Brides of Texas

by Hake, Cathy Marie

  Chapter 2

  Chris didn’t believe his eyes. He reacted out of sheer reflex and caught the poor girl as she flew toward him. After he set her to the side, he automatically spun back around. “That’s more than enough!”

  “Shuddup. Ain’t none of your affair.” The storekeeper sneered at the lass and took a menacing step toward her.

  Chris stepped between them and growled, “Don’t.”

  “This here is my place.”

  “Owning a place doesna give you license to harm anyone.” Chris slowly closed his hands into fists. Hepplewhite might be big, but none of it was muscle. His eyes narrowed and the veins in his neck bulged—both telltale signs of a building temper.

  “Get outta here,” Hepplewhite sneered.

  Chris didn’t budge an inch, but when the storekeeper threw the first punch, Chris didn’t hesitate to defend himself. A left to Hepplewhite’s middle and a right uppercut to his jaw dropped the man like a ton of bricks.

  “Miss Wren, are you all right?” Chris turned back in time to see her try to readjust her spectacles, only to find they were mangled from Mr. Hepplewhite’s smack. Tears filled her eyes, making them look like the flowers Carmen called lobelias. If her tears weren’t enough, a big red handprint, complete with rapidly growing welts, painted her cheek.

  “Oh no!” she whimpered.

  “You’re white as a sun-bleached bone. Let’s sit you down. I’ll go get a wet rag to press to your face. Come on, sit here in this chair before you swoon.” He gently cupped her elbow and led her to a battered cane chair. The poor woman’s knees gave out on her, and he caught her in the nick of time. Easing her onto the seat, Chris couldn’t help but note how thin she was.

  The whole while, Ella Mae Tolliver screeched at an ear-splitting level. Chris gave her a nasty look and snapped, “Hush up and get out your smelling salts.”

  “I’m not about to aid that…that…trollop. I’m not going to help a murderer, either!”

  “He’s not dead. Dump water over him, and he’ll come to.”

  The door burst open, and the sheriff entered with his pistol drawn. “What’s going on in here?”

  “That man,” Ella Mae screamed as she pointed at Chris, “tried to kill my cousin!”

  Having turned two prisoners over to the sheriff this morning, Chris reported, “He struck Miss Wren, continued to pose a threat, then took a swing at me. Self-defense.”

  “Now what did you do, Wren?” the sheriff asked in an exasperated tone as he holstered his weapon.

  “She did nothing at all,” Chris asserted.

  The sheriff glanced at the tiny woman’s face and grimaced. “He got you pretty good this time.”

  “This time?” Chris roared as his blood went from a heavy simmer clean into a rolling boil. The poor wisp of a woman didn’t deserve even one smack—how could any man ever raise a hand to a woman? And from the sound of it, this wasn’t anything new.

  Miss Wren deserved her unusual name. Plainly dressed in a mud-brown day gown and wearing her ordinary brown hair scraped back in a schoolmarm bun, she seemed as dull and dreary as a common wren. Even the bright yellow tape measure she wore looped over her neck seemed to fade and droop.

  Dark moons hovered beneath her eyes, and she bit her lower lip—most likely to keep from crying. Chris felt an odd need to shelter the little wren from the storm. He scowled at the sheriff. “This woman deserves protection.”

  Wren’s lids lowered in shame, and she leaned away from the sheriff’s touch. Once his hand dropped, she dipped her head. Chris watched how badly her hands shook as she tried to fix her mangled eyeglasses. Something deep inside him twisted. He paced across the worn plank floor, snatched a red bandanna from a display stack, shoved a dipper to the side of a tin water bucket, and dunked the cloth inside. After wringing it out, he hunkered down by Wren and gently reached up to press its cool dampness to the fire in her cheek.

  She threw up her arm in an instinctively defensive move and flinched.

  Chris wrapped his hand around her stick-thin wrist and slowly lowered it back into her lap as he made a soft sound of reassurance. Folding the bandanna so another cool surface was available, he ordered in a tone milder than a spring breeze, “Miss Wren, you’d best go on and hold this to your face. It has to be paining you a fair bit.”

  Once she took the cloth, Chris rose and glowered at the sheriff. “The man flat out assaulted her.”

