Brides of Texas (41 page)

Old Mr. Rundsdorf came in to pay a call on her. He sat outside her cell and sanded one of his mesquite wood bowls to a smooth finish. “When you get out of there, you can open up a shop and keep treats in the bowl, just as Duncan does.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at the dear old man. His show of support touched her.

“When you open that shop, I’ll be your first customer, too. This shirt you made me—I’ve never had one fit this well.”

After Mr. Rundsdorf left, Leonard allowed her scissors and a bolt of fabric, so she used the bench-like bunk as a cutting table. Desperate to have something to occupy her mind, she determined to make several baby gowns for Mercy.

“Miss Regent, I have some lunch here for you.”

She looked up. “Oh. Thank you.”

Leonard’s ears were bright red. “I’ll have to ask you to go sit on the bunk whilst I open the cell door.”

“Of course.” As he brought in the sandwich and apple, she let out a small laugh. “Somehow, I had the notion that the only meals served in jail consisted of bread and water.”

“We’ll make sure you don’t go hungry.”

Late in the afternoon, Leonard stretched. “You sure have been stitching up a storm. That foot treadle makes for quick seams. Puts the hand-turned wheel models to shame.”

“The stitches are strong and even, too.”

“Never paid much mind to how much work goes into itty-bitty baby gowns. Mercy Gregor’s going to be tickled pink to get those.”

“She’s been a dear friend.” Wren finished one last row of pintucking. “I’d like to hide them until the baby comes. Is there someplace you could put them?”

“I reckon one of the desk drawers will do. Since we don’t have a sheriff, nothing’s in them.”

She handed him the gowns, and Leonard chuckled. “Lookie there. You fancified these everyday ones by stitching colored lines on ’em. The buttons match. You gonna sew like this once you open that shop Mr. Rundsdorf was talking about?”

“I’ll have to see how God works things out.”

“Plenty of folks ‘round here are bendin’ God’s ear, telling Him what they think He ought to do.”

“I’ve done my share of that, too.” Wren started cleaning up. “It was foolish of me. I should have done a lot more listening and a lot less talking.”

“Funny,” Christopher said from the doorway. “I’ve been thinking you didn’t do nearly enough talking.”

“Mr. Gregor! Mr. Gregor!” Nestor scrambled through the door.

“Nestor, what’s amiss?”

“José got my shooter and won’t give it back.”

“Hmmm.” Chris turned around and squatted to be at eye level with the boy. Wren watched how he acted as if the boy’s concern were the most important thing in the world. “ ’Tis a pity. A sorrowful pity. Could you be telling me just how José took possession of such a fine treasure?”

“We were shooting marbles. It landed on the line. I say that means I keep it. José says he does.”

“Now that surely does give me pause to think. I’m sure there’s a rule about it, but it’s been a good, long while since I played marbles.”

Nestor nodded. “Yeah. You’re really old.”

To his credit, Chris didn’t laugh or scold. He nodded his head. “Aye. And years of experience have taught me that ’tis important to play by the rules. Mr. Rundsdorf does considerable reading. I’m betting he has a book that has the rules for all sorts of games.”

“You think so?”

“Aye, I do. You and José are good friends. ‘Twould be a crying shame to ruin everything o’er a marble—e’en if it is a prized shooter. Why dinna the pair of you agree to follow the rule, then seek out what the rule book has to say?”

“That’s fair.”

“Off with you.” Chris rose and sauntered into the jailhouse.

“To my recollection,” Leonard mused, “anything on the line is out.”

“I dinna rightly recall, but they can look up the answer together instead of squabbling. A fight is rarely worth the cost. Best the boys learn it early on.”

He’ll be a spectacular father someday
. She sighed.
If we’d had the same upbringing, maybe Whelan would have turned out better. Well, it’s too late now
.

By the third morning of waiting for Whelan to take the bait, Chris sat down at Connant’s old desk. The rhythmic clatter of Wren’s sewing machine barely even registered any longer. She’d been keeping busy, and that suited him fine. Otherwise, she sang or hummed hymns a good portion of the time. Granted, she had the voice of a songbird, but her selections were intentional—and she hadn’t sung other than when specifically asked when they’d been on the road. Now she sang and hummed constantly. Just about the time she’d finished yet another hymn and he felt certain she was using those sacred tunes just to bolster her proclamations of being a Christian, she fretted that the sleeves on the shirt she was making were a tad long. Then she shifted like the Texas wind and launched into a rendition of a silly ditty he’d overheard children sing, “Do Your Ears Hang Low?”

When night fell and she couldn’t see well enough to sew any longer, the woman would strike up a conversation with whoever happened to be on guard. He’d had to grit his molars at some of the things that came out of her mouth.

At first he thought she was weaving tales to get sympathy. Fanciful tales. Like the one where she’d walk the length of a hitching post while singing to earn a free supper from a diner. With a nickname like Wren, that tale took little imagination to concoct.

When Stu Key’s sleeve popped a button, she stitched it right back in place while Stu kept on his shirt. She offered, saying she had the needle and thread handy. Besides, she’d done that same task a few times when her stepfather couldn’t be bothered to leave the poker table.

