by Amanda Cabot
Sarah sighed, remembering her own experiences. “We both know how cruel some people can be and how they blame the whole family for one person’s sins.”
Before Isabelle could respond, the doorbell tinkled again and a large blond man entered the store. Sarah smiled as she recognized Gunther Lehman, the father of her favorite student and a man who’d been one of her former suitors. With his blunt features, Gunther was far from handsome, but his friendly smile and sparkling blue eyes made a person forget his decidedly average looks.
“Hello, Gunther.” Though he nodded briefly in response to Sarah’s greeting, his attention was clearly focused on Isabelle. Sarah watched, amazed when Isabelle blushed and looked down at the floor. It wasn’t like her friend to be bashful.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Lehman?” Though Isabelle’s voice was even, her cheeks still bore a rosy tint.
The German man’s lips twisted in annoyance. “I thought you agreed to call me Gunther.” When Isabelle blushed again but made no reply, he said, “I would like to see some handkerchiefs, Miss Rousseau.”
He pronounced her name with mocking formality and clicked his heels, as if saluting her. Isabelle giggled; Gunther smiled; their eyes met, and both of them flushed. It was obvious that neither one remembered Sarah’s presence. They stared at each other, their color heightened, until Thea tugged on Sarah’s skirt and asked when they were leaving.
“Handkerchiefs.” Isabelle murmured the word as she walked to the opposite end of the store.
Gunther’s gaze followed her, his expression reminding Sarah of a starving man faced with a banquet he cannot reach. When Isabelle returned with a pile of handkerchiefs, he frowned. “Not those. For a lady.”
A moment before her cheeks had been rosy. Now blood drained from Isabelle’s face. She bowed her head for a second, then pointed to the selection of women’s handkerchiefs that she’d brought out for Sarah’s approval. “These are our nicest ones,” she said, pulling out one with a delicate lace edging. “Any lady would like these.”
Gunther nodded. “Do you like them?”
The simple question appeared to fluster Isabelle. She stared at him for a moment before she said, “Why, yes, I do.”
“Then I’ll take one.”
Nodding shortly, Isabelle reached for a piece of paper to wrap the piece of linen. “Olga will like it.”
“Olga?” Gunther sounded as if this were the first time he’d heard the name. How absurd. Everyone in Ladreville knew he was courting Olga Kaltheimer.
Sarah stared at Gunther, wondering what was wrong. In the months he’d wooed her, she had never seen him so addlepated. “Olga Kaltheimer,” she said softly. If he was purchasing a handkerchief for a lady, the recipient had to be Olga.
“Ah yes, Olga. Of course.”
As she loaded her packages into the back of the carriage and prepared for the drive back to the Bar C, Sarah’s thoughts whirled. The whole encounter between Isabelle and Gunther had been strange. Though the words they’d exchanged had been ordinary, the looks they’d given each other had been anything but. Gunther had regarded Isabelle with the same tender expression Sarah saw so often in Clay’s eyes. When she thought no one was looking, Isabelle had darted quick glances at Gunther, each one causing her color to rise.
Sarah’s thoughts ceased their whirling and marched toward one conclusion. Could it be? Could the cause of Isabelle’s earlier malaise be disappointment that Gunther was courting Olga and not her? Could Gunther’s awkwardness have resulted from his attraction to Isabelle? Did Isabelle and Gunther harbor romantic feelings toward each other? The evidence was there, but it raised another, more disturbing question. If Isabelle and Gunther were involved romantically, how would the town react?
Though Sarah loved her new home and the vibrancy the settlers brought with them, there was no denying that the immigrants’ legacy was more than storybook beautiful architecture and hard work. The divisions between the French and German settlers were centuries old, remnants of their past in Alsace, where the two countries had been at war more often than not and where trust was rarely given to someone who spoke with a different accent. Unfortunately, though they now lived in a new country, the rifts remained as deep as the ocean they’d crossed.
