by Amanda Cabot
Priscilla dragged the chair closer to the window of the room Sarah had said would be hers for as long as she stayed. Though smaller than her bed chamber at home, the room was nicely furnished with a bed, a bureau, and a small table with two chairs. It was one of those chairs that she’d moved toward the window. Opening the sash, Priscilla breathed in deeply. No matter what had happened, there was no denying the beauty of the Bar C and the verdant countryside. It was probably Texas’s location, so much farther south than Boston, that accounted for the grass still being green. Perhaps it was the recent rains, which had turned the stagecoach roads into muddy morasses for several days. Priscilla didn’t care about reasons. It was enough to look outside and know that something—even if it was only grass—was still alive.
A soft knock was followed by the sound of the door opening. Priscilla turned to see Sarah enter the room, carrying a tray with a pitcher and two cups.
“I brought you some cocoa,” she said as she placed it on the table. “That used to be my mother’s remedy when I was sad. It didn’t matter whether it was summer or winter. Mama was convinced that cocoa was a panacea.”
Priscilla smiled at the realization that some aspects of motherhood were universal. “Mine gave me chamomile tea.”
Though she’d started to pour the beverage, Sarah’s hand stilled. “Would you prefer that? I can brew some.”
Priscilla shook her head as she moved her chair back to the table and motioned Sarah toward the other. “The chocolate smells delicious.” Priscilla took a sip, enjoying the fragrant beverage.
“It’s difficult, isn’t it?”
She raised her eyes to meet Sarah’s. “What do you mean?”
“At times like this, it’s hard to see how God can turn suffering into good.”
As memories assailed her, Priscilla’s hand trembled so much that cocoa sloshed over the edge of the cup. Placing it back on the saucer, she closed her eyes and tried to will the memories away.
Sarah laid a hand on one of Priscilla’s. “He can, and he will.”
Slowly Priscilla shook her head and opened her eyes. “I wish I could believe that, but I don’t. Nothing good could come from what happened to my parents.” And me. She wouldn’t voice those words, for that would be to allow the memories back inside her head.
As a bird’s trilling filled the room, Priscilla bit her lips to keep from crying out. How she wished she were a bird! If she were, she could fly away and not have to deal with a woman who preached God’s love. She tugged her hand from Sarah’s and picked up her cup. Perhaps the cocoa would soothe her; it was certain Sarah’s words would not.
“That’s what I thought too.” Sarah’s voice was low and filled with compassion. “I couldn’t understand how God could let me break my leg so badly, but the doctors were sure I’d never walk again.” Though Priscilla had seen Sarah’s limp, she hadn’t wanted to ask what had caused it. “My horse fell on me,” Sarah explained. “Poor Daisy. Her leg was hurt worse than mine, and she . . . Well, you know what happens to horses with crushed legs.”
Though the accident must have occurred years before, Priscilla heard the note of sorrow in Sarah’s voice. Feeling an unexpected need to comfort the woman who had been trying to comfort her, Priscilla said, “You’re walking now.”
Sarah nodded as she placed her cup back on the saucer. “I’ll always limp, but that’s a small price to pay for what I’ve gained.”
When she’d accompanied her father on his medical rounds, Priscilla had met several patients with withered or amputated legs. “It must have been difficult to be confined to a chair.”
“It was, for both me and my parents. I’m honestly not sure who suffered more. All I can tell you is that the day I took my first steps was one of the happiest in my life, and yet walking wasn’t the most precious gift I was given.”
Priscilla knew her face reflected her confusion. What could be better than regaining use of your legs when you’d thought you had been condemned to life in a chair?
As if she heard the unspoken question, Sarah said, “The knowledge that my suffering helped someone else. Clay’s father probably wouldn’t be walking again if it weren’t for what I learned when I was stuck in that chair.”
Clay had written about what he considered the Canfield family miracle, the fact that Sarah’s determination had helped his father regain use of his legs after everyone, Clay included, had believed he would never walk again. It was a touching story and an encouraging one. If she were Sarah, she might even believe God had a hand in it. The problem was, Priscilla knew there would be no happy endings to her story. Death was final. Nothing could change that or mitigate its pain. “I cannot imagine anything good coming from losing my family.”
