Scattered Petals

by Amanda Cabot

  SCATTERED

  PETALS

  A NOVEL

  TEXAS DREAMS • 2

  Amanda Cabot

  © 2010 by Amanda Cabot

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  E-book edition created 2010

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-0739-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  In memory of my grandmothers, Augustina Sempert Harte and Charlotte Preble Bailey. Though they were two very different women, their deep faith and love of the Bible helped shape my childhood.

  Table of Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  Author’s Letter

  1

  November 1856

  “How much longer?”

  Priscilla Morton tried to smile at the woman on the opposite side of the stagecoach. Now that Papa was asleep, Mama’s normally quiet voice had turned querulous, sending waves of regret through her daughter as her words reminded Priscilla for what seemed like the thousandth time that this was her fault. She was the one who’d insisted they come.

  “Soon.” Priscilla reached across to pat her mother’s hand, her smile wry when she recalled Mama warning her to be careful what she wished for. Priscilla had wished for adventure, never dreaming that the adventure would involve comforting her mother as if Mama were the child.

  When they’d received Clay’s letter inviting the family to his wedding, Priscilla had realized this was the opportunity she had sought for so long and had convinced Mama and Papa they should go to Texas. Though she’d relished the idea of leaving Massachusetts and venturing into parts of the country that her sister had described as wild and foreign, she had been careful in phrasing her arguments. While her parents would not willingly seek adventure, they loved Clay, and so it had taken little persuasion for them to agree that Clay deserved to have family with him at his wedding, even if the family was only his by marriage.

  At home in Boston, it had seemed a fine plan. But the journey had been more difficult than Priscilla had expected. Though Mama had been stoic on the train, once they’d left its relative comfort for the bone-jarring stagecoaches, her mood had deteriorated, and the days had turned into litanies of complaints. Dust, mud, insects, the rutted roads, even the scenery, which Priscilla had found beautiful, had bothered Mama, and now that the other passengers had left the coach, she saw no need to mute her laments. This was not the adventure Priscilla had sought.

  “We’ll reach San Antonio tomorrow.” Priscilla gave her mother the same response she’d provided only ten minutes earlier. “Clay will be waiting to take us to Ladreville.” The small town, he had told Priscilla, was a half-day’s journey northwest of San Antonio, located on what he had described as a particularly beautiful stretch of the Medina River. Mama didn’t care about that now. What she needed was reassurance that she would survive the stagecoach’s jolting. Priscilla gestured toward her mother’s Bible. “Would you like me to read to you?” Most days, the Psalms comforted Mama, although recently she had insisted on Job, claiming she was suffering as much as he had.

  Mama shook her head. “Not now. My head hurts.” Poor Mama. She was like a hothouse flower, wilting in the Texas sun. She twisted her rings, a sure sign that she was distraught. “I certainly hope Clay has a hot bath waiting for me when we reach that ranch of his.”

  “He will.” In all likelihood it would be Sarah, his bride-to-be, who would provide the amenities Mama expected, but Priscilla knew better than to mention that. At first she had attributed her mother’s complaints to the rigors of travel, but as the journey had progressed, Priscilla had discovered the causes were not simply physical. Mama was deeply disturbed that Clay was remarrying. Though Patience had died more than a year ago, Mama seemed to believe he should spend the rest of his life mourning the loss of his wife, Mama’s firstborn daughter.

  “Isn’t the countryside beautiful?” Priscilla pointed to the window. This part of Texas boasted gently rolling hills and valleys dotted with small ponds. Clusters of trees, some of them dripping with what she had learned was Spanish moss, lined the banks of narrow streams. With the greenish gold grass and the vibrantly blue sky, Priscilla found it a scene of pastoral beauty. Though she doubted Mama would agree, this was a safer topic of conversation than her mother’s former son-in-law.

  Mama stared outside for a moment. “I suppose some might like it,” she conceded, “but I cannot picture Patience here.”

