Brides of Texas (13 page)

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.”

W
hen 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.”

“You didn’t have any of these animals in Scotland?”

“Skunks, armadillos, and opossums are all American creatures.”

“Was it hard to give up all you’d known and come so far from home?”

“ ’Twas equal parts anticipation and fear. Losing Da on the way near broke my heart—but my brothers…” He tucked more beans in the sack. “We’re here together. That’s what counts.”

“And so now you make a new home.”

Rob winked at her. “And we built one, too. Chris is proud of that house. Dinna e’er take exception to his grumbling. He takes a secret pride in finding ways to complain just so we can admire it aloud all over again. Remember those scalloped shingles for part of the clapboarding? Just last night, he stood in the yard and complained that our house has more scales than a fish.”

Finally, a smile chased across her face and brightened her eyes. “You must tell him something. He isn’t a Scotsman any longer. By telling such a tall tale, he proved he is now a Texan. That means it is not just a house; now it is a home, for this is where you will all stay. Texans never want to leave.”

“So you’re stuck with us forever.” As soon as he spoke the thought, Rob practically dropped the harvesting bag.
I almost said “me” instead of “us.” How can it be
? Just as quickly, the answer struck him with blinding clarity.
Da was right. He warned me I’d close off my feelings so I wouldna feel my patients’ pain. All along, I’ve struggled with keeping my distance from Mercy. More and more, what she needed and wanted mattered to me. The reason—†tis plain as can be. Over these months I’ve lost my heart to the lass, and I didna even know it
.

Reluctantly, Mercy shut the hymnal and got up from the piano stool. Ever since the doctor pointed out how she’d been using music to talk to God, she’d found great solace in singing, playing, or even humming. Then, too, the psalms of David suddenly took on a whole new meaning. He’d been sorely troubled often in his life, yet he’d used his psalms and played his harp to tell God how he felt.

The spicy scent of pumpkin permeated the house. Pumpkins with stems would store well for a long while, but those without stems tended to spoil. She’d baked three pies and six loaves of pumpkin bread and had roasted pumpkin seeds. Tomorrow she and Carmen would make pumpkin marmalade and can puree.

Puree
. Mercy stared out the window.
When do babies start eating food like that
?

Peter burst through the door.

Mercy automatically called out, “Wipe your feet!” Stubby scampered past her. She heaved a sigh and swept up the pup. “Peter, you know the rule. You must train—” Her voice died out as Grossvater shouldered past Peter to ease something through the door. He took a few steps into the house, then set the oak piece on the floor. A light push set the cradle into a gentle rock.

“There!” Grossvater nodded approvingly. “It is still as good as it was when I made it to hold your own papa.”

Mercy started to shake as the runners rocked a rhythm of impending doom.

Grossvater wound his arm around her. “The day I finished this and gave it to your grandmother, we put it by our bed. Each morning, we stood beside it and prayed for a healthy child and that we would be good parents. I will stand beside you, Mercy. We will pray those same things.”