Chris scowled at Rob. “She’s teasing, right?”
Mercy’s head dipped. “I am not that kind of woman.”
“Hey—I didn’t mean—”
Rob swiped the strudel and set it on the cramped “kitchen” table. “Chris, you’re thinkin’ with your belly instead of your brain. Mercy, you’d think the man’s never eaten a single morsel.”
“Your logic is flawed,” Chris snapped back. “It’s because I’ve eaten Mercy’s strudel that I’m claiming it. She should be flattered by that fine praise.”
“Mercy, Chris is too dense to apologize properly.” Rob tapped the toe of his boot a few times. “But now that Chris has given it consideration, he’s wanting to let you choose another piece of gingerbread for the house.”
“I am not!”
Duncan slapped Chris on the back. “We should have known you’d be in a generous mood, Chris. Mercy, he wants you to choose two.”
Mercy’s head was still bowed. Rob glared at Chris to make him watch his words, then pasted on a smile. Tilting Mercy’s face upward, Rob asked, “So what do you think?”
“I think you Scotsmen are crazy.”
“Not as crazy as my house is going to look,” Chris muttered.
“Our house.” Duncan shoved Chris toward the door.
“I’m going to have the last word,” Chris growled. “Just you wait and see.”
Rob stepped closer to Mercy. Her eyes widened and the pulse at her throat pounded far too fast. I’ve got to teach her she’s safe with me. “I have to tell you something secret.”
Chapter 12
You do?”
He nodded and crooked his finger. She hesitated for a moment, then leaned the tiniest bit closer. Rob cupped his hand and leaned toward her ear. “Chris and I have an agreement.”
Her brows puckered.
“He decided to give all of the gingerbread to Duncan, and I agreed—other than all of the pieces he owes you.”
“Duncan does not know this?” Mercy started to pull away.
Rob closed the space and whispered, “Duncan doesna know yet…but the jest is on Chris. He wasna mindful of his words when we came to the pact. Duncan gets all the gingerbread—but Chris didna think to say where Duncan had to put it.”
Mercy’s lips parted in surprise.
“Whatever this is,” Chris declared as he returned with two large pans, “it smells good.”
“It is not for you.” Mercy scooted past Rob and swiped a pan from Chris.
Chris let go, but he got a fierce look on his face and held fast to the second one. “Why not?”
A smile lifted Mercy’s lips. “Because you do not like gingerbread.”
“I’ve never seen such a mess,” Mercy said that noon.
“Ooch, ’tis true.” Rob wiped his brow. “But ’tis an organized mess. Since Chris has gotten everyone working on a specific portion of the kit, the chaos has ceased.”
Mercy heaved a sigh. “You are a man of science, Robert. An intelligent man. How can you stand in the midst of this madness and hold out any hope that such confusion will build your house?”
“I have faith.”
Mercy gave him a dubious look.
Rob motioned toward the lot. “The frame is almost done, and the external walls are coming along. Suddenly, everything will fit together. Wait and see.”
“Two days. It has been two days, and still, it has so far to go. Do you know that these same men who are helping you all get together and put up an entire barn in just one day?”
“By tomorrow, the bulk of the work will be done. The rest, Chris wants to do on his own. He’s gotten excited by the challenge.”
“Excited? Is that what you call it when he complained about the bay window? Or is excited when he stubbed the toe of his boots against the scalloped shingles for the bottom half of the front wall?”
“Nae, lass. Those moments were just mild irritations. Excited was when he bellowed because you’d bested in that bargain you struck.” Rob chortled softly. “I dinna think Chris will e’er eat strudel again without thinking on how he agreed to put that onion top on the turret instead of the plain cone design he planned on.”
Mercy grimaced. “In truth, Rob, I thought that was all a joke. I did not think your brother took me seriously.”
“It served him right. His greed got the better of him.”
“Are you saying that because he ate that whole strudel all by himself?”
The doctor’s mouth kicked up into a rakish smile. “I’m not going to answer. Just you wait, though—after tomorrow, the house will be well on the way. And better still, after that, Chris will be so busy with constructing the rest, he’ll not be restless and underfoot all the time.”
