The Texan

by Carolyn Davidson

  “Yours,” she answered quietly.

  “Mine?”

  “Do you doubt it’s yours?” She looked into his eyes, the dark orbs that had promised more passion in her life than she’d ever thought possible. Now they blazed with hope, if she was any judge of it.

  “Hell, no, I don’t doubt it. Of course, it’s mine,” he stated equivocally. “You’re mine, too. And don’t you forget it.”

  “I thought you might be dead,” she said, unwilling to state as fact the fear she’d lived with over the past days.

  “I thought I might be dead, too,” he said agreeably, his lips twisting in a cruel suggestion of a smile. “Matter of fact, I wasn’t sure I wanted to live for a day or so there.”

  She looked at the bandage he wore. “Gunshot wound?”

  “Just nicked my scalp.” He grinned at her doubtful look. “Well, a bit more than that, but I survived.”

  “I thought I might not,” she told him quietly.

  “You will,” he told her. “Let’s head for home, Gussie. You’ll have to ride on the back of my horse.”

  “I’m staying here for now,” she told him. “I’m still mad at you.”

  “Because I almost died? Or because I didn’t?”

  “Neither. Both, maybe. Mostly because you find it so easy to walk away from me. I can’t do this any more, Cleary. I’m tired of wondering where you are and what’s happening to you. This isn’t the way I want to live my life.”

  “I understand that. But that isn’t the way it’s gonna be from now on.”

  “Really.”

  His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. “Yeah, really.”

  Bertha approached the doorway, arms akimbo, eyes narrowed as she spoke his name with stubborn intent. “Cleary. She doesn’t have to leave if she doesn’t want to.”

  He spared her a sharp glance. “She doesn’t have a choice. She’s my wife, and she’s going home with me. You can send someone over with whatever stuff she brought here with her.”

  He bent to scoop her into his arms and Augusta clutched at his neck, lest she fall to the floor. Over his shoulder, the occupants of the kitchen watched, frozen in place as they beheld the Texan stomp his way down the hallway to the front of the house. His hip nudged the screened door open and he stepped onto the porch, Augusta grasped firmly in his arms, her skirts in disarray.

  At the front gate stood a buggy, Nicholas holding the reins of the brown mare standing before it. “Thought you might need some transport,” he called out to Cleary, and then tipped his hat to Augusta. “Good evening, Mrs. Cleary. I told you I’d be back.”

  He watched as Cleary approached, bearing his burden, then stood aside as Augusta was bundled summarily onto the seat. Nicholas’s smile was brilliant as he shot her a look of triumph. “I found out there were rocks in the coffin.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Upstairs with you,” Cleary said gruffly as he escorted Augusta through the door.

  “What about the buggy?” She stopped in the middle of the foyer and set her jaw. “You can’t leave that animal out in front of the house all night.”

  “You’re more concerned about that damn horse than you are your husband,” he told her. And then he relented. “Nick will take care of returning it to the livery stable. Sam knows to wait for it to arrive before he closes up for the day.”

  “I have things to do,” she said, wary of climbing the stairs with him hot on her trail. The sun had settled against the western horizon as they drove across town, and now twilight settled around the house like a shroud. Maybe a light would help.

  The hall table held a shaded kerosene lamp and she took three steps to where it sat, near the curving staircase. A box of matches sat beside it, and, as she picked it up Cleary moved swiftly, snatching it from her hand. She looked up into his face, biting her lip as tension hovered between them. “I wanted some light.”

  “You don’t need a lamp to climb those stairs.”

  “I thought we might go into the parlor and discuss things.”

  “We can say anything that needs to be said after we get into bed.” His jaw was set, his eyes in shadow, and she heard a forbidding note in his voice. If the man was trying to intimidate her, he was doing a credible job of it. He dropped the matchbox onto the hall table and grasped her waist, turning her in a half circle, then up the stairs.

  It seemed Cleary was not in a mood for small talk.

