Scattered Petals

by Amanda Cabot

  When a spot of black caught his eye, Zach leaned forward. “Let’s go, Charcoal.” The spot, his trained eye told him, was a calf. Though Charcoal was trotting now, Zach would slow him to a walk as they approached the animal. The last thing he needed was to spook an injured calf.

  Or a wife. As strong as she was, where men were concerned, Priscilla was like a wounded animal, fearful of predators. Though she seemed to be a bit more relaxed around him each day, Zach knew it was only because he kept a distance between them. Heal her, Lord, he prayed silently. Show me how to help her. As the days passed, he had been moving slowly, gradually narrowing the distance between himself and his wife. Drying dishes had been his first test. Though he’d stood closer to her than normal, she had not been spooked. Perhaps it was because his hands had been occupied, and she hadn’t feared he would touch her. Zach wasn’t certain. All he knew was that he would continue. Building Priscilla’s trust would take time, but if he was careful, one day the fear would leave her eyes.

  He slowed Charcoal again, watching the calf. There was no doubt about it; it was limping. Slowly and deliberately Zach reached for his rope. The calf did not move. Good. He spun the rope over the calf’s head, then, so quickly that the calf had no warning, looped it around the animal’s shoulders, and tugged it to the ground. An instant later, Zach had dismounted and was running toward the frightened calf.

  “It’ll be all right,” he said, as much to reassure himself as the animal. “Let’s see what’s wrong.” The calf continued to struggle, attempting to rise. Zach tied the three good legs together so that he could inspect the injured one without worrying about being kicked. No broken bones. The problem was a deep gash that had already begun to form a scab. Excellent! Zach released the calf, knowing it would heal on its own. He prayed that Priscilla would too.

  Back on Charcoal, Zach was continuing on the route he’d planned for the day when he suddenly stopped. He couldn’t explain it. All he knew was that he needed to return to the house. Immediately. The feeling was so urgent, so insistent that he wheeled around and headed home, despite the fact that other injured cattle could be over the next rise. Half an hour later, when he and Charcoal reached the ranch, Zach had second thoughts. Perhaps it was all his imagination. Perhaps there was no reason for him to be here. He scanned the yard. Nothing looked amiss. He’d go inside, reassure himself, then head out for the range again. But as he entered the house, he heard sobs, and he knew he’d been called here for a reason.

  Chills raced down his spine as he ran through the house looking for Priscilla. There she was, doubled over on the settee, crying as if her heart were breaking. Deep and heart-wrenching, the sobs could have been caused by pain or anguish. Zach’s heart lurched at the knowledge that something was desperately wrong for the woman who never wept to be sobbing like this.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded, his voice harsh with worry. Though he longed to wrap his arms around Priscilla, he dared not, for that would only increase her distress. All he could do was talk. “Are you ill? Did something happen to the baby?”

  She looked up, her eyes swollen, her nose red. “The baby’s fine. I’m fine.”

  She was not, for the fear he had seen the day she arrived at the Bar C had returned to her eyes. Sensing that she was frightened by his standing over her, Zach sank into a chair opposite her.

  “You’re not fine, not if you’re crying like that.” He wondered whether this was a daily occurrence, and he’d never known. Though she seemed cheerful when he returned each evening, Zach hated the possibility that she spent hours weeping. “Tell me what’s wrong.” If it was within his power, he would fix it.

  Priscilla wiped her tears and blew her nose before she spoke. “It’s nothing, Zach. Really nothing. I was just being silly.”

  He wouldn’t believe that. “You’re the least silly person I know. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You’ll think I’m crazy.” When Zach shook his head, trying to reassure her, she dabbed at her eyes again. “It’s my locket.” Priscilla’s voice broke. “They took my locket. The bandits killed my parents and they hurt me and they took my locket.” The words came out like water rushing over a dam. “It was all I had and they took it. They took everything.”

