by Amanda Cabot
Sarah felt a flush of pleasure color her cheeks. The steady ache in her leg hardly mattered when compared to the undeniable satisfaction of knowing she was useful. It was the first time in her life that she’d worked for wages, and while there was nothing glamorous about helping women select thread or pointing men toward the barrels of nails, it brought her more pleasure than playing a perfectly executed Chopin prelude or creating another still life watercolor.
Sarah’s smile faded as Isabelle continued. “Truly, it was God’s hand that brought you to Ladreville.”
“I thought it was Austin’s letters.” Perhaps if she turned it into a joke, Isabelle would cease what Sarah thought of as her “God talk.” The young woman’s unfortunate need to share her beliefs with Sarah was the one cloud in an otherwise sunny workplace.
“Who do you think was responsible for those letters?” Though Isabelle’s words were soft, there was no doubt they were deeply felt. “I heard Austin say God meant you to be the Canfield bride.”
Austin and his God had been wrong. The journey Sarah had begun, believing marriage to a lyrical Texas rancher was the solution to her and Thea’s problems, had ended with every hope dashed. There would be no wedding, for there was no bridegroom. There would be no happy ending in Ladreville, for Sarah and Thea were as alone as they’d been in Philadelphia. “There won’t be a Canfield bride now.”
Knowing there was nothing to be gained by arguing with Isabelle, Sarah tried to shift the conversation. “What was Austin like?” Perhaps it was foolish, like probing an open wound, but Sarah wanted to learn more about the man she had promised to marry.
“He resembled Clay, but—unlike Clay—I never saw Austin without a smile.” Isabelle’s own face was somber. “He didn’t always agree with people; in fact, he got into more than his share of arguments, but Austin could usually find a way to convince folks that his way was the right way.”
“And yet someone killed him.” Sarah took a deep breath, trying to block the image of a man who looked like Clay lying on the ground, a bullet in his chest. How she hated guns! Her father had used one when he had ended his life and Mama’s. She took another deep breath in an attempt to eradicate memories of that night from her mind, though she knew they were indelibly etched. “Austin’s death seems so senseless.” As senseless as her parents’. Papa was a clever man. Surely he could have found a way to rebuild their fortune. Surely he should have realized how defenseless he was leaving her and Thea.
Isabelle shook her head slowly, and for a second Sarah feared she’d read her thoughts. But when Isabelle spoke, she was referring to Austin. “The Bible teaches us to trust that good can come out of even the worst of days. Do you remember the story of Joseph?” Without waiting for Sarah’s reply, Isabelle continued. “His brothers were so jealous of him and his coat of many colors that they sold him into slavery. No one could claim that was anything other than evil, and yet good came from it. Joseph was able to save many people—including his own family—during the great famine. He wouldn’t have been in Egypt—and he couldn’t have done that—if his brothers hadn’t tried to hurt him.”
Though it had been a long time since Sarah had read the Bible, she remembered that story. It was one her mother had told her when she’d been a small child. At the time, it had seemed a wonderful tale. Today it did not. “As I recall, it took many years before the good things happened. I can’t wait that long.” She doubted Clay could, either. The man had suffered so much.
No benefit could come from Austin’s death, just as there could be no good outcome from her father’s sins. Because of Papa, two people were dead, and Sarah and Thea’s lives had been changed irrevocably. She could not undo that. All she could do was hope that they’d traveled far enough to escape the shame. She would be careful that no one in Ladreville ever learned what had happened last September. That way Thea would not suffer ostracism.
Sarah shifted on the stool, trying to find a comfortable position at the same time that she sought another topic of conversation. Speaking of Austin had done nothing to deflect Isabelle’s fervor. The way she spoke of God and the way she acted made it seem as if he were a real person, a part of her daily life, not someone who resided in a church and was to be worshiped once a week. Sarah had never met anyone who acted that way about God, and it made her uncomfortable.
“Is it always this warm?” Mama had claimed that the weather was a safe subject.
