Texas Brides Collection

by Darlene Mindrup

  Mrs. Braum turned her kind expression on Rosie. “I know you were disappointed tonight, my dear. The wheels of this group take a long time to engage, but once we get started, we’re hard to stop. Keep praying God will show us the right thing to do.”

  “But…” It took effort for Rosie not to protest further, and Owen noticed it. “I will do that.”

  How many times had Owen heard the same advice. “Pray, Owen, pray.” His job as a Ranger called for a man of action. Often a call to prayer felt like a call to do nothing. He shook his head. One of the areas where he failed the Lord.

  “Here.” Mrs. Braum pressed a bag of cookies on Rosie. “My children were always fond of my snickerdoodles. I’m sure you will find homes for our leftovers.”

  The grateful smile on Rosie’s face warmed Owen inside. He wanted to bring that smile to her face. Even in this tumult, he smelled the scent of cinnamon rising from warm cookies in the bag. Such a simple thing, to mean so much.

  Now that she had finished her presentation, Rosie asked questions all along the route home. Who lived there? How many servants? How many rooms? She took particular interest in homes where members of the church had residences.

  At the church, they changed direction and passed through less affluent neighborhoods. About five minutes later, Rosie stopped. “This is where I turn to go home. That way.” She nodded with her chin down a street that headed toward one of the city’s poorest blocks, where the streets crowded together and lamp lights were broken almost as soon as they were put up. “You don’t have to come with me. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll feel better if you’re accompanied by me and Mr. Colt.”

  She winced at the mention of the revolver. “You won’t—”

  He shook his head. “Not unless our lives are in danger.”

  As they entered her world, they reversed the roles of interrogator and answer giver. First she told stories. “Mr. Rivera has a vegetable stand there. If he hears somebody’s sick, why, he brings them some of the spoiled stuff so they can have a good broth. And sometimes Mr. Rosen adds some chicken wings to go with it, so we can have a good soup. It’s helped more than one person beat the cold around here.”

  Such a simple gift. Spoiled vegetables and chicken parts no one wanted. No wonder the waste of the rich galled her so.

  “That’s the school I attended until I was eight.” She pointed to a tiny building that wasn’t nearly big enough for all of the children who lived around the neighborhood.

  “Why did you leave?”

  “I was lucky to go as long as I did. When my Pa died, I had to work to bring in money. We all did. Even children too young to go to school can earn a few pennies a day.”

  She continued the story after they passed the next building with its heartbreaking stories. “Ma said me and her and Jimmy were lucky when our Pa died. It was a lot easier to take care of three of us than some of the bigger families.”

  In nearly every case, at least one member of the family had been arrested, imprisoned, or even died, while breaking the law.

  Owen didn’t know what to say. If the ladies at the Society heard these stories, they might stay away for good, as if poverty were a contagious illness they might catch.

  However, if they lived in the shoes of the poor for a week, they might change their minds.

  Chapter 4

  Rosie smoothed her apron over her maid’s uniform, provided to her from the church’s clothes closet. The pastor’s mother had helped her to find a new, better-paying job to go along with her new life. Mrs. Braum, Macy’s mother and Owen’s Sunday school teacher, had taken Rosie in.

  She thought she would be sent home when the butler opened the front door. He stared at her maid’s uniform. “Help comes to the back.” He sniffed.

  Mrs. Braum swept past him. “Don’t mind him, Miss Carson. Come on in. I’m so glad you were available. Good help is hard to find. We may have another opening later, if you think your mother might be interested. I’ll call the head maid, and she can explain your duties.”

  Rosie lingered in the front hall, catching sight of a full-sized mirror. She had never seen what she looked like from head to toe. The pins she had stuck into her hair kept it off her neck and out of her face, and the toes of her boots were a shiny black, her apron snow-white and her dress a faded black. Inside she didn’t feel nearly so black and white; she was bursting with joy in all the colors of the rainbow.

  The head maid, called simply “Franklin” and referring to Rosie as “Carson,” had the no-nonsense attitude of a schoolteacher. She wasn’t cruel or mean, but she and Rosie would never become friends. She escorted Rosie to the kitchen. “When you arrive tomorrow, come around here.”