Her stepfather might have been a gambler and her brother was a murdering robber, but she was undoubtedly the smoothest manipulator he’d ever seen in action. He’d almost get sucked into believing her tales but at the last moment would remind himself that she’d been able to live a lie for weeks on end without any trouble.

Mrs. Kunstler bustled into the jailhouse. Chris shot to his feet. “
Guten Tag, Frau Kunstler
.” After greeting her in German, he continued to tell her very politely that because of the safety risk, he wasn’t permitting women in the jail.

“
Unser Katie—Sie ist eine Freulein
.”

“Yes, I ken Miss Regent is a lass. But she’s also a prisoner.” He fought the urge to sniff the air. The aromas coming from the covered basket Mrs. Kunstler held made his mouth water. No matter—she’d been baking him treats ever since he transported a baby to her cousin’s cousin. Cinnamon. This time, whatever it was, it had cinnamon.

“Katie,” Mrs. Kunstler called. “I baked cinnamon rolls for you.”

What
?

“How kind of you! Thank you.” Wren left her sewing machine and approached the bars. “How is Ismelda?”

“Fat.” Mrs. Kunstler laughed. “My grandson should come any day now. The quilt you made for the cradle—she loves it so much, we are piecing one to match for their own bed.”

“Have you seen Mercy? I’m worried she’ll work too much and tire herself out.”

Mrs. Kunstler looked ready to settle in for a nice, long visit. Chris cleared his throat. “
Frau Kunstler, mussen Sie gehen
.”

She waggled her finger at him and answered in English. “Don’t you tell me I must go. It is bad how you have her in here like a lonely chick in a big coop. My Otto—he is a good man,
ja
?”

Chris nodded.

“But did you know I had another son? No, you didn’t. I do not speak of him. He shamed us all by coming to town and drinking the beer and whiskey. One day, with a broken bottle, he fought another man. They killed one another. No one talks of this. It was bad, shameful. But does anyone blame Otto? No, because he was not responsible.

“The pastor—when Otto was blaming himself for not being there to stop his brother—the pastor, he came and talked to him. He said in the Bible, you did not see the brother go seek the prodigal son. The bad son—he had to decide by himself to come back. The good boy—it was his job to stay home and be good. It is better that I have one good son than that I lost two bad ones.”

Frau Kunstler mopped her face with a crumpled hankie. “What our Katie’s brother has done—it is sinful. But it is not her fault.” The woman thumped on her ample bosom. “In here, it hurts to know you cannot stop someone you love from doing wrong. Is that not enough? Why do you punish her?”

“Mrs. Kunstler, here.” Wren extended a hankie she’d tatted around the night before. “I’m so sorry about your other son. I’m glad you have Otto. He’s a fine man, and he’s a good husband to Ismelda.”

“Ja.” Mrs. Kunstler accepted the hankie and straightened her shoulders. “I should be cheering you up, but I came and cried.”

“You shared your heart with me. Even though it was a sad memory, you trusted me with it. That means everything to me.”

“Ach!” Mrs. Kunstler kissed her own hand, slid it through the bars, and patted Wren’s cheek. “It is a shame I did not have one more son. I would have him marry you so you could be my daughter.”

As Mrs. Kunstler left, she called over her shoulder, “If soon you are not free, I will bake you a cake with a file in it!”

Chris picked up the basket and headed toward the cell. “Here.”

“Please help yourself.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Watching that won’t make it do anything.”

Wren’s head jerked up at the sound of Rob’s voice, and she almost dropped her cinnamon roll. “The basket is full. Help yourself.”

“I don’t know that I want one out of the basket. That one seems mighty interesting to you.”

She nodded. “It’s special.”

“It’s a roll—just like the others,” Chris muttered.

“Yes, it is,” she agreed.

Chris swiveled around and glowered at her. “Make up your mind. Either it’s special, or it’s like all the others.”

“They’re all special. Mrs. Kunstler made them”—Wren’s voice cracked—“for me.”

Rob regarded her solemnly. “Aye, Katie. She went to the trouble just for you, and ’tis because she cares for you.”

Tears welled up as she nodded.

“Chris, this has gone on long enough. Look at the lass. She’s miserable, locked away in there.”

“I’m not miserable.” Wren sniffled. “Saint Paul was content in prison, and I understand why now. He took the time to ponder the things that matter most.”

“Then why—” Chris started out gruffly.

“—are you crying?” Rob finished.

Wren took an unsteady breath. “Be–cause Duncan pr–prays with me. And—and Mr. Rundsdorf wa–wants to be my first customer. And”—she took a big gulp of air—“Mrs. Kunstler…another son…marry!” To her embarrassment, she dissolved into a sobbing wreck.

Chris clipped out, “Frau Kunstler came by and said she wished she had another son so he could marry Wren.”

“Ahhhh.” Rob stretched out the sound. “Now wasn’t that a grand thing for you to hear? Folks here love you. Aye, they do. You’re just now figuring that out, are you?”

She nodded as her tears dissolved into hiccups.

“Oh, for cryin’ in a bucket. You’d think no people ever said they loved her.”

Wren’s gaze dropped to the cinnamon roll she still held, and she whispered, “They haven’t.”

Chris had to get out of there. Wren had everyone wrapped around her little finger. Her pity-me tales already set his teeth on edge, but this one—it defied any scrap of truth. “Stay here,” he ordered Rob. “I’m getting some air.”