Chapter 22
Liar. Morning Fawn swiped the back of her hand across her nose and whittled another shaving off the point of the stick.
At the rate she was going, it’d be a spike, not a cane.
“Two-faced weasel,” she muttered as she glanced from beneath the brim of the floppy-brimmed work hat.
It smelled of sweat, George’s sweat, but that was all right.
Better than that pig-smelling Miss Perfect who sashayed down the street on Devon’s arm.
A snood confined Frieda’s dark waves beneath a burgundy bonnet. Decked out in a flattering green plaid dress trimmed in black velvet, Frieda practically skipped with delight. She might as well have angel wings.
Morning Fawn’s stomach sank to the bottom of her rough boots. She shouldn’t have come. Why put herself through this torture? How could she ever have been fool enough to believe that Devon might prefer her?
Last night at dinner, Devon hadn’t mentioned anything about the trip.
Instead, he’d snuck out of the house before breakfast and ridden off.
George had been the one to end up taking Thea an hour later.
Morning Fawn had waited until her cousin was out of sight before announcing plans for the picnic.
Her aunt had only commented on the weather being a bit chilly for an outing but had let the matter pass upon Morning Fawn’s promise to go riding with Mr. Moyer on Saturday.
And thankfully, George had fulfilled his part of the plan before he’d left.
Ebony and the clothes were at the designated spot.
Near the end of the street, Devon glanced over his shoulder.
Morning Fawn jerked her gaze back to the stick, driving the knife’s blade against the pecan wood.
The cracked stone stoop bit into her backside.
George’s patched brown coat hung loose on her frame, all the better to hide her bound chest. And the trousers?
She’d had to tighten the suspenders so high that the waistline struck the bottom of her ribs.
she’d even taken care to smudge dirt on her face and hands.
A gray-haired slave lumbered down the street with a wheelbarrow full of wood. Two doors down, a lady leaned out the window and emptied a bucket of liquid. Water or worse? And they called this civilization?
Morning Fawn should find her way back to her real home and throw herself at Stands-His-Ground’s feet.
She glanced up as the two lovers disappeared around the corner. No, she wasn’t leaving yet. Not until she’d witnessed the full extent of Devon’s betrayal. With a quick pat to her hat, she stood and jogged toward the intersection.
A ball rolled toward her. She dodged it, ignoring the two boys playing in the dirt street, and smacked a tear from her cheek. Crying was completely unacceptable.
She slowed down as she reached the main street and tugged her flop hat lower, her hair pinned tight to her head.
Devon and Miss Perfect crossed the street, hurrying out of the way of an army wagon laden with food stuffs and supplies.
Once they reached the plank sidewalk, they strolled westward, his hand over hers on his arm, her skirts lapping against his trouser leg, just as he’d walked with Morning Fawn. Traitor.
Her hands clenched. She’d never be able to return home and sit across the dinner table from him or pass him in the hall and say nothing of this. And what about all of those prayers of his? The man might as well have horns.
The couple paused at the mercantile window. Glass. Reflection. Best blend in. Morning Fawn stuck the knife in its sheath strapped to her waist and plodded down the street, tapping the stick against her leg, head lowered.
An elderly man rattled past in a buggy.
Two soldiers jawing and elbowing each other dipped their hats to the lady walking in front of her.
A spittoon and a stoop. A good spot for observing. Morning Fawn stopped to let the soldiers pass.
“Watch what you’re doing, boy.” An oversized man in a checkered suit clipped her shoulder as he hurried by.
Morning Fawn dropped down on the stoop, puffed out her cheek, and spit into the tin spittoon. Rubbing her grimy hands on her trousers, she chanced a glance across the street.
Devon and Frieda were on the move again, strolling toward the end of town which contained the depot and warehouse, and beyond that, the train station.
Walking as if they had all the time in the world, they leaned their heads toward one another, Devon’s mouth close to Frieda’s hair.
Whispering? Lost in each other. How had she ever dreamed that could be him and herself?
Because he’d led her to believe it might so.
Morning Fawn glowered. Served her right for believing him and for thinking she might actually have a home amongst these people.
And Nick Moyer? Could she endure him for the sake of the land?
She didn’t belong here. She rubbed her palm on her scratchy wool trousers.