  Zach tried to make sense of what she was saying. Clay had warned him that women in Priscilla’s condition could be emotional. Perhaps that was the reason for her spate of tears, though it seemed unlikely. Why would a normally sensible woman be so upset about a locket? Whether her sorrow was logical or not, Zach needed to help her.

  “Tell me about your locket,” he urged.

  Priscilla looked at him as if surprised by his request, then swallowed deeply in an obvious attempt to calm herself. “It was a birthday gift from my parents. When you opened it, their miniature was on one side, one of Patience and me on the other.” The tone of her voice told Zach she had treasured the family portraits even more than the locket itself. He watched as tears welled in Priscilla’s eyes. Defiantly, she brushed them aside, her next words confirming his supposition. “The locket had the only pictures I had of my family, and they took it. Now I have nothing.”

  It was no longer sorrow that colored her words; it was desperation. Zach closed his eyes. Help me, Lord. Show me the way to comfort her. When he opened his eyes, he fixed them on Priscilla. Even with her eyes reddened and her face blotchy, his wife was beautiful. More than that, she was lovable. “You’re wrong, Priscilla.” Zach kept his voice soft but firm. “You have not lost everything. You still have God’s love, and he’s given you a new life to raise.”

  Those were not the words she wanted to hear. Priscilla’s lip curled in scorn. “A bandit’s baby.”

  “Your baby.” Zach paused. “Our baby.” Though her eyes widened in surprise, Zach wouldn’t rescind the words, not when it felt so right to have pronounced them. “You’re safe here. Our child will be safe here.”

  She nodded slightly, and the fear in her eyes began to fade. Thank you, Lord. Encouraged by the progress he was making, Zach continued. “We can have a good life here.” Again she nodded. “I will do everything I can for you, but there’s something you have to do for yourself. If you want true peace, you need to forgive the bandits.”

  The hope that had flickered was extinguished. “I can’t.”

  Priscilla was in the kitchen cutting vegetables for stew when she heard a carriage approaching. Wiping her hands, she hurried to the front porch, her heart filling with pleasure at the sight of Sarah and Thea. “I’m glad you came.” It had been three days since their last visit. After the first week, Sarah and Thea had stopped at the Lazy B every few days, and even if they stayed only half an hour, their arrival was cause for rejoicing.

  Priscilla opened the front door. “Come in. I’ll make us some coffee.” She ushered her guests into the parlor, waiting until Thea appropriated one of the chairs and began an animated discussion with her doll.

  “I’m still impressed with the changes you’ve made,” Sarah said. “Everything looks so much brighter and more inviting.”

  Zach had said the same thing. “All I did was wash curtains and rearrange the furniture.” Priscilla had also taken down the somber portraits, feeling that bare walls were better than ones with the former owners’ disapproving ancestors staring down at her.

  “You’ve turned a house into a home.” Sarah settled onto the settee. “I like it.”

  When Priscilla returned with a tray of coffee, milk, and cookies, Thea held up her doll. “Cilla wanna play?”

  Sarah shook her head and gave her sister a cup of milk. “Not now, sweetie. You and your dolly can play by yourselves for a few minutes.” When Thea started to pout, Sarah added, “You may have two cookies if you’re quiet while Priscilla and I talk.” She waited until Thea had drunk her milk before she turned to Priscilla. “I want your advice on something, but first, it’s not just the house that looks different. You look . . . Oh, how can I describe it? Contented. That’s the word. Are you?”

 
; Priscilla thought for a moment. Though that wasn’t an adjective she might have used, she couldn’t dispute the fact that it applied to her. Other than the nightmares and that horribly embarrassing day when Zach had caught her sobbing over her locket, she had been content. “More than I thought possible,” she admitted. “I’m comfortable here and safe, so, yes, you could say I’m content.”

