by Amanda Cabot
“That’s not necessary.”
Sarah smiled. “Don’t forget that if we go away, you’ll be responsible for Thea.” Mama had been ecstatic at the idea of caring for a small child while Sarah and Clay honeymooned and had had no reservations when Clay had asked if she and Papa and Priscilla could extend their visit long enough to help him and Sarah.
Sarah’s lips quirked up again. “Be careful, Priscilla. As you reminded us, Thea is quite a handful. You may not want us to leave you alone with her, at least not for a while.”
Priscilla nodded. “You win.”
“She always does.” Clay gave his bride-to-be a fond look.
The next time Priscilla wakened, the sun was high and her stomach was rumbling. She dressed hurriedly, then walked to the kitchen where Martina greeted her with a warm smile.
“I reckon you’re hungry,” the older woman said when she’d asked how Priscilla liked her eggs cooked. “You slept like . . .” She bit off her words, as if she realized that Priscilla might not appreciate the traditional ending to that phrase. The dead. Martina had no way of knowing that words did not hurt. It was only memories that were painful, memories and this horrible feeling of emptiness, knowing she would never see Mama and Papa again.
She would not dwell on those thoughts, Priscilla had resolved when she woke. When she was a child, her parents had nicknamed her Sunny Cilla. Though she didn’t feel particularly sunny today, Priscilla would do her best to live up to their expectations.
She took a seat at the small table while Martina cracked eggs into a bowl. “I can’t recall ever sleeping so much.” Mercifully, she had had only one nightmare.
“Most likely you never rode for so many hours. I heard the Ranger set a fierce pace.”
“He did.” But Priscilla had not complained. Each hour in the saddle meant more miles between her and the Dunkler brothers. “Where is the Ranger? I want to thank him for all that he did.”
When she’d poured the eggs into a large skillet, Martina plunked a cup of coffee in front of Priscilla. “He’s long gone. I heard him tell Clay he needed to find them others before the trail got cold.”
“What about Sarah?” Priscilla had heard no sounds this morning other than those emerging from the kitchen.
“She’s off to school. I reckon you know she’s the schoolmarm.” Martina chuckled as she scrambled the eggs. “Little Miss Thea didn’t want to go with her, not one bit. She near to threw a tantrum.”
“I can imagine.” Though adorable, the girl appeared headstrong. That wasn’t altogether bad. Priscilla thought that if she had a daughter, she’d like her to have Thea’s kindness and her independence. But that, she reminded herself as she took a sip of coffee, would never happen. The bandits had killed her dream of marriage and children as surely as they had shot Mama and Papa. Even if the horror faded and one day she could bear the thought of a man’s touch, marriage was unlikely. No man would want Priscilla now that she was used goods.
Martina pulled a platter of bacon from the oven and placed several strips on the plate next to the eggs and toast. “Eat up,” she urged Priscilla. “I’ll fetch more coffee for you.”
Priscilla was chewing a bite of eggs that looked delicious but oddly had no taste when she heard the clank of metal and Martina’s cry of pain. Somehow the older woman had dropped the coffee pot, spilling hot liquid over her hand.
“Butter. Get the butter,” Martina cried as Priscilla rushed to her side.
Priscilla shook her head. “There’s something better.” She dipped her fingers into the pail of water someone had placed near the sink, nodding when it felt cool to the touch. This was what Martina needed. “Try this.” She plunged the woman’s hand into the pail. “Do you have any ice?”
Martina shook her head. “Not this late in the season.”
Though it wasn’t as cold as Priscilla would have liked, the cool water would have to do. “How does that feel?”
“Better.”
Priscilla nodded. “The cold helps to numb the pain. You’ll also have less scarring this way.”
“But I always put butter on a burn.” Martina appeared confused by the unorthodox treatment.
“I know. My parents did too, until last winter when Papa was visiting a very poor patient.” As Martina’s eyes clouded with confusion again, Priscilla explained that her father had been a physician. “The boy’s arm was badly burned, but his mother had no butter, not even lard, to spare. In desperation, Papa looked for a way to ease the child’s pain. He reasoned that the opposite of hot was cold, so he brought in a pail of snow and instructed the mother to use it on her son’s arm. When he came back to check on the boy a week later, Papa was surprised to see that the burn had healed far better than normal. Ever since, he’s used ice and cold water to treat burns.”
