Chapter 20 #2
“I’m glad to hear it, Miss Beth. The man isn’t worthy of you.” He stuck out his chest. “I’d love to have another opportunity to deepen our acquaintance. There’s a ball coming up at Robson’s castle Christmas Eve. I’d enjoy the pleasure of your company.”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t care for balls.” Not that she’d ever been to one, but if it meant hanging on his arm for the whole evening, she wanted nothing to do with it. She grabbed the door and hurried in.
Was there any truth to Nicholas’s accusations? What else had Devon done?
She wouldn’t think on it. She’d seen the man pray. She knew his character. Didn’t she?
Cold and stiff, Devon made his way through the back alleyways and side streets to the Schramms’ home. A sleepless night spent watching the shift changes of the troops guarding the quartermaster depot and the cotton warehouse had taken its toll.
How could he have left things in such a mess with Morning Fawn?
As soon as she’d glanced at that mustang, his temper had snapped.
She’d hurried out to the stables to see him, hair unbrushed, dress not quite buttoned all the way.
Maybe she’d done that on purpose. No, absolutely not.
Thea or some other woman might do that to get a man’s interest and hands on them, but not Morning Fawn.
Couldn’t she tell by the way he looked at her that he’d love to take her on a walk every evening, go riding with her, hunting…
He scrubbed his hand over his jaw. He’d outright court her if it wasn’t for his mission.
But that was the problem. He had no business losing himself in her eyes and her company when lives were depending upon him.
Not when his deception hung between them like a blade ready to sever any tendrils of affection and attraction that dared spring up between them.
She had the patience of a matchstick. What if his actions drove her right into Moyer’s arms? He shuddered.
His boots crunched on the ground as he approached the Schrams’s two-horse stable.
He’d tethered his horse in there to give the illusion he’d spent the night at their place.
Trudging onto their backyard, he passed their chicken house and pig pen.
The Brahma hens clucked in the pre-dawn gray, but the sow only gave a half-hearted snort.
A low light glowed in the small kitchen window.
Frieda would be up to greet him. It’d be better if she wasn’t.
The door opened as he stepped onto the cracked stone stoop of the white wood-framed house.
“Come in and get varm.” Frieda wiped sleep from her eyes. Her dark ringlets hung down her back. “I have half a braid of bread from last night’s supper, and I’ll heat some Mettvurst sausage. Maybe boil you an egg too.”
“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble.” He removed his hat and hung it on a hook. “I’m worn out. A slice of bread would do me fine, then I’ll try to grab a couple hours of sleep—”
“No trouble at all.” She tied her apron behind her. “Give me your coat, and I’ll hang it by the fire, get it dried off.
He sighed and shrugged out of the wool frock coat he’d borrowed from her father. Briars and leaves clung to the fabric. It was unwise to let her do too much for him. The pretense of courtship was for public eyes, not for the privacy of her home. “I’ll brush it off outside first.”
“I could—”
He stepped out the door before she finished. Her actions were likely nothing more than kindness and the camaraderie of being joined in a cause. His gut told him otherwise.
By the time he stepped back inside, she had lit the fire in the cast-iron stove. The delicious smell of coffee wafted from a pot.
“Real coffee?” He cocked his eyebrows and draped the damp coat over the back of a chair close to the heat.
Frieda smiled. “Yes, Papa traded an officer for it, for treatment. Some of the soldiers manage to confiscate a portion of vhat comes up from Mexico for themselves.”
“Much obliged for you sharing it with me.” He glanced at his hands. “Mind if I go wash up?”
“Go ahead. I left vater for you in the pitcher in my father’s office.”
“Thank you.” He ducked into the hallway and the second door on the left.
Hands and face scrubbed and hair combed, he returned to the kitchen and sat at the small table. Steam wafted up from a white china cup, the finest one in the house from what he could tell, when tin would have sufficed.
Her hair was now drawn back in a loose knot, and an apron covered her green plaid dress. She set a plate in front of him with a hearty portion of bread chunked full of nuts and dried fruit.
“A real treat.” His mouth watered. “Would you care for a piece?” He picked up a knife from the embroidered tablecloth.
“You go ahead. All of that is for you. You’re the one out in the chill all night.”
He slathered on the butter and ate as sausage sizzled in the pan on the stove. In between bites, he answered Frieda’s questions and savored the coffee.