  “Oh, he had cause!” The old battle-ax pointed at Wren. “She only got what she deserved—could’ve gotten more and had no cause to whine. My cousin took her in out of the goodness of his heart. He lets her work here and even feeds the girl. She got fresh mouthed.”

  The sheriff scratched his shoulder. “It strains a man’s imagination thinkin’ Wren could muster even a few fresh words.”

  Hepplewhite started to rouse. He groaned and rolled onto his side before struggling to his feet. Rubbing his jaw, he cursed vividly. “He done went an’ busted me in the chops. Go stick him in the jailhouse!”

  “Can’t. You struck Wren, and then you threw the first punch at him.”

  Mr. Hepplewhite turned on Wren. “I put up with more’n enough, gal. Git out. Now.”

  Wren’s mouth twisted as she cried out.

  Git, I say!”

  The sheriff sighed. “Wren, he owns the place. Go on and gather up everything that belongs to you.”

  “She ain’t takin’ a thang! I git a third of everything she sews, seein’ as it’s my place, but she ain’t paid this week.”

  “You owe her for cooking and cleaning,” Chris gritted. “Call it even.”

  “I don’t owe her a cent.”

  “That wasn’t the agreement you made with her,” the sheriff growled. “We all thought you gave her a wage for her extra work.”

  “Thangs change.”

  “That does it,” Chris said. “Miss Wren, do you have any kin?”

  “Only a stepbrother. I haven’t seen him in years.”

  “Fine.” Chris gently flipped over the compress and set it back in place. “Let’s send him a telegram.”

  Hopelessness tainted her voice. “I don’t know where he is.”

  Poor woman. He looked to the sheriff. “Where else can she go?”

  Ella Mae simpered, “No decent folk are going to take her in.”

  Mr. Hepplewhite held his jaw and snorted. “Told ya. Folks have dirty minds. All of ’em think you an’ me—”

  “Say one more word—” Chris snarled. He didn’t need to finish his threat. Hepplewhite shut up, but the damage was done.

  The blood drained from Wren’s face, making her horrified expression all the more stark.

  Chris glanced at the sheriff, his eyes asking an unvoiced question.

  “Ain’t much I can do. Hepplewhite’s been drinkin’ like a trout, an’ he’s been tellin’ tales.”

  “Don’t even think to ask me to take her in. I’ve got children. No scarlet woman is going to taint my home!”

  The sheriff heaved a sigh. “Now, Ella Mae, you just heard your cousin. He’s just been spreadin’ lies—”

  “She’s opened herself to lurid speculation. I won’t have men riding out to my place because they figure they’ll have a turn with her.” Mrs. Tolliver disappeared behind the screen and reappeared a few minutes later. She tossed the golden dress onto the floor. “I don’t want this, after all.”

  As the sharp-tongued woman sailed out the door, Wren bowed her head.

  “Miss Wren,” Chris said as he tilted her face up to his, “go on and get packed. I’m taking you out of here.”

  Flinching again from his touch, she wailed, “You lost me my job!”

  “No, Songbird. I freed you from slavery.”

  She eased away from him as she rose unsteadily.

  Chris looked her over slowly, taking in her mussed hair, trembling lips, and shy, deep blue eyes. He saw how her shoulders squared with pride, just as he noted her breaths came far too fast and choppy to indicate she felt s
ure of herself or her situation. She held her clasped hands right at the base of her ribs, and her knuckles were white.

  Chris clenched and unclenched his fists as he realized this defenseless woman had the tiniest waist he’d ever seen. Her drab dress hid her assets, and he began to wonder if she hadn’t planned the effect.

  “Old Pickersly’s wagon.” The sheriff shifted from one boot to the other. “It ought to last long enough to get you to a new place. Don’t know what to suggest about an animal to pull it.”

  Chris tamped down a moan. The last thing he needed was to be saddled with a helpless female. Then again, he couldn’t turn his back on her. Mercy could probably use some help. I’m on my way home anyway.

  He locked eyes with the sheriff. “Miss Wren will come with me. I’ll find her a good placement—safe and happy.”