Though Martina appeared skeptical, she did not reach for the butter. Instead, she urged Priscilla to finish her breakfast.
“Good morning, Martina, Miss Morton.”
Priscilla was sipping coffee when Zach Webster entered the room. She gasped. A tall man, dark hair, blue eyes. Pain. Unspeakable pain. As the memories swept through her, Priscilla shrank back in the chair, unable to form a word, unwilling to look at the man whose appearance had triggered them.
“Mornin’, Zach.” Martina appeared not to notice Priscilla’s distress. “Have you met Miss Priscilla? She’s a mighty fine doctor.”
Priscilla clenched her hands, trying to break the memories’ grip. Had it been less than an hour since she’d resolved to be Sunny Cilla? That had seemed like such a good plan. She was strong. Papa used to tell her that. But not, it appeared, strong enough, if the sight of Zach Webster sent her into a panic.
“Perhaps another time.” His words were clipped, as if he were angry. Before Priscilla could react, he strode out of the kitchen.
“That’s odd.” Furrows appeared between Martina’s eyes. “He’s not usually so short with folks.”
“It was my fault. I was rude.” Zach had done nothing that should have caused her to freeze. “I need to apologize.”
Priscilla carried her dishes to the sink, then examined Martina’s hand. Though the back was still enflamed, the blisters Priscilla had feared had not appeared. At least one thing had gone well this morning. “Where can I find Mr. Webster?”
“He’ll be in with Mr. Canfield.” Martina gestured toward the main part of the house. “He’s a good man, Zach Webster is.”
Priscilla did not doubt that he was good. The problem was, he was a man.
“Good work, Robert.” Zach smiled at the gray-haired man who’d risen when he entered the room. Though Clay’s father moved slowly and awkwardly and needed two canes to take even a few steps, the fact that he was no longer confined to a chair filled Zach with joy. “Before you know it, you’ll be riding again.” Zach knew that was unlikely, and he suspected Robert did too, but he also knew how important encouragement was. When they’d been imprisoned in Perote, it had been Robert who’d provided the encouragement. Now it was Zach’s turn.
“Walking is enough.” The words were garbled. Ever since he’d suffered from apoplexy, Robert Canfield’s speech had been almost unintelligible. Though Martina and Sarah understood a few words, it was Clay and Zach whose comprehension was the best, and even then there were times when Zach had to ask Robert to repeat his words. How he hated doing that! Each time Zach failed to understand, Robert’s eyes dimmed and his shoulders slumped, as if the burden of the failure affected every part of his body.
Zach watched the man who’d befriended him in prison struggle to walk the few feet to the window. It was painful. Zach knew that. And yet Robert pushed himself to go farther each day, determined that he would master the act of walking.
“Every day. I miss her every day.” Robert stood by the window, gazing at the small plot where his wife, younger son, and Clay’s first wife were buried. Though he’d never voiced the words, Zach suspected Robert’s goal was to one day walk to their graves.
�
�You were blessed with a wife and sons.”
Robert turned to face Zach. “Your turn is coming.”
This was one time when Zach wished he had not understood Robert. It would be easier to simply ignore the older man’s words, and yet he could not. Robert deserved a response, though it wouldn’t be the one he expected. “I’m afraid not.” Zach had had his chance and lost it. Worse, he had destroyed it.
“Mr. Webster?”
Zach wheeled around, startled by the woman’s voice. He hadn’t heard her approach, and that was odd. The time in Perote had honed his hearing, just as it had taught him the value of moving silently. But somehow Priscilla had made her way into Robert’s room without alerting Zach.
“Miss Morton.” He bowed slightly, acknowledging her presence, wondering why she was here. It was clear that she would have preferred to be almost anyplace else. If the nervous darting of her eyes weren’t enough, the way she kept her fingers clasped so tightly that the knuckles turned white told him she was uncomfortable in his presence. There was no doubt that he’d caused that nervousness simply because of the way he looked. If Zach could change his appearance, he would, but that was impossible.