4
There was no sign of them. Lawrence Wood tightened the reins and urged Snip into a trot. There was no point in remaining here. He’d retraced his way to the place where the Dunkler brothers had attacked Miss Morton, hoping to find a clue, knowing he might be disappointed. He was. Rain had obliterated any clues the men had left. Now only the fresh graves remained as evidence of the violence that had occurred here. Even the stagecoach was gone, probably rescued by an enterprising farmer who sought the reward the company offered for return of its vehicles. It had been a long shot, thinking he would find something here, but he had to try. He owed it to himself, to the Rangers, and especially to Miss Morton.
Lawrence frowned as memories of the beautiful redhead came rushing back, accompanied, as they always were, by worry. Though he told himself there was no reason to worry, that he had seen no sign of the Dunkler brothers heading toward Ladreville, Lawrence was unable to dismiss his concerns. By all accounts, Jake and Chet Dunkler were among the orneriest creatures in the state of Texas. Heaven help Miss Morton if they decided to avenge their brother’s death. That was why he had to find them.
If only they’d left a clue.
Priscilla took one last stitch before she knotted the thread. Though she still had another sleeve to set in the dress she would wear to Sarah and Clay’s wedding, daylight had long since faded, along with Priscilla’s willingness to remain indoors. It made no sense. She was safe inside the ranch house. The bandits would never find her here, and even if they tracked her to the Bar C, Zach Webster had arranged the ranch hands’ schedule so there was always someone close. He and the others would not let anyone harm her. The safest place for her was within these walls. Priscilla knew that, and yet by the time night fell, the walls that had been her sanctuary during the day turned into a prison.
Perhaps it was because both Sarah and Clay were home then, and when they were home, they watched her. Their intentions were noble. Priscilla knew they were concerned about her, for she’d heard them speaking of her, worrying about her failure to cry. Didn’t they know that crying solved nothing? The damage had been done; crying wouldn’t change that.
Priscilla had heard Sarah tell Clay how she requested a bath twice each day, and they’d both wondered how long that would continue. It wasn’t that they begrudged her the soap and water or the effort Martina expended. It was simply that such frequent baths were not normal. Perhaps she should stop. The truth was, no matter how often she bathed, Priscilla did not feel clean. Perhaps she should accept the reality that she never would.
It wasn’t only her bathing habits that worried Sarah and Clay. Priscilla had heard them discuss her refusal to leave the ranch. Sarah claimed it was normal and that the fear would subside. Clay was not so certain. Nor was Priscilla, for it wasn’t only fear of the bandits that kept her here. She also dreaded the speculation that would accompany her if she ventured into town.
Patience had written about how the townspeople had stared at her as if she were an exotic animal that had been brought to Ladreville. How much more would they stare at a woman whose stagecoach had been attacked, a woman who had been violated? They’d know Priscilla was unclean, and they’d either snicker, believing it was somehow her fault, or else they’d view her with pity. Priscilla wasn’t certain which would be worse. All she knew was that she would not subject herself to either.
“I think I’ll walk outside,” she told Sarah as she rose, gathering the unfinished gown into her arms. Though Sarah had offered to accompany her on previous evenings, tonight she simply nodded. A few minutes later, her wool shawl wrapped around her, Priscilla slipped out the front door. She wouldn’t go far; she never did; but perhaps the cool night air would clear her mind. Perhaps the exercise would tire her en
ough that the nightmares would not come. Most importantly, perhaps tonight would be the night God showed her his plan. Though she no longer believed he had abandoned her, she had not heard his voice telling her why he’d brought her to Ladreville.
Priscilla shivered, finding the evening colder than she’d expected. Tonight the sky was clear with no clouds to blanket the Earth, holding in the day’s warmth. Instead, a tapestry of stars tried to compete with the light of the full moon. Priscilla walked quickly, trying to warm herself, and in the process she ventured farther from the house than she’d done before. When she realized that she had reached the small grove of oak trees, she stopped abruptly. This was not where she wanted to be. There were no answers to be found here where trees sheltered the Canfield burial plot. Priscilla shuddered at the sight of the three headstones, one of which was her sister’s. The others belonged to Clay’s mother and his brother.
