Paper Roses

by Amanda Cabot

  “Welcome to Ladreville. I trust your stay here will be pleasant.” As the man who founded the town spoke, Sarah understood why he’d had no problem recruiting emigrants to populate his dream. Monsieur Ladre’s voice was low but compelling, imbuing even a simple greeting with charisma. It appeared that he was what her father would have described as a born leader. It also appeared that he was laboring under a misunderstanding. Sarah was not visiting.

  “You chose a beautiful location for the town.” She accompanied her words with a smile. “This is a fine place for Thea and me to make our home.”

  Madame Ladre gave her son a long look before she returned her gaze to Sarah. “Then Jean-Michel was correct. We thought he’d misunderstood when he said you plan to remain here. After Austin . . .” Her voice trailed off as the townspeople’s frequently did when they spoke of Austin. What could one say to a woman whose fiancé was killed before she’d had a chance to meet him?

  “We plan to stay.”

  “Then I hope you’ll find everything you seek here.” Madame Ladre gave Sarah another appraising look, as if assessing her sincerity. “If there’s anything you require, you need only ask.” She nodded at her husband, but he had turned aside, drawn a few feet away by one of the men who’d been part of the animated conversation in the churchyard corner.

  “It’s time to do something about those Germans,” Sarah overheard the man say. “My best rake was taken right out of my barn last night, and Albert said someone stole his wife’s silver bowl two days ago. I tell you, Mayor, this thievery has got to stop.”

  Michel Ladre frowned. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow. Today is the Sabbath.” He turned toward Sarah and managed a small smile. “I’m sorry you had to overhear that, but even a place as close to heaven as Ladreville has its serpents.”

  If one thing in Ladreville was heavenly, it was Martina’s Sunday dinner. Though all of her meals had been delicious, she had told Sarah that cooking Sunday dinner was her way of giving thanks for her blessings. Today, perhaps because of Sarah’s announcement that Pa Canfield would be joining them, she had made a greater variety of food than last week and had enlisted Miguel’s aid in bringing the bowls and platters to the table. Succulent beef, tender baked potatoes, the lightest biscuits Sarah had ever eaten, and green beans cooked with bacon and a spice she could not identify were accompanied by relishes and salads.

  This was not a meal but a feast, and—judging by the amount of food that had made its way into Thea’s mouth rather than coming to rest on her cheeks—Sarah’s sister was enjoying it as much as she was. So, too, was Clay’s father. Though he normally took his meals in his room, accompanied only by Martina, Sarah had suggested to Clay that he join them for dinner. Clay’s reluctance had been palpable, but something—perhaps the memory of how he’d forbidden her to help his father walk—had caused him to agree.

  “All right. We’ll try it this Sunday.” He nodded slowly. “But only if you agree to call him Pa.” When Sarah had raised an eyebrow, Clay continued his explanation. “I know he’ll never be your father-in-law, but I think he’d like it. I’ve seen him smile when Thea calls him Grandpa.”

  And so Pa was seated at one end of the table with Sarah at the other. She wasn’t certain who watched him more carefully, herself or Clay. She didn’t know how Clay felt, but from Sarah’s perspective, the experiment was a success. With his food cut into tiny pieces, Pa was able to eat almost as well as Thea, and though he did not speak, it was clear that he enjoyed the conversation.

  “Everything is delicious,” Sarah said when Martina entered the room to refill their tea glasses.

  Clay nodded his approval. It was only when he’d helped his father drink that Clay asked Sarah about her morning. “Did Père Tellier preach fire and brimstone?”

  “Not exactly.” His words had been powerful despite the gentle delivery. “He spoke calmly, but he left no doubt about his beliefs.” Or about the fact that anyone who broke one of God’s commandments would suffer.

  “More, Pa?” Clay gestured toward his father’s empty plate. When Pa shook his head, Clay turned back to Sarah. “What was today’s sermon topic?” The casual way he phrased the question told her he was only being polite, that he had no genuine interest in how she and Thea had spent the morning. When she’d asked if he would be accompanying them to church, Clay had said his family did not attend services, that his parents and Austin had always worshiped at home. There was no mention of his own religious attendance, leading Sarah to suspect that—unlike her—Clay was not a hypocrite.