Sarah was silent for a moment, as if trying to frame her response. “I don’t want to sound as if I’m mouthing platitudes, but times like this are when it’s most important to trust God.”
Priscilla had trusted God, but he had failed her. “Look, Sarah, I know you mean well and you’re trying to help me, but you’re wrong. When I prayed to God for help, he ignored me.”
Anguish filled Sarah’s eyes. “Oh, Priscilla, that’s not true. Our heavenly Father never ignores us. Sometimes we just don’t hear his answer, because it’s not the one we expected.”
“It is true.” Sarah might be stubborn, but so was Priscilla. She wasn’t going to let this woman, no matter how well-meaning she might be, continue to believe that her God was a loving one. “He left me alone with the bandit. He wouldn’t even let me die. I prayed and prayed that I would die, but he wouldn’t even grant me that. That’s when I knew he had abandoned me.”
Before Sarah could reply, the door was flung open and a small child raced inside, her dark brown braids flying behind her, a rag doll clutched to her chest. The little girl’s resemblance to her hostess told Priscilla this was Thea, Sarah’s young sister.
“Pretty lady.” Thea skidded to a stop in front of Priscilla and pointed.
“Her name is Miss Morton.” Sarah reached for her sister, but she eluded her. “Say hello to Miss Morton, and then I want you to go back to the kitchen. I’m sure Martina has some cookies for you.”
Though the little girl’s eyes brightened at the thought of a treat, she ignored Sarah and climbed onto Priscilla’s lap. “Pretty lady. Pretty hair.” She stroked Priscilla’s hair, looking at her hand occasionally, as if she expected it to have been warmed by Priscilla’s flame-colored tresses. When that game paled, she turned her attention to Priscilla’s face. Touching Priscilla’s nose, Thea announced, “Spots.”
Priscilla gave Sarah a quick smile as her earlier prediction that Thea would be curious about them came true. “They’re called freckles.”
“Feckles.” Thea rubbed Priscilla’s nose, perhaps trying to remove the spots. It wouldn’t work. Priscilla had tried the same technique hundreds of times with no result.
“They won’t go away,” she told the child.
“But Thea will.” Sarah rose. “That’s enough, Thea. Let’s go.”
“No!” Thea closed her eyes, as if that would make her invisible, and snuggled closer to Priscilla, wrapping both arms around her. “Me wanna stay with pretty lady.”
“Thea!”
The stern command caused the child to slide from Priscilla’s lap. Her ramrod posture telegraphing her annoyance with her sister, Thea picked up her doll and glared at Sarah. “Pretty lady sad,” she announced. When Sarah pointed at the door, Thea took a few steps toward it, clomping her feet with each stride. Then she turned, a grin on her face, and scampered back to Priscilla. Before Priscilla had the slightest inclination what Thea intended, the child placed her doll in Priscilla’s lap. “Dolly make pretty lady happy.”
A tiny flicker of warmth settled in Priscilla’s heart as she looked at the child’s unselfish gift. It was an ordinary rag doll of minimal monetary value, and yet the love that accompanied it made it priceless.
Sarah’s smile was rueful. “I’m sorry for the interru
ption, Priscilla. I’ll be back as soon as I get Thea settled.”
Priscilla wasn’t sorry. For the first time since the stagecoach had been stopped, she felt something other than anger, hatred, and despair. “Thank you for the doll, Thea.” She held it out, urging the child to take it. From the way she’d carried it, Priscilla knew this was one of Thea’s prized possessions. In all likelihood, she kept it with her night and day.
The child shook her head vigorously. “Me want you keep her.” When Sarah grasped her hand and started to lead her from the room, Thea tugged her hand free. A second later, she’d climbed onto Priscilla’s lap again and hugged her. “Me love you.”
The flicker of warmth turned into a flame, engulfing Priscilla’s heart. She had been wrong when she’d told Sarah that everything had been taken from her. Thea’s gesture and her simple words had accomplished what nothing else had been able to. They’d shown her she was not alone. Perhaps God had not abandoned her. Perhaps he had sent this child to comfort her.