  Zach probably wouldn’t believe that after the crying spell he’d interrupted. The odd thing was, it had helped. Not simply the crying, although that had been beneficial. If he’d been alive, Papa might have told her she had a wound that needed lancing, and the tears had provided that release. But what had made the most difference were Zach’s words of comfort. Priscilla had been startled when he’d referred to the life growing inside her as their baby. She hadn’t expected that, hadn’t even considered the possibility that he would regard the child as his. Oh, she’d known that he would protect the baby and would help her raise it, but she had never dreamt that he might treat it as if it were his child. She had been wrong. Zach had said the word our twice, and ever since that day Priscilla had clutched the memory close, smiling whenever she recalled it. That one small word had brought comfort. His other words had not. She would cling to Zach’s promises of comfort, not to his insistence that she forgive the bandits. Some things were not forgivable.

  Oblivious to Priscilla’s internal turmoil, Sarah smiled. “I know I must sound like every new bride, but I think marriage is wonderful. That’s why I want Isabelle and Gunther to marry. They deserve the same happiness.”

  It was Priscilla’s time to smile. “So you’ve decided to be a matchmaker. I thought that might be why you seated them next to each other at our wedding supper.”

  Sarah nodded. “They’d make a wonderful couple. The problem is, they don’t seem to realize that. That’s why I wanted your advice.”

  The reluctant bride as matchmaker. Priscilla wanted to laugh at the notion until she realized that she had some experience, albeit secondhand. “My mother used to claim the best way was to find reasons for a couple to be together. She was convinced that Clay was the perfect man for Patience. That’s why she insisted he take his meals with us most days. It would give him time with Patience.”

  Sarah appeared surprised. “Clay never said anything about your mother’s matchmaking.”

  “He probably wasn’t even aware of it. Mama was subtle.”

  Sarah laid down her coffee cup and raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying my seating arrangement wasn’t subtle? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Your mother was probably right about proximity.” Sarah grinned. “It certainly worked for Clay and me. The problem is, Gunther has no reason to visit the mercantile more than once every month or so, and Isabelle never goes to the mill. How do I get them together?”

  That was a problem, but there was a greater one. “We can’t forget Eva. My impression is that Gunther won’t marry anyone unless he’s convinced she’d be a good stepmother, and Eva seems protective of her father. You heard her. She doesn’t think he needs a wife.”

  “You’re right.” Sarah nodded and took another sip of coffee. “At one time, I was the logical choice, because Gunther saw me with Eva every day and knew how much I loved her. It was the same with Olga Kaltheimer. She and Eva were together at the school, and Eva considered her a friend.”

  “So we need a reason for Eva to spend time with Isabelle.”

  “Are you and Cilla done talking?” Thea climbed onto Sarah’s lap and hugged her.

  “Just a little while longer.” Sarah pretended to offer Thea’s doll a sip of coffee.

  “Another cookie?”

  “No. You may sit here, but you may not have another cookie.”

  While Thea pouted, Priscilla considered the problem of Isabelle and Gunther. “He seems to think that teachers would make good mothers.”

  “True, but Isabelle’s not a teacher.” Sarah’s face brightened. “She’s an excellent seamstress. Perhaps she could teach Eva to sew.”

  “I imagine there are several unmarried German women who could do that.” Though neither she nor Sarah had broached the subject, Priscilla was certain that Isabelle and Gunther’s different heritages were a barrier to their romance. “What if Isabelle were to teach Eva to speak French?”

  Sarah nodded slowly. “It would be a good idea, if Gunther believed that his daughter needed fluent French. The problem is, we’re trying to convince everyone in Ladreville that English is our common language.”

  “You and I learned French, even though we speak English every day. I don’t know about you, but my mother claimed that all well-bred girls spoke French.”

  Sarah cuddled her sister, who had started to fuss over the enforced inactivity. “My parents planned to take us to Europe. Mama said that was why I needed to learn it.”

  “You could use that argument with Gunther. Tell him that Eva might want to travel to Europe some day, and she should speak both French and German when she goes.”

  “That might work,” Sarah conceded. She narrowed her eyes. “There’s one more problem. We need someone to persuade him. I could try, but I’m not sure how effective I’ll be. Things have been a little strained since I refused Gunther’s offer of marriage. Besides, the idea would probably be best coming from a man.”

