by Amanda Cabot
“Mornin’.” Steven Dunn, Ladreville’s postmaster, greeted him with a broad smile. “I figgered you’d be here today. I told my wife you was regular as clockwork.”
Zach chuckled at the realization that he’d become so predictable. He doubted anyone who’d known him as a youngster would have expected that. “The next thing I know, you’ll be accusing me of being stuck in a rut.”
The postmaster checked the boxes behind him, then shook his head. “No mail for you or Clay. As far as that rut, with all that’s going on, I don’t reckon there’s much time to get stuck in anything at the Bar C.”
“Don’t forget the Lazy B.” No doubt about it, it was a challenge, being the foreman of two large ranches, but Zach had never been one to shy from challenges. He enjoyed his work, and the fact that Clay Canfield, who hadn’t known him from Adam six months ago, trusted him enough to give him complete control over not just his own Bar C but also the neighboring Lazy B was cause for another smile. Two prosperous ranches and a town that had caught his fancy. It was more than a man deserved.
“Heard tell you got some visitors comin’ from the East.”
Zach nodded. There were few secrets in a small town, not that there was any reason to hide the arrival of Clay’s wedding guests. “Clay’s happy as can be that the Mortons are coming. You’ve probably heard that Doc Morton hired Clay as his assistant back in Boston, and the next thing anyone knew, Clay was marrying the older Morton girl.”
“She was a right pretty gal, Patience was, but a mite standoffish.”
It wasn’t the first time Zach had heard that complaint. “Maybe it was just that she was from Boston,” he suggested. “Folks are more formal back East.”
“Mebbe. My wife sure hopes the parents and the other gal are friendlier.” The postmaster cleared his throat and held out his hand. “Got your package ready?”
“You bet.” Zach gave him the box. He was certain Steven knew the package contained money, but he’d never asked why Zach sent some each month. That was one of the things that pleased Zach about Ladreville. Though the town loved gossip, its postmaster did not indulge in Ladreville’s favorite pastime, and that suited Zach just fine. The good citizens of Ladreville had no reason to know that he sent a substantial portion of his pay to Charlotte Tallman, a woman who was not related to him. If they knew, they would only speculate.
“Thanks, Steven.” For so much.
As Zach turned to leave, the postmaster stopped him. “I reckon the lady’s mighty happy to hear from you so regular like.”
“I owe her a lot. Her husband saved my life.” Zach blinked at the sound of himself pronouncing words he’d never intended to. Only Clay and his father knew what had happened at Perote and how much he owed John Tallman’s widow.
Steven shrugged, as if the revelation were insignificant. “Like I said, she’s a mighty lucky lady you write so regular like.” He emphasized the word write. “Mighty lucky. I reckon she thanks the Lord for you.”
Steven was wrong. No woman thanked the Lord for him, not Charlotte and especially not Margaret. “If you leave me, I’ll . . .” Zach pushed the memories from his mind as he strode out of the post office and mounted Charcoal. It had been fifteen years, half his life. By now a reasonable man should have been able to put the past behind him. Zach had tried and failed. He knew God had forgiven him. He’d begged for and received forgiveness long ago, but he still didn’t know why Margaret had refused his offer of help unless she had followed through on her threat. Zach fought back the pain that that thought always brought and nudged Charcoal into the water. Perhaps it was time to accept that he would never understand Margaret’s motives. One thing was certain. It was time to learn what God had in store for him next.
“What the . . . ?”
Priscilla cringed at the sight of the blond man sitting on a horse, his pistol pointed at her. Though the man bit off his words, sparing her what was probably a string of profanity, nothing could camouflage his anger.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Fear caused Priscilla’s heart to skip a beat, then begin to pound furiously. Though every instinct shrieked that she should flee, she couldn’t, for Zeke’s body pressed her into the grass. He was big and heavy and immovable. He had been silent and motionless since she’d heard the shot, and the smell of blood told her he’d been wounded. Perhaps more than wounded.