Isabelle gave Sarah a long look, her expression telling Sarah she recognized the ploy and was ignoring it. “I don’t mean to preach,” Isabelle said with a self-deprecating smile, as if she realized how often she’d done exactly that, “but faith is what has helped me through difficult times. When we were . . .” She bit off her words as the door opened.
The man who entered the store stood a few inches shorter than Clay, with broader shoulders and more heavily muscled arms. When he removed his hat, revealing hair that was almost as dark brown as his eyes, something about him tugged at Sarah’s memory. That was odd, for she knew she’d never met him.
“Good morning, David.” Isabelle’s voice was once again cheerful. Whatever she had been on the verge of revealing had been relegated to the recesses of her mind. She gave Sarah a questioning look. “Have you met?” When Sarah shook her head, Isabelle began the introductions. “May I present David Bramble?”
As Isabelle pronounced the name, Sarah realized why the man had seemed familiar. Now that she knew to look for it, the resemblance to his mother was clear. Though his face had more masculine contours, David had inherited Mary’s nose and chin.
“I reckon it’s my pleasure, Miss Dobbs,” he said when the formalities were complete. “Ma claimed you was the prettiest gal to enter Ladreville in a long time, and she don’t exaggerate.” David gave Sarah an appraising look before he added, “It’s plain as the rattles on a snake why Austin picked you for his bride.”
Sarah bristled, even though she suspected he meant the words as a compliment. It wasn’t the first time a man had regarded her as if she were an object for sale. That had happened far too often in the years before Papa’s death when she’d been an eligible heiress, albeit one with a limp. That should not have caused her hackles to rise. Perhaps it wasn’t the appraisal but the subtle alteration in David’s tone when he spoke of Austin, almost as if he begrudged Austin his mail-order bride. Whatever the cause, Sarah felt a moment of discomfort. Mindful of her manners, she bit back the caustic reply that had been on the tip of her tongue, saying only, “I’m deeply indebted to your mother for agreeing to care for Thea.”
“It’s good for her.” There were no undercurrents in David’s voice when he spoke of Mary, simply filial love. “I ain’t seen Ma this happy in a long time.”
As the conversation turned to ordinary things and Sarah’s uneasiness faded, she told herself it had been nothing more than her imagination. Certainly Isabelle appeared to have no reservations about their customer, for she bantered with David, treating him as if he were a friend as well as the source of potential sales, and seemed genuinely regretful when he left.
“Papa will need to order more poplin.” Isabelle made a note as she returned to her seat behind the counter. So far this afternoon had been the busiest of the week, with three women waiting outside when the store reopened after the midday break. They’d soon been joined by half a dozen others, none of whom left with empty arms.
“I was surprised at how many yards Frau Reismueller bought.”
“You’re responsible.” Isabelle chuckled. “When you mentioned that Madame Ladre had chosen that fabric for her new frock, every woman in town wanted it, especially the Germans. Frau Reismueller was probably ensuring that no one else could have a dress with as many flounces as hers.”
“I’m glad to make the sales, but I don’t understand the reasoning behind them.” Far from wanting the same pattern as another woman, when she and Mama had frequented the dressmaker’s shop, they’d been careful to ensure that the bolts of fabric were recent arrival
s and that no one else in Philadelphia would have gowns like theirs.
Isabelle shrugged, as if the logic should be apparent. “Some people call it the curse of Alsace that its citizens came from two countries who’ve been at war more often than not. According to my parents, there have been problems for centuries. Maman and Papa had hoped the differences would be put aside when we emigrated here, but that hasn’t happened.” Isabelle sighed. “In good years, we see nothing more than rivalry between the French and the Germans. Most of the time it’s friendly. People brag about who has the largest crops or who ordered a pianoforte. In bad years, there has been outright hostility with fights. My guess is this is a good year, and Frau Reismueller plans to make a fancier dress than Madame Ladre.”
“Are you boring Sarah with tales of our ancestors’ battles?” The door to the Rousseaus’ residence opened, admitting Léon. Though he’d begun working on Karl Friedrich’s farm, today had been a half day for him, and he’d joined the family for dinner. His refusal to explain the reason he could not work in the store until late afternoon had convinced Isabelle her brother was courting someone, and she’d spent most of the meal teasing him. Now it appeared Léon was returning the favor.