  Neither could Priscilla. Her sister had been a lot like Mama, content with her life in Boston, uncomfortable in Texas. When Patience and Clay had returned to his birthplace, it was supposed to be for only a few months. For Patience, those few months had been the last of her life on Earth, and now, though no one would have expected it, Clay had decided to make the small town of Ladreville his home.

  The coach gave a sudden lurch, knocking Papa’s head against the side, destroying his hope of sleep. “What was that?” he asked, his voice groggy.

  “Just a rut, Papa.”

  “That’s all this road is,” Mama grumbled. “One rut after another.”

  Now fully awake, Papa took her hand between both of his. “I’m proud of you, my dear, coming all this distance to be with Clay on his wedding day. You were the one who recognized how important it was to him.”

  Priscilla bit back a smile at the way Papa changed history to make Mama happy. Not for the first time, she marveled at how different her parents were, and how well those differences suited them. It wasn’t simply their physical differences. Papa was tall and lanky, characteristics he’d bestowed on Priscilla, with graying brown hair and eyes. Though no one would call him handsome, Mama was an undisputed beauty with deep auburn hair, green eyes, and what she described as a pleasingly plump figure. Despite Mama’s claims to the contrary, Priscilla knew she’d inherited little more than her mother’s green eyes. Even her hair was a pale imitation of Mama’s, and she lacked her mother’s eye-catching beauty. Mama was as spectacular as an orchid. If her mother was a hothouse flower, Papa was a dandelion, able to thrive anywhere, and just as dandelion greens served as a spring tonic, so did Papa heal others. While it was true he was a renowned physician, in Priscilla’s estimation, his greatest feats of healing were reserved for his wife.

  Mama’s face softened into a smile. “You’re right, Daniel. Just think of the stories I’ll be able to recount for our friends.”

  “I assure you, none of them has ever had an adventure like this.” The kiss Papa pressed on Mama’s hand broadened her smile. “You’ll be the talk of the town.”

  Leaning back, Priscilla felt her own tension begin to ebb. In less than two days, they’d be in Ladreville, reunited with Clay. He and Papa would talk about patients, Mama would have he
r bath, and Priscilla would meet Sarah. Though it seemed vaguely disloyal to her sister, Priscilla was looking forward to getting to know the woman Clay loved.

  Perhaps she dozed. Afterwards, she was never certain. All she knew was that two gunshots rang out.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” The voice was harsh and filled with menace.

  As Mama gasped, Priscilla leaned forward to peer out the window, blood draining from her face at the sight of three men, their faces partially hidden by bandanas, their shotguns pointed at the coach. Surely she was dreaming. This must be a nightmare. A moment later, as the coach lurched to a stop, one of the bandits slid off his horse and wrenched the door open. When the stench of his unwashed body assailed her, Priscilla knew this was no dream.

  A second bandit rode toward the front of the coach while the third remained on horseback, his gun fixed on the open door, as if protecting the man who was glaring at Priscilla’s family.

  “Git out!” that man ordered. “Keep your hands up. Don’t try nothin’ tricky.” Though her mouth was dry with fear, Priscilla’s mind registered odd details. The man who threatened them was tall, probably over six feet, with hair so dark it was nearly black and the meanest blue eyes she’d ever seen. Though there was no doubting the strength in those arms and shoulders, the greatest menace was what his index finger could do if he pulled the trigger.

  “What’s happening?” Mama whispered.

  Papa slid an arm around her shoulders and drew her closer. “I believe we’re about to be robbed.”

  “You got that right.” The dark-haired man reached into the coach and grabbed Mama’s arm, yanking her from the seat. “Git out!” As he looked around, his eyes lit on Priscilla, and the greed she’d seen radiating from them changed to something else, something she did not want to identify. “Hey, Jake,” he yelled to the man who remained behind him. “There’s a right purty gal here.”

