by Amanda Cabot
Priscilla looked at the outbuildings and the paddock Patience had described. They were the same. The house was not. Her sister would not have recognized it, for after the fire, Clay and Sarah rebuilt with adobe rather than lumber, but there was no mistaking the man who stood near what appeared to be a new carriage.
As the Ranger slowed the horse, Priscilla took a deep breath. It would be so good to get down from here. The trip had been more painful than she would admit. Riding astride, which was the only option since the horse had no sidesaddle, had stretched already tender muscles and exacerbated the bruises the bandit had inflicted. But that was over. She had arrived.
Three people stood next to the carriage: two men and a woman. Priscilla would have recognized Clay anywhere, for the tall, blond man looked the same as he had in Boston, other than his deep Texas tan. The petite brunette at his side must be Sarah, and the other man was . . . No! It can’t be! Waves of horror washed over Priscilla, and she closed her eyes, trying to blot out the terrible sight. Her eyes must have deceived her. Zeke was dead. The Ranger had buried him. Priscilla opened her eyes, shuddering when a quick glance confirmed what she’d seen before. What was Zeke doing here?
As the Ranger stopped the horse and dismounted, Clay rushed forward, his blue eyes filled with concern. “Priscilla, what happened?” When he raised his arms to help her off the stallion, she began to tremble. It was silly, she told herself. This was Clay, a man she’d known for years. He wouldn’t hurt her. All he was doing was being courteous. Her brain enumerated the reasons she should let him help her. Her heart refused to listen. Priscilla swallowed deeply, trying to fight back the bile that rose to her throat when she thought of a man’s hands on her. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let Clay touch her. The only way she had survived the ride was by telling herself that Lawrence Wood was not a man. He was a Ranger. They were a different breed. Even thousands of miles away in Boston, she had heard of the legendary Texas Rangers. The band of lawmen were so well known for their marksmanship and horsemanship, not to mention their almost unbelievable record of capturing outlaws, that peace-loving Papa had spent several dinner hours recounting the exploits he’d read about in the newspaper. That was why Priscilla had known she could trust Lawrence Wood. He was a Ranger.
The Ranger nodded slowly. “Let me help her.” Though he phrased it as a request, the look he gave Clay brooked no argument. “It’s all right, ma’am.” His voice was soft and soothing, the same tone he’d used since they’d first mounted his horse. “You’re safe here. They’re your family.”
But the black-haired man wasn’t. Once her feet were on the ground, Priscilla darted another look at him. He wasn’t Zeke. She saw that now. This man was taller, his shoulders broader, his features firmer. His brows weren’t bushy like Zeke’s, and his chin had a cleft that Zeke’s had not. Though her mind knew this was not the man who’d hurt her, she could not stop her hands from trembling.
“Priscilla, where are your parents?” Concern colored Clay’s words.
How could she tell him what had happened? She and the Ranger had spoken of trivialities, what they would eat, when they would rest. Not once had he referred to the horror he’d witnessed. And that was good, for it was unspeakable. Still, Clay had to know. Though Priscilla opened her mouth, no sounds emerged.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Clay turned to the Ranger, his stance as well as the tone of his voice making it clear that he blamed the man for Priscilla’s uncharacteristic silence. The Priscilla he’d known was rarely at a loss for words.
“I’m Lawrence Wood, Texas Ranger. Three bandits attacked Miss Morton’s stagecoach about fifty miles east of San Antonio. There’s no easy way to say this. They killed her parents and . . .” He paused, apparently searching for the correct word. “They . . . er . . . hurt her.”
Clay’s face paled; the dark-haired man clenched his fists. Sarah stepped forward and put her arm around Priscilla’s waist. Though she was four or five inches shorter than Priscilla, it felt as if Sarah were supporting her. “You poor dear. Come with me. I’ll have a nice hot bath drawn for you.”
A hot bath. Brittle laughter spilled from Priscilla’s mouth. “That’s what Mama wanted, a hot bath. Now . . .”
