Lifting his face to inhale the morning air, Cleary sensed the promise inherent in a new day, one in which he planned to move his friendship with Augusta McBride into a new arena. But first, his reasons for heading toward her shelter must be in place.
The gate repair was next, Cleary figured. Then the shutter, hanging by a single nail and due to land on the ground should a wayward wind catch it. He’d had a hiatus over the past week, and perhaps it was only the calm before the storm, but he’d best enjoy it while he could. Should a message arrive and he be forced to leave town for any length of time, explaining his absence to Augusta might be a problem.
Mounting his horse, he nudged its barrel with his heel, his heart lifting as he viewed the cloudless sky, his thoughts speeding ahead with the anticipation of seeing Augusta again. She was melting a bit, her natural defenses against a stranger giving way to the friendship he was working to develop between them. And more than a friendship was in the offing, he’d determined.
The henhouse was a finished project, the fence drawn taut and secured to upright posts surrounding it. It swarmed now with white leghorns, each of them willing to donate to the cause in exchange for a steady diet and a pan of water. He grinned as he recalled the look on Honey’s face as she’d ventured within the gate to feed the hungry pullets. She’d backed up, holding the pan of feed over her head as the noisy birds clustered around her feet, awaiting their meal.
The pan had hit the ground, scattering seed in a wide circle, and Honey had flown through the gate, shrieking loudly, as if the hounds of hell were at her heels. Obviously, the girl was not a product of country living, and yet she could be appealing, should the right young man in need of a wife’s assistance come along.
Augusta was a different sort. Used to city living, yet more than willing to blend in with the small town atmosphere she’d sought in which to open her haven. Even in the chicken coop, her character had emerged. Facing the hens head-on, she’d reached swiftly beneath them for their eggs, scolding a possessive creature who ventured to threaten her with a vicious beak. Not a word of scorn passed her lips as she’d showed Honey how to face down the squawking pullets, scattering the feed before her, then filling the water pan with a pitcher before she left the pen.
A remarkable woman, he’d decided. One he could easily take into his life. There was not a doubt of her innocence, but she was worldly wise in the ways of women and their needs. And he was a man in need of the solace only a woman could provide. Once he’d managed to locate and bring the gang of ruffians he sought to a courtroom, he was definitely planning on making a more prosaic life for himself.
And that life would include Augusta McBride, if he could manage to bring it about. His gaze raked the house before him, seeking a trace of the woman he’d set his sights on. She would not be happy with his evasive answers for much longer, he’d determined. Augusta was adept at prying, and his current occupation did not lend itself to a courtship. In fact, the thought of the man courting her being a hired gun, albeit the government having sought his services, might turn her totally away from any tender thoughts she might harbor toward him.
The pursuit of a gang of train robbers did not bode well for a man’s health, and Cleary hoped to preserve what remained of his weary bones and scarred body. And when all was said and done, he was using Augusta as a shield, his courtship of her a cover-up for the game he played.
Yet, in his heart, he acknowledged a need that would not be denied. Use her he might, and a niggling shard of guilt accompanied that admission, but the woman herself was a prize he yearned to own. One day, should he survive this operation, she would know the truth about Jonathan Cleary. He only hoped she would forgive him his deception.
He rode the edge of the property line, close beside the hedge of bushes, and tied his mount to a tree, where the animal could graze and remain in the shade. Replacing the bridle with a halter, he loosened the saddle cinch and headed for the woodshed. His gaze was satisfied as he beheld the pile of lumber he’d ordered for various projects, and he set about seeking the hardware necessary to mend the gate.
“Mr. Cleary?” Augusta’s voice spoke his name and he looked up to find her in the doorway. “Can I help you find something?” she asked, and then stepped into the confines of the small shed. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning. I’d thought you might be weary of working by this time.”
“No, ma’am,” he said, denying her concern. “I’m exercising my shoulder every time I swing a hammer.”
She frowned. “What’s wrong with your shoulder? Did you fall and injure it?”
He hesitated, ruing his words, and then aimed a smile in her direction. “You might say that. It’s almost as good as new now, but it’s given me some trouble getting it back in shape.” Not to mention the neat hole where a bullet had gone in and the torn, scarred flesh where it had made its exit.
Augusta McBride was not the sort of woman who would receive that confidence with a smile. Rather, she would be full of questions, and her persistence would know no end.
“I thought I’d fix the gate this morning,” Cleary said, lifting a bag of hinges from a shelf. “These will work for the gate and the shutters, too. You have several that need to be secured.”
“Hinges for shutters?” she asked, a brow lifting as she questioned his intent.
“When you get a good wind hereabouts, you might need to close them in order to keep the windows safe from flying debris,” he told her.
“Will they fasten inside?” she asked, and he nodded a reply.
“To keep out intruders, perhaps?” Her words were slow, as if her mind worked a problem.
“I suppose they could be used in that way,” he conceded. “Though I doubt you’ll need them for that purpose.”
She stepped backward through the doorway and her hand beckoned him to follow. “I’ll be available if you need help, Mr. Cleary. Can I carry something for you?”
“No,” he said, bending to collect a board. The shutter had a cracked slat, and he might as well make a decent job of it. “But you can keep me company if you like.”
“No, I believe I have more than enough to do indoors this morning,” she told him. “We’re teaching the ladies how to do simple sewing tasks. Janine is quite a talented seamstress, and she’s willing to share her knowledge.” Her smile was quick, as if she’d allowed a bit of humor to intrude on her serious endeavors.
“Are they willing pupils?” he asked, needing to keep her company as long as he could without being too forward.
“Willing, perhaps, but not as capable as Janine. Buttons and seams and darning might be the limit of Beth Ann’s talents, but Honey is eager to learn.”
“And Pearl?”
She cast him a glance from beneath long eyelashes and her mouth was taut. “Pearl is another story, I fear. She’s adept in the kitchen these days, but she’s so used to being waited on and cosseted, it’s sometimes a problem, trying to expand her education.”
“Waited on?” His brows rose in pure skepticism as he tried to envision that woman as a lady of leisure.
“She was in demand at the Pink Palace, I understand, and had the nicest room and all the benefits of being Mrs. Simpson’s pet, according to Honey.”
Apparently a most talented lady, he decided. Surely talent was her only attraction, for the woman was almost beyond the age of selling herself by seductively revealing her face and form to the gentlemen who sought out such an alliance. And next to Augusta, Pearl was blowsy and wore the look of a horse who’d been ridden hard and put away wet. No matter Pearl’s tricks of the trade, he’d