Lone Star Trail

by Darlene Franklin

  “Come on, you’ve made your point,” Jud said. “Either get in there with them or get out of here.” He didn’t care if Midnight stayed out in the big pasture for the day. He’d soon be letting the mares and the youngest colts out again. Only the two-year-olds held his interest now.

  “Shut the gate, Bert!”

  The cowboy swung the gate shut with all the horses except Midnight and the men’s mounts inside.

  Jud eased JM closer to Georg and Apple. “We’ll let him get by us. As soon as we let a few mares loose again, he’ll settle down.”

  Midnight ran by, through the gap between him and Tucker, kicking his heels at JM as he passed. In the open pasture he galloped in a big circle, then stopped to snort and paw the ground.

  “Good work,” Jud called to his men. He studied the horses milling inside the fence. “Start with that one.”

  An hour later, all the mares and young ones had joined Midnight in the pasture. Only one of the two-year-olds slipped past Bert at the gate. Tucker rode after him, roped him, and brought him back. The colts trotted inside the pen, whinnying to those outside.

  Two hundred yards away, Midnight circled his smaller band. He halted and stamped, then let out a challenge.

  “You rascal,” Jud called.

  Midnight pawed the ground and lowered his head.

  “You don’t scare me. I’ve known you since you were younger than those colts.”

  They both knew the dance and went through the moves every time Jud checked on the herd. Midnight ran back and forth, and Jud watched him, grinning. The Running M horses had spirit as well as looks and stamina. Eventually Midnight stopped and hung his head.

  “It’s okay,” Jud shouted. “You were probably about ready to kick the young lads out anyway. They’re getting old enough to challenge you.”

  Midnight tossed his head before running off. The mares and their young ones followed him out of sight toward the farthest reaches of the pasture.

  Once the stallion disappeared, the colts settled down. Jud joined his men in watching them and picking the ones that showed the most promise.

  One of the colts ran about the pen with extra fire and spirit.

  “That is a fine horse,” Georg said. “What is his name?”

  “Crockett, after a hero of the Alamo.” Jud slapped JM’s neck. “Well, boy, that one just might let you retire in a few years.” JM whinnied as if he disapproved. “Or we might keep him for stud purposes.”

  His men’s teamwork pleased him, even Tucker, who worked only when Jud needed an extra hand. Georg had proven himself adept on the short roundup—perhaps more so than Tom. Jud knew he had made the right decision.

  “Let’s get something to eat, men. Then we’ll start working with the best ones.”

  A good morning’s work done. And tomorrow—well, on Saturday, he could head into town for market day and see Wande again. The thought made him want to move up his weekly bath by a day.

  After breakfast, Jud raced through his Saturday morning chores before checking Ma and Marion. “Are you ladies ready to go?”

  Marion looked at Ma. “Do you remember when he hated going to market every week?” She winked at her brother. “Give us five more minutes.”

  Although the garden would not produce any more vegetables until the fall season, Jud knew Wande had butter and eggs to sell. She had said she didn’t intend to give up her spot by Grenville’s store, so she would bring what little she had.

  The day seemed half spent by the time they arrived in town. Jud called a greeting to Wande and scampered up the steps into the store. “Do you have the newspaper?” The Victoria Advocate had been in publication only since the war started last May, but already Jud looked forward to his weekly copy. A lot happened in a week’s time across the state.

  He took a seat beside Wande—she had taken to bringing a tall stool for him. “How’s it going today?”

  She frowned. “The butter is soft in spite of keeping it in a crock of cold water.” She glanced up and down the street. “More people are out today. They say there are no new cases of cholera this week.”

  “Praise the Lord.” Jud perused the front page for news from the war—no new skirmishes. Again he thanked God he had no family fighting in this war. He turned to the editorial page and read the headline, “Wedded Bliss for Prince Carl?”

  Wande glanced over his shoulder. “So Prince Carl has married. He is one of the men who formed the Verein. What does it say?”

  So this man was responsible for the tide of German immigrants. Jud scanned the page. “His wife refuses to leave Germany for Texas, even though he built a castle for her.” He laughed. “Did he really build a castle? Here in Texas?” He shook his head. “This is America. We don’t have lords and castles here.”

  Prince Carl. Wande loved the romanticism of his story. A soldier as well as a prince, he had been forced to abandon his true love, his first wife Luise, because she was beneath his station. Last December he had married Princess Sophie. He bought the land where Neu-Braunfels was founded. His reports of the fabulous opportunities in New Germany, which trickled back to the homeland in 1844 and 1845, had convinced Papa to try the adventure.

  She remembered reading that the prince had built a castle for his bride-to-be. She and Konrad had laughed about it. He said he could not build her a castle, but he would build her a sturdy home.

  Apparently Prince Carl’s dreams of marital happiness had proved as elusive as hers.

  Jud read most of the article aloud, stopping every sentence or two to laugh or comment. “What kind of man lets his wife decide where they will live?”