  “Père Tellier spoke about one of the commandments: ‘thou shalt not kill.’”

  The change was instantaneous. One second Clay was cutting a piece of beef. The next he was glaring at her, anger turning his features harsh. “Our good pastor was a little late with that warning,” he said. “Three weeks and one day late, to be precise.”

  The uninjured side of Pa’s face moved as he struggled to speak. Though the words were unintelligible to Sarah, the anguish in his eyes told her he was reliving the moment he’d learned his younger son had been killed.

  “Don’t worry, Pa,” Clay said, touching his father’s hand. “I’ll take care of it.” His lips twisted in scorn. “The pastor’s preaching wouldn’t have made any difference. The truth is, someone wanted Austin dead. Now it’s up to me to find the man and make sure he never again kills anyone.”

  A shiver of dread raced down Sarah’s spine. Could Clay really mean what he had implied? She looked at Pa and saw her own fears reflected in his blue eyes. “Isn’t it the sheriff’s job to find the killer and a jury’s to determine the punishment?” she asked as calmly as she could. At her side, Thea whimpered, frightened by Clay’s anger. “Eat your biscuit, sweetie. It’ll be all right.” Sarah’s words rang hollow.

  Clay shot her a scornful look. “That may be the way it happened in Philadelphia, but out here, more times than not, we have to take matters into our own hands.”

  Sarah had heard of vigilante justice. It had, in fact, been one of the subjects Papa had introduced at dinner one day. At the time, she’d been appalled by the whole idea. Now, faced with the prospect that the man who sat opposite her was about to exact it, she shuddered. “Justice doesn’t mean more killing.” By some small miracle, her voice was firm, betraying none of the horror that coursed through her. “There’s already been too much killing.” Perhaps Isabelle had been wrong. Perhaps Père Tellier had indeed been speaking of Austin this morning. Perhaps this was what he meant. “Another death won’t bring Austin back.”

  Sarah looked at Pa for corroboration and saw the slightest of nods.

  “Maybe it won’t bring him back, but his killer must pay.” Clay’s eyes were dark with anger. “Austin was mighty fond of quoting his God. According to him, God said, ‘An eye for an eye.’ That makes it pretty clear to me what has to happen. No matter how long it takes, I can promise you one thing: my brother’s death will be avenged.”

  Sarah had never been so thankful to hear the clock strike noon. Trying not to limp, she walked to the door and turned the sign to “closed,” grateful that for the next two hours, she would not have to face customers. It had been so difficult, pretending she was carefree when her mind was filled with worries over Clay and Thea. She couldn’t claim she didn’t understand Clay, for she did. Sarah knew what it was like to hate a murderer and to want him punished. Hadn’t she prayed that Papa would burn in hell? But that was different from searching out a man and killing him. Wasn’t it?

  By tacit agreement, neither she nor Clay had mentioned Austin after dinner. They’d spoken of Pa and how he seemed to enjoy eating with them. Clay had even agreed that Pa could join them for supper each day. Thea would like that. If she was aware of his infirmities, she gave no sign, but simply treated Pa like a new playmate, chattering as if he cared about horses and flowers and her unfortunate encounter with a prickly pear cactus. The hours Thea spent with Pa were good ones, unlike her days.

  “Is something wrong?”<
br />
  The concern in Isabelle’s voice told Sarah she’d failed to mask her emotions. She didn’t want Isabelle to know how worried she was about Thea, for there was nothing her friend could do. “The weather must be changing,” Sarah suggested. “My leg hurts a bit.” Though true, that was the least of her worries.

  Isabelle nodded as the two women walked across the store toward the door leading to the Rousseaus’ living quarters. Madame Rousseau had insisted that Sarah take her noon meal with them, claiming it was part of her wages.

  “Maybe that’s why some of our customers looked so glum,” Isabelle continued. “I couldn’t understand them, but they didn’t seem happy.”