As he took a step toward her and saw her recoil, Zach’s thoughts whirled. Perhaps it wasn’t only his unfortunate resemblance to the bandits that spooked Miss Morton. Perhaps it was the fact that he was male. After what had happened, Zach imagined she would shy from anyone of the opposite gender, at least any who might pose a threat. For years after he was released from Perote, he’d avoided Mexicans, simply because they brought back memories of a horrible time. Though terrible, what he had endured in prison paled compared to Priscilla Morton’s ordeal. It was no wonder this lovely young woman’s green eyes were filled with fear.
“Have you met Clay’s father?” Perhaps if Zach pretended nothing was amiss, she would relax.
She did not. When he had completed the introductions, Priscilla took another step toward him, her hands now fidgeting with her skirts. “I want to apologize.” Her words surprised Zach and made him wonder whether her nervousness was at least partially caused by the need to make amends.
“I was rude before, and I’m sorry.” She must be referring to the fact that she hadn’t spoken to him in the kitchen. Though she might not believe it, he hadn’t been offended. When he’d seen her eyes widen and the blood drain from her face, leaving those three freckles on her nose in sharp relief, he’d realized what had happened. “It’s simply that you reminded me of someone,” she said, her voice a bit stronger now.
Zach nodded slowly, trying to reassure her. “I understand.” He wouldn’t tell her that the Ranger had commented on his resemblance to the Dunkler brothers. Knowing that she and the attack had been the subject of discussion would merely deepen this woman’s distress. “No apologies are necessary.”
“Thank you.”
Priscilla bolted from the room so quickly that for a second Zach wondered if he’d imagined her visit. Only the faint scent of finely milled soap told him she had not been a figment, that and Robert’s attempt to smile as he said, “Beautiful woman.” She was indeed. A bit more than average in height, with that glorious hair and green eyes, she was the most beautiful woman Zach had ever seen. She was the kind of woman who could set a man dreaming, if the man were inclined to dream, that is. Zach could not afford to indulge in dreams of that sort.
For the next half hour, he worked with Robert, helping him exercise his legs. It was the same routine they followed each day. Though the bending and stretching challenged Robert, the regimen gave Zach far too much time to think, and today those thoughts focused on Priscilla Morton. The poor woman had suffered so much in such a short time. While it was true that Zach had not inflicted that suffering, his very presence seemed to exacerbate it.
Dear Lord, what should I do? There was no answer to his silent prayer, nothing but the knowledge that he must do nothing to deepen Priscilla’s pain.
Sarah could not recall the last time she had been as anxious as her pupils for the day to end, but today she counted the remaining minutes as often as they did. The children longed for a few minutes of play in the waning sunlight. She wanted to return to the Bar C and the person Thea called “the pretty lady.” While she’d taught geography, showing her students a map of the United States and pointing out the location of Texas, Sarah’s mind had traced the journey Priscilla had taken, a journey similar to her own and yet vastly different. Sarah and Thea had encountered nothing more dangerous than rutted roads; Priscilla had endured far worse.
While she’d listened to her pupils recite the alphabet, Sarah had pictured Priscilla’s face. Though her skin had been burned from too many hours in the Texas sun, there had been an underlying pallor, the result of long hours in the saddle and all that had preceded the ride. Unlike the children with their easy smiles, Priscilla had not smiled. Instead, her expression had remained somber, and her eyes . . . Sarah struggled to keep her own expression calm as she remembered the pain she’d seen reflected in Priscilla’s gaze.
She looked at the clock again. Two more minutes. Then she’d release her students and head home. Though she could not undo what had happened, she was determined to do everything she could to help Priscilla recover. But first, Sarah had to tend to practical matters.
As she and Thea approached Ladreville’s mercantile, an establishment run by the Rousseau family, Sarah smiled at her sister. “You need to play quietly today,” she admonished her.
“Me good.” Thea grinned. “Me play with pools.”
“Spools.” Isabelle Rousseau frequently gave Thea empty thread spools as toys. Perhaps she’d have some today.