She was here. She might as well stay. Though her feet moved reluctantly, Priscilla made her way to the gravestones and sank down next to Patience’s. Her fingers traced the simple words Clay had had chiseled into the marble along with the dates of her sister’s life. Beloved wife, daughter, and sister. Patience had been all that and more. If she had lived, she would have been a mother herself. Though she had considered Texas a hostile land, Patience had found happiness here as she’d waited for the birth of her first child. Mama and Papa had not found even those fleeting moments of joy. Texas had brought them nothing but a shared grave.
Oh, Mama, I loved you, Priscilla cried silently as she wrapped her arms around Patience’s stone. There would be no headstones for her parents. I didn’t mean to bring you and Papa into danger. But she had. Pain sliced through Priscilla’s heart, overwhelming her with its intensity. Not even on the day of her parents’ death had she felt a grief like this. She had been numb then, trying desperately to block out the memory of what had happened to them and to her. But now the numbness had worn off, leaving her no shield against the pain. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt to know they were gone. Forgive me, Lord, if I hurt them.
Priscilla closed her eyes to murmur a silent prayer for her parents, and as she did, a memory stole into her mind. It had been a late summer evening a month before her seventh birthday and perhaps a week after Grandmama, Mama’s mother, had died. Though Mama and Papa had told their daughters that Grandmama had gone to heaven, Priscilla knew they were lying. Grandmama was buried deep in the ground. That was why Mama went to the cemetery each night.
Papa had been gone that particular evening, probably calling on one of his patients, and Patience had been ill, so only Priscilla and Mama made the pilgrimage to Grandmama’s grave. As she did each evening, Mama cut a flower from her garden to place on the grave. The flowers, she explained to Priscilla and her sister, were a sign of her love for Grandmama. Always in the past, Mama had carried the flower, but that night she entrusted a rose to Priscilla, warning her to hold it carefully, lest the thorns prick her fingers.
Inordinately proud of the responsibility she’d been given, Priscilla fairly pranced to the cemetery. Afterwards, she could not recall exactly what had happened, why she had tripped and why she had gripped the blossom. All she knew was that she’d destroyed the rose, for the petals had tumbled off the stem, scattering on the ground.
“Oh, Mama, I’m sorry.” As tears streamed down her cheeks, Priscilla knelt on the ground, gathering the petals, hoping against hope that she could put them back on the stem. “I didn’t mean to hurt Grandmama’s flower,” she cried.
Gently Mama led Priscilla to a bench and drew her onto her lap. “It’s all right, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Everything has its time to die, even flowers. We’ll lay a few petals on Grandmama’s grave, but I want you to carry the rest of them home.”
“Why, Mama?”
“You’ll see.” When they returned home, Mama pulled a glass bowl out of the china cabinet. Opening Priscilla’s hand, she brushed the petals into the bowl, then handed it to Priscilla. “You can keep this in your room. Don’t worry when the petals change color. That’s what happens when flowers dry. But even though they won’t always look the way they do today, they’ll still have a nice scent.”
Mama wrapped her arms around Priscilla as she said, “I know you miss Grandmama. We all do, but it was her time to leave us, just as it was this flower’s time to lose its petals.” When thoughts of Grandmama’s death brought a fresh spate of tears, Mama turned Priscilla so they were facing each other. Cupping Priscilla’s chin in her hand, she waited until Priscilla met her gaze before she said, “Grandmama wouldn’t want you to cry. She would want you to remember how much she loved you.” Mama touched the bowl of petals. “These are your reminder. Whenever you smell them, I want you to remember how beautiful the flower once was and to know that nothing is completely gone so long as we have memories.”
Even after the roses had lost their scent completely and had been replaced with other flowers, Priscilla had kept a bowl of potpourri in her room. Occasionally she would stir it with her finger to release the fragrance, and each time, she’d think of her grandmother, remembering the stories she’d told Patience and Priscilla and how Grandmama had never been too tired to play games with them. As Mama had predicted, the memories had brought comfort.
