Tomorrow's Garden (11 page)

“Does that make me the Fairy Godmother?” Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “Gunther will split his sides laughing at that thought.”

“How can I possibly thank you?”

“That’s simple. Throw out those old clothes you’ve been wearing and make yourself some new dresses.” Isabelle pulled two bolts of fabric off one of the crates. “This deep green would look nice on you. So would the pink.”

When Harriet left the mercantile half an hour later, though her arms were laden with packages, her heart felt lighter than it had in years.

Lawrence was bored. He hadn’t expected that. The first months had been busy, dealing with the townspeople’s complaints. Most of those complaints had been petty, and he’d chafed at the realization that being mayor and sheriff of a small town was far different from the freedom and excitement he’d found as a Ranger, that the justice he wielded was on a smaller, less dramatic scale. Today he would have welcomed a dispute over payment for one of William Goetz’s tables. Instead, he was sitting in his office, staring at those gloomy maps and even gloomier portraits from the Old Country, wondering what to do.

He ought to be glad there were no more problems on the Friedrich farm and that the rustlers had left Zach’s cattle alone. He ought to be happy that his days had been free of complaints about Harriet and her insistence on efficient exits from the schoolhouse. Instead, he was bored.

He couldn’t even visit Sterling, for he knew the minister was writing a sermon for his ever-dwindling congregation. Each Sunday fewer people entered the German church. Though Lawrence knew Sterling was concerned, he claimed there was nothing anyone could do. “You can’t threaten to arrest them if they don’t come to church,” Sterling had said. “All you can do is pray that God will soften their hearts.” And so Lawrence prayed, but that did not bring the parishioners back.

He stared at the wall again, frowning at the maps. Michel Ladre had been proud of them, declaring they were evidence of the turmoil his emigrants had escaped. That might have been true ten years ago, but today Lawrence found them annoying. The townspeople were Texans now. If maps and pictures were going to hang on the wall, they ought to be maps of Texas or even of the United States of America. The portraits should be of the governor and president. Alsace, Lorraine, France, and Germany no longer had any relevance.

Knowing that someone would undoubtedly complain but not caring, Lawrence pulled everything from the wall. The spots where the pictures had been were brighter than the surrounding surface, leaving no doubt that something had once hung there. He could buy some whitewash at the mercantile and fix that. At least while he was painting, he would not be bored.

But as he left his office, Lawrence found himself turning left. Though the mercantile was to the right, it seemed that his feet had other ideas, for they headed toward the school. He wasn’t planning to visit Harriet. Of course he wasn’t. But, as long as he was almost there, he might as well check on the students. The students. Not Harriet.

The children were outside, the younger ones running in circles, playing tag and appearing to be having a good time, the older boys engaged in building a human pyramid while the girls watched, probably hoping to see the pyramid collapse in a tangle of arms and legs. Everyone appeared to be healthy and happy. His mission was complete. And yet Lawrence climbed the steps and entered the schoolhouse.

“Harriet?” He stared at the petite blonde-haired woman who stood at the chalkboard, her back toward him, writing lessons. This woman wore a fashionable red dress, and her hair was softer than Harriet’s. She was the right height, the hair was the right shade, and this was obviously where Harriet should be, but Lawrence wasn’t certain he wasn’t seeing a stranger. No-nonsense Harriet Kirk did not own a fashionable dress, much less one in a color other than putrid yellow or dirty brown, and she most certainly did not wear her hair in a style that even Lottie would envy.

As the woman turned, Lawrence felt his jaw drop. This woman was beautiful. No, that was too mild a word. She was stunning. She was spectacular. She was . . . “What . . . ? How . . . ? Why . . . ?” Though the questions whirled through his mind, Lawrence’s tongue refused to form complete sentences. It was embarrassing. Here he was, sounding as tongue-tied as a schoolboy, all because he found himself in the presence of a beautiful woman.

Harriet—for it most definitely was Harriet who stood by the chalkboard—smiled. “You forgot who, where, and when.” She was amused by his discomfiture, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Lawrence tried to look away, but his eyes were as disobedient as his feet had been when he’d told them to go to the mercantile. “I came to see how your brother was faring.” Though it wasn’t the truth, it was the first coherent thought to emerge from his mouth.

The sparkle behind those spectacles told Lawrence that Harriet had seen through him, though she pretended to believe his explanation. “He’s not happy working for Karl,” she said, the warmth in her voice betraying her inner smile, “but I don’t think anything would please Jake these days. As for the other . . .” She held her skirts and made a mocking half-curtsey. “Isabelle is responsible. She told me I looked like a dead mouse.”

“You don’t look like a mouse anymore, dead or alive.” What an inane thing to say! Lottie would cringe and tell him he knew nothing about speaking to a woman. That was self-evident.

The corners of Harriet’s mouth turned up again as she pretended to fan herself. “Why, thank you, Mr. Wood. Your flattery would turn a girl’s head.”