Priscilla’s eyes widened as the blond man slid off his horse, covering the few yards between them in three long strides. What was he going to do? Was he like Zeke? Was he going to . . . ? She couldn’t complete the thought. What Zeke had done was unthinkable. Help me, Lord. I can’t bear any more. Priscilla kept her eyes fixed on the stranger, trying to read his thoughts. She saw anger and something else, perhaps pity. A second later he yanked Zeke off her, tossed him aside like a piece of trash, then straightened her skirts.
“Are you all right, ma’am?”
She would never again be all right. She would never again be clean. She would never again be whole. Priscilla shook her head, then nodded as she managed to sit up. She was as close to right as she was going to be. She was alive, and— as far as she could tell—nothing was broken. No bones, at least. She didn’t want to think about the injuries Zeke had inflicted, just as she didn’t want to think about the big man standing over her. If she stood, he’d be less threatening, but try though she might, with her hands tied behind her, she could not rise to her feet.
“Who are you?” she asked. He didn’t look like Zeke or his brothers. Though he’d worn a bandana, this man had tugged it off as he’d slid from the horse, as if—unlike the bandits— he had no fear of people recognizing his face.
“Lawrence Wood, ma’am. I’m a Texas Ranger.” This time there was no question. His eyes were filled with pity. “Let me untie you.”
Priscilla shuddered at the thought of him, of any man, touching her. “No, please. Don’t touch me.” The words came out as little more than a squeak.
He nodded slowly, as if he understood. “I won’t hurt you, ma’am. I’d swear that on a Bible if I had one handy. Let me help you.”
She had no choice. As Priscilla nodded, the Ranger knelt beside her and slit the bandana that had tied her hands. Then he rose quickly, distancing himself from her as she rose to her feet. She ought to thank him. Priscilla knew that. But somehow the words would not come out. She closed her eyes, trying to block the sight of the bodies lying on the grass. Perhaps if she kept them closed, she could pretend it hadn’t happened. Perhaps she could pretend that Mama and Papa were still alive, that they were on the stagecoach, making their way to San Antonio, and she had not been . . . Priscilla shuddered again. She wouldn’t pronounce the word, not even in her thoughts.
“How many of them were there?”
The Ranger’s voice brought her back to reality. No matter how much she wanted to pretend, today had happened. Everything.
“Three.”
He turned Zeke’s body over and frowned at the sight. “Zeke Dunkler. I knew I’d catch up with him eventually. The others must have been his brothers, Chet and Jake.”
Priscilla nodded. Those were the names she’d heard.
“This one won’t be hurting you or anyone else ever again.” The Ranger looked around, his eyes assessing the scene. “Just like the other times. They took the horses and anything valuable they could find.” He walked slowly toward Mama and Papa’s bodies. “Did you know the other passengers?”
“They’re . . . ” A sob caught in her throat. “My parents.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The Ranger’s voice rang with sincerity. “I wish it were different, but there’s nothing I can say to make it better.” He scowled as he looked at the bandit’s body. “Scoundrels like the Dunkler brothers shouldn’t be allowed to live. I can’t undo what they’ve done, but I promise you they’ll pay for it.” The Ranger rummaged through the back of the stagecoach, emerging with a shovel and a soft cloth.
“What are you going to do?”
> “Bury your parents and the driver. I ought to let the coyotes and birds take care of Zeke, but I can’t do that.” He held out the cloth and nodded toward the small stream she’d barely noticed. “You might want to freshen up a bit while I dig the graves.” As if he knew that being too close to her frightened her, he laid the cloth on the grass.
As the rhythmic sound of the shovel hitting soft earth continued, Priscilla scrubbed her skin. The cool water washed away the dirt and blood, but nothing could cleanse her memories, nothing could erase what the bandits had done. The sounds, the smells, the sights, and—worst of all—the memory of Zeke’s loathsome touch remained. Priscilla knew those moments would haunt her for the rest of her life. She sank onto the ground and buried her face in her hands. Oh, Lord, why did you let this happen? It would have been better for me to die. Then I would be with Mama and Papa and Patience. Oh, why didn’t you let me die? Where were you when I needed you? There was no answer, nothing save the pounding of her heart.
