by Amanda Cabot
Priscilla accepted a cup of punch, then turned, almost bumping into a short, heavy-set older woman.
“You must be Priscilla.” The woman’s light accent revealed that she was one of the German immigrants. “You resemble your sister.”
Though she knew that to be stretching the truth, for no one could be as beautiful as Patience, Priscilla said simply, “Thank you.”
“Priscilla, this is Granny Menger.” Zach began the introductions. “Besides being one of the wisest women in Ladreville, Granny’s also the town’s midwife.”
Priscilla looked at the woman with interest. If her mother hadn’t declared it unseemly, she might have pursued midwifery when her parents had forbidden her to study medicine. But Mama had claimed that ladies would not trust their babies to an unmarried woman and that their husbands would be equally unwilling to entrust their wives’ lives to someone who’d never experienced childbirth. “You should be thankful you have no need to work,” Mama had said. “What you need is to find a good husband.” But Priscilla had not.
Banishing those thoughts, she studied Ladreville’s midwife. Only a few inches above five feet, Granny Menger seemed almost as wide as she was tall. She wore her brown hair, now liberally laced with gray, braided and wound around her head in a coronet, giving her an almost regal appearance. From a distance, Priscilla would have believed Granny to be just another aging matron, but that impression disappeared the moment she looked at her eyes. A warm brown, they radiated both intelligence and compassion. It was no wonder Zach called her wise and why she was a successful midwife. This was a woman other women would trust.
“Run along, Zach.” The older woman’s fond smile made it clear the command was given playfully. “We ladies can talk more freely if you’re not here.” When Zach left, Granny nodded toward Priscilla. “Now, child, let’s find some chairs. These bones tire more easily than they used to. I reckon it’s God’s way of telling me it’s time to slow down.”
“My father used to say the same thing,” Priscilla admitted as she and Granny made their way through the crowd. “That’s why he hired an assistant. He claimed Clay was the answer to his prayers.”
Granny sank onto one of the chairs that had been arranged along the wall. “God has plans for everyone, if we just listen to him. Look at how he brought Sarah and Clay together.” The older woman smiled as she regarded the bridal couple. “Did you ever see two such happy people?”
“No.” It was the truth. “Clay didn’t look this happy even when he married my sister.”
Granny’s gaze met Priscilla’s, and she nodded sagely. “That’s because he’s older now. He knows how precious love and life are, and he appreciates them more than he did in Boston. It’s all part of God’s plan.”
Priscilla didn’t doubt that, for Sarah had told her much of what had transpired since she’d come to Ladreville and how it had been the Lord’s plan. “I wish I knew his plan for me. Some days I feel like a boat going in circles because it has no rudder.”
“We all feel that way sometimes.” Granny placed her hand on top of Priscilla’s. “It happens when we don’t let God be our rudder. Trust him, and he’ll show you the way.”
Soon, dear Lord. Make it soon, Priscilla prayed.
7
It was harder than he’d expected. Jean-Michel tugged on the reins. Who would have thought that the horse he’d taken from Albert Monroe’s stable would go lame? That was bad enough, but when he’d stopped at the farrier’s shop to have it shod, the man had started asking questions. Jean-Michel’s horse, he claimed, looked a lot like the one that was reported stolen, and Jean-Michel himself bore a remarkable resemblance to the man who was thought to have taken Albert Monroe’s favorite gelding.
An amazing coincidence, Jean-Michel had explained, but he knew no one named Albert Monroe. As for stealing horses, did he look like a man who needed to steal? When the farrier, obviously impressed by his new clothing, shook his head, Jean-Michel gave him an extra silver coin.
“There’s no need to tell anyone you’ve seen me,” he cautioned. “The truth is, I’m on a secret mission for Sam Houston. He wouldn’t be pleased if anyone learned I’d been in this part of the state.”
The farrier had nodded again, proving what Jean-Michel had always known: the rest of the world was dumb, as dumb as a horseshoe. He wasn’t taking any more chances, though. That was why he’d avoided towns and had spent his nights in abandoned barns or, when none of those presented themselves, outdoors. It was not the way a man of his stature should live, but until he was certain he was far enough from Houston that no one would connect him with Albert Monroe, he could do no less.
