by Amanda Cabot
She’d heard them coming. Thea was singing the garden song at the top of her lungs, and Clay was laughing as she mangled the words. If she hadn’t been so worried that Thea might tumble into the pit, Sarah would have laughed too. As it was, she shouted to Clay to hold her sister.
A second later, he was staring into the trap, his eyes dark with anguish. “Sarah! What happened?” His expression softened somewhat when he pulled her out and assured himself that she had broken no bones, but there was no mistaking Clay’s barely controlled anger. He’d lifted her into his arms and carried her to the ranch house, walking slowly so Thea could keep pace. And as he’d walked, he’d recited a litany of reassurances. Sarah wasn’t certain whether they were for Thea’s benefit, hers, or his own. All she knew was that they rang false. When he told Thea it was an accident and that Sarah would be safe, Clay was mouthing words he didn’t believe.
He’d wrapped her ankle and found a cane somewhere. Though Sarah longed to talk to him, he’d cut off every attempt, nodding in Thea’s direction as if reminding Sarah that her sister needed reassurances, not questions.
“Just rest tonight,” he said as he carried her to the cabin. “Everything else can wait.” The fact that he and Zach had ridden out only minutes later gave lie to his words. As for resting, that was something Sarah could not do. It had taken close to an hour to coax Thea into sleep, and now . . . now even rocking was doing nothing to soothe Sarah’s worries.
Someone wanted to hurt her. There was no denying that. Though Clay had refused to discuss it, she’d heard him mutter “wheel” and suspected his thoughts had taken the same path as hers, reaching the conclusion that someone had tampered with the wagon’s wheel. The reason wasn’t difficult to find. The only thing that had changed recently had been Sarah’s approach toward Austin’s death. She’d seen discomfort on several of the townspeople’s faces when she’d asked what they knew about the day he died. Though they denied having any idea why someone would have wanted to kill Austin, Sarah didn’t believe them. Someone knew something. And what happened today told her she was getting close to uncovering the murderer.
When her ankle began to throb, sending waves of dull pain up her leg, Sarah slowed the rocking. She closed her eyes and leaned back in the chair, considering the possibility that she would soon know who had killed Austin. If that happened, tonight’s pain would have served a valuable purpose, for if the killer were brought to justice, Clay would be able to rest. Sarah bowed her head and said a silent prayer that she would be the one to unmask the murderer. That was the only way she knew to prevent Clay from exacting vengeance. “Please, Lord, let me help him.”
Once more at peace, Sarah rose and entered Thea’s room. Her sister was sleeping. If only she could do the same. She thought for a second, then wrapped a light cloak around her. When she’d been young and had difficulty sleeping, her mother had given her warm milk. Perhaps the childhood remedy would work tonight.
She was in the main house kitchen, stirring milk, when she heard Clay and Zach return. Though she thought they might come into the kitchen, they were evidently so engrossed in their conversation that they didn’t see the light or attributed no significance to it. She would not interrupt them. As soon as the milk was ready, she would return to the cabin. There was no reason for Clay and Zach to know she was here. But . . . Sarah’s hand paused as the words echoed through the kitchen, the men’s voices so loud she couldn’t help overhearing.
Oh no! Please, God, no!
“We need to talk.” Zach grabbed Clay’s arm and propelled him toward the ranch house. Though he’d been silent on the ride back from town, Clay had sensed his friend’s disapproval.
“There’s nothing to say. I know what I have to do, and I’m going to do it.” The anger that had been surging through him all evening continued unabated. One way or another, he was going to stop these attacks on people he loved.
Zach sank into a chair and gestured Clay toward another. Clay knew he might as well sit. One thing he’d learned about Zach was that, for a normally taciturn man, he could be surprisingly long-winded when he was agitated. He was agitated now.
“Finding Austin’s killer is one thing,” Zach said. “Imposing your own idea of justice on him is something else.”
Clay stared into the distance. While it was normally true that he valued Zach’s opinion, he had no desire to listen to a sermon tonight, and that appeared to be what Zach had in mind.