She raised her head and looked at the man who was digging her parents’ graves. Why couldn’t he have come ten minutes earlier? If he had, perhaps Mama and Papa would still be alive. Instead, they would soon be buried in this land Mama had found so foreign. It wasn’t fair! The tears Priscilla had been holding back began to flow, accompanied by great body-racking sobs.
Now, child, you know tears solve nothing. When you want to cry, find something to do. As the memory of her father’s words echoed through Priscilla’s mind, she brushed the tears from her cheeks. Papa was right. There were things she needed to do to help prepare her parents’ final resting place. As crude as the grave was, it was all they would have. It was up to Priscilla to do her best. Even though there was no minister in sight, her parents could not be buried without a prayer. She rose and entered the stagecoach, emerging a minute later with her mother’s Bible and the reticule she’d hidden from the bandits.
“You ready, ma’am?” The Ranger stood at the side of a single wide grave. The fresh mounds of dirt a distance away told her he’d already buried the driver and the bandit. Dimly, Priscilla realized that he’d dug a single grave for her parents. She nodded slowly. It felt right. Mama and Papa might be in a strange land, but they were together.
Priscilla walked to the gravesite, then bent down and laid the reticule near Mama’s hand. A lady, Mama had insisted, never went outdoors without her reticule. She straightened Papa’s hat, which the Ranger had placed on his chest. There was nothing else she could do.
“I’m ready,” she said. With hands that were still shaking, Priscilla opened the Bible and began to read the familiar words. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” When she finished and said a silent prayer, the Ranger reached for his shovel. Unable to watch, Priscilla turned away, trying to block the sound of earth covering her parents.
“Where were you heading, ma’am?” the Ranger asked as he stowed the shovel in the back of the stagecoach.
He was matter-of-fact. She would be too. Papa was right; naught was gained by crying. “My brother-by-marriage was going to meet us in San Antonio and take us to his ranch.” Had it been less than an hour since she’d been eager to reach Ladreville? The thought brought a fresh wave of pain, and Priscilla squeezed her eyes closed to keep the tears from falling.
“Do you recall the name of the ranch?” If the Ranger saw her distress, he ignored it.
She nodded. “The Bar C. It’s just outside a town named Ladreville.”
“I’ve heard of the place. The best thing would be for me to take you all the way there. If we hurry, we can reach the ranch before your brother-in-law leaves for San Antonio.” The Ranger gestured toward his horse. “Let me help you up.”
Priscilla stared, horrified by his proposition. Didn’t he understand that she couldn’t do what he’d suggested? Getting on the horse would mean letting the Ranger touch her. Even worse, once she was mounted, she would have to hold onto him. Priscilla clasped her hands as memories assaulted her. The bandit’s fetid breath. The roughness of his hands. The . . . She forced herself to take a deep breath as she pushed the thoughts aside. There was only one thing to do, only one way to survive. She would ensure that no man ever again came that close to her. She would not get on that horse.
“Ma’am, we need to leave.”
“I can’t.” The Ranger stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had. All she knew was that some things were impossible. You’re strong, Priscilla. You can do anything you set your mind to. Unbidden, Papa’s words filled her head, reminding her of the day he’d pronounced them, the day she’d been afraid to strap on a pair of ice skates, lest she break her arm again. With Papa’s encouragement, she had skated that day and had rediscovered the pleasure gliding across the ice could bring.
“All right.” Priscilla stretched out her hand.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Clay Canfield’s grin practically split his face.
Zach looked at the man who’d become his closest friend. Though they both stood six feet tall and had blue eyes, the similarities stopped there. Clay’s hair was blond, not almost black like Zach’s, and anyone who looked at them could tell that Clay was unaccustomed to physical labor, while Zach had been raised outdoors. Clay was highly educated; Zach had far less schooling. Clay was a renowned physician; Zach ran ranches. On the surface, they had little in common, but despite—or perhaps because of—their differences, they had become almost as close as brothers.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Clay repeated the question.
