?”

  “I’d say so.” Wilson’s hands turned her from the door and back toward the parlor. “Now, come on in here and talk to me, sis. I think we’ve got some catching up to do.”

  “I need to know how the books look,” she told him, “and what ideas you have for moneymaking projects for my ladies.”

  Wilson winced. “Here I thought we’d be having old-home week, and instead you’re wanting a detailed account of my work for the past weeks.”

  “We can do both,” Augusta told him. “We’ve got time.”

  The courtroom was filled to overflowing, with guards standing at alert around the perimeter as more than twenty men were led into the suddenly cramped area. The judge peered over the top of his spectacles at the motley crew and tapped his gavel as the observers’ voices rose in a low rumble of sound.

  “We’ll have order in my courtroom,” he said sharply. His keen eyes scanned the extent of his jurisdiction this morning, nodding several times as his gaze met that of various men he apparently recognized. From the hallway just beyond the courtroom door, Cleary watched, disgusted by the doctor’s orders prescribing more salve covered by a white bandage that circled his head beneath the hat he wore.

  And yet, he knew himself fortunate to be here at all. His patience was at an end, both with the medical man who had kept him close to a bed for several days, and to the circumstances keeping him from Collins Creek and Augusta’s presence. Once this thing was over and done with, nothing would be able to halt his departure. The next train out of Dallas in the general direction of home would find him occupying a seat in the coach, while his horse traveled in a livestock accommodation.

  Beside him, as tall and broad shouldered as himself, Nicholas stood guard, his revolver holstered, but his eyes vigilant for trouble. On his other side a well-dressed gentleman kept equal watch. A Pinkerton man, if Cleary’s guess was right. He’d be willing to warrant that more than one other guard was behind him, but his head did not lend itself to sharp movement yet, and he decided to leave that observation to chance.

  The gang stood before the bench, with both hands and feet bearing heavy chains. The men were attached to one another by the chains on their feet. A veritable train of crooks, Cleary thought, headed for the gallows, if things went as predicted. With one piece of the puzzle missing, he felt restless, prone to rush through these proceedings in order to locate the final man he wanted brought before a judge.

  “Let’s go in,” Nicholas said quietly. “The judge has called the court to order.”

  Cleary murmured assent, his mind on the trial, one he knew would be short and to the point. The hearing had been quick, and the men accused of a federal offense. Now they awaited trial and the appearance of the key witness. Their only prayer was in the purported death of that man, and Cleary was here to put paid to those hopes.

  He settled in the back row, where three seats had been reserved for him and his escorts. The man on his left nudged him, nodding at the hat still settled firmly on his head, and with a dark look, Cleary lifted it gently and rested it on his knee. Eyes turned to view him, whispers rose as his bandage was noted, and the judge slammed his gavel on the desk once more.

  “There will be order in my court,” he said loudly.

  The preliminaries were quick, the men on trial seeming to understand that they were at the end of the road. In the midst of the prosecutor’s speech, another man entered the courtroom, standing just inside the double doors.

  Nicholas nudged with one elbow and Cleary glanced to his right, beyond where Nick sat, noting the late arrival. As he did, one of the nondescript-appearing men standing guard stepped to the latecomer’s side and grasped his elbow, glancing at Cleary, as if for confirmation.

  “I didn’t think he’d be fool enough to show up here,” Nicholas said in an undertone, reaching one hand to put pressure on Cleary’s arm. “You stay put,” he said harshly beneath his breath. “Let the law take care of him.”

  Cleary exhaled and nodded at the guard as the new arrival turned to catch his eye. Roger Hampton’s face blanched, the color leaving his ruddy cheeks in a rush, and then there was turmoil as he attempted to jerk free from the hand that held him fast. Another agent joined the effort, and Roger was escorted to the front of the courtroom, where the judge eyed him with scorn.

  “I beg your pardon,” he said to the prosecutor, interrupting him mid-sentence, “but I think we’ve just gotten our hands on the final defendant in this case.”

  “I’m no such thing,” Roger said, blustering as he stood between two stalwart lawmen. “I’m here as an observer.”

  “Well, you’ve observed yourself right into a trial,” the judge said sternly. He rapped his gavel again. “We’ll take a ten-minute break while we add this man to our list of defendants.”

  “It didn’t take long, did it?” Nicholas looked up at the blue sky, as if he welcomed the sun’s warmth after an hour of observing the scum of society getting their just dues.

  “No,” Cleary agreed, standing on the courthouse steps, inhaling deeply of the fresh air. “I feel clean for the first time in a year. I was getting so deeply involved in that mess, I had to wonder some days if I’d ever be my own man again.”

  “I think someone else has a claim on you, my friend,” Nicholas said wryly. “You stopped being your own person a couple of months ago.”

  One corner of his mouth turned up, and Cleary allowed the grin full sway. “I’ve lost some weight. The doctor’s wife was no great shakes as a cook. Suppose Augusta will recognize me?”

