by Amanda Cabot
Though his watch claimed that only a few minutes had passed before Clay summoned him, Zach felt as if he’d waited for hours. When he returned to the bedroom, he found Clay had placed Priscilla on the bed, covering all but her face. Though she was breathing, Zach didn’t need to be a doctor to know that the breathing was not normal. It was slow and so thin that each time, he feared it was the last.
“She’s lost the baby.”
Zach nodded. “That’s what she thought.”
“She’s also lost a lot of blood.”
“But she’ll be all right, won’t she?”
Clay’s lips thinned as he laid a hand on Zach’s shoulder. “I wish I could promise that, but the truth is, I don’t know. I’ve done everything I can. It’s up to God now.”
This was what Zach had feared from the moment he’d found Priscilla crumpled on the floor. The woman who had brought joy back into his life was facing death. He lowered his eyes, lest his friend see his anguish. “I’d like to be alone with her.”
Clay seemed to understand. “I’ll wait in the parlor.” Gently, he closed the door behind him, leaving Zach alone with his wife.
“Oh, Priscilla.” Zach knelt next to the bed and reached under the coverlet for her hand. Though he couldn’t explain it, he felt compelled to touch the woman who had once