Sarah continued walking, propelling Priscilla toward the ranch house. Despite her decided limp, she kept a steady pace and somehow managed to support Priscilla. Sarah might appear delicate, but appearances were deceptive, for she was strong as well as beautiful. “That’s what every woman wants after a long journey,” Sarah said, her voice low and soothing. “The Ranger must have had you riding night and day to get here so quickly. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
As they entered the low adobe building, Sarah paused to let Priscilla’s eyes adjust to the relative darkness of what was obviously a kitchen. A range flanked by cupboards dominated one wall, while a second boasted a window and a deep sink. The third wall was bare, save for a door. It took a moment for Priscilla to notice the woman working at the table in the far corner. Short and stocky, she had hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. That and her black clothing made her blend into the background.
“I was afraid to sleep,” Priscilla admitted to Sarah. The few times she’d dozed had been unpleasant. “When I do, the dreams come.” They were horrible, replaying all that had happened yesterday, filling her with a terror that was somehow worse than the reality had been. Each time she dreamt, foreboding heightened her fear, for she knew what would happen next. That was part of the reason she had not protested when the Ranger wanted to ride through the night. Being on horseback was so uncomfortable that it made it difficult to sleep.
“I felt the same way after my parents died.” Sarah inclined her head toward the woman who continued to knead bread and made brief introductions, explaining that the other woman was Martina, the one indispensable member of the household. As Martina began to heat water for Priscilla’s bath, Sarah opened the door on the long wall, revealing a room equipped with a large bathtub, a padded bench, and hooks for clothing. “When we rebuilt the house after the fire, I told Clay that even though he and the ranch hands saw no problem in bathing on the porch, Thea and I needed a room inside. A bathroom was one of the few things I missed from our house in Philadelphia.”
Priscilla nodded, remembering that, like her, Sarah had come to Texas from the East. The difference was, Sarah had planned to live here permanently as a mail-order bride, while Priscilla was only visiting.
“Mama would have liked this,” she said, her voice choking at the thought of her mother. “It’s bigger than our bathroom at home.” Home. Tears welled in Priscilla’s eyes as she thought of the three-story red-brick building she had shared with her parents. What would it be like, living there alone? She wouldn’t think of that. Not today.
“Thank you, Martina,” Sarah said as the woman handed her a pile of towels and a fresh bar of soap. When the woman returned to the kitchen, Sarah’s eyes registered a new concern. “I didn’t see any extra saddlebags, so I imagine the Ranger forgot to bring your clothes.”
At the time, Priscilla hadn’t cared, remembering how the men had rifled through the luggage. The thought of donning anything the bandits had touched was abhorrent, but what she had on was even worse. This was what she’d been wearing when . . . Priscilla looked at her travel- and grass-stained skirts and frowned. “I’m afraid this is all I have. We left everything with the stagecoach. The Ranger warned me it would probably be stolen before he could get back there.”
Sarah gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll find something.” When Martina returned to dump the first kettle of hot water into the tub, Sarah turned to her. “When you’re done with this, would you ask Zach to ride to the Lazy B? There’s a trunk of Mary’s clothes in the attic. They’ll be a little long for Priscilla, but they’ll fit better than mine. Tell Zach to bring the whole trunk.”
Zeke was here? Priscilla gasped as the memories rushed back, stronger and more painful than ever. Sarah
and Clay knew Zeke?
“It’s only until we can have some new clothing made. No one will mind if you wear Mary’s in the meantime, least of all her. When she and her son left Ladreville a few months ago, they didn’t take much with them, and I doubt they’ll be back.”
Priscilla grabbed the edge of the tub to keep from collapsing. Sarah obviously misunderstood the reason for her alarm. “Zeke?” She managed to squeak the word.
“Zach.” Sarah corrected her. “Zach Webster. He’s the dark-haired man you saw outside. Zach is our foreman and Clay’s closest friend.”
Priscilla took a breath, trying to calm her nerves. The stranger was not the same man. She’d already told herself that Zeke Dunkler was dead. Now she reminded herself that Zach Webster would not hurt her. Still, the similarity in appearance and name was troubling.