The clothes were perfect. And she had a saddlebag of picnic food.
She could stretch it out for a few days.
Now would be the perfect time to escape.
Her best chance ever. Once they realized she was missing, they’d look for her in Alleyton, and they’d be looking for a girl in a dress.
A hard smile wormed its way across her lips. She could get to Dallas or Fort Worth, but eventually, she’d need money for food and a gun. She’d need work. The clothes would help with that. Maybe she’d even chop off her hair. Safer, traveling in disguise as a boy.
She glanced at the western horizon, or at least where it should be if it weren’t blocked by a cluster of wooden hovels trying to pass themselves off as a town.
She’d traveled on the plains alone for a day and a night.
She could hunt and track, and she’d even fought to help protect the children when her band had been attacked by Apaches.
Better to risk the unknown than to be turned into a parlor princess or chase after a man who didn’t appreciate her.
But her stupid heart tugged her gaze back to the man with the forked tongue. Devon and Frieda blended with the passersby, almost out of sight at the far end of the plank walkway.
Morning Fawn stood and ran across the street.
A carriage driver yanked on his reins and yelled at her. Thankfully, Devon and Frieda didn’t turn around. She half stumbled in the too-big boots that scraped against her heels and jammed her toes into the wads of cotton stuffed in the ends.
Hitching her trousers, Morning Fawn made her way down the boardwalk.
She smacked another tear from her cheek.
She couldn’t leave East Texas without Devon knowing his skunky ways had been discovered.
She wouldn’t confront him in these clothes.
No, she’d dress in her fanciest gown, flirt openly with Moyer, and put that weasel lieutenant in his place.
There’d be time enough for running off later, when the LeBeaus least expected it.
She’d procured the horse and clothes once. She could do it again.
A passing soldier frowned at her. She coughed and spit on the sidewalk for good measure.
Two blocks ahead, Devon and Miss Perfect turned the corner at the warehouse toward the train station. Morning Fawn headed between the warehouse and the quartermaster’s depot.
“Boy, where do you think you’re going?” A corporal marched over, chest puffed out.
She scuffed her feet and lowered her voice. “Fetching river stones. My pa’s working on Mr. Moyer’s place. Said I’d better have them back quick, or I’d be whipped.” She tipped her head upward but not enough to show her face beneath the shadow of her hat. “You got a wheelbarrow I can borrow?”
“I don’t have time for your sorry story or to be doing your work for you.” A cigar stump wiggled between his teeth. “Get on out of here and fetch your own rocks. Be quick about it.”
“Yes, sir.” She saluted and hauled off between the buildings.
“Fool kid,” he called behind her.
Not a kid. Just a foolish girl in love with a man who couldn’t be trusted.
Devon’s stomach felt as if he were still crossing the Gulf of Mexico from New Orleans to Brownsville. No rolling waves today, just the turmoil in his heart. He couldn’t wait for this mission to be over, and to be done with pretense.
Frieda bit her lip. “Perhaps, we should stop somevhere and act like you’re fixing my shoe. That’d give us a chance to take a more thorough look.”
“Good idea.” The corners of his mouth edged upward. She had a knack for subterfuge. But he wasn’t dull enough to believe the glow in her cheeks had anything to do with cotton and sabotage.
A mosquito buzzed near his ear. He slapped at it. The weather hadn’t gotten cold enough yet to kill them off for the winter.
Devon guided Frieda beyond the platform and over a set of tracks, then another, mindful of her slower step. “Let’s wait till we get past the roundhouse. We’ll find a stump or discarded rail to sit on.”
A freight worker, in his shirt sleeves and scruffy trousers, took a gander at them.
Devon nodded to the man, then gave Frieda a playful bump with his shoulder. “Best play it up a little more, sweetheart.”
“Of course, darling.” Frieda twirled her fringed reticule on her arm. “You always know best.” She cuddled closer, teetering in the process.
A handful of workers hustled between tasks at the roundhouse.
The spare steam engine towered in its domain like a sleeping dragon ready to spring to life if given a meal of coal in its belly.
At the loading docks, men hauled crates from the quartermaster’s depot, fresh supplies for the troops back east in western Louisiana.
Devon had memorized the train schedule. One should arrive in less than an hour, bringing more cotton to the bulging warehouse and carrying away goods.