3
“Ladre! Get over here!”
Jean-Michel scowled. Albert Monroe was the second most disgusting person in the state of Texas, maybe even in the whole United States of America. Just because he was an empresario, just because he had more money than any one man deserved, he thought he could order Jean-Michel around. Why, the man treated him like little more than a slave. It seemed that no matter where Jean-Michel went, Monroe was watching. It was almost as if he knew Jean-Michel was looking for a way to escape, but that couldn’t be. Monroe wasn’t that smart. No one was as smart as Jean-Michel Ladre.
“Ladre!”
“Yes, sir.” Jean-Michel bowed slightly. The man was so stupid, he wouldn’t realize he was being mocked.
“Nelson told me you failed to load your share of bales yesterday. Your father will not be happy when he learns that your pay is being docked.”
“No, sir, he won’t.” Papa would fume and Mama would cry when they learned that their son was not a model worker. So what? It wasn’t his idea to be a common laborer. Jean-Michel was as close to royalty as the town of Ladreville had. All his life he’d been reminded that if it weren’t for Papa, there would be no Ladreville, Texas, and that he, Jean-Michel, was an important person. So what if he’d stolen a few things? Papa would never have found out. He was as dumb as Albert Monroe. If it hadn’t been for Zach Webster, Jean-Michel would still be in Ladreville. Maybe he’d even be married to Isabelle.
“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Jean-Michel looked at Monroe. “Yes, sir.” It wouldn’t happen again. Jean-Michel didn’t give a hoot about cotton. Why should he care that his wages were docked when he didn’t see a single penny? Everything he earned was sent back to Ladreville. Restitution, Papa had called it. Robbery was more like it. Those days would soon end. He’d find a way to escape, and when he did, Zach Webster had better beware.
Papa would never have believed Clay. He hated the man almost as much as Jean-Michel did, but Zach was different. For some reason, Papa had trusted him. He’d believed Zach’s lies, and because he had, he’d sent Jean-Michel into exile. That wouldn’t happen again. When Jean-Michel was done, no one would listen to Zach Webster. His days were numbered.
Priscilla awoke, disoriented. The sheets that tangled around her limbs were soft, so different from hotel bedclothes, that for an instant she thought she was at home, but the sweet scent in the air was unfamiliar, almost exotic. Priscilla forced her eyes open, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. Though the room was dark, a faint light sneaking under the door revealed the outline of furniture. Nothing looked familiar. A large bureau. A table and chairs. Perhaps she was still dreaming.
The sound of voices drifted into the room. At first they were muted, a man and a woman speaking of something, their words indistinguishable. As the man raised his voice slightly, memories rushed through Priscilla. No! Please, no! She squeezed her eyes closed in a futile attempt to keep the images at bay, but they washed over her like waves after a storm. The sight of bandits brandishing pistols, the stench of Zeke’s breath, the grip of his hands on her body, the soft thuds as the Ranger filled the graves. The memories were indelibly etched inside her head.
Priscilla sat upright and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to quell the trembling. She was safe now. That was Clay’s voice she heard. She was on his ranch. No one would hurt her here. Priscilla whispered the words aloud. Perhaps if she voiced them, if her ears heard them, she would believe them.
When her teeth began to chatter, Priscilla clenched her jaw. This wasn’t working. Thrusting her arms into the dressing gown Sarah had given her, she picked her way to the window and drew back the curtains. Her room, she remembered, was situated on the front of the house, its windows opening onto the porch. She looked outside, wondering where Clay and Sarah were that she heard their voices. Perhaps they were walking close by.
Priscilla gasped. Clay was sitting on the porch swing, his arm around Sarah. As memories of Zeke’s arms and their punishing strength assailed her, Priscilla gripped the windowsill, forcing herself to breathe deeply. An engaged couple often touched each other, she reminded herself. Their touches were gentle and loving, not harsh and hateful. Clay wasn’t hurting Sarah. He wasn’t like Zeke. He wouldn’t force himself on a woman. Though Priscilla’s mind knew all that, her heart continued to tremble with fear.