  “I think she’ll know who you are,” Nicholas said with a grin. “But don’t expect a hero’s welcome, my friend. She’s madder than a wet hen.”

  Cleary sighed, gloom settling over him rapidly, even spoiling his pleasure in the beautiful day. “I figured she would be.”

  “She still doesn’t know for certain that you’re alive. Want to send a wire?”

  Cleary shook his head. “No, I want to go home. I think I need to deal with this myself.” He looked down the length of the wide avenue before them. “How far is the train station?” If it was a considerable distance, he wasn’t certain he could make it on foot, but admitting it, even to Nicholas, was not to be cons
idered.

  Nicholas gave him a measuring glance. “Not far. We’ll whistle down a hansom cab and head there now. I’ve sent our belongings ahead, along with the horses.”

  “Thanks,” Cleary said, more than willing to go along for the ride, storing his strength for the ordeal he was certain to face once he turned up at Augusta’s front door.

  “She’s staying at the shelter,” Nicholas said. “At least that’s where I saw her last.”

  “I thought she would be. Once she heard they’d buried me, I didn’t think she’d want to be alone. And I feared that Hampton had something in the works that involved her. I shouldn’t have asked her to stay at the house in the first place.”

  “She has her doubts that you’re really six feet under, my friend. In fact, I told her I was dead certain you were in hiding. I thought they’d be secreting you in a closet somewhere, waiting for the trial, lest some of those men had friends out looking for you.”

  “Hampton was the only one left. I can’t believe he was foolish enough to get caught up in the net,” Cleary said glumly. “I was really hoping to get a few minutes alone with him myself, after the way he hounded Gussie in Dallas. And then he gave her a hassle after she got to Collins Creek. It wasn’t bad enough that he was a go-between for the gang. The man’s a criminal of the worst kind, preying on helpless women.”

  A hoot of laughter met his words, and Cleary looked up in surprise. Nicholas’s grin was wide, his teeth flashing as he tossed his head back in a gesture that invited smiles from onlookers.

  “Augusta is about the least helpless woman I’ve ever met,” the banker said. “She’d give any man a run for his money, you included.”

  “I know,” Cleary told him dryly. “That’s what I’m worried about. I think I’ll be eating humble pie for the next six months, trying to get back on her good side. I didn’t leave her with much to remember me by the last time I saw her.”

  “Well, at least she loves you,” Nicholas told him. “If ever a woman was besotted with a man, it’s your wife. You’re a lucky so-and-so, in my book. And whatever you have to do to get back in her good graces will be worth it, to my way of thinking.”

  Cleary perked up a bit at that, stepping off the sidewalk as a cabbie stopped his vehicle before them. “The train station,” he told the man, climbing into the interior of the enclosed cab. He settled back in the seat, breathing deeply. “I don’t care what I have to do to please her—damn, I’ll eat crow if I have to, Nick,” he said quietly. “No matter what it takes, I want Augusta in my life for all the years I have left on this earth.”

  The kitchen table was stretched to its full length, the leaf in place. Bertha smoothed the oilcloth with a damp rag and wiped it dry with the dish towel she’d slung over her shoulder. “Honey, come set out the plates,” she called. “Supper’s about ready.”

  From the backyard, Honey’s voice answered, and then her laughter rang out, bringing an answering smile to the women in the kitchen. “She sure sounds different than she used to, don’t she?” It was a question requiring no answer, and Augusta only nodded, aware of Honey’s reason for happiness.

  Wilson was courting her with dogged determination, this afternoon digging the potatoes Augusta had planned on tending to several days ago. Honey was ensconced in a chair, watching from the edge of the ragtag garden as Wilson dripped sweat in her behalf. Piles of potatoes sat here and there, awaiting a final rinsing in a bucket before they were stored for the winter months.

  A fruit cellar beneath the house was cool, winter and summer alike, and carrots were already piled atop boards in its depths, keeping them off the ground. Sacks of onions hung from hooks overhead, and jars of canned fruit and vegetables lined the shelves in the cool cavern. Now the potatoes would be added to the bounty stored there.

  Augusta felt a sense of well-being as she considered the progress made during these months of summer. If she never accomplished anything else of value in her life, she would look back at this place and these women and recognize the worth of this project.

  Honey entered the door and washed her hands quickly, speaking of Wilson and the gardening in a rapid recitation that sailed completely over Augusta’s head. “Don’t you think so, Miss Augusta?”

  The words caught her ear and she turned quickly, aware that her expression was blank. “I’m sorry, Honey. I missed what you said.”

  The girl’s face took on a sorrowful look. “I sure wish we’d hear some news pretty soon, ma’am. You look like a lost duck in a thunderstorm these days. That Cleary has a lot to answer for, not getting hold of you.”