  She entered the bedroom before him, almost tripping over a throw rug that lay rumpled near the doorway. He tightened his grip and she heard a quick breath escape his mouth. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Just clumsy.”

  “Stop where you are,” he said quietly, his hand tightening its hold, fingers pressing with firm strength against her hip. He turned her until her back was presented to him and she offered no resistance. Swiftly his deft fingers made short work of her buttons, and she relaxed her stomach muscles, aware that this dress was not one Janine had worked on for her.

  Bertha said that some women carried extra weight right off when they got in the family way, and it seemed that Augusta was fated to be one of them. She felt waterlogged, her breasts sensitive, the swollen crests darkening more every day. And the puffiness extended to her once narrow waistline, her one small vanity sacrificed on the altar of motherhood.

  “Your dress looks like it shrank,” Cleary said.

  “No, I just grew.” She might as well be straightforward with him. He had another seven months of this to live through. “I’m sleepy a good share of the time. I’ve been throwing up for the past several mornings for no good reason, and I tend to cry a lot.”

  “I’d say you had a mighty good reason to lose your breakfast. Don’t they call it morning sickness?”

  She huffed harshly. “A lot you know. Breakfast has nothing to do with it. I’ve barely made it out of bed the last few days, before I’m gagging and retching in the slop jar. Bertha tells me I probably have that to look forward to for a month or so.”

  “Well, if that’s gonna be a regular occurrence we’ll have to put the thing a little closer to the bed.” He slid her dress down her arms and pushed it past her waist to fall on the floor. The strings of her petticoat were loosened and it followed her dress. Standing before him, she was garbed in drawers and a lace-edged vest, with dainty garters holding her stockings securely just below her knees.

  “Let’s get these off,” he murmured, lowering her drawers to join the petticoat and dress, and then lifting the vest over her head. “Now step out of there,” he told her, grasping her hand as she moved away from the clothing. He tilted his head to one side, as if he were examining her figure, bit by bit.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked, aware that her anger was fading in the light of his obvious desire. Even in the dusky light from the bedroom windows, she could not miss the evidence. His eyes glittered with a passion she’d become familiar with over the past months, and an obvious bulge in his trousers gave away his interest in her.

  “I haven’t seen you in well over a week, sweetheart,” he said, his words slow, his voice rasping. “But I don’t know how I missed the signs before I left.”

  She looked down at herself, noting the response of her breasts to his survey of her figure. As she watched, the crests tightened and she caught her breath, looking up quickly to meet his enigmatic gaze. His lips thinned, and then his eyes took in the fullness that had caused her dress to pull at the seams.

  “Damn, you’re pretty.” The husky tone was familiar. A gauge of his desire, his voice deepened in increments as he allowed his passion full sway. And it seemed tonight was to be no different, no matter that she’d protested his dragging her home. The man was incorrigible, a veritable roughneck with only one thing on his mind at this moment.

  And with sudden clarity, Augusta recognized that all of her womanly instincts savored that very quality about Jonathan Cleary. He wanted her. Desired her might be more to the point, she decided, and if he was to be
believed, he loved her. There was a certain satisfaction to be gained from being the object of a man’s desire. And she was too honest not to admit her own fascination with his body and the pleasure it was capable of bestowing upon her.

  He lifted one hand to touch one dark, pebbled peak, his fingers closing over the sensitive tip with a gentleness she had become familiar with. A shiver ran the length of her spine and he smiled, a dark, knowing expression lighting his face. “I think I’d like a lamp lit now,” he murmured.

  “No.” Her reply was quick as she shot a glance at the windows, their shades at half-mast.

  “I’ll pull the shades first,” he said quietly, and then looked into her eyes. “But I want a lamp lit.” And then at her indrawn breath, he grinned. “I’ll settle for a candle.”

  Her voice wobbled. “There are several in my dressing table drawer.” Standing before a fully clothed man, being clad only in white stockings, held up by pink garters, gave her a feeling of vulnerability. And Augusta was not accustomed to that state of mind. And yet, there was a joyous anticipation flooding her female parts that would not bow to her normal inhibitions.