  They weren’t. Almost everyone who’d come into the store this morning had complained. “There’ve been more cut fences,” Sarah said, repeating the stories she’d heard. “Some of Herr Mueller’s goats got into Frau Ott’s vegetable patch.”

  Isabelle wrinkled her nose. “And goats being goats, nothing is left.”

  “Precisely. No one knows how the fence was cut, but they’re pretty certain it wasn’t the work of the goats.”

  “So they suspect the French.”

  Sarah nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

  Her friend’s eyes were thoughtful. “No wonder they were glaring at me.”

  “No one accused you.” Sarah couldn’t let Isabelle believe that. “They’re just concerned about who’s responsible for all the trouble. It reminded me of the parishioners I overheard after church, only they were blaming the Germans.”

  Isabelle started to climb the stairs. As was true of many of the commercial establishments in Ladreville, her family’s home was above the store. “Papa’s afraid tempers will flare someday and we’ll have a fight on our hands.”

  That was not an appealing prospect. Trying to lighten the discussion, Sarah said, “Maybe we’ll have a storm, and the rain will quench their tempers.”

  Pausing, Isabelle turned and looked at Sarah. “You haven’t seen a Texas storm, or you wouldn’t be joking about it. Summer rain comes almost without warning, and it’s stronger than you can imagine, sweeping away everything in its path. The last time it happened, we couldn’t cross the river for three days.”

  Sarah blanched at the thought.

  “Don’t worry. You would stay with us.”

  Her own safety wasn’t what concerned Sarah. “But Thea would be on the other side. She’d be frantic.”

  “Is she still having trouble adjusting?” They’d reached the landing and were inside the Rousseaus’ main room where the aromas of roast lamb and garlic mingled with the lighter scent of the wildflowers Isabelle had gathered that morning.

  Sarah frowned, thinking of her sister, as she and Isabelle went to Isabelle’s room to remove their pinafores. “If anything, Thea’s worse,” Sarah told her friend. “She used to be happy in the morning when I took her to Mary’s. She’d cry when I left but not before then. Now she starts pouting as soon as we get into the wagon.”

  Isabelle reached for the ewer on her bureau. “I wish she could stay here.”

  So did Sarah. “We both know that’s impossible. Thea would destroy the store in a day.” She unbuttoned her pinafore and laid it on the bed. “Thea will just have to get used to being with Mary.”

  Surely their neighbor was right, and it was only a matter of time before Thea looked forward to spending the day with her. The alternative, which had kept Sarah awake last night, was so much worse. If Thea didn’t adjust, Sarah would have no choice but to stop working at the mercantile. She couldn’t let Thea be unhappy. Everything she’d done—accepting Austin’s offer of marriage, making the long journey West, convincing the Rousseaus to hire her—had been for Thea. Sarah had vowed to keep her sister safe and happy, and she would. But if she couldn’t work, how would they live? They couldn’t remain on the Bar C indefinitely.

  “Maybe the problem is Mary being so much older,” Isabelle suggested as she poured water into the basin. “Some little ones are frightened by gray hair and wrinkles.”

  “I don’t think that’s the case. When I’m there too, Thea loves to play with Mary. And she’s happy when we’re with Clay’s father. She treats him like the grandfather she’s never had.” Taking Thea to Pa’s room had been one of the best things Sarah had done. Not only did her sister and Clay’s father appear to enjoy each other’s company, but Pa was more cooperative when Thea was present. Though it was obvious he didn’t want Sarah to work on his legs, he made no cries that would alert Martina, so long as Thea was in the room. “I thought maybe she’d be happier with other children, so I talked to Frau Reismueller when she came into the store this morning. She said she would have been glad to care for Thea, but she’s in the family way again and feeling poorly. Oh, Isabelle, I worry about Thea every day.”

  Isabelle dried her hands. “I’ll pray for a solution.”

  Sarah turned abruptly, wrenching her leg. “That won’t do any good. God stopped listening to my prayers a while ago.”

  Isabelle shook her head slowly. “Let me help with your leg.” She motioned to Sarah to sit on the bed and began to rub her calf while she spoke. “God never stops listening. He’s always there, and he answers prayers.” Isabelle looked up, her eyes darkening with concern. “Sometimes his answers aren’t what we wanted, and it’s hard to believe they’re what’s best for us.”