“Perhaps I should make more bargains with him. Was there any special piece of the gingerbread you liked?”
“Let’s see. You have the fan at the apex of the eaves, the onion top on the turret, and the bay window…and there’s the fish scale clapboards in the middle third of the front…and the spindled veranda.”
“Don’t forget the pretty scrolled gingerbread in the upper corners of the windows.”
“I couldn’t forget that.” The doctor’s grin grew wider still. “That was when Chris started moaning that the place was going to wind up looking more like a wedding cake than a house.”
“I think you are enjoying this,” Mercy accused.
“And I think, Mercy Ellen Stein, that you are a very smart young woman.” The doctor walked off, calling, “Chris, Mercy and I were just talking…”
Chris let out a groan that sounded over all the hammering.
“What a pretty new apron!” Carmen greeted from her veranda.
“Thank you.” Good manners demanded Mercy acknowledge the compliment, even though she’d hoped no one would notice her apron. Instead of the bibbed, tie-in-the-back aprons she’d always worn, this one reminded her of a pretzel. The front hung from neck to hem, but the back pieces swooped up to the opposite shoulders. Instead of accentuating a slender waist, this one was meant to hide a tummy that now bulged outward.
“Everything’s ready.” Carmen hobbled down the walkway. “Duncan Gregor brought over canning jars last night.”
“Good.” Relief flooded Mercy. She didn’t want to have to walk down the street and into the mercantile. Ever since the week of threshing, people had changed. The women didn’t avoid or shun her anymore—but they took pains to avoid the topic of childbearing, babies, and child-rearing. That left awkward silences and tense moments whenever Mercy was around.
Her hand slid into her apron pocket. The doctor’s little red book was there. Every couple of weeks, he’d slip it to her. She’d pore over the pages at night in her room. Each time she returned the book, Mercy felt as if she’d lost a friend. Every time the doctor left it in her keeping, solace blanketed her.
“What are you daydreaming about?”
“Oh!” Mercy jumped. A thought flashed through her mind. “I cannot remember if I took the iron off the stove.”
“In this heat, you shouldn’t be ironing anything other than Sunday-best clothes.” Carmen linked arms with her and started dragging her across the street.
“This is the wrong way,” Mercy said in a wry tone.
“I suppose I’d better warn you, we have more to do than we’d planned on.”
“Why is that?”
“The doctor’s been paid for several accounts in the past week.”
“I see.”
Carmen giggled. “Mercy, you’re too nice. Ismelda’s been moaning all morning about it.”
“She decided she liked the pickles we made last time with the cucumbers.”
“But this time, it’s—well, you just have to see this for yourself.” Carmen led her around the side of the doctor’s office to the yard between it and the fancy new house as she whispered, “I didn’t want to miss this.”
Mercy took a look and started to shake.
It would be rude to laugh. Truly, it would. Mercy
covered her mouth and pretended to muffle a cough while she marshaled her self-control.
Duncan stopped poking at the armadillo and rapped on it with his knuckles. “ ’Tis like a knight’s armor.”
“There’s got to be a chink in it. Every defense has a weakness,” Chris declared as he rolled the creature over.
The doctor came out of the house with every cutting tool ever invented. “Good morning, Mercy! Have you seen them?”
Mercy bit her lip and nodded.
The doctor laid out an ax, a cleaver, four knives, a saw, a scalpel, and a pair of pruning shears. “ ’Tis a most curious beast. The exoskeleton is osseous—reminiscent of a turtle or a crab, but—”
“Rob,” Chris half growled, “hot as ’tis, the beasts are going to cook in their shells if you muse all the morning long about their scientific merits.”
“I doubt the hide’s usable.” Duncan drummed his fingers on the odd-looking beast.
“My grandmother had a purse made from one,” Carmen said. “She used it to carry all of her healing herbs.”
“Very interesting.” Duncan stared at the armadillo more critically. “So how was the shell cut?”