“Harriet, you know I was a Ranger. We believe in plain speaking.” That was true, but it didn’t explain why he was having so much difficulty with this conversation, why he felt so flummoxed. He couldn’t deny it, though; just the sight of Harriet turned his thoughts to quicksand. Who would have guessed that she would emerge as a beautiful butterfly?

“I’m surprised your mother never taught you to make pickles.” Though Frau Friedrich’s voice was even, Harriet sensed the disapproval.

“Mother was busy with all the children.” She wouldn’t tell her that Mother had no time to make pickles because her days were spent locked in her room. “Besides, I don’t think she liked the flavor.” Harriet enjoyed the sweet and sour flavor of what Frau Friedrich called bread and butter pickles and had asked for the recipe. The German woman had insisted that, rather than simply write out the instructions, she would show Harriet how she made them.

“The important thing is to not overcook the cucumbers.” Frau Friedrich had let Harriet mix the pickling solution and pour it over the sliced cucumbers and onions. “Once it comes to a boil, it’s time to put everything into the jars.” Deftly, she ladled the aromatic mixture into the first of the canning jars, tightening the lid. “Now, you try.”

To Harriet’s dismay, she spilled fully a quarter of the pickles on her first attempt. “I’m afraid I need more practice.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get it right before you know it.” The older woman’s voice was warm and encouraging, so different from the strident tone Harriet associated with her mother. “Now, try again.”

By the time the twelfth jar was filled, Harriet had managed to drip only a little over the edge of the jar.

“
Sehr gut
. Very good,” Frau Friedrich translated. “Now, let’s sit a spell. I made a kuchen I thought you might like.” She brought out the fragrant coffee cake and cut two generous slices. “Enjoy it.”

Harriet enjoyed far more than the coffee and cake. She enjoyed every moment of her visits to the Friedrich farm. They had started one Saturday when Daniel had forgotten his jacket. Afraid that he would be cold, Harriet had taken the garment to the farm. When she’d arrived, Frau Friedrich had insisted she remain for a bite to eat and a bit of conversation. The bit of conversation had stretched into an hour, and when Harriet had taken her leave, it had been with the invitation to return each week.

“I miss the companionship of another woman,” Frau Friedrich had said when Harriet protested that she might be imposing. “You’d be doing me a favor by coming.”

But the favors, Harriet was certain, were being conferred on her. Though Jake might resent working for Karl, Harriet looked forward to her time at the farm. Karl was invariably friendly to her, never failing to say something complimentary about either Daniel or Sam. If there was nothing memorable about their conversations, no sparring, not even the joking banter that had begun to characterize her conversations with Lawrence, Harriet didn’t mind. The true appeal of her visits to the farm was the time she spent with Karl’s mother. When she was in the older woman’s company, she felt as if she were doing more than visiting a neighbor. Instead, she had the sensation of being enfolded in warm arms, of being surrounded by love.

The door opened, and Karl strode into the kitchen. “Mutter, I saw Harriet’s wagon and . . .” He stopped, his mouth agape when he spotted Harriet. Blood rushed to his face, then quickly receded.

His mother chuckled. “What’s the matter, Karl? Haven’t you ever seen a woman in a new dress?”

It was more than the dress, Harriet knew. This was the first time she’d visited the Friedrichs since Isabelle had taught her how to style her hair. Frau Friedrich had commented on the change, saying she liked the new Harriet. Karl’s reaction was different. He stared at her, his gaze moving from the top of her head down to her waist, which was all that the table revealed, and back to her crown.

It wasn’t the first time someone had stared at her. Lawrence had, as had the schoolchildren. Harriet’s youngest pupils had grinned when they’d realized the stranger in front of the classroom was only Miss Kirk, confirming their approval with smiles instead of cringes when she called on them. This was different. While the children’s gazes had warmed her and Lawrence’s had made her feel beautiful, Karl’s seemed almost disapproving. But that was silly. Why would he disapprove of a new hairstyle and dress?

“I almost didn’t recognize you.” His voice sounded strained, and Harriet wondered if that was the reason for his disapproval. Karl disliked surprises. He stroked his beard as he said, “I came inside to see if you would like to attend the harvest festival with us. Mutter makes the best chocolate cake for it.”

According to Isabelle, the harvest dance was the primary social event of the autumn, an evening that everyone in Ladreville looked forward to. With activities for all age groups, families came as a unit, bringing baskets of food. And while each family was responsible for its supper, the evening culminated in a feast of shared desserts. Karl had not been exaggerating when he’d described his mother’s cake. Even Isabelle, who favored French pastries, admitted that everyone tried to have a slice of Frau Friedrich’s chocolate cake.“Thank you, Karl,” Harriet said with a small smile, “but I can’t leave my siblings alone.” Though they would be tired the next day, Harriet wanted them all to attend the social.

Karl slapped his forehead. “What a
Dummkopf
I am! The invitation is not just for you. Your whole family is invited.” He turned to his mother. “Isn’t that right, Mutter? We want you to share our supper.”

When Frau Friedrich nodded, Harriet smiled. Jake would not be pleased, but the rest of the family would enjoy being with the Friedrichs. “In that case, thank you. I accept.” For one night, they’d be part of a true family.