Tonight Rosie ignored both her maid’s uniform and her new Sunday-best dress, instead, returning to the shabby blouse and her worn black skirt. She tugged a black hood closer to her face and headed home.
Few people wandered the streets at this time of night, but this was her San Antonio, a place of quiet and stealth and creatures of darkness. Tucked beneath her cloak she held a heavy bag. This year her neighbors would have a celebration big enough for Christmas in time for Easter. Her bag held plenty of biscuits and eggs and even a few cookies for children who often had nothing at all for breakfast, even on the day Christians celebrated the resurrection of their Savior.
Some might consider what she had done wrong. But the more she heard Nancy and others talk about the new frocks they would wear on Easter Sunday, the more confused Rosie became. The early disciples worried more about taking care of the poor than buying new clothes. Why didn’t her church do the same thing? All she had done was even the resources of the rich and the poor, taking from those who had twice as much—or more—than they needed and giving it to people without anything.
She had invested most of her first week’s pay in a bolt of bright yellow cloth. Working in the semi-dark of her apartment while her mother slept behind a curtain, she cut the cloth into squares and debated how much to give each family. An hour tonight had finished the job. Now she was done. She had made sure the lamps in the hallways of her apartment house had gone out before she began her rounds.
Starting with the first floor, she left a large bundle for a family with eight children and another on the way, and the china for an old widow who had broken all her dishes as her eyesight deteriorated.
Rosie started to ask God to protect the gift from being broken before it could be received. The words stuck in her throat. Could she pray God’s blessing on something she wasn’t entirely sure was hers to give?
As Rosie headed for the staircase, someone opened a door. Rosie hurried away, knowing her black cloak hid her face and revealed nothing about her figure except that she was a woman. Young Freddy Hill traipsed after her. “Hey, miss. Stop, miss! Thank you!” he whispered after her.
Feet speeding at his enthusiastic words, heart pounding at the near miss, Rosie ran downstairs to the street. She waited in her usual hiding place behind the trash bin, where she and Jimmy used to wait for people to throw away something, anything, they could eat. After she decided she had waited long enough, she went inside and worked from the top floor down before returning to the third floor, where her apartment was. Each family received its share of food and dishes, according to their need. Last of all she placed a small bag outside her own door. Since there were only two of them, and Rosie had work, they were in the least need of anyone in this building. But if they didn’t receive a bag, fingers would point straight at Rosie, and she couldn’t afford that.
Once inside, she spread her cloak on the floor next to Ma’s bed, and removed her dress. She intended to pray for each family who’d received a gift as she fell asleep, but her mouth and mind turned numb as soon as she stretched out. In four hours, she would start another full day under Iron Maiden Miller’s nose.
“Rosie.”
Rosie stretched, not wanting to wake to the day.
“Rosie gal. You’d best get to work.” Ma shook her shoulder gently. Round eyes stared at her. “But look what your God provided for us last night. Real butter! And wheat flour! We’ll have a feast on Sunday morning for sure.”
Rosie stretched, a smile wreathing her face as Ma thrust the gift into her hand. “Where did this come from?”
“Someone left it outside our door! Mercy me, I never saw anything like this.”
Ma’s smile brought Rosie to wakefulness, and she forced herself into her maid’s uniform. She only worked a half day on Saturday, and Mrs. Wilkerson gave her staff every other Sunday off to encourage them to go to church. The afternoon was special today, on the day before Easter. She had discussed a plan with Mrs. Braum, who had agreed to help make this celebration of Jesus’ resurrection memorable.
Mrs. Braum called for Rosie as the noon hour approached. Two cartons of brightly colored eggs stood on the table, making her heart proud. When she told her employer that she had never colored boiled eggs, let alone gone on a hunt for them, the teacher took over. Showcasing the energy that made her such a favorite with children year after year, she insisted on organizing a hunt for the children at Rosie’s building. “I’d best see what kind of homes these young ones live in for myself,” she said in her simple way. “Don’t you think?”
Rosie couldn’t deny “her” children the opportunity. She hadn’t expected others to get involved, but in the front hall, she heard a male voice with the rhythm of the open range in it.
Mrs. Braum had enlisted Ranger Owen Cooper to help with the games.
Helping the little ones and encouraging the older ones to hunt for eggs sounded like more fun than Owen had had since the Christmas before last. He had another two dozen eggs sitting in his wagon, compliments of Mrs. Martin, as well as a bag of cookies. “I know the way.” Owen gave his hat to the butler and headed for the kitchen.
Rosie had removed her apron, and her hair was pinned up tighter than he had ever seen it. Tendrils still strayed from their grasp, and pink sang in her cheeks, whether from a day’s hard work or high emotion or both. “The eggs look beautiful, Mrs. Braum.”
“Oh, that was fun.” Smiles wreathed Mrs. Braum’s face like a nightcap. “And Cook let me in the kitchen.” She laughed. “Owen, I’m so glad you could come. I believe you’ve already met Miss Carson.”
Rosie curtsied, an action that seemed out of character for the feisty lady, Owen thought. He extended a hand in welcome. “Good to see you again, Miss Carson.”
She colored at his formal greeting. “Please, it’s Rosie. Just plain Rosie. Especially today, when we’re going to be cavorting about like little children ourselves.”
Mrs. Braum’s laughter accompanied Owen’s smile. “When you put it like that, Rosie.” He winked. “And you must call me Owen.”