  She was upset with the man. There was no getting around the anger she’d allowed to build whilst he was gallivanting around the countryside, putting himself in danger and getting himself shot. Yet now that she had him before her, and the opportunity was presenting itself to vent her wrath, she found herself melting into a willing woman.

  He’d pulled the shades, then found the candles, a series of events that made her laugh as he pawed through the dressing table. “Why didn’t you find the candles first?” she asked.

  “I can’t think straight,” he said gloomily, striking a match and holding his hand behind the wick as the flame caught and flared. He looked up into the mirror over her dressing table and she saw the candle glow reflected in his eyes, herself a pale shadow in the background.

  The small crystal holder on her lamp table held the candle nicely and he stood in the flickering light, his hands working slowly to strip his clothing, tossing it aside with careless gestures. “I should have taken a bath,” he said. “But I can’t wait that long.”

  She trembled in the warmth of his appraisal, his eyelids heavy, his hair rumpled. The picture of a man set on seduction. He flipped the quilt and top sheet, tossing them to the foot of the bed. Rescuing the pillows, he replaced them and nodded at her.

  “Get in.” As invitations went, it rated pretty low on the scale, she decided, but it didn’t seem she would receive another. As she hesitated, he stalked around the foot of the bed, and in less time than it took her to catch a hurried breath, he was beside her, lifting her and placing her with care upon the clean sheet.

  “Now, let’s talk about this baby.” He was beside her, parting her legs with gentle hands, then taking his place over her, the length of his manhood pressing insistently against her flesh. He lifted to his forearms, taking his weight from her body, and only the twitching of that male member gave notice of his urgency.

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked.

  “How long have you known?” His hand curved to cup her cheek and his fingers nestled in her hair.

  “Not long. A few days. I’d just about figured it out the day before I went to the sheriff and then fainted dead away on the sidewalk.”

  He frowned. “You fainted? How’d you get home?”

  “Pearl was going into the general store and she carried me home.”

  “Damn! I knew she was a tough one, but that takes the cake.”

  “About wore her out. When I roused enough to know where I was, everyone was standing around in the parlor and Bertha let the cat out of the bag. She told them there wasn’t anything wrong with me that a little more than seven months’ time wouldn’t fix.”

  He grinned. “How about that. Must have done the deed on our wedding night.” And then he sobered. “What did the sheriff say to you?”

  “Not much. He isn’t a very nice man.”

  “He’s a flunky for some of the powers that be in the city. They gave him the job because they figured he couldn’t get in a whole lot of trouble in Collins Creek. He’s not a bad man. He just isn’t a very good sheriff. And I’m thinking he’s not going to be around for long.”

  She glared up at him. “Well, don’t get any ideas about taking on the job yourself. You’re going to find some sort of occupation that doesn’t involve guns and lawbreakers.”

  He bent to drop a kiss on her open mouth. “You still mad at me, sweetheart?”

  “Yes. But I love you, anyway.” She felt tears come to the surface, filling her eyes and overflowing against her will. “I was so worried, and frightened that you wouldn’t come back. Promise me you’ll never do that to me again, Jon.”

  He beamed. “I’m back to being Jon. How about that? For that alone I’ll make any promise you like, sweetheart.” He bent his head and took her mouth in a long, intimate melding of lips and teeth and tongue. She was the object of his desire, the fulfillment of this long day of weary travel, and the hope for his future. His every instinct told him that by the time this night was over, he’d have peeled back the layers of his wife, to find the hidden secrets of her past.

  She sighed into his mouth, a soft whisper of words he cherished, confessing her love, words not easily spoken by this proud woman, and all the more precious because of her reticence when it came to declaring her emotion. “I can’t seem to stay angry with you, face-to-face. It was easier when you weren’t here.”

  “Good. Because what I have in mind doesn’t allow for you being in a snit.”