  “You ain’t got no time for that, Zeke.” The man named Jake kept his gun pointed at Mama as she descended to the ground. His hair and eyes were the same color as Zeke’s, but his voice was firmer, as if he were accustomed to being in charge. “Git the others out, then git their valuables. Chet, you git the payroll.”

  “All right, old man. You’re next.” Zeke gestured toward the door.

  Priscilla willed her hands to stop trembling. Somehow she had to find a way out of this situation. It was her fault. Thanks to her desire for adventure, her parents had endured weeks of discomfort. Now they were about to be robbed. Priscilla’s lips tightened with resolve when she saw her mother’s reticule. Hoping no one noticed what she was doing, she stuffed it behind the seat. The thieves wouldn’t get everything.

  She looked down and saw a flash of gold. They wouldn’t get this, either. The bandits could take her earbobs, but they wouldn’t get the locket with the miniatures of her parents and Patience. While Zeke’s attention was focused on her parents, Priscilla tucked the necklace inside her collar.

  “You’re next, little gal.” Zeke punctuated his words with a laugh that made Priscilla’s stomach turn.

  Refusing to look at the man whose voice raised such loathing, she kept her head averted as she descended from the coach, and as she did, she saw the third bandit, the one they’d called Chet, gesture toward the stagecoach driver. “Gimme the payroll,” Chet demanded.

  “You can’t take that.” Priscilla heard the driver’s voice waver.

  “Can’t I?” As calmly as if he were swatting a fly, Chet shot him.

  Priscilla gasped, and her legs threatened to buckle at the bandit’s casual disregard for human life.

  “Oh, Daniel.” Mama buried her head against Papa’s chest and began to moan. Though Papa’s face was unnaturally pale, he murmured comforting words. Only the bandits were unaffected by the driver’s death. Jake and Chet climbed onto the coach, tossed the driver’s body onto the ground, then pulled a wooden box from under the seat, while Zeke kept his gun aimed at Priscilla and her parents.

  “Looks like we got ourselves some rich ones,” Zeke told his partners. There was no answer, for the other men had moved to the back of the coach and were dragging out trunks. Zeke nodded at Mama’s left hand, splayed across the front of Papa’s coat. The day had been so warm that she’d removed her gloves. “That’s a right purty sparklie you got there, ma’am. Give it to me.”

  “No!” Mama shrieked, as if her refusal would dissuade the bandits. Priscilla knew better. “Daniel, tell him he cannot have my ring.” Mama was acting as if Papa had any control. Had she forgotten what had happened to the driver when he’d refused?

  Papa reached for Mama’s hand. “I’m sorry, my dear, but we need to do as he says.” He slid the diamond ring from her finger.

  “Yer man’s right. You ain’t got no choice. Now, hand it over.” Once the ring was deposited in a cloth sack, Zeke turned his attention to Papa. “Gimme your watch.” Papa complied. “Okay, little gal, you’re next. I’ll take those earbobs.”

  Thankful she’d hidden her locket, Priscilla unclipped the earrings and dropped them into Zeke’s hand. Maybe now that the bandits had what they’d sought, they’d leave them alone.

  Clearly unhappy, Zeke glared at her. “Where’d you hide it?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “You cain’t fool me. I saw gold around yer neck. Give it to me, or I’ll take it.”

  “Priscilla, we can’t fight them.” Though soft, Papa’s words were tinged with resignation. “Give him your locket. It’s not worth your life.”

  He was right. Priscilla unclasped the chain and flung it at the bandit. She had hoped he would fumble and would have to pick it up off the ground, but Zeke caught the necklace with ease.

  “That’s a good gal.” He darted a glance at his partners, who’d unhitched the stagecoach horses and were searching the luggage. “You ready?”

  Jake nodded. “There ain’t much here. Chet, you take care of the rest. Zeke, let’s go.”

  Zeke tossed the bag that held the Morton family’s jewelry from one hand to the other. “I got me one more piece of business,” he told his brother. “I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Don’t take long.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  Jake mounted his horse. “C’mon, Chet. Do what I told you. I ain’t got all day.”