While Carmen and he spoke, Mercy sidled closer to the doctor. She slid her hand into her pocket and fingered the little book, took a deep breath, and passed it to him. Subtle as could be, he tucked it in his pocket.
“I saw Cletus.” The sheriff sauntered up. “He said he paid you four armadillos. Any of them a hairy screamer?”
“Hairy screamer?” Mercy echoed.
The doctor turned his attention on the sheriff. “Are there different varieties?”
“Don’t be so gullible, Rob.” Chris elbowed him. “Connant’s grinning like a fool. This creature is so odd, God wouldn’t have created more than one type. Even Mercy thought ‘hairy screamer’ was absurd.”
“Chris, you’re such a skeptic,” the sheriff said. His grin didn’t fade in the least. He nodded toward the armadillo on the battered wooden table. “Those are good eating. Taste a lot like—”
“Chicken?” Chris inserted in a disbelieving tone. “Have you noticed how everything is supposed to taste like chicken? Snake, for example.”
The sheriff ignored him. “Pork. Armadillo tastes like a nice, juicy pork roast. Funny things, though. They can swim.”
“Texas tall tale,” Chris muttered.
“Texas tales are an important tradition,” Mercy said. “You are supposed to admire them.”
“That’s right,” the sheriff nodded. “But armadillos’ talents don’t stop at swimming. They can jump hip high when they need to.”
The doctor chortled softly. “Aye, Connant. I’m supposing though they’ve wee, stubby legs and claws made perfect for burrowing, they’d far rather jump o’er fences than skitter below.”
“This one’s got the best-looking hide. Let’s butcher one of the others first.” Duncan dropped it down beside the other three.
With a shriek, one of the others jumped astonishingly high and plopped loudly onto the table.
Instantly, the doctor whisked Mercy behind his back. Duncan shouted, and Carmen screamed. Mercy couldn’t see around the doctor’s broad shoulders, and he kept her against his spine in an unyielding hold. “Check the others,” he ordered someone.
The sheriff’s whooping laugh stopped just long enough to declare, “You wouldn’t have believed me if I said they sometimes play dead.”
“Cletus said they were dead,” Duncan said.
“Well, that one is surely dead now,” Chris asserted.
The doctor’s hold eased. In a lithe move, he turned around and held Mercy by her shoulders. “Are you all right, lass?”
She nodded.
“ ’Twas a shock. Let’s sit you down.”
“I’m okay.”
Carmen let out a nervous giggle. “I told you we had to be here, Mercy.”
The sight on the table made Mercy’s brows rise.
Dr. Gregor pivoted to block her view and tugged on her arm. “Come, now. ’Tisna good for you to see such things.”
Mercy looked into his steady eyes. “I think Christopher has been taking lessons from me—from when I kill chickens. But I just use the ax and behead a chicken. Your brother—he used the ax and a knife and—”
“If,” the doctor interrupted as he tried to divert her from what his brother had done, “your fried armadillo tastes half as good as your fried chicken, ‘twill be fine eating, indeed.”
“Oh no.” Carmen shook her head. “Roasted, barbecued, or in a casserole. That’s how they’re cooked.”
“I told you they don’t taste like chicken,” the sheriff groused.
“When you have them butchered, we’ll cook them.” Carmen looked at the creature. “After all, we don’t want to open the oven and have one hop out of the roasting pan.”
“Are you sure?” The doctor searched Mercy’s face.
She nodded solemnly. “Yes. He’d track the drippings across the floor so we couldn’t make gravy.”
Chapter 13
When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me.”
Robert followed the soft alto notes of the plaintive hymn and found Mercy in the field. She wore a cloth bag over her left shoulder and was stooping to pick beans. The fullness of that gathering sack couldn’t hide the distinctly maternal shape of her form.
“Hello.” Rob plucked several beans and slid them into the gathering sack. For the first time, Mercy didn’t reflexively flinch or scoot away to avoid any proximity. He hummed a few bars of the hymn, then picked a few more beans. Without looking at her he said, “The hymn you’re singing—†twas a scant week or so after my ma’s death that I heard it for the first time.”