This was clearly a time for discretion. As far as Zach was concerned, it looked like every other carriage he’d seen. Furthermore, he saw no way to determine that the object of Clay’s admiration was female. But Zach knew that uttering either one of those thoughts would not be prudent, particularly when the man who’d hear them was his boss as well as his friend, and so he said only, “Have you given her a name?”
Clay nodded. “Sarah wants to call her Bessie.”
“And whatever Sarah wants, she gets.” Though he had known Clay for only a few months, Zach had been amazed at how loving Sarah had changed Clay. He was a far happier man since Sarah had agreed to be his wife.
Clay’s grin broadened. “Don’t look so smug. You’ll feel the same way when you fall in love.”
He meant well. Zach knew that. He also knew this was not the time for explanations, and so he said lightly, “That day, my friend, will never come.”
“I’ve heard that before, and every time the man was wrong. Your time just hasn’t come, but who knows? Your bride might be arriving in the next few days.”
“What do you mean?” The words came out seemingly of their own volition. Zach certainly hadn’t meant to pronounce them.
“Priscilla.” Clay acted as if the answer should have been apparent. “Sunny Cilla may be just the woman for you. She’s pretty and smart and has a way of making even a rainy day seem bright. That’s why her parents called her Sunny Cilla.” Clay gave Zach an appraising look. “She’d be perfect for you.”
This conversation had lasted long enough. “Is Bessie ready to travel?”
“Indeed she is, and just in time. Tomorrow’s the day we go to San Antonio.” Clay patted Bessie. “You’re ready, aren’t you?”
Zach laughed. What else was he to do? The man was as proud as a new parent, all because he had a carriage.
As a slender brunette emerged from the house, Zach tipped his hat. “I hear you’re responsible for this carriage’s unfortunate name,” he said as Sarah Dobbs, soon to be Sarah Canfield, approached. Though she’d always limp, thanks to a childhood riding accident, Zach was glad to see she had abandoned the cane.
“Am I to infer that you see something odd in giving a carriage a name?” Sarah drew herself up to her full five feet four inches and pretended to glare at Zach as if he were one of her schoolchildren.
“Well, ma’am,” he drawled, feigning ignorance, “I reckon this is the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.”
“Zach Webster, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, mocking a child’s idea.”
“You mean this was Thea’s suggestion?” Zach shot his friend a glance and was mollified when Clay appeared as surprised as he by the notion that Sarah’s young sister had named the carriage. “You let a two-year-old tell you what to do?”
Sarah shrugged. “Why not? She’s very persuasive.”
There was no denying that. The little minx had charmed everyone at the Bar C from Clay’s father to the ranch hands. Zach clapped Clay on the shoulder. “I don’t envy you in another fifteen years. You’ll have your hands full, dealing with Thea’s suitors.”
Clay gave his fiancée a fond glance. “I suspect that’s why Sarah’s marrying me. She wants some help.”
As Zach started to laugh, he heard the sound of an approaching horse. Turning, he saw a palomino with two riders. “You expecting company?” he asked Clay. As far as Zach knew, the visitors were strangers to the area. The man sat tall in the saddle, his gaze vigilant, while an obviously weary woman with reddish blond hair clung to him.
“It can’t be.”
Zach wheeled around at the sound of Clay’s distress. Blood had drained from his friend’s face, leaving him ashen. “Something’s horribly wrong. I don’t know who the man is, but that’s Priscilla with him.”
2
The long, horrible journey was over. This was the place she had longed to see, the place where Patience had spent her final months. Priscilla gazed at the ranch that had figured so heavily in her sister’s letters, trying to see it through Patience’s eyes. The land was not foreboding, as Patience had claimed. Like the countryside Priscilla had traversed for the past day, it was gently rolling with trees that had yet to shed their leaves. It was true that the trees were not the slender birches and stately spruces that had decorated their home in Boston and that prickly pear cactus had not dotted the Mortons’ front yard, but the Bar C had its own kind of beauty. It was less tamed. Some might say it was less civilized, but even as exhausted as she was, Priscilla saw the vitality. This was a new land, a land meant for adventure. Though the horrible emptiness deep inside her told her she had been wrong to have sought this adventure, she would not deny the appeal of Texas and the Bar C.