“Killing is wrong,” Zach said in a voice that belonged in a pulpit. “It doesn’t matter whether you call it just deserts or vengeance, it’s still killing, and it’s still wrong. If you go ahead with your plan, you’ll be as much of a murderer as he was. Is that what you want?”
It wasn’t the first time Zach had voiced this opinion, but it was the first time he’d been so vehement. Clay fixed his eyes on the man who was more friend than foreman. “I want him to pay for my brother’s death. Is that too much to ask?”
“No, it’s not.” Zach’s capitulation surprised Clay. When Zach continued, Clay realized he should have known his friend wasn’t finished. “The killer will pay. God tells us that. He also tells us that vengeance is his.” Zach leaned forward, his eyes darkening with emotion. “Let God take care of Austin’s killer. He will.”
It was a familiar refrain. Clay knew what was coming next. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I should forgive the murderer.” Austin had spoken of forgiveness too, but it had always been for minor offenses—an insult, a sharp word, never murder. Some acts were unforgivable.
“I believe you should forgive him,” Zach agreed. “But it’s for your sake, not his.”
“Right.” Clay let the sarcasm roll off his tongue. “It’ll help me if I let a killer go free.”
Zach shook his head. “That’s not what I said. I never said the killer should go free. Find the man and bring him to justice. You need to do that. But once you find him, let the Texas Rangers take over. Let them apply the law of the land.” Zach closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was a gesture Clay had seen several times, always when Zach was concentrating, trying to frame his next sentence. “Forgiving the killer is different. You do it for yourself, not him.”
Zach had said that before. Clay hadn’t understood him then, and he didn’t now. Oh, he understood the words. They were simple English words. It was the meaning behind those words that made no sense.
“You and Sarah talk a lot about forgiveness. So did Austin. Forgive me for saying this,” Clay said, deliberately using the word, “but it’s easy for you to talk. Don’t misunderstand, Zach. I’m not belittling what you endured. I know being in that prison was horrible, and I can’t begin to imagine how you felt during the decimation. Pa wouldn’t even talk about it.” Clay leaned forward, gripping the chair arms as he tried to control his emotions. Somehow, some way, he had to make Zach understand why forgiveness was impossible. “I can almost understand how you could forgive your jailors. I know it can’t have been easy, but this is different. Someone hurt the people I love. For me that’s much, much worse than anything that could happen to me.”
Clay glanced down and was surprised to see white knuckles on his hands. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to relax his grip. “Zach, this is different. You and Sarah can talk about forgiveness, but you don’t understand what it’s like to have one—maybe two—of your closest family members killed. I cannot forgive that.”
Furrows appeared between Zach’s eyes. “You’re right. I don’t understand exactly what you’re feeling.”
“I do.” Though soft, the words echoed clearly through the room.
Clay jumped to his feet, his heart pounding with alarm. “Sarah! What are you doing here?” She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, an expression of almost unbearable sorrow on her face.
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I was warming some milk and couldn’t help overhearing.”
She shouldn’t be out of bed. She shouldn’t be putting weight on her leg. The thoughts r
icocheted through his mind at the same time that her words reverberated. I do. What did she mean? Why did she think she could possibly understand what he felt? First things first. Clay led Sarah to the chair next to him and settled her into it, pulling out a footstool to prop her leg.
“I’m sorry I interrupted, Clay, but I had to. I couldn’t let you make the same mistakes I did.” Her gaze moved slowly from Clay to Zach and back again. “Zach is right.” Though her voice was low, Sarah enunciated each word carefully. “Forgiveness helps you. It opens your heart to love.”
Her eyes searched his face, as if hoping to see understanding. He couldn’t give her that, for he did not understand Sarah any more than he did Zach. Clay didn’t doubt the sincerity of their beliefs. It was simply that he didn’t share them, just as they had never shared his experiences. As for mistakes, Clay had made plenty of those, but he failed to see how Sarah’s peccadilloes had any bearing on his life.
“I know what I’m telling you is true,” she insisted. “I know how you feel, because it happened to me.”