“Best breakfast I’ve had in years.” Careful to avoid any touch, he sat back when she added the sausage to his plate. A hint of lavender muted the pervasive odors of wood smoke and pork which permeated the rest of the kitchen.
Returning to the stove, she hummed.
Not good. He tensed. This was too homey. “As soon as I finish up, I’ll take a quick nap and then hit the trail.”
“But you vere up all night.” She ladled an egg out of a pan of boiling water. “You can use the cot in my father’s examining room and sleep until ve return from church.”
“I would.” He swallowed a bite of sausage. “Only, I promised Morning Fawn I’d try to make it to our church in the village by Sweet Briar.” It’d been more of a threat than a promise, but he needed to get there and check on her.
Her smile dimmed. “Morning Fawn? You mean Miss Logan?”
“Yes.” He sliced another bite of sausage. “She tends to get nervous in churches, not used to crowds.” This was the right thing to do. Bring Morning Fawn into the picture and put distance between him and Frieda.
She fished out a second egg and placed both in a bowl. “I didn’t realize it vhen I met her the first day you came here, but she’s the captive girl vho stole the Thoroughbred, isn’t she?” Cautious concern laced her tone.
He swallowed another bite. “That’s the reason her uncle asked me to look after her. Make sure she doesn’t try to run off again.” Wrong choice of words. There was a lot more to it than her uncle’s request. “We have no idea what she’s been through.”
“True.” Brow furrowed, she placed a boiled egg on his plate. It rolled across the pink flower print and came to rest against the chunk of bread. “I’ve heard that sometimes captives aren’t ever right in the head again after they’re rescued from the Indians.” She sat down across from him.
“Mor—Miss Logan is fine in the head, just a little high strung, and prone to panic on occasion. Unfortunately, her uncle and his family don’t understand. She needs a friend.” The last part slipped out of its own accord, but it was the truth regardless of what else had happened between them.
“A female friend?”
“That would be good too. There’s a slave girl she talks to a lot.”
“You are her friend?” Frieda pursed her lips. “Vhat vill become of her once your mission is complete, and you have to leave? Vill her uncle hire someone else to look after her?”
Leave? Flee for his life, if he still had one. He gnawed a piece of bread and chewed. Frieda didn’t need to know everything. “Hopefully, I’ll figure that out by the time we blow up the warehouse.”
She tapped an egg on the table edge and began to peel off the shell. “You’ll figure it out? Instead of leaving it up to her uncle?” Blue eyes blinked wide in question.
Should he ask the Schramms to help Morning Fawn if he didn’t survive?
He chomped down half his egg. A full mouth couldn’t be expected to speak.
He didn’t want to leave her fate up to anyone else, but if he helped her escape before he concluded the mission, it could stir up a whirlwind of suspicion.
“What I have to figure out right now is the duty changes of the guards at the depot.” He dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
“Last night, they changed guards at eleven, two a.m., and five a.m. just before I left. Two guards at the warehouse and two at the depot, and that was just in the back. I’m sure they have as many if not more in the front. ”
Frieda cut her egg with a fork and knife, precisely in easily manageable bites. “That’s not so many guards. Papa vill be pleased to hear that. There are others in the Unionist German League who vill be happy to help us. Ve could take care of the guards.”
“Not ‘we.’” He pointed his fork in her direction. “Me and they. You’re only helping with the spying. The night of the explosion, you’re staying put right here in this house. Ready to get in the hideout if needed. And you should keep your papa here with you.”
A dimple dented each cheek. “Your concern is much appreciated. I know you’ll do everything in your power to keep us safe.” Determination filled her eyes. “But ve must help. It is our country now. Ve must help save it.”
“You and your papa have already done much and will continue to do so right up until the last night.” He firmed his tone. “But I’m in charge here. My orders are to be obeyed. You will keep your father safe in this house and stay here in case I need to flee here for help.”
She clasped her hands under her chin. “I vill listen, Devon.” Her voice a soft murmur. “I know you vish to do vhat is best for us. I respect your courage and honor.”
He wiggled his finger between his collar and his neck. How should he respond to such a compliment? “It is you and your father who show courage. This is your home. You’re risking everything.”
“You’re modest.” She blushed.
Time to finish the conversation before his sleep-deprived brain miscalculated a word and led him into trouble. He yawned.
She stood. “Now you must go rest. I’ll vake you. My father vill vant to know more of vhat you saw last night.”