  “Wren, this is Chris Gregor. He’s—” Chris gave him a slight warning shake of the head, and the sheriff recovered. “Believe me, I know plenty of his friends, and they’re all fine men. Real fine men. The very best. You’ll be safe as can be with him. He’ll make sure you land on your feet somewhere. I’d trust him with my life.”

  “But Sheriff! I’ve never even met Mr. Gregor and—”

  “Now, Wren, some situations you have to look at as being put into motion by the hand of the Almighty. You can’t very well stay in these parts. Things just aren’t workin’ out. What with Mr. Hepplewhite spreading lurid tales, you’ll not be safe here.”

  Wren flushed deeply but still managed to whisper, “I’m not a woman to follow a stranger out on the open trail.”

  “No one in their right mind would ever figure you and Gregor were…ah, misbehaving.”

  “But they thought Mr. Hepplewhite and I were!”

  The sheriff frowned at her. “Consider the caliber of man you’re dealing with, Wren.”

  “I’m not able to! I’ve never met him before.”

  “He’s good friends with several of my buddies. That’s the best recommendation you’ll ever get.”

  Wren looked at Chris’s face. She stared with great intensity, a fact that surprised him since she’d been so timid until now. Uncertainty painted her unremarkable features.

  Chris no more than decided the woman was being rude when he realized her eyes looked cloudy. She couldn’t focus well enough to scan him for a polite instant. “Miss Wren, I’ll help you get spectacles straight off. It’ll make you feel better, seeing where you’re headed and what’s going on.”

  “There you are, Wren.” The sheriff absently helped himself to a fistful of gumdrops. “Mr. Gregor’s got things well in hand. And now you’ve got that buckboard. It simplifies the move.”

  “She ain’t goin’ till she pays up!”

  “That’s more than fair.” Chris nodded sagely. “And we’ll make sure she gets what you owe her, too.”

  “Me? I don’t owe her one red cent. She owes me rent!”

  “Rent?” The sheriff reared back. “She cooks for you in return for her space here. I was here when you came to that agreement.”

  “I told you thangs change. She ain’t all that good a cook.”

  The sheriff studied a red gumdrop. “Church socials and such—I’ve eaten what she made. Only woman around who can hold a candle to her is my wife. Wren, did you get paid for the weeks you minded the store when pleurisy laid up Mr. Hepplewhite? Or all the times he’s busy and tells you to help customers?”

  She shook her head.

  He popped the gumdrop into his mouth and frowned at a black gumdrop. “What about all the dustin’ and sweepin’ and window washin’ you do? You get paid for that?”

  “No,” she said in a shaky tone. She took a deep breath. “He’s demanded one-third of my commissions, too.”

  Chris kept silent.

  “Well, Wren, that seems fair enough to me. After all, he’s got a stake in the project—it bein’ his fabric and all.” The sheriff flicked aside the black gumdrop and popped a half dozen other gumdrops into his mouth.

  “I have to pay him for everything I use at the outset.”

  While the sheriff choked on the gumdrops, Chris took a menacing step toward Hepplewhite. “It’s plain to see the woman owes you nothing. Sheriff, you’re the law around here. What do you estimate this gentleman owes the lady?”

  “Plenty. Cabin next to Wren’s belonged to Pickersly. He kicked the bucket last week. Buckboard’s a sorry sight, but it’ll make one last trip. Go hitch it up, and I’ll make sure Wren gets what she needs to start a new life. Wren, run along home and pack your belongings.”

  “She needs spectacles first.” Chris scanned the mercantile.

  “Ain’t got none.” Hepplewhite glowered.

  Chris threaded her hand into the crook of his arm. “I’ll escort you home. We’ll get you glasses as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  When he stopped at the door to the place she lived in, Chris felt a spurt of gratitude that she couldn’t see his grimace. The place was no more than a shack. When she opened the door, he fought the urge to slam the door shut and set a match to the place. The only furniture was a single chair by the window. She slept on a pallet on the floor.

  “I won’t take long, Mr. Gregor.”

  There’s an understatement. “I’ll hitch the wagon and load things up.” In the few minutes he used to hitch the wagon, Wren bundled her meager possessions into a blanket. Chris silently placed it in the buckboard and drove up to the front of the mercantile.

  “You’re robbin’ me blind!” Hepplewhite whined at the sheriff as they entered.