“I’m sorry. Did I make you sad?”
“Does the hymn make you sad?” he countered.
Her brows puckered. “It is not our way to speak of our feelings.”
“Yet you asked me about my feelings.” He held up a hand to keep her from apologizing. “It didn’t offend me, Mercy. It touched me, knowing my reaction mattered to you. You’ve a tender heart. Knowing that as I do, canna you see how I’d care for your feelings just as you’d care for mine?”
“Sunday, the pastor—he said we must live by faith, not by feelings.”
“Dinna ye think the God who gave us those feelings knows us well enough to understand them? And that He walks beside us e’en in the valleys when the shadows are the darkest?”
She shrugged and continued to pick beans.
“The passage in Ecclesiastes comes to my mind. Recall how it speaks of the different seasons in life? On how there’s a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance? ’Tisna that we’re not to have the feelings. We’re to hold fast to God regardless of the moods of our hearts.”
Her hands slowed. In a barely audible voice, she whispered, “I’m reading my Bible again.”
Again. The lass stopped for a time. The revelation didn’t surprise him, but Rob ached for her. “God will honor your diligence. Aye, that He will. Are ye havin’ a rough time talking to Him?”
Mercy’s eyes grew huge, and tears filled them.
Not waiting so she’d feel pressed to give him an answer, Rob took the gathering bag from her shoulder and slid it onto his own. “Mercy, we’re meant to bear one another’s burdens. Just as surely as I can hold this bag, I can hold you up to the Lord. Indeed, I have been all along. I was remiss in not telling you that afore now.”
Her tears spilled over.
Why didna I think to say anything long ago?
“It’s so hard—praying. I don’t have the words to say.”
“You were talking to the Lord when I arrived. Your soul was reaching toward Him in song because your heart was too muddled to put everything into words.”
“Do you think so?” Anguish tainted her thready voice.
“Aye, that I do. He hears our thoughts. He knows the desires of our hearts. Even when we’re so
burdened all we can manage is to groan or cry, He understands. God is faithful. He abides with you, Mercy Stein.”
On the ride out to the farm, Rob had thought about presenting the possibility of Mercy relinquishing the babe and having the Heims adopt it. Each evening, he’d prayed over that issue, but God hadn’t directed him to say anything yet. Rob looked at her and knew the truth: the lass couldn’t make a wise decision until her heart was spiritually settled. Until then, it would be cruel to say a word.
A thought occurred to him. “Do you remember Peter’s birthday?”
“The fireworks.” She cleared her throat. “You Gregors brought fireworks. They were beautiful.”
“Do you recall us discussing how there was only a half moon and few stars?”
She nodded.
“A good thing, that—the darker the sky, the brighter the fireworks glow. ’Tisna that the fireworks wouldn’t go off just as well on a full moon’s eve, but the contrast wouldna be the same. So, too, in our journey with God—on fair days, the sunlight is all we need to get by, but in the dark of night, if we seek His light, ’tis a thing of rare beauty. You might want to think on that.”
Mercy nodded slowly. They worked in silence for a short time, then she cleared her throat. “Did your brothers tell you? Something is getting into the last of the melons and our pumpkins.”
He chuckled. “Aye, and you ought to hear my brothers discussing how best to trap an armadillo. They took an immediate liking to that meat.”
“They are hoping in vain, because Grossvater showed the tracks to Peter. He said the pest is either a raccoon or a possum. They have front prints that are much alike, but a possum’s rear print is funny—it is because they have something like a thumb back there to help climb trees.”
“So is it a raccoon or a possum?”
Mercy paused a moment. “I don’t recall!”
“Is either of them edible?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I have heard they are, but I have never prepared them, either.”
“I dinna dare ask Connant. He’d take advantage of my ignorance and weave a tale for the ages. After that crazy armadillo jumped and screamed, I’m liable to believe just about anything he’d concoct about these wild animals in America.”
Brides of Texas Page 9