Jean-Michel’s stomach rumbled. Though he’d been fortunate the last two days, finding lonely women who had believed his tale of rushing home to his father’s deathbed and who’d been more than happy to provide him with a hot midday meal and provisions for his supper, there were no farm houses in sight today. Unless something appeared in the next few minutes, he’d be forced to eat some of the jerked meat he’d taken from the last widow and another of those biscuits that were harder than rocks. Zach Webster was going to pay for this. Indeed, he was.
Jean-Michel spurred the horse, anxious to crest the hill. If luck was with him, he’d spot a house. When he reached the top, he reined in the horse and looked around. No house. But—wait—there was something in the road. A wagon. Not an ordinary wagon. Jean-Michel smiled. This one had closed sides, and if he wasn’t mistaken, it was one of those peddlers’ wagons. Peddlers, Jean-Michel had heard, carried food— good food—as well as trinkets. Luck was with him.
“Cilla sick.”
Sarah and Clay stopped in midstep. It was early afternoon, and they had entered the ranch house for the first time since their wedding, their faces glowing with happiness. At Thea’s announcement, their smiles faded.
“What is it?” Clay asked. His eyes searched Priscilla’s face, looking for symptoms. He would find none, for they had ceased as they did by this time each day.
“It’s nothing.” Priscilla had tried to tell Thea that this morning, but the child, who had insisted on spending the night in her room and had heard her retching, was not convinced. Though Priscilla had hoped she would forget by the time Sarah and Clay returned, she had not been so fortunate.
Sarah’s eyes narrowed as she looked at Priscilla. Though Priscilla thought she had schooled her features to reveal nothing, she must have failed, for Sarah gave Clay a quick look before she said, “Thea, we have lots of bags. Could you help Clay bring them in?” As the little girl, flattered to be asked to help an adult, tugged Clay’s hand and scampered away, Sarah turned to Priscilla. “I figure we have four or five minutes before Thea reappears, so tell me what’s wrong. I won’t believe it’s something inconsequential.”
It wasn’t. Priscilla sank into one of the deep settees and waited until Sarah took a seat next to her before she spoke. “I tried to pretend it was simply something I ate, but it’s been two weeks now. I’m sick every morning. That’s what Thea saw.” Though she wanted nothing more than to hide her face, Priscilla forced herself to look directly at Sarah as she said, “I’m afraid I’m pregnant.”
Sarah gasped, though Priscilla wasn’t certain whether it was at the idea itself or the fact that she had used such a blunt term. While Papa believed in speaking clearly, Mama would have shuddered and reprimanded Priscilla for not cloaking her condition in euphemisms.
“Have you missed . . .” Sarah let her words trail off.
“Yes.” Priscilla tried to blink back the tears that welled in her eyes. Crying solved nothing. “Oh, Sarah, what am I going to do? I can’t have this baby. I can’t!” Though she had tried to ignore the symptoms, she could no longer delude herself. Priscilla had spent too much time reading her father’s medical books to pretend she didn’t know what had caused her sickness. Though most of Papa’s patients had been pleased by the prospect of a new life, she was not. She brushed away the tear that had made its way down her cheek.
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“You know I love you, and I want to help you.” Sarah wrapped her arms around Priscilla and drew her close as she said, “I don’t know what to do. I wish I could say that I understood, but, the truth is, I can’t imagine how you feel. I’ve always believed babies were a blessing, a gift from God.”
“This one is not.” Far from being a blessing, Priscilla’s child would be a curse, a constant reminder of the most horrible day of her life.
For a while Sarah said nothing, merely stroked Priscilla’s back. It was, Priscilla guessed, the way she would comfort Thea. When she spoke, Sarah kept her voice low. “I know it’s hard to believe right now, but God will turn this into good for you.”