The wind stirred the oak leaves, breaking Priscilla’s reverie. She shivered, but this time the shiver was accompanied by a small smile. It had not been by chance that she’d walked this way. She had been led. Priscilla raised her face to the stars and smiled again. Thank you, Lord, for showing me that I have not lost everything. I still have memories.
Feeling more invigorated than she had since she’d arrived at the Bar C, Priscilla walked briskly toward the house, then, changing her mind, she turned toward the paddock. Though the horses might be inside the barn, there was a chance that some remained outdoors. If they did, perhaps one or two would be curious enough to approach her. While her sister had taken great pleasure from gardening, Priscilla had preferred riding and had sought any excuse to accompany her father on those days when he rode rather than took the carriage on his medical rounds.
She had almost reached the paddock when a man emerged from the barn. He strode quickly in her direction, then turned abruptly when he spotted Priscilla. Regret stabbed her as she realized that Zach Webster had recognized her uneasiness around him and was going out of his way—literally— to ensure that he didn’t bother her. Since the day he’d interrupted her breakfast, Priscilla had seen him only from a distance. According to Martina, Zach was spending far less time than usual in the house. That wasn’t a coincidence, Priscilla knew.
She raised her voice slightly. “There’s no need to leave, Mr. Webster. You belong here more than I do.”
He turned again and approached her. Instead of his normal brisk gait, he walked slowly, his hands at his sides, fingers spread wide so there was not the slightest hint of aggression. Priscilla’s mouth turned up when she realized this was probably the stance he used when he tried to gain the confidence of a wild animal. Had she seemed wild those first days? Perhaps. She had certainly been frightened.
“You’re wrong about me belonging here, Miss Morton,” he said when they were a yard apart. “You’re family. I’m only a hired hand.”
“Mr. Webster, what you are is too modest. Anyone can see that Clay regards you as a brother.” Moonlight shone on his face, outlining the firm features. To Priscilla’s surprise, it also revealed discomfort. She thought quickly, trying to understand which of her words might have made him uncomfortable, but she could find none.
“Be that as it may, I’ll be leaving soon.”
His words surprised her, as did the fact that his hands were now clenched. Though he’d volunteered the statement, it obviously caused distress. “May I ask why?” Surely it was not because she was here. “According to both Sarah and Clay, you’ve been a vital part of the Bar C since the day you arrived. What you do must be even more important now that you and Clay have taken over the neighboring r
anch.”
Zach shrugged. “It’s time.” Though his words were matter of fact, he was close enough that she could see the sadness in his eyes. Zach Webster might deny it, but he did not want to leave the Bar C. Priscilla was as certain of that as she was of her own name.
“I’m not meant to stay anywhere for a long time,” he said quietly.
Her heart ached at the pain she heard in his voice, and she sought a way to comfort him. “I’m sorry,” Priscilla said, knowing the words were inadequate but unable to find others. “I can’t claim to understand how you feel. I spent my whole life in the same house. It was comfortable there, but from the time I was a child, I longed for adventure. I wanted to do things besides paint watercolors and embroider hankies, and I wanted to visit places beyond Massachusetts. That’s one of the reasons I was anxious to attend Clay’s wedding. I thought it would be an adventure, coming to Texas, seeing more of the country.” Priscilla looked directly at Zach as she said, “Now I’d give anything not to have left Boston.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes filled with compassion and understanding. “One thing I’ve learned is that we cannot change the past. We have to make our peace with it and learn to live with our mistakes.” He closed his eyes briefly, and Priscilla sensed that he was praying for forgiveness for his mistakes, whatever they might have been. When he opened his eyes again, he said, “I do not believe your journey was a mistake. Clay needed to have Patience’s family here.”
“Thank you for saying that, Mr. Webster. I wish I could believe I wasn’t wrong in insisting we come, but . . .”
“Believe it.” He interrupted Priscilla with a command that surprised her by its intensity. “Believe it. One more thing, if it’s not too much of an imposition.” A wry smile twisted his lips. “Would you call me Zach? No one’s ever called me Mr. Webster. When you do, I keep wondering who you’re addressing.”