  When Sarah refused to meet Priscilla’s gaze, she knew why the other woman had come to the Lazy B today. This was more than a neighborly visit, and Sarah wanted more than advice. She wanted Priscilla’s husband to help her. “All right. I’ll ask Zach.”

  “You want me to be a matchmaker?”

  Priscilla had waited until after supper before she broached the subject. One of Mama’s precepts had been that men were more amenable to suggestions when they were well fed. This was the first time she’d had to test the theory, and she hoped the stew and fluffy biscuits had done their job. “Not exactly,” Priscilla hedged. “Oh, all right—yes, I want you to help Sarah.” When Zach continued to look dubious, she added, “It’s not as if you’d be pushing Gunther and Isabelle together.”

  “Just nudging my friend in that direction.” Though Zach had been sitting on the opposite side of the table, he rose and strode toward the door. When he reached it, he wheeled around. “Tell me, Priscilla, why do women feel this need to see their friends married? Can’t they understand that some men are meant to be bachelors?”

  His words were spoken so vehemently that she knew he felt strongly, but he was right: she didn’t understand. “Who’s meant to be a bachelor? Gunther’s already been wed, so you can’t be speaking of him.”

  “I . . .” Zach fell silent. “You’re right,” he said at last. “Gunther wants to marry again, and your plan might help him. I’ll do it.”

  Late that night, Priscilla remained awake, remembering the conversation. Though he’d agreed, the troubled expression on Zach’s face told her he had misgivings. Those misgivings, she sensed, were not related to Gunther but to the fact that he believed some men were born bachelors. Who? He’d started a sentence with “I” but had said nothing more. Was he speaking of himself? Did he believe he was one of those men meant to remain unmarried? Priscilla cringed at the thought. If that was the case, he’d sacrificed even more than she’d known when he asked her to be his wife. Poor Zach!

  Priscilla gripped the windowsill and stared into the distance. The bandits’ evil was like a stone tossed into a pond, sending out wider and wider ripples until it disturbed the entire pond. They’d hurt her, and through her, they’d hurt Zach. Oh, Lord, she prayed, why did you let this happen? Zach deserves better.

  9

  “Did you ever think about children? Before Eva was born, that is.” Zach leaned against the doorframe, feigning nonchalance. The truth was, he couldn’t recall when he’d dreaded an encounter more. It was one thing for Priscilla and Sarah to claim that Gunther wanted a new wife and that Isabelle was the perfect candidate. It was quite another to involve Zach in their schemes. But here he was at the gristmill, pretending this
was a casual visit.

  Perhaps he’d been a fool to agree. After all, he knew nothing of matchmaking and had even less desire to learn. If Sarah had asked, he would have refused, but it was far more difficult to deny Priscilla anything. The day he’d found her crying over her missing locket had shown him that her seemingly calm exterior was only a fragile shell. Inside she was vulnerable, and that made Zach determined to do anything he could to help her, which was why he was having a sack of corn ground when no one needed cornmeal. That was the only excuse he had found to visit Gunther and ask inane questions.

  Fortunately, Gunther seemed to find nothing odd in Zach’s question. “There wasn’t a lot of time to think,” he said with a grin. “Eva got started right away. It happened so quickly that Frieda was afraid if the baby came early, folks would think we jumped the gun, so to speak.” Gunther raised an eyebrow. “Why are you asking? You and Priscilla got babies on the mind?”

  “Don’t all newly wedded folks?” Zach and Priscilla did, but not for the reason Gunther probably imagined. In another few months, it would be obvious that Priscilla was with child and that Zach was not the child’s father. He could only pray that the townspeople would not distress her with their speculation. He would not speak of that today. Instead, he said, “I’ve been thinking about all the responsibility—feeding them, clothing them, taking care of them when they’re sick.” That was nothing less than the truth. Though he’d never admit it to Gunther, the prospect scared Zach. How was he going to care for a tiny, helpless infant? He knew nothing about babies. But that wasn’t the reason he was here. He had to persuade Gunther that Eva needed Isabelle.