The doorbell tinkled as they entered the store, and Isabelle looked up from her position behind the counter. An attractive brunette who was a few inches shorter than Sarah’s five feet four, Isabelle was Sarah’s dearest friend. Right now that friend was frowning.
“I hope your frown doesn’t mean you don’t have what I need.” Sarah had sent a note to the mercantile, listing the items she hoped to buy. Isabelle rose and smiled, a smile so forced that it bothered Sarah as much as the frown had. Though Isabelle was as perfectly groomed and coiffed as ever, her beauty seemed to have dimmed, reminding Sarah of a lamp with its wick turned down. Something was clearly wrong.
“I was just thinking.” Isabelle opened a small cloth bag and gave Thea a handful of spools.
“Of something unpleasant, it seems.” Sarah touched her friend’s shoulder. “Do you want to talk? You know I’m a good listener.” When she’d first come to Ladreville, Sarah had worked in the mercantile with Isabelle. The time together had forged their friendship, a friendship based on shared confidences and ultimately a shared faith.
Isabelle shook her head. “It’s nothing.” Briskly she turned and pulled two bolts of fabric from the shelf behind her. “What do you think of these? You said Priscilla had strawberry blond hair, so I thought these would suit her.”
Though some of the townspeople might look askance at the departure from tradition, Sarah had asked Isabelle to select material in any shade other than black. Priscilla would mourn her loss for far more than a year, regardless of the color of her clothing. Sarah nodded her approval. The bolts Isabelle had chosen were green and rust, shades that would flatter Priscilla’s coloring.
“They’re beautiful.” Sarah looked down, assuring herself that Thea was still engrossed in rolling spools along the floor. Thank goodness the child was easily entertained. It made shopping more pleasant when she didn’t have to worry about her sister. Sarah thought about the other items she’d put on her list this morning. “Do you have any fabric for petticoats and chemises?”
This time Isabelle’s smile was genuine as she pulled out a froth of white fabric and lace. “I have something better than fabric.” She held up a beautifully trimmed petticoat and matching chemise. “You know we don’t usually carry ready-made garments, but these were in a shipment that arrived yesterday. We called it our mystery shipment, be
cause no one could remember ordering them.” Isabelle smiled again. “Maman was a bit annoyed, wondering if we’d be able to sell them, but when I read your note this morning, I knew they’d come for a reason.” Isabelle handed the garments to Sarah. “Do you think they’ll fit?”
Sarah held the petticoat against herself and nodded when she saw it was four or five inches too long. “They’ll be perfect.” She looked back at Isabelle, noting she was once again wearing a frown. “What I need next are handkerchiefs and some answers.”
“Linen or cotton?”
“The truth.” As Isabelle raised an eyebrow in surprise, Sarah continued. “What’s wrong? And don’t say nothing, because I won’t believe you. Have there been more problems with Léon?” A few months earlier, the townspeople had turned against Isabelle and her family, blaming her brother Léon for a series of thefts.
Isabelle shook her head. “Léon’s fine. We’re all fine. Business is good, and everyone’s been friendly since you and Clay discovered who was responsible.”
Though her words were positive, Sarah sensed that Isabelle was reciting them rather than revealing her true feelings. “What’s bothering you?”
“You won’t give up, will you?”
Sarah shook her head. “Why would I? That’s what friends are for, to help when there are problems.” And, though she might deny it, Isabelle had a problem.
Isabelle gazed into the distance for a moment, as if composing her thoughts. “Have you heard that no one’s seen Madame Ladre in weeks? She doesn’t even attend church any longer.”
Sarah wasn’t certain what surprised her more, the fact that the normally active rumor mill had not reported Madame Ladre’s absence or that this was what bothered Isabelle. It wasn’t as if the mayor’s wife was one of Isabelle’s friends. Madame Ladre was hardly a frequent visitor to the mercantile, even though her home was only a block away.
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“The rumor is her nerves have suffered ever since Jean-Michel left.” When the mayor had discovered his son was responsible for the town’s thefts, he’d banished him to Houston to work for an empresario until he could repay the people he’d wronged. “Some say the shame was too much for Madame Ladre,” Isabelle added.