“No, you foolish boy. If you’d listened, you would have realized I was talking about recent events.” She turned to Sarah. “Beware of my brother. He likes to eavesdrop.”
“Only when there’s something interesting to learn. Which, I must admit, is a rare occurrence when you’re concerned.”
As Isabelle made a moue, Sarah grinned. This was a continuation of the sparring that seemed to characterize Léon and Isabelle’s conversations. Unlike the hostilities Isabelle had been describing, the siblings’ taunts were good-natured.
“I always wondered what it would be like to have a brother,” Sarah said. “Now I know.”
“They’re horrible. Truly dreadful pests.” Isabelle winked at Léon.
He twisted his mouth into a grimace. “Little sisters who follow you everywhere and want to play with your friends are the worst creatures God put on this earth.”
Sarah raised an eyebrow, disputing Léon’s assertion that being followed was the worst thing possible. “Did Isabelle ever waken you by trying to pull your eyelids open? That was one of Thea’s favorite tricks.”
As his hands covered his eyes in apparent fear that Sarah might attempt to demonstrate her sister’s technique, Léon groaned. “No.”
“You were fortunate. It took me a full week to teach Thea that a young lady does not do that.”
Extending a hand to his sister, Léon said, “I retract every nasty thing I’ve ever said about you. You’re a perfect sister.”
“And you’re a miracle worker.” The smile Isabelle gave Sarah underscored her words. “Even if he didn’t mean it, I can always remind Léon that he once called me perfect.”
Her brother walked slowly, studying each of the shelves. “All right, perfect sister, what have you and Sarah done with the store? It looks as if I need to restock.”
“If you hadn’t been so busy trying to convince Karl Friedrich he should hire you, you’d know that we’ve had more customers in the past three days than we normally do in two weeks.” The momentary truce was ended, and Isabelle’s voice held a hint of asperity. “I told you and Maman that hiring Sarah would be good for all of us.”
Sarah grinned. “Are you ever wrong?”
“Only about a hundred times a day.”
“If that’s true, I’m Napoleon Bonaparte.” Sarah pretended to slide her hand inside her bodice, imitating the portraits she’d seen of the French emperor.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but you don’t look like Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Sarah blinked at the sight of the newcomer. Surely he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen, blessed with classic features, dark brown hair, and eyes that reminded her of Madame Rousseau’s hot chocolate.
“Of course she’s not Napoleon,” Isabelle declared. Though her expression remained guarded, she slid off her stool and emerged from behind the counter, her hand tugging Sarah’s so that she had no choice but to follow. “Sarah, may I present Jean-Michel Ladre?” No further introductions were necessary, for Isabelle had already explained that this man’s father, Michel Ladre, was the town’s founder, who’d purchased property and water rights from both the Canfields and the Texas government, then convinced a group of Alsatians this was the Promised Land.
Jean-Michel bowed, his courtly gesture more suited to a ballroom than the frontier. “It is my pleasure to meet you, Miss Sarah Dobbs who does not look like Napoleon Bonaparte.” His eyes sparkled with mirth. “You’re even prettier than your picture. Almost as pretty as Isabelle.”
“That’s the first time I’ve heard you speak the truth.” Sarah turned to stare at Léon. Gone was the friendly bantering that had characterized his conversation with Isabelle. This time his words were laced with venom.
Jean-Michel made a show of sniffing the air. “What is that odor? Can it be a skunk? But, no, it is the peasant who works in the fields.”
“Farming is good honest work.” Léon’s face flushed as he defended himself.
“For a German. I should have known to expect nothing more from you. You may bear a French name, but you’re a dirt-digging German at heart.” Jean-Michel gave Sarah a brief bow. “My apologies, mademoiselle. I shall return when we can converse without interruptions.”
“What was that all about?” Isabelle demanded when the door closed behind Jean-Michel. She took a step toward her brother, her eyes flashing with anger. “You started the fight. Why?”