  The man shrugged, then picked up his rifle. Before Priscilla realized what he intended, he’d fired two shots. Mama and Papa slumped to the ground.

  “No!” The word echoed in her brain along with the sound of gunfire. And then there was silence. The horse pawed the ground, but she heard nothing. The bandit’s mouth flapped, but no sound came out. Priscilla stood, unable to move, unable to hear, unable to do anything but feel. No! This can’t be happening. Terror ripped through her, squeezing her heart until she thought it would burst. There was blood, so much blood. As the sickening smell reached Priscilla’s nostrils, her senses returned, and she heard the men behind her, chuckling as if something had amused them.

  “No!” She stared at her parents. It couldn’t be true. God wouldn’t have let these evil men kill them. Priscilla fell to her knees. “Talk to me, Mama,” she pleaded. But her mother’s eyes were sightless, her mouth frozen in an expression of shock. Priscilla placed a hand over her father’s nose, hoping against hope that she would feel him breathing. She did not.

  “They’re dead.” There was no remorse in Zeke’s voice as he grabbed Priscilla’s arm and hauled her to her feet. “Chet never misses. Now it’s time for you and me to have a little fun.”

  The chuckle that accompanied his words left no doubt of his intent. Priscilla’s eyes moved wildly, looking for a way to escape. As if he sensed her fear, Zeke tightened his grip and turned toward his brother. “You wanna watch?”

  Chet shook his head. “Not this time.” A second later, he had mounted his horse and headed after Jake, the coach horses trailing behind him. Priscilla was alone with the bandit named Zeke.

  He turned her so she was facing him,
then pulled her against his body and ran one hand down her back. Priscilla shuddered with fear and revulsion. She couldn’t let him do this. Zeke merely laughed as she struggled against him. Pushing aside his bandana, he grabbed her chin with his other hand, his mouth twisting into a leer. “I wanna see if you taste as sweet as you look.”

  “No!” As the memory of her parents’ lifeless bodies flashed before her, Priscilla gathered every ounce of strength she possessed. Twisting abruptly, she broke Zeke’s grip and began to run. Help me, Lord, she prayed. Help me! The grass was thick beneath her feet, the air filled with the scents of horses and recent rain. She could do it. She could escape. She could almost taste freedom. A second later, she lay face first in the grass, a heavy weight on top of her.

  “I always did like feisty ones,” Zeke said as he wrenched her arms behind her and tied them. “Now, gal, let’s see what you taste like.”

  He rolled her over, grinding his lips against hers as he lifted her skirts.

  “No!” Priscilla screamed the word, but no sound emerged. No! She twisted. She turned. She tried to kick, but it was to no avail. Zeke was big; he was strong; he was determined. Please, Lord, help me! As the blood pounded in her ears and she cried out in pain, Priscilla heard the sound of hoofbeats and a single shot.

  “C’mon, Charcoal.” Zachary Webster stroked his stallion’s mane as they forded the river. Though Charcoal preferred galloping on dry land to swimming the Medina and invariably protested when they headed for Ladreville, Zach always smiled when he crossed into town. Though less than fifteen years old, Ladreville had an air of permanence that he suspected was the result of its settlers’ determination. When Michel Ladre had arrived from Alsace with his band of French- and German-speaking immigrants, he’d insisted there would be no temporary accommodations in the town that bore his name. Everything would be built to last. Everything would be designed with pride. And it was. With its half-timbered buildings, a part of its Alsatian immigrants’ legacy, Ladreville was unlike any place Zach had ever seen. It was true that all of God’s creation had its own beauty—all except Perote. Nothing could make the Mexican castle that had been turned into a prison beautiful. Though the rest of the world he’d seen was appealing, somehow this small Texas town touched Zach’s heart as no other location had. That was one of the reasons he sought excuses to leave the ranch and come to town. Today, however, he needed no excuse. It was payday, and he was on his way to the post office.