Texas Brides Collection (41 page)

And who decides who is deserving? Owen could hear Rosie’s question as if she sat in the room with him. Any child who goes to bed with welts on his back and an empty feeling in his stomach is deserving, no matter what his parents do.

But his experiences told him otherwise. Some people, like Rosie, latched on to the truth and ran away from their pasts as God worked in their lives. Others heard and rejected the Good News, like the hard soil of Jesus’ parable. As a Ranger, he encountered a lot more of their kind than the ones like Rosie.

But he’d heard that the outlaw Wilson himself had become a Christian. Owen swallowed a snort at that idea. He seemed as likely to leave a life of crime as Judas was not to betray his Lord.

He brought his thoughts back to the question at hand. “What do you have in mind? What kind of help are you offering?”

Mrs. Abbott spoke for all of them. “We thought we’d start with jobs. If someone is willing to put in an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, they’re halfway out of the poorhouse.”

Owen nodded agreement. With Rosie’s help, he could show how far those salaries would have to stretch. She’d also know which men—some women, too—abused alcohol. He wanted to find a way to help the families of those who couldn’t hold on to a paycheck between their job and their home. “Whom are you looking to employ? What kind of work?”

Mrs. Wilkerson took over. “Each of us is willing to employ another maid-of-all-work and a manservant, and I’m sure there are others in the Society who will join us.”

Owen cataloged what he remembered about household staff. “Those are excellent opportunities for men and women joining the workforce. But do you have any opportunities for those who are more experienced, with families and responsibilities that require more income than what a maid would make?”

The committee looked at one another again, coming to a silent agreement. “No. We want to encourage these people to make responsible decisions for their lives, which includes not marrying or bringing more children into the world than they can care for.”

Owen could hardly disagree, since those were the very reasons he had avoided marriage to this point. For him, it wasn’t a lack of money, but a lack of stability. Some Rangers had found women who were up to the tough job of marriage to a lawman. He had not found such a woman, but marriage to the right woman…someone like Rosie…was an attractive proposition.

His mind slammed down on that thought. Of all the women Owen could marry, a convicted thief didn’t belong in that role, no matter what her conversion.

As they settled the details about the job, Owen hoped Rosie would help him. Without her assistance, he’d have about as much luck finding out the information he needed as a thirsty horse looking for water in a desert.

The butler came up to Mrs. Wilkerson, a slight quiver in his right leg betraying his nervousness. When she signaled Owen, he followed her into her husband’s study.

Mrs. Wilkerson motioned for Owen to take a seat. “Terrible news. Terrible news.” She shook her head and lapsed into silence, her eyes straying to the door, looking for her husband’s entrance.

When Mr. Wilkerson came, a dozen worries wrinkled his brow, and he frowned at the butler. “Cooper, how provident that you are here tonight.” He took his seat. “My butler here has quite a story to tell. Go ahead, Truesdale.”

Truesdale focused his eyes on a spot on the wall, where a frame held the Wilkerson family motto. “There’s been a robbery in this house today. We believe it happened this morning.”

“This morning? Then why weren’t we informed earlier?” Mrs. Wilkerson infused just the right amount of indignation into her tone.

“The thefts were only brought to my attention after supper, ma’am.” Truesdale coughed. “Cook is waiting outside the door to explain the situation.”

That comment left Owen confused, but he kept his face neutral. The Wilkersons’ cook came in, dismay marring her pleasant face. “I am so sorry to trouble you, ma’am. When the things were first missing this morning, I thought I had misplaced them. I waited until this evening, when I could go through the pantry and china closet and check each item.”

Owen frowned.

“You’re saying kitchen items were stolen?” Wilkerson’s question echoed Owen’s thoughts.

Cook nodded her head vigorously, the curls on her head escaping from her coif. “Yes, sir, ma’am. I had just finished churning some fresh butter, and last week’s mold disappeared. A cone of sugar, flour, cornmeal, canned jars, even some cracked plates that the missus told me to set aside.”

Both the Wilkersons looked at Owen, waiting for words of wisdom to explain the strange situation. He cleared his throat. “And that is all that was stolen? Have you completed an inventory of the rest of the house?”

“Just a quick look, sir, but no one has reported anything. We run a tight ship here, sir. Few thefts happen because our staff understands what will happen if they take off with what doesn’t belong to them.”

Owen stood and went to stare out the window, looking at the doors into and out of the house. “Is the pantry empty?”

Cook hesitated. “No, sir. That’s why I waited to do a thorough search. It’s like they only took things we had at least two of. There’s nothing missing that can’t be replaced in a week’s shopping.”

“But someone stole from us! One of our employees, whom we trust with our secrets. Or even worse, some hooligan from off the streets.” Mrs. Wilkerson spread her hands open. “Ranger Cooper, after this…invasion…I must ask you to wait before pursuing your search for suitable employees. Truesdale, Cook, you may leave.”