“You can’t know what I feel.” Clay was tired; he was angry; he most definitely was not in the mood for a sermon, particularly not from Sarah. Though he knew she wanted to help him, she could not, for she didn’t understand. It was true her parents had died, but death from illness was very different from murder. Clay had felt no need to avenge his mother’s death; instead, the fact that she had succumbed to yellow fever had been one of the reasons he’d decided to become a physician. By doing that, he hoped to prevent others from suffering the same losses.
Sarah closed her eyes, and Clay sensed that she was praying. When she looked at him again, her expression was determined. “I never wanted anyone to learn what happened in Philadelphia.” The slight tremor in Sarah’s voice told Clay how much the revelation would cost. “I thought silence was the only way I could protect Thea, but I was wrong. You need to know.”
Zach rose. “I’ll leave you two alone.”
Sarah shook her head. “Please stay. The time for secrets is over.” She turned back to Clay, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I wasn’t completely honest in my letters to Austin. I told him my parents were dead, but I never explained how they died.”
“It wasn’t influenza?” Clay couldn’t recall the exact wording, but he’d thought she’d said that.
“No.” The word was almost inaudible. Sarah swallowed deeply, her expression telling Clay she was mustering every resource she possessed to tell her story. When she spoke, her voice was surprisingly calm. “It wasn’t influenza. It’s true there was an influenza epidemic at the same time. I mentioned that in one of my letters, hoping Austin would believe that was what had killed my parents. What really happened is Papa made a series of disastrous investments. When they went bad, he lost every dollar he had. Even the house and Mama’s jewelry had to be sold to repay the debts.” Her letters had alluded to a reduced economic situation. Presumably this was what she meant.
Sarah took a deep breath before she spoke again. “Their friends deserted them. When even the parishioners shunned them, it was too much for Papa. He couldn’t bear the shame, and so one night he killed Mama before he turned the gun on himself.” Sarah’s eyes darkened with remembered pain. “I heard the shots, but by the time I got there, it was too late.”
Clay felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh, Sarah!” Though her voice had quavered only slightly as she’d told the story, what she endured must have been unspeakably horrible.
“I’m not telling you this because I want your pity, Clay. I want you to know that I understand how you feel. I know what it’s like to have your closest relatives killed.” She unclasped her hands, transferring her grip to the chair arms. “When I saw what Papa had done, do you know what I felt? Not sorrow but anger and hatred. I hated my father for what he’d done.”
Clay heard Zach sigh. If Sarah heard him, she gave no sign but kept her gaze fixed on Clay.
“I saw that as proof that God had deserted me. After that day, I wouldn’t trust him any more than I would forgive my father.” Sarah’s eyes filled with anguish, telling Clay how much she regretted her actions. “Oh, Clay, I was so wrong. God never abandoned me. I was just too stubborn to ask for his help. When I did ask him, he gave it to me. He helped me understand Papa.”
Though her eyes still reflected sorrow, the intense pain was gone. “I spent almost a year mired in anger and hatred. I even prayed that Papa was burning in hell. Not once did I try to understand what had caused him to use his gun until I prayed for help. Then I realized how much Papa loved my mother. He knew how important their role in society was to her and wanted to spare her the shame of being shunned. That was why he killed her. And then, because he couldn’t bear the thought of living without her, he killed himself.”
Sarah shifted slightly to include Zach in the conversation. “Zach was right when he told you that killing is always wrong. Papa was wrong, but so was I. My hatred was as much of a sin as what he did. The difference was, my sin hurt me, not anyone else.” Sarah turned her gaze back to Clay. “This may sound strange, but I felt that I was empty inside, while on the outside I was weighed down, almost as if I was carrying a load.”
“I understand.” Though he had not taken the time to analyze his feelings, what Sarah described applied to Clay too. He’d been wrong when he thought no one could understand what he’d endured. Sarah did. She understood, but—more than that—she had overcome it. “What changed?”
“I did. I forgave my father, and then I prayed that God would forgive me. When he did, he lifted an enormous burden from my shoulders. It may sound melodramatic, but I felt like a new person.”