He wouldn’t. Nothing could make this good. Priscilla wrenched herself out of Sarah’s arms and glared at the woman who was mouthing platitudes. “I don’t believe that anymore. Don’t you see, Sarah? I’ve spent my whole life trying to discover God’s plan for me. I thought that coming to Texas was part of it, but look how that turned out. My parents were killed, and I’m carrying a bandit’s baby.” Though she saw the pain her words were causing Sarah, Priscilla couldn’t stop. Not now. Sarah had to hear the rest. “Just last night I prayed that he would show me his plan. This morning I awoke knowing I was pregnant. If this is God’s plan for me, if he wants me to be an unwed mother and face scorn every time I show my face in public, then I reject it and I reject him. He’s not a loving God.”
Tears filled Sarah’s eyes. “Oh, Priscilla, I know you’re hurt, but you’re wrong. God loves you. I’ll pray that you realize how deep his love is.”
Prayers. Priscilla clenched her fists. What was the point in praying, when he didn’t listen? “Don’t waste your breath. You can see what my prayers brought.”
Something was wrong. A man didn’t need to be a genius to see that. As if the slumped shoulders and the bowed head weren’t enough proof, there was the fact that he was heading toward the family burial plot, a place he rarely frequented and one of the last places he should have been going less than twenty-four hours after his wedding.
Zach had been in the stable, putting the buggy away, when he’d heard it. The voice deep inside him that had urged him to come to the Bar C last summer was telling him to leave the barn. As he had before, Zach obeyed immediately, though he had no idea where he was meant to go. Once outdoors, his feet moved unerringly toward the small cemetery. When he saw Clay’s posture, he knew this was the reason God had sent him and quickened his pace.
“What’s wrong?” Zach caught up with his friend before he reached the small grove of oak trees.
Clay swiveled. If Zach needed further proof that something was amiss, the lines stamped on his unnaturally pale face provided it. “Nothing.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Clay. I didn’t think you were a liar, but that was nothing short of a bald-faced lie.” Clay thrust his hands into his pockets, but not before Zach saw him clench them. Though the fists suggested anger, the expression in Clay’s eyes was sorrowful.
It was clear Clay intended to say nothing, so Zach continued, hoping that something he said would trigger a response. “When you and Sarah returned to the Bar C this afternoon, you looked the way I expected—like the happiest man on Earth.” That had been less than an hour ago. “Now, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were on your way to a loved one’s funeral.” A newly wedded man did not visit his first wife’s grave unless something was drastically wrong. Though Zach was concerned by the fact that Clay and Sarah were parted, he did not believe Sarah was the reason for his friend’s distress.
Clay looked down at the ground and gave an acorn an impatient kick. Like the fisted hands and the long silence, this was not normal behavior for Clay. When he finally spoke, his voice was heavy with sorrow. “I might as well tell you. As much as I wish it were otherwise, we won’t be able to hide the truth for too long.” Clay clenched his fists again, releasing them slowly before he met Zach’s gaze. “You know what happened to Priscilla. Without being too clinical, let me say there were consequences.”
The tone of his voice told Zach what those consequences were. “You mean she’s in what my mother would call ‘a family way.’”
“Exactly. Only, as you may have noticed, there’s no family. When Sarah told me, all I could think of was how different it had been for Patience.” Clay looked at his first wife’s grave. “We were both so excited and happy at the thought of being parents. Even though the baby died with Patience, we had months of happy anticipation. It’s not like that for Priscilla.”
A wave of anger swept through Zach at the thought of the pain the bandit had wrought. Two days ago Zach would not have realized the full implications of Priscilla’s situation, but her words yesterday had shown him the devastating consequences of the bandit’s attack. This was worse, much worse than what she had feared then. Thanks to Zeke Dunkler, Priscilla was alone and in the worst predicament a woman could face.
It was difficult enough raising a child alone. Zach’s mother had told him that numerous times. But Mama had been a widow. That had made her respectable in the eyes of the town. Priscilla was not a widow, and so she would bear the shame. People would snicker. They might shun her, and, through it all, she would be powerless, for the woman was always blamed. That’s what she had told him.