  Wande wanted to grab the paper from Jud. Prince Carl was a brave soldier and a visionary. “How would you feel if I made fun of Sam Houston?”

  Frau Decker stopped by the stall, interrupting their debate. “Do you not have more vegetables?”

  “Today just eggs and butter. Would you buy pickles if we sell them?”

  Pastor Bader came up behind Frau Decker.

  “A good Gewürzgurke? You have them?”

  “I’ll bring some next week.”

  Jud continued to chuckle. The pastor caught sight of the paper. “What is the news of Prince Carl?”

  Jud lowered the page.

  Wande spoke before Jud said anything. “He may not come back to Texas.”

  “I will look for your pickles next week.” Frau Decker left without buying anything.

  “That is sad about Prince Carl.” Pastor Bader shook his head. He leaned against the store railing as if waiting for an invitation to join the conversation.

  Jud tilted back on the stool. “That gave me a good laugh.” He set the stool back on all its legs and looked at her, some of the amusement gone from his face. “You don’t think it’s funny.”

  “Do you think it is funny to make fun of someone’s dreams? Or when a husband and a wife cannot agree?” She held out her hand for the paper. “Please do not say anything to my customers.” She whispered so the pastor would not hear. “We respect Prince Carl, and I for one am sorry that all is not well with his marriage.”

  Jud shrugged and handed her the paper. “Sorry if I upset you.” He clamped his hat on his head and stood. “Looks like Ma and Marion are almost done with their shopping. I’ll see you at church tomorrow.”

  “You are right to be upset with that young man, Wande,” the pastor said. “He doesn’t have a very Christian view of marriage—or Germans—from what I understand.”

  “Pardon me, Pastor. You were saying?”

  “I was about to ask if you would like to attend church with us tomorrow. I—we would love to hear your beautiful soprano voice in the congregation.”

  Perhaps she would go to church with her family, back to the familiar German hymns and words of Scripture she did not have to strain to understand. “Danke for inviting me. I think I will join you tomorrow.”

  Jud’s actions reminded Wande that he resented most Germans for invading his Texas.

  Wande coul
d do many things, but she could not change her place of birth. She was as German as they came.

  If Jud did not like Germans, he could not like her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Jud, wait a minute.” Marion dashed out of the house toward the paddock where her brother was mounting JM. “Can you wait a few minutes and help us carry the tubs of water?” She was surprised she needed to ask. Since Ma had been burned so badly, he had helped with the Monday morning laundry, and he usually offered to do the heavy lifting.

  Jud glanced to where Wande bent over the washtub, scrubbing clothes. He handed JM’s reins to Bert and strode across the yard. “Are these ready?” Without waiting for Wande’s reply he picked up the tub and moved it. He looked around for the second tub and moved that as well before returning to Marion. Anything else?”

  Marion lifted her eyebrows. “No, we should be able to handle it from here.” Jud was in one of his moods. Puddles, their kitten from Marmalade and Mittens’ litter, played with the apron strings dangling from the line. Jud brushed by her and headed out of the yard.

  Marion stared at Jud’s departing back and shook her head. “Sorry about Jud’s foul mood. You know he doesn’t mean it.”

  Wande glanced up, her eyes opaque. “I understand.” She returned her attention to the laundry, scrubbing the delicate fabric of Marion’s buttercream dress so hard, Marion wondered if it would tear. Wande might understand Jud’s attitude, but that didn’t mean she didn’t resent it. Her behavior was as out of character as Jud’s. Something had happened, but neither would talk about it.

  Marion refused to let her brother’s mood ruin the morning. She looked at the sky, punctuated with puffy white clouds like lace, and sang the first words that came to her mind. “Fairest Lord Jesus.”

  After she finished the verse, Wande said, “‘Schönster Herr Jesus.’ That is a German hymn. Is it not a good thing that God speaks both English and German?” She smiled, and the ice in her eyes melted.

  “Amen to that.” Marion sang the second verse. “Fair are the meadows, fairer still the woodlands.” Wande joined her in German. Next they sang one of Wande’s favorites—she said the melody came from a drinking song—Martin Luther’s “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” They sang their way through half a dozen hymns until the laundry was ready to hang.

  The wind whipped the laundry around the line. Puddles leaped for the apron strings and yowled when water from the sheets dripped on her. Wande laughed. “I am glad to sing.”

  “Me too.” They hung the last of the laundry and headed inside for a short break.

  “I did not think it was dinner time,” Wande pointed to the chestnut Morgan mare grazing on the grass where it was tied to the porch railing.

  Marion looked at the sky. “It’s not. Someone has come calling.” The horse looked familiar.

  “We have company.” Ma stood at the door, drying her hands on her apron. She added in a lower voice, “It’s Tom. He says he needs to talk to you. Should I send him away?”