Clay nodded as a piece of the puzzle that was Sarah fell into place. “That’s why you’ve seemed so different the past few weeks.” He’d thought the new school was the reason for her happiness, but it appeared he had been wrong.
“I found peace.” There was no ignoring the light shining from her eyes or the serenity of her expression, an expression that reminded him of Austin. Gone was the pain Clay had seen on Sarah’s face. Gone, too, was the tension in her arms. No longer did she grip the chair. Instead, she sat with her hands in her lap, the fingers soft and relaxed. “I’m not exaggerating when I tell you it’s the most wonderful thing in this world. That’s why I pray that you will find it too.”
Looking at the woman he loved, seeing the glow on her face, Clay knew there was nothing he wanted more than to share her experience. He wanted to fill the emptiness inside him, to put aside his burden. The problem was, though Sarah made it sound simple, Clay knew it was not. “I don’t think I can forgive.”
Sarah leaned forward. Placing one hand on his, she said, “With God’s help you can.” She turned to face Zach. “I’m so new at this that I’m feeling lost. Help me, Zach. Help Clay.”
Zach nodded. “It’s the easiest, the most difficult, and the most important thing you’ll ever do. Open your heart to God. Let him fill it.”
They made it sound easy, but it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be that simple. Nothing important was. “I don’t know how.”
Sarah tightened her grip on Clay’s hand, but it was Zach who spoke. “God is waiting for you. All you need to do is talk to him. Invite him in. He’ll do the rest.”
Clay looked at the man who’d become his best friend and the woman he loved. Though their faces were somber, they were filled with a peace he could not ignore. He wanted that, and yet he feared it would never be his. “I need to be alone.”
Clay rose and strode to the empty bedroom, the room he and Austin had once shared, the room that had been his and Patience’s. Closing the door behind him, he began to speak. “I don’t know what to say, Lord. If Zach is right, you can see what’s in my heart. Show me what I need to do.”
There was no answer. Those stories he’d heard about voices were just that: stories. The reality was that he was alone, as he’d been for so long. Clay walked slowly around the room, laying his hand on top of the bureau
as he passed it. And as he did, he remembered how Austin had kept his treasures in the bottom drawer. In all the time they’d shared this room, Clay had never opened that drawer. He wouldn’t open it now.
He took a few more steps, reaching the chair that had once been his mother’s but which Pa had insisted Patience take. Clay’s wife had placed it next to the window and, no matter how busy she was, always found time to spend a few minutes there each day, looking outside. She’d called this her daydreaming chair. Clay touched the chair back as he stared out the window. He wasn’t certain how long he stood there or when the tears began. All he knew was that his face was wet and his heart was full.
This room held so many memories; it had seen joyous moments; it had witnessed almost unbearable sorrow. Those memories were the reason he no longer slept in this room. They were also the reason he’d come here tonight. Tonight he wept for the lives that had been cut short. He wept for Austin, for Patience, for Pa’s infirmity. And as he wept, Clay felt the anger that had been his companion for so long begin to dissolve. When his tears were spent, so was his anger. The cold fury that had propelled him was gone, replaced by warmth. The emptiness deep inside had disappeared, and in its place came a feeling of completeness. The burden he had carried was gone, shouldered by the One who had borne so much more. Clay was no longer alone.
He wiped his eyes and looked around the room. The bureau and chair stood where they always had. The coverlet on the bed had the same wrinkles it had yesterday. Nothing had changed, and yet everything had, for he had changed. He saw the room and the world with new eyes. Was this peace? Clay wasn’t certain. All he knew was that it was the most wonderful feeling of his life.
He sank to the floor and knelt, his head bowed reverently. “Thank you, Lord.”
His hands weren’t shaking. Men’s hands didn’t shake, or—if they did—a man didn’t admit it. What Clay would admit was that he was nervous. He could not recall feeling this way the last time. Perhaps he’d forgotten. That must be the case. After all, weren’t things supposed to be easier the second time?