Zach took a deep breath and tried to catch his anger. Help me, Lord, he prayed. I’m here, my son. But instead of the peace he’d prayed for, Zach was barraged with memories. He saw Margaret’s tear-stained face, her father’s fierce scowl, his own mother’s look of disappointment. Anger turned to sorrow as he thought of what he’d done. Had Margaret faced scorn and shunning? Was that why she had threatened to kill their baby? He hadn’t considered that. The truth was, he hadn’t considered anything but himself the day Margaret’s father had demanded Zach marry her. He’d been little better than the bandit, for he’d left Haven without giving a thought to Margaret or their child. While it was true that he’d tried to make amends later and had been rebuffed, he hadn’t been there to protect her. Zach closed his eyes as pain washed through him. He couldn’t undo what had happened fifteen years ago. He couldn’t change Margaret’s life, but he could ensure that Priscilla did not suffer, and perhaps in doing so he could atone for his sin.
Oh, Lord, is this what you planned for me? Is this the reason I’ve believed a change was coming? The warmth that filled him gave Zach his answer. He took a step toward Clay, and his voice was firm as he said, “Priscilla needs to marry. If she does, even though the baby’s born early, talk will die down.” Neither she nor the child would face a lifetime of disgrace.
“You’re right, of course, but who?”
“I’ll marry her, if she agrees.”
Clay didn’t bother to hide either his surprise or his relief. “Are you certain?”
“Yes.” More certain than he’d been of anything since the day he’d known God wanted him to find Robert Canfield.
“Thank you, Zach. I’ll tell Sarah.” Clay turned toward the house.
Though Zach appreciated his friend’s offer, that was not the way it would be done. “No. This is between Priscilla and me. I will ask her. If she agrees, we’ll tell you and Sarah, so you can make plans.”
Clay clapped Zach on the shoulder. “You’re right. It would be better that way. I don’t know how to thank you, Zach, other than to say that it’s a very Christian thing to do.”
“I believe it’s what God wants.” Although not for the reason Clay imagined.
“Howdy.” Jean-Michel detested the greeting. No self-respecting Alsatian would have used such a crude salutation, unaccompanied as it was by a personal address. In Alsace, he would have greeted a stranger with the more courteous “Bonjour, monsieur,” but things were different here. Jean-Michel didn’t want to draw undue attention to himself, and so he called out the way an Anglo like that despicable Zach Webster might have.
The peddler looked up from the pot he’d been stirring. It hadn’t been Jean-Michel’s imagination. Tho
se were pork and beans he’d smelled as he’d approached.
“Somethin’ I can do for you?” The man’s face was brown and wrinkled, the result of years in the sun, his hair liberally threaded with gray, his smile welcoming. He looked like every other old man Jean-Michel had seen, except for his eyes. Cold and blue, those eyes appeared to be looking right through him, as if they could read his thoughts. Absurd! Still, Jean-Michel resolved to think only good thoughts while he was with the peddler. A man couldn’t be too careful.
Mindful that he had not answered the old man’s question, Jean-Michel looked down at the bubbling beans. “Those smell mighty good,” he said with what he hoped sounded like a Texas accent. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a bowl. I can pay for it.”
The peddler’s eyes moved from Jean-Michel’s expensive hat to his highly polished boots. “I can see that. Sit down.” He gestured toward the ground. “I reckon I’ve got enough to share with a hungry traveler.” The man stuck out his hand. “Tom Fayette.”
Jean-Michel shook the proffered hand. “Jean-Michel Ladre.” As soon as the words were pronounced, he regretted them. He should have invented a name, something that sounded more Texan.
“Glad to meet you, Jean-Michel.” Apparently unconcerned by the name or, more likely, too dumb to realize that it was a foreign name, the peddler rose to retrieve an extra plate and spoon from the back of his wagon. “What brings you to this part of Texas?”
“I work in Houston.” That wasn’t a lie. “When I heard my mother was doing poorly, I realized it was time to go home.” That wasn’t a lie, either. Not exactly. With him gone, Mama would be feeling poorly. She had cried buckets when she learned that Papa planned to send him to Houston, but all her tears and entreaties had accomplished nothing. Michel Ladre, the great and powerful Michel Ladre, would not be dissuaded.
“I like a man who cares for his mother.”