  Though Isabelle’s hands were soothing the ache in Sarah’s leg, her words were far from comforting. “How can you claim he’s a loving God when he allows so much evil?”

  “He is a loving God,” she insisted. “It’s true he doesn’t stop evil, but he turns it to good. The Bible promises that.”

  “Please don’t talk about Joseph again. I know you believe it, but I’ve never seen good come from evil.” Her father’s sins had been horrible, and nothing good had come from them, nor had Austin’s death led to anything positive.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to trust.” Isabelle’s eyes reflected an emotion Sarah could not identify. “The good comes in God’s time, not ours.”

  “I’d like to believe that, but I’ve seen no evidence that it’s true.”

  “It is.” Isabelle straightened Sarah’s skirts, then rose. When Sarah started to join her, Isabelle shook her head and sank onto the bed, looking at Sarah for a long moment before she said, “No one besides my family knows what I’m going to tell you. I’m trusting you not to repeat it.” Her expression reminded Sarah of the day Isabelle had related Joseph’s story and how she’d seemed on the verge of confiding something, only to be interrupted by David Bramble’s arrival.

  “I’m good at keeping secrets,” Sarah said. Especially her own.

  Despite the assurance, Isabelle seemed reluctant to begin. At last she did, saying, “I didn’t want to leave Alsace. I loved our home there. It wasn’t perfect, but I had friends in our town and cousins in the next one. I was comfortable there, and I didn’t want to start over. If you ask them, my parents will probably deny it, but I know they felt the same.”

  Sarah wondered where this was leading. “Then why did you emigrate? It’s a long journey, with many hardships.”

  She looked around the room, her eyes lighting on the cuckoo clock Isabelle had brought from her previous home. She’d told Sarah that the clock reminded her of her friends and family in the Old Country and how she had refused to have it packed with the family’s furnishings. Instead, she’d carried it with her, carefully wrapped in a spare petticoat, so she could see it each day while they were traveling. “It was my link to home,” she’d explained.

  Sarah’s hands rose to her ears, assuring herself that the earrings were still there. Like Isabelle’s clock, they were her memento of happier times, her link to her mother.

  Isabelle hesitated before blurting out, “We had no choice. We couldn’t let Léon be jailed.”

  “Léon? Your brother?” As the cuckoo emerged from his house and the clock chimed, Sarah tried to reconcile the Léon she knew, the teasing young man who treated her as a
second sister, with a man about to be incarcerated.

  “Léon has a wild streak,” Isabelle admitted, “and he let it overcome his good judgment. One night he broke into some houses, stole a few things, and was caught. The magistrate said the only way to avoid prison was to leave.”

  Sarah tried and failed to picture Léon as a thief. She’d seen his protectiveness toward Isabelle and his anger with Jean-Michel. He was a good brother, a loving son. He also did not appear to be a man who expected something for nothing. Sarah knew the labor he performed for Karl Friedrich was more tiring and paid less than working at the store, and yet it was what Léon had chosen. How could this be the same man who’d stolen property in Alsace?

  “Why would he steal?”

  Isabelle’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “He said it was fun. It was his way of proving to his friends that he was more clever than they. Some friends! When Léon was caught, they pretended they knew nothing.”

  The same way Papa’s friends disavowed him. It was no wonder the Rousseaus had left their home. Like Sarah, they’d had few choices.

  “Maman and Papa prayed for guidance,” Isabelle continued. “A few days later, when they heard about Michel Ladre’s search for emigrants, they knew that was what we were meant to do.”

  Just as Austin’s advertisement had resolved Sarah’s dilemma. She hadn’t realized she and her friend had so much in common. “So you came here. I understand why you came, but I don’t see how that changed evil into good.”

  “I haven’t finished. I was miserable the whole trip.” Isabelle managed a smile. “I must have been a real trial to my parents. I hated everything. I complained about the slightest mishap. And, of course, I blamed Léon for it all.”