“We’ll postpone the wedding until she’s recovered.” Sarah’s words rang clearly in the night.
As Clay drew his fiancée closer, Priscilla shuddered again. She should draw the curtain, return to bed, and pretend she had heard none of this. But she stood there, frozen, as Clay said, “As much as I hate the idea of waiting, I know you’re right. Those bruises will take a few weeks to heal.”
It was worse than she’d thought. Nothing was private. Priscilla cringed at the realization that, though she had said nothing at the time, Sarah had told Clay of the damage the bandit’s fists had inflicted.
“Spoken like a doctor.” There was a hint of amusement in Sarah’s voice. “The bruises aren’t what concern me. I’m more worried about the invisible wounds. As horrible as it was for me to find Mama and Papa’s bodies, what Priscilla endured was much worse. She saw her parents being killed and then . . .” Sarah’s words trailed off.
“I don’t want to think about it either,” Clay admitted. “There are some things that are unspeakable, and what happened to Priscilla is one of them.” He pressed a kiss on Sarah’s head, and this time the gesture did not horrify Priscilla, for she had erected a barrier between herself and the rest of the world, just as she had when she’d ridden behind the Ranger. Though her body had been on the palomino he called Snip, her spirit had been miles away in a place where no one could find her.
Priscilla heard Clay chuckle. “My sweet Sarah, once again you’re right. We’ll postpone our wedding indefinitely.”
As his words registered, the barrier Priscilla had constructed shattered. They couldn’t do that! Heedless of her dishabille, she raised the window and leaned out. “No, you mustn’t wait.”
Both Sarah and Clay turned abruptly, the moonlight revealing Sarah’s shock. “Oh, Priscilla,” she said as she rose from the swing and walked toward the window, “I’m sorry we woke you. I hadn’t realized we were so loud.”
Clay followed a pace behind her, his expression filled with concern. Priscilla tightened her grip on the window as she realized that, far from alleviating her friends’ worries, she had augmented them.
“You slept through supper,” Sarah said when she reached the window. “Would you like me to bring you some food?”
“No.” Hunger was the last thing on Priscilla’s mind. “I’m sorry to have eavesdropped, but you mustn’t delay your wedding.”
Sarah gave Clay a quick look before she said firmly, “We’ve already decided.”
“Then undecide. I don’t want you to disrupt your lives because of me.”
The corners of Clay’s mouth turned up, and Priscilla thou
ght she saw grudging respect in his eyes. That was better—infinitely better—than pity. “You sound like Sarah when she first arrived,” he told Priscilla. “She kept saying she didn’t want to be a burden.”
“He wouldn’t listen to me,” Sarah warned, “so I doubt you’ll be any more successful. When Clay makes up his mind, he rarely changes it.”
This time would be different. Priscilla leaned her arms on the windowsill, hoping the position and the relative darkness would camouflage the way she was trembling. “You must listen to me. Don’t you see? If you change your plans, the bandits will have won again. They’ve already done too much damage. We can’t give them any more power over us.” Wasn’t it bad enough, knowing that if she hadn’t been so insistent on attending Clay’s wedding, her parents would still be alive? Priscilla could not undo that, but she could keep Sarah and Clay from suffering because of her.
Clay shook his head. “It’s too soon. I owe your parents a formal mourning period.”
Priscilla shuddered at the thought of black clothing and all the other trappings of mourning. “They wouldn’t have wanted it. You know that, Clay.” Though Mama was traditional about most things, she had frequently deplored the refusal to lead a normal life after a loved one’s death. “They wanted you to be happy.”
“Still . . .”
Priscilla turned toward his fiancée. “Convince him, Sarah. If you can’t, send in Thea. She seems to be a master at getting her way.”
“Don’t remind me.” A groan accompanied Clay’s words. Priscilla chose to interpret it as acquiescence.
“Then it’s settled. You’ll be married on December 28, just the way you planned.”
Sarah whispered something to Clay. When he nodded, she said, “All right. We won’t change the date, but we’ll wait a while before we take our wedding trip.”