“I don’t trust him, that’s why.” Léon adopted a pugilistic stance. “Last week he was here, making eyes at you, and now he’s doing the same to Sarah. He’s like that old coon dog, always sniffing around.”
Though Sarah expected a vehement reply, to her surprise, Isabelle laughed. “Oh, Sarah, Maman always warned us to be careful what we asked for.” The anger had vanished, replaced by amusement. “You said you wanted a brother. I give you my deepest condolences, for it appears Léon has adopted you.”
Clay paused at the top of the hill, his spirits rising as he recognized the rider fording the river. Though he hadn’t planned to start his questioning today, he couldn’t ignore the opportunity that had just presented itself. Perhaps this was an omen, a good one. It was about time. “Let’s go,” he said to Shadow.
“Good morning, David.” Clay waited until he was close enough not to shout. “How was your trip into town?” He cared not a whit, but only a fool would blurt out the questions that were foremost in his mind.
David grinned. “Mighty fine. I met Miss Dobbs. That is one mighty purty woman. She’ll be a real looker when she gets out of them ugly clothes.” The grin was almost a leer as David added, “I reckon anyone can see why Austin picked her.”
The words shouldn’t have rankled. The truth was, black was not the most becoming color for many women, Sarah included. She needed brighter shades—perhaps the deep pink of a sunrise or the vibrant blue of the Texas sky—to flatter her. But the woman was in mourning. She wore the drab garments for the same reason he was wearing this confounded armband: respect.
Clay tried to bite back his annoyance. There was no point in alienating David, not when he needed answers about something far more important than Sarah’s clothing. But he couldn’t let the insinuation that Austin had been swayed by her beauty stand. “Miss Dobbs’s appearance had no bearing on my brother’s decision. He knew she was the bride he wanted months before he received her miniature.”
Though the hat shaded his eyes, Clay saw his neighbor nod. “Yeah, Austin told me that. He said God had led him to her.”
“The same God who let him be killed.” Clay clenched his fists. “That’s not the God I want in my life.”
David’s head jerked up and he stared at Clay, his expression stern. “I reckon your ma woulda washed your mouth out with soap if she heard you say that.”
“I su
ppose she would have.” His anger faded as quickly as it had flared. “The fact is, Austin tasted soap more often than I did.”
As his horse pawed the ground, eager to move, David let him walk. “That temper of his got Austin in trouble more than once.”
It was the opening Clay sought. Though his heart began to pound, he kept his voice as even as Shadow’s steps. “Is that what happened the night he was killed? Did Austin argue with someone?” Eight men had gathered in the Brambles’ barn for their weekly poker game. Only seven had gone home.
David shook his head. “I don’t reckon nothin’ coulda bothered Austin that night. Fact is, he was happier than I ever seen him. He kept showing us all Sarah’s miniature and talking about how glad he was she was comin’.”
That sounded like an encore of Austin’s supper conversation. Clay hadn’t bothered to do much more than nod at appropriate times. “Something must have happened. After all, someone killed him.”
“It weren’t any of us. Austin left early, but no one else did. The rest of us stayed and had another glass of beer. Truth is, I reckon we were all a little envious of your brother, what with Sarah being so pretty and all.”
Clay didn’t want to hear about beer or even envy. He wanted to know who was responsible for Austin’s death. “The killer had to be a friend or someone he trusted. Austin wasn’t careless. No matter how preoccupied he was with thoughts of his bride, he wouldn’t have let a stranger get close to him.” Some things were instinctive, and in this country, self-preservation was one of them.
David gave him a long look, then turned to stare into the distance. “I reckon you’re not gonna like my advice, but you oughta stop trying to find the killer. It don’t matter what you do; you can’t bring Austin back. Why try? You oughta be thinking about the future. In a couple months, you’ll be out of mourning for Patience. You could marry Sarah then.”
Marry Sarah? What a crazy idea! David was right. Clay didn’t like his advice. Not one bit. He wasn’t going to marry his brother’s fiancée, and he most definitely was not going to abandon his search for Austin’s killer. In fact, he was going to redouble his efforts.