  The sheriff slammed down the lid of a trunk. He kicked Hepplewhite’s leg out of his path and sneered, “Servants get room and board and wages for their work. Clerks earn a salary, and renters don’t have to give back anything more than a percentage. To my way of thinking—legal-like, you know—you owe that gal a whole year’s wages for two jobs. Thin as she’s gotten, you ain’t fed her much, neither. Count yourself lucky all I’m doing is taking it out in goods and not takin’ it outta your sorry hide.”

  Chris helped him heft the trunk and load it into the buckboard. “What’s in this?”

  “Kitchen stuff—silverware, coffeepot, skillet, and such. Spices, towels…Oh, I put in some soap and a washboard, too.”

  It would take three days to get home. “She’s going to need a warm blanket or two.”

  “Reckoned as much. We’ll use them around the sewing machine to protect it.”

  The heavy machine would weigh them down. Chris shook his head. “Hepplewhite’s cheated and mistreated her, but sewing machines are costly.”

  “I own the machine.”

  No wonder she doesn’t have much else to her name. “Then we’ll take it.”

  The sheriff motioned to a pair of young men. They came over, and he ordered them to load up the machine. He grinned at Chris. “The thing weighs a ton.”

  Chris watched as Wren tucked shears, a pincushion, and sundry other sewing notions into a small box. She’d need fabric or money to start up shop somewhere. He’d rather it be money. “Sheriff, how much do you estimate Hepplewhite still owes?”

  “I kept tally of what I packed. Including the trunk, the total’s just shy of twelve bucks.”

  “While I was in Chicago, I heard some of the lasses from a factory talking. Until May, they earned almost seven dollars a week. Since Black Friday and the market’s drop, it’s been cut to just under three.” Chris yanked a strip of brown paper from the wrapping roll and started scribbling. “How long have you worked here, Miss Wren?”

  “Since May of last year.”

  Chris worked out the arithmetic. “Twelve months at seven bucks, and three more at three comes to ninety-three dollars.”

  “I been feeding her and giving her space!”

  “Which is why she cooked for you.” Chris stared at Hepplewhite. In a matter of seconds, the man started squirming and blustering. “You took advantage by taking part of her commissions and exacting a
ll sorts of labor. I willna allow her to take what she didna earn, but she’s leaving here fairly compensated. Subtracting the twelve dollars’ worth of goods already out in the wagon, you need to give the lass eighty-one dollars.”

  “I don’t have that kind of money!”

  In the end, Wren had fifty-three dollars in her reticule and a wagonload of fabric, lace, and every sewing folderol ever invented. She went to the back room and returned with her arms heavily laden.

  Mr. Hepplewhite erupted from his chair and tried to grab the clothing she carried. “Oh no! You can’t take those! I’m selling them!”

  Chris tensed, ready to spring into action, but Wren surprised him. She held tight to the clothes. “You wouldn’t allow me to take deposits at all, and none of these garments was paid for. They’re rightfully mine. I’ll need samples of my work when I begin anew elsewhere.”

  “Git outta here and don’t come in for one more thing!”

  “I’ll be back in just a sneeze. I still have several garments back there.”

  Chris smoothly unburdened her and shoved them into the sheriff’s arms. “I’ll help you go get the other clothes, Miss Wren.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gregor.” She gave him a nervous smile and sidled closer.

  Wren carefully selected a shirt before stepping back to allow the men to tie the clothing beneath one of her quilts in the buckboard.

  Since she was out of earshot, Chris murmured, “The poor thing’s scared of her own shadow!”

  “She’s got a nervous constitution. Sorta shy, too, but she’s helped out here and there when one of the ladies had a young’un or someone took sick.”

  “Why didn’t anyone help her out? It’s plain to see he’s mistreated her.”

  “Hepplewhite’s richer than just ‘bout anyone else in the county. Most everyone’s had a bad time, what with the depression and drought. They all owe him big money on their accounts. Wren never complained. I tried to get her to talk a few times, but she’d just go real quiet.”

  “Was he just boasting, or do you think he’s…hurt her?”

  “Not a chance. Get a few beers in Hepplewhite and he lies about everything.”

  The lady tied on a sunbonnet and handed the sheriff a shirt she’d kept aside. “Thank you.”