  Rosie peeked out the door and saw how the drive swept past the house, around the back on its way to the stables. “I never been in a house with a back door before,” she said.

  Franklin raised her chin, as if anyone should know at least that much. “Miller will undertake your training. This job requires that you work hard, but the mistress is fair.”

  Following Miller around felt like trailing a jailer. Do this, don’t do that, be careful. When they were in one of the back bedrooms on the second floor, she explained her attitude. “I know your story. You say you’ve changed. I think it’s just a pious coat for the old you, so you won’t fool me. You’d better watch your p’s and q’s around me, or I’ll see you’re fired before the end of the day.”

  At that, tears jabbed Rosie’s eyes, and she wanted to run away. She blinked them back; she didn’t want to ruin her newly clean uniform with a childish fit. Mrs. Braum’s house was almost as big as Mrs. Wilkerson’s, and room after room stood empty. Miller said the Braums entertained a few times a year, and guests used the rooms at that time. With or without guests, Rosie’s job was to keep the rooms clean and change and launder the bed linens at least once a month.

  After lunch, Miller left Rosie to clean an indoor bathroom. Alone in the magnificent house, Rosie allowed herself to wander. She had never imagined such luxury in a chamber designed only to sleep in, not to mention a whole room just to take care of personal needs. Five pillows were piled on a mattress wide enough for three or more, but where most people slept alone. Even husbands and wives slept in different rooms, according to Miller, although a door connected them. That seemed downright odd to Rosie, against what God intended for man and wife. A ewer and basin to wash in waited on a small washstand, with a thick blue towel embroidered with pink roses draped over it. In the cabinet beneath the basin, she found a matching set. Did each room have its own bath? These folks didn’t even need to share bathwater. Imagine that.

  Rosie sat by the vanity and stared at her reflection in the three-way mirror. This room must be designed for a lady. Right was her best side, she decided, as she looked this way and that. Peeking in the drawers, she found combs and brushes and a can of sweet-smelling powder.

  Rosie had to stand on tiptoe to make the high bed. One thick mattress lay on top of another. Imagine having extra mattresses, when some people she knew slept on the floor. She shook her head.

  After she finished the room to Miller’s satisfaction, Rosie cleaned two more bedrooms as well as an upstairs closet where she found a rack of coats and dressing gowns for guests who came unprepared to spend the night.

  By the time she left at the end of the day, a kernel of an idea had taken root in her mind.

  At Mrs. Abbott’s invitation, Owen attended the next meeting of the executive committee of the Ladies’ Aid Society. Pastor Martin was also in attendance. However, to Owen’s disappointment, Rosie didn’t attend.

  Mrs. Wilkerson, who hosted the meeting, led the board members group past the large parlor where the Society had gathered to a small sitting room. Every item was perfectly placed—knickknacks sat on every surface with a precise design, and fresh flowers adorned an empty stand here and there. He sank into an imposing chair with a curved back, and when he was tempted to slouch he straightened his back
and leaned forward, dangling his hands between his legs. The day he had put in had tired him out more than usual, thanks to his injury. But he fought fatigue. This subject required his entire attention.

  The women who gathered were often in the society pages of the San Antonio Express, and their names guaranteed the success of many civic activities, from musicales to libraries to parks.

  “You may wonder why I have called everyone here today.” Mrs. Abbott’s voice was rather like fingernails on a chalkboard. Owen cringed at the sound.

  She looked straight at Owen, inviting him to respond. “I assume it has something to do with my speech the other night.”

  She nodded, as if she were approving a smart schoolchild. “Miss Carson’s plea for help touched all of us, but I confess, we fear encouraging someone already committed to a life of crime.”

  Beside him, the pastor fidgeted in his seat. “The Bible tells us not to judge.”

  “But it also says not to throw pearls before swine.” Mrs. Wilkerson smiled as if she had spoken the last word. Her smile urged Owen to agree to anything she had to say. She was a beautiful woman. “That’s where you come in, Mr. Cooper. We hope you can help us identify the deserving poor.”

  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.

  Chapter 5

  Tonight 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 resurrecti
on 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.