  Marion glanced over Ma’s shoulder, but Tom wasn’t in sight. Probably he had taken a seat in the parlor, Ma plying him with a cup of coffee. She would offer hospitality to General Santa Anna if he showed up at the door. Marion Morgan was no coward. She lifted her chin and straightened her back. “I’ll see him.”

  Ma nodded. “He’s in the parlor.”

  “I’ll go with Mrs. Morgan into the kitchen.” Wande slipped through the door behind Ma.

  Marion took a deep breath before entering the parlor. Tom stood behind Jud’s desk. He had taken care with his attire, the way a man did when he wanted to impress a woman: a crisp, white shirt without a speck of dirt, freshly ironed, as if he had hired a woman to take care of his laundry. He had combed his hair into a high arc over his forehead, giving him a serious, respectable look.

  He took two steps toward her.

  She remained immobile. “Hello, Tom.” She sat in the chair nearest the door, Ma’s usual spot so she could slip in and out to take care of supper.

  Tom glanced around, as if deciding what to do next, but remained standing. “Thanks for agreeing to see me.”

  “I expect this will be a short meeting,” Marion said. “We don’t have anything we need to talk about.”

  Deep red spread across his cheeks and down his neck, but he didn’t drop his gaze. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box. “I bought this for you.” He took one step forward. “May I?”

  Fuming, she gestured for him to approach. Did he think he could appease her with a gift and sweet talk?

  Before he handed her the box, he dug into his other pocket and brought out a small paper sack. “I bought you some lemon drops from the store. I know how you like sweets.” He held his hand out.

  Automatically she accepted the offering. “I’ll give them to Alvie. She adores hard candy.”

  Tom paused, then said, “I hope you’ll keep this.” He handed her the box.

  This time, she thought before taking it. She opened it—a beautiful filigreed brooch, with hints of blue topaz. Its beauty did nothing to warm her heart. She replaced the lid and handed it back to him. “I don’t want it. You should give it to the redhead I saw you with.”

  Tom fidgeted. He looked for the closest chair and pulled it closer to Marion. He leaned forward, his hands between his legs, looking at her with puppy dog eyes. “I bought it especially for you, to apologize. I wondered if you would give me a second chance.”

  Marion waited for her heart to melt, the way it used to when he looked at her like that. Instead, her words were sharpened on the stone of her hurt. “What happened, did she refuse your gift?”

  His eyes widened. “Molly? You mean that day at church?”

  “You didn’t waste any time finding someone to take my place.”

  He stared at his hands before he lifted his head again. “I admit, I escorted Molly to a couple of events. But she’s not you. I realized pretty quick I made a big mistake. Please give me another chance. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  Half a second—that was all it took for Marian to reject his apology. “No. It’s too late.”

  “It can’t be.” He got on one knee. “Give me some reason to hope.”

  “Be a man,” Marion said. “Get up before you embarrass yourself any more than you already have.” She stood. “This interview is at an end. If you come back, I won’t talk with you.”

  Tom’s puppy dog eyes turned to hard brown dirt, and he slowly lifted himself to his feet. “As you wish.” He dropped the box back in his pocket.

  Marion opened the door for him. “I wish the best for you, Tom, I surely do. But it won’t be with me.”

  Tom hesitated, one leg over the door sill. “You can’t say I didn’t give you a chance. Sooner or later, you’ll be sorry you turned me down.” Settling his hat on his head, he sauntered out to the horse, not looking one whit sorry.

  “He’s gone.” Wande watched Tom ride away.

  Mrs. Morgan opened her eyes. She had made no pretense of working while Marion met with Tom. Not that they could hear what either one said, except a word here and there. But Mrs. Morgan sat with her Bible open and her eyes closed. Wande was too restless to follow her example. She was not sure what she would have said if Konrad had begged her forgiveness.

  “All is right with the world, then,” Mrs. Morgan said. “I keep forgetting Marion’s a grown woman. She’ll come in here if she wants to talk.”

  “Mama says I’ll always be her kinder, and I am her firstborn. She says that I will understand when I have children of my own—if I have children of my own.”

  “You will, my dear Wande. There is a good man out there who will love you.” She looked at the door, as if willing Marion to walk in.

  “Wande, Marion, I’m here.” Alvie bounced into the kitchen. Wande looked out the window. The day had fled, and now she would have to hurry to complete the laundry. She did not think Marion would venture outside again today. Or maybe she would. Sometimes work provided
a balm to a troubled spirit. “How was school today?” Wande went into the pantry and brought out a couple of oatmeal-raisin cookies and a glass of cool milk.

  “I had so much fun.” Alvie beamed. “Miss Thurston moved me up to fifth-grade English and said if I work very hard, she will put me with sixth grade.”

  “That’s wonderful.” Mrs. Morgan smiled as if nothing troubling had happened that day.” You must be one smart girl, but we already know that. To get a whole year ahead in English, when you hardly knew any when you came to Victoria last year.”

  “I don’t expect to go ahead in math,” Alvie said. “I don’t like math.”