When Martina emptied the last pot and billows of steam rose from the tub, Priscilla tried to unbutton her dress, but her fingers seemed incapable of following her brain’s commands. “I’m not normally like this.” She frowned at her fumbling fingers.
“I can’t imagine how you feel after all that happened to you.” Like Priscilla, Sarah seemed unwilling to pronounce the ugly word. Sarah took a step closer and deftly unfastened Priscilla’s bodice. “But I do know nothing is the same when your parents die. I walked around in a haze for days afterwards.” Sarah turned her attention to Priscilla’s skirt and soon had it pooling on the floor. “If I hadn’t had Thea to worry about, I might have done that for months.”
As the last of the petticoats joined her skirt, Priscilla removed her chemise and let Sarah help her into the tub. Though she must have seen them, Sarah made no comment on the bruises Zeke had inflicted.
“Tell me about Thea,” Priscilla suggested as she sank into the warm water. It felt good, so very good, to know that every inch of her would be clean. Maybe if she washed away the last traces of the bandit, the memories would disappear along with the dirt.
Sarah began soaping a cloth. “Where do I start? You already know Thea’s my little sister, or—as my parents used to call her—their big surprise. Of course, I can’t call her ‘little’ in her hearing. She’s almost three, and she never fails to tell me that that makes her a big girl.” Furrows appeared between Sarah’s brown eyes. “She was so young when our parents died that sometimes she forgets that I’m her sister, not her mother. As for Clay—she’s always called him ‘Papa Clay.’ The poor man!” Sarah’s frown deepened. “Listen to me, babbling about things that mean nothing to you. I’m sorry.”
Priscilla shook her head. “I don’t mind.” Sarah’s babbling, as she called it, was soothing, as were her ministrations. Though it had been years since anyone had soaped her arms, Priscilla did not protest. She was so weary and sore that she wasn’t certain she could have managed it on her own.
“Lean back,” Sarah said, “and I’ll wash your hair.” She filled a small bucket with water and poured it over Priscilla’s head, then began to massage soap into her scalp. “Your hair is beautiful,” she said as she reached for the rinse water. “It reminds me of the sky at sunset.”
“Unfortunately, freckles seem to accompany reddish hair.” They certainly were companions to Priscilla’s strawberry blonde locks and her mother’s auburn tresses. “I used to have them everywhere. You know how children can be. Even the slightest snub seems monumental. I can remember coming home from school crying because the other children teased me about my freckles. I was so upset that Mama took one of the lemons she’d been saving for a special treat of lemonade and let me rub it on my face, saying it would bleach the freckles. I don’t think it did, but it did make me feel better. And now most of them have faded.” Priscilla touched the bridge of her nose, where three persistent freckles could be found. “These are all that are left.” As the words left her mouth, she frowned. What was happening to her? Her life had changed irreparably, and yet she was talking about something as mundane as freckles. This was worse than Sarah’s babbling.
Sarah seemed to find nothing amiss. “Don’t be surprised if Thea wants to touch them. She’s at a curious stage.” Sarah squeezed the water from Priscilla’s hair before she helped her climb out of the tub. “Why am I talking about stages? I believe Thea was born curious.”
“Mama used to say the same thing about me. She and Papa claimed that if Patience and I didn’t look so much alike, they wouldn’t have believed we were both their daughters.” Her legs suddenly weak, Priscilla sank onto the bench, clutching the towel as if it were a lifeline. “Mama, Papa, Patience. They’re all gone. Oh, Sarah, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m all alone.”
Sarah wrapped a second towel around Priscilla’s legs. “You have Clay and me. More importantly, you have God.”
Shaking off Sarah’s hand, Priscilla shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong. God has deserted me.”