Mrs. Wilkerson stayed still long enough for her picture to be taken before she spoke again. She turned burning eyes on Owen. “Ranger Cooper, this is exactly the kind of situation I feared would come upon us if we take these people into our homes. I’m sure I speak for the remainder of the committee when I say we will not pursue our plans until the perpetrator of this outrage is caught and properly punished.”

Properly punished? What did the woman have in mind?

Owen didn’t ask. He had been given his orders, and he must carry them out.

T
onight Rosie ignored both her maid’s uniform and her new Sunday-best dress, instead, returning to the shabby blouse and her worn black skirt. She tugged a black hood closer to her face and headed home.

Few people wandered the streets at this time of night, but this was her San Antonio, a place of quiet and stealth and creatures of darkness. Tucked beneath her cloak she held a heavy bag. This year her neighbors would have a celebration big enough for Christmas in time for Easter. Her bag held plenty of biscuits and eggs and even a few cookies for children who often had nothing at all for breakfast, even on the day Christians celebrated the resurrection of their Savior.

Some might consider what she had done wrong. But the more she heard Nancy and others talk about the new frocks they would wear on Easter Sunday, the more confused Rosie became. The early disciples worried more about taking care of the poor than buying new clothes. Why didn’t her church do the same thing? All she had done was even the resources of the rich and the poor, taking from those who had twice as much—or more—than they needed and giving it to people without anything.

She had invested most of her first week’s pay in a bolt of bright yellow cloth. Working in the semi-dark of her apartment while her mother slept behind a curtain, she cut the cloth into squares and debated how much to give each family. An hour tonight had finished the job. Now she was done. She had made sure the lamps in the hallways of her apartment house had gone out before she began her rounds.

Starting with the first floor, she left a large bundle for a family with eight children and another on the way, and the china for an old widow who had broken all her dishes as her eyesight deteriorated.

Rosie started to ask God to protect the gift from being broken before it could be received. The words stuck in her throat. Could she pray God’s blessing on something she wasn’t entirely sure was hers to give?

As Rosie headed for the staircase, someone opened a door. Rosie hurried away, knowing her black cloak hid her face and revealed nothing about her figure except that she was a woman. Young Freddy Hill traipsed after her. “Hey, miss. Stop, miss! Thank you!” he whispered after her.

Feet speeding at his enthusiastic words, heart pounding at the near miss, Rosie ran downstairs to the street. She waited in her usual hiding place behind the trash bin, where she and Jimmy used to wait for people to throw away something, anything, they could eat. After she decided she had waited long enough, she went inside and worked from the top floor down before returning to the third floor, where her apartment was. Each family received its share of food and dishes, according to their need. Last of all she placed a small bag outside her own door. Since there were only two of them, and Rosie had work, they were in the least need of anyone in this building. But if they didn’t receive a bag, fingers would point straight at Rosie, and she couldn’t afford that.

Once inside, she spread her cloak on the floor next to Ma’s bed, and removed her dress. She intended to pray for each family who’d received a gift as she fell asleep, but her mouth and mind turned numb as soon as she stretched out. In four hours, she would start another full day under Iron Maiden Miller’s nose.

“Rosie.”

Rosie stretched, not wanting to wake to the day.

“Rosie gal. You’d best get to work.” Ma shook her shoulder gently. Round eyes stared at her. “But look what your God provided for us last night. Real butter! And wheat flour! We’ll have a feast on Sunday morning for sure.”

Rosie stretched, a smile wreathing her face as Ma thrust the gift into her hand. “Where did this come from?”

“Someone left it outside our door! Mercy me, I never saw anything like this.”

Ma’s smile brought Rosie to wakefulness, and she forced herself into her maid’s uniform. She only worked a half day on Saturday, and Mrs. Wilkerson gave her staff every other Sunday off to encourage them to go to church. The afternoon was special today, on the day before Easter. She had discussed a plan with Mrs. Braum, who had agreed to help make this celebration of Jesus’ resurrection memorable.

Mrs. Braum called for Rosie as the noon hour approached. Two cartons of brightly colored eggs stood on the table, making her heart proud. When she told her employer that she had never colored boiled eggs, let alone gone on a hunt for them, the teacher took over. Showcasing the energy that made her such a favorite with children year after year, she insisted on organizing a hunt for the children at Rosie’s building. “I’d best see what kind of homes these young ones live in for myself,” she said in her simple way. “Don’t you think?”

Rosie couldn’t deny “her” children the opportunity. She hadn’t expected others to get involved, but in the front hall, she heard a male voice with the rhythm of the open range in it.

Mrs. Braum had enlisted Ranger Owen Cooper to help with the games.

Helping the little ones and encouraging the older ones to hunt for eggs sounded like more fun than Owen had had since the Christmas before last. He had another two dozen eggs sitting in his wagon, compliments of Mrs. Martin, as well as a bag of cookies. “I know the way.” Owen gave his hat to the butler and headed for the kitchen.