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.”
He pushed up out of the chair. “Yes, I need to ask your father to find out if someone in the Unionist German league knows about steam engines. I thought of another idea while I was sitting out freezing last night.”
The preacher had already started with his sermon by the time Devon eased the door open and crept into the church, hat in hand. A few heads turned from the rear rows. A little boy facing backwards in the pew waved before his mother poked him and made him turn around.
The back seat was empty. True to her word, Morning Fawn sat next to her aunt in the family pew, second row from the front. No Nick Moyer. That was the fox’s loss. The bench contained Thea, a balding fellow he’d seen before, Morning Fawn, her aunt, and a couple of others. But Morning Fawn was on the aisle end.
The corners of Devon’s mouth curved upward as he tapped his hat to his leg. What he should do was sit in the back and try to grab a couple of minutes with her on the way out. But that wouldn’t make an impression.
The wide-plank floor creaked beneath his muddy boots as he moved toward the front. The kind-faced preacher raised an eyebrow but kept reading from the Bible about Samuel going to anoint David. A lady in a bluebird bonnet shot him a scowl. Two of the gossips from last week took to whispering. Had it only been a week?
Morning Fawn glanced over her shoulder, then turned halfway around, her straw hat almost swatting the man behind her who sat too far forward. Her eyes lit, not with warmth, but something harder. Her lips twitched. Maybe there was a momentary shadow of an almost-smile, but it was quickly vanquished and replaced by another look that made him feel as if he were a puppy dog begging for entrance at her back door.
He threw back his shoulders and proceeded. He would not beg.
On the other side of Mrs. LeBeau, Thea glared over at him when he reached the pew opening, her countenance as welcoming as a petrified tree. Her mother’s startled expression wasn’t any better. The balding man glanced around as if he had no clue of what to do.
A few murmurs rippled through the rows.
Devon nodded to the preacher, mouthed “Sorry, sir,” and stepped in, his boot brushing Morning Fawn’s hem. She rolled her eyes and turned back to the front. Ruffled up like some chicken in a barnyard, Mrs. LeBeau looked as if she didn’t know whether to peck or squawk.
He wedged himself into the too-small opening between Morning Fawn and the solid oak pew arm. She snapped her skirts tight against her thigh, scooting no more than five or six inches toward her aunt, forcing him to choose between having his hip pressed against the wood or her. For propriety’s sake, he chose the former.
Devon puffed his cheeks out in a slow exhale as he settled in. He might as well have sat down in a cactus patch.