She was afraid of him. That beautiful woman with hair like firelight and grass-green eyes was afraid of him. Zach knew he hadn’t imagined it. There was no mistaking the terror in her eyes when she’d looked at him. Though he’d never set eyes on her before, the instant her gaze met his, he’d seen the flicker of recognition, followed swiftly by a look of pure horror. Zach couldn’t explain how it could have happened, but somehow she knew his past. It was as if his sin had been branded on his forehead, a modern mark of Cain. Even Margaret’s hatred and her bitter words the day they’d parted hadn’t shaken him the way this woman’s fear had. He was still reeling as if he’d been struck.
That was part of the reason Zach had been reluctant to accompany Clay and the Ranger when Clay had suggested they sit on the front porch. The other part was that he didn’t think he could bear listening to the Ranger’s tale, knowing that he was not the man to avenge the evil that had been done. But Clay had insisted, and so here Zach was, sitting on the front steps, drinking some of Martina’s cool tea.
“What can you tell us?” Clay posed the question.
The Ranger took a long swallow before he replied. “It was the Dunkler brothers’ work. There were three of them—tall, dark hair, blue eyes.” He stared at Zach for a moment. “They look a bit like you.”
A wave of relief washed through Zach. Perhaps that was the reason for Priscilla’s reaction. She had seen the physical resemblance and been frightened. That was much better than believing she had looked inside him and learned his shameful secret. Zach took another sip of tea, and this time he savored the cool beverage.
“The Dunkler brothers have been holding up stagecoaches around San Antonio for the better part of a year,” the Ranger continued. “Usually their intent is robbery. The unfortunate fact is, they’ve been remarkably successful in taking large payrolls. That’s why the Rangers were called out. I don’t know what was different this time, why they killed the driver and Miss Morton’s parents and attacked her.”
Zach’s insides twisted at the thought of three innocent people dying and another suffering the worst harm that could befall a woman. Oh, Lord, where were you? How could you let this happen? There was no answer, just as there’d been no answer in that abysmal Mexican jail. Zach rose and walked to the edge of the porch, trying to calm his thoughts. Only then would he hear the voice that directed his life, the voice that had led him here. Was this somehow part of God’s plan for him?
“Scum like that deserve to die.” Zach heard the anger in Clay’s voice.
“One of them already has,” the Ranger said. “I killed Zeke Dunkler when I found him with Miss Morton. The others were already gone.”
Zach turned and rejoined the conversation. “You said there were three.”
“Yeah.” The Ranger nodded. “Zeke was the youngest and, from all accounts, the wildest. Jake—he’s the oldest—is the leader and the brains of the outfit. Chet’s the best shot.”
“Any idea where they’ve gone?” Once again it was Clay who spoke. Zach was trying to tamp back the fury that even now raged like a wildfire inside him.
“Probably north. Judging
from the coaches they’ve robbed recently, that seems to be the direction they’re headed.” The Ranger frowned. “Trouble is, I can’t predict what they’ll do once they realize Zeke is dead. They may change their pattern. They may seek revenge.”
“Against whom? You said Miss Morton was the only survivor.” Surely the remaining Dunklers would not kill her. But they might. That had probably been their plan all along. Once he’d slaked his lust, Zeke Dunkler would have killed her if the Ranger hadn’t shot him first.
The Ranger shrugged. “Most murderers don’t like to leave witnesses.”
A sudden calm fell over Zach. Perhaps this was what God intended for him. He’d known a change was coming. He simply didn’t know what it would be. Perhaps he was meant to accompany Lawrence Wood as he tracked the murderers. He wouldn’t kill the men, of course. When he’d left Perote, he’d vowed that he would never again kill. But he could help apprehend the bandits and keep Miss Morton safe. “I’ll go with you.”
The Ranger shook his head. “No offense, but I’m the one who’s trained to deal with the likes of the Dunkler brothers. I’m also used to riding alone.”
He would be in the way. Zach didn’t need to hear the words pronounced to understand the man’s concerns. He couldn’t dispute their validity. Though he was a good marksman, he doubted his skill could match that of a Texas Ranger. Those men were legendary. But if God didn’t want him to capture the murderers, what was his plan? Zach wished he knew.