  “The man might not be in any shape to send messages,” Bertha said glumly. “Last we heard, he might well be—”

  Augusta put her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear such a thing,” she said sharply. “Let’s get this table set for supper.”

  In less than ten minutes the family had gathered, and the food was brought to the table. Bowls of vegetables and a platter of leftover ham from dinner were passed from one hand to the next, and Glory began a story about the dress she was sewing.

  Janine offered words of encouragement, and then Wilson proposed an idea he’d apparently been mulling over. Suggestions for setting up a shop in the front parlor sailed over Augusta’s head, only a word here and there penetrating her thoughts. Pearl chimed in and Augusta recognized the air of amusement as she spoke, finally recognizing that she was missing something that could be important.

  “Cleary told me to be thinking of moneymaking ideas,” Wilson said stoutly. “I think a bakery or dressmaker’s shop of our own would be a good idea.”

  “Whoa,” Augusta said quickly. “I think we need to back up a bit here.”

  “I gave the man a job to do. Don’t discourage him.” From the hallway beyond the kitchen door, the statement held them in stunned surprise.

  Then Augusta rose to her feet, her chair falling on the floor behind her. Glory whispered a soft prayer of thanksgiving, and Honey burst into tears. Pearl looked up and grinned with apparent delight.

  A bandage circled his head, and his muscular frame appeared to have lost some of its bulk, but there was no doubt that the man walking in the kitchen door was Cleary.

  “Got room for one more around the table?” he asked, his eyes never leaving the woman who faced him from across the room.

  Wilson moved quickly from his seat between his sister and Honey. “Here, sit in my chair. I’ll get another from the dining room,” he offered. His eyes darted to Augusta as if he hesitated to leave her side, but Honey nudged him into action.

  “Thank you. I believe I will,” Cleary said, circling the table and holding his wife’s chair for her to reseat herself. She looked at him blankly, her face ashen, her eyes wide, and he bent to her, his lips brushing hers in a quick kiss.

  “Miss me?” he asked. He touched her chair to the back of her legs and she sat down, abruptly to be sure, but perhaps just in time, as she seemed unable to take in the sudden turn of events.

  “Pass the man some spuds,” Bertha said, aiming the platter of ham in Cleary’s direction as she spoke. “I’ll get more gravy.” Her eyes shone with an unfamiliar gleam as she turned to the stove, and Augusta was unbelieving. Surely Bertha would not be teary eyed. Not this no-nonsense woman who ran the kitchen with an iron hand.

  And yet, looking around the table, there was more evidence of emotion on the faces of those who had waited with her for some solution to the problem that was Cleary. Glory fished a hankie from her pocket and wiped her eyes, while Janine sniffled once as she held out a bowl of green beans in Cleary’s direction.

  “I haven’t had a decent meal since I left home,” he said, piling the food high on his plate. “I’ve been looking forward to this. I can’t resist your cooking, Bertha.” His left hand fell to his lap and in seconds had made its way to Augusta’s right thigh, where it opened wide against her dress, his fingers spreading to capture the warmth of her skin.

  He bent his head in her direction and his
lips barely opened as he whispered words audible only to her ear. “I missed you, sweetheart. I’m sorry I didn’t send a wire before we left Dallas, but I only wanted to get home as quickly as I could.”

  She could not speak. The mixture of joy and aggravation bubbling within her breast held her speechless. Joy for his safe return, aggravation that he walked in like the cock of the walk and acted as though he’d been on a short jaunt to the hardware store for a bag of nails.

  She had wept and wailed, crying until there were no more tears to be shed. Now he sat here beside her with a bandage wrapped around his head, not one word being said to let her know what lay beneath the white strip of fabric. Anger joined the aggravation, and joy went flying as she rose and deposited her half-eaten meal on the drain board.

  “All done?” Cleary asked, his eyes narrowing as he took in her stance.

  “You bet I am.” She turned away and sailed across the kitchen. Behind her, the sound of another chair hitting the floor barely caught her attention, and when his hands spun her in a half circle to face him, she looked at him with blue eyes blazing with fury.

  “Welcome home,” he said mockingly. “Go on. Say the words, Augusta. Even if you don’t mean them, at least make the effort.” He caught her elbow and hauled her behind him as he marched out of the kitchen.

  “Hold on, Cleary.” Wilson’s voice was harsh. “Don’t get her upset. She doesn’t need any more on her plate than what you left her with.”

  Cleary looked back into the kitchen. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Bertha stood, a formidable figure, and pointed an index finger in Cleary’s direction. “You hurt that child, or that baby she’s toting under her apron, and you’re a dead man, mister.”

  “What baby?” His words were choked, caught in his throat and barely audible. He turned Augusta toward him, his eyes wide as they fed hungrily on her face. “What baby?” He repeated the words, this time for her benefit alone, and she felt relief as twin streaks of crimson touched his cheeks.