  She wiggled beneath him and he stayed her with the firm pressure of his body. “None of that. I want to talk to you first.”

  “Talk?” Her brows lifted in surprise.

  “Tell me something, sweetheart. I’ve thought of it for days, when the ceiling in that room was the only thing to hold my attention, and you and your secrets occupied my mind.”

  She bit at her lip, as if she knew what he would ask. He brushed a kiss across her mouth. “Don’t chew on your mouth that way. I don’t want it all red and sore.” Another kiss brought a reluctant smile to her lips.

  “Now,” he said firmly. “I want to know what you’ve been keeping to yourself for so long. There’s some sort of cover-up tucked away inside you, and it’s enough to make me feel like you’re hiding from me.”

  She closed her eyes as if to escape his scrutiny, but he wouldn’t have it. “Gussie.” He whispered her name, pleading for this last bit of secrecy she’d harbored, aware that so long as she held it sacrosanct, he would never know the fullness of the woman he’d married. “What makes you tick, sweetheart? What brought you here to Collins Creek, and made you so adamant about sheltering those women you’ve gathered together?”

  She opened her eyes, and he saw fear reflected in their depths. “I’ve deceived you from the beginning,” she said, her voice trembling as if some great, shuddering beast dwelled within her and she must conceal its presence. Then the tears flowed, and with them the confession he’d urged from her.

  “When my mother died, I found her journal, and I was excited, because I really didn’t know a lot about her or my grandparents, and I thought this was my chance to get all my questions answered.” She swallowed, and then began anew, her voice growing stronger, fueled perhaps by the release of secrets she’d harbored too long.

  “I found that my father had met my mother in a bordello, where she was known as Little Dove. He fell in love with her, and bought her freedom from the woman who ran the place. And then married her and took her away.”

  Cleary schooled his features into a mask, unwilling to reveal his shock at her revelation. Augusta coming from the body of a whore was not to be believed. Not this woman, pure and innocent and possessed of all the fine qualities he’d only known in women of the highest stature. Yet, if Gussie said it was so, he had to recognize it as the truth and accept it, whether or not it left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “T
hey had a wonderful marriage, and she was the best mother I’ve ever seen or heard of,” Augusta said quietly. “I was the envy of my friends, with a beautiful, youthful mother and a father who adored her.” Her mouth twisted in a grimace, as if the memory was too painful to recall.

  “And then they died, suddenly, with no chance for Wilson and me to tell them goodbye. They were gone, leaving us a legacy of a beautiful home, money in the bank, and a journal whose pages were filled with the secrets of the life of Little Dove.”

  “Were you angry with her?” Cleary asked quietly, lifting his hand to smooth her hair from her forehead.

  “Yes, I suppose I was.” She looked surprised. “I think I still am, now that I consider the idea. Isn’t that foolish? She did the best she could, and certainly was a good wife and mother. Yet there’s a part of me that hates where she came from, and another part that needs to help other women who live that life and need someone to care about them.”

  “I guess I can understand that, sweetheart. It answers a lot of questions for me.” Another thought struck him and he asked a delicate question. “Does Wilson know all this? Or have you kept him in the dark?”

  She shook her head. “He doesn’t need to know. I fear he’d lose his respect for her and I couldn’t bear that his memories be tinged that way.”

  Cleary nodded. “All right. I can understand that. We’ll be sure he never finds out.” Another thought occurred to him. “Do you still have the journal?”

  “Yes. It’s in the false bottom of my old valise, beneath a piece of cardboard so it can’t be easily discovered.”

  “Do you know what we need to do?” he asked, and then answered his question before she could pose one of her own. “We need to burn the journal in the stove tomorrow morning. At least the parts that have caused you such pain.”

  Her eyes lit with surprise and her lips curved in a smile he hadn’t thought to see. “Can we do it now?”

  Reluctantly he nodded. “If you’ll come back to bed with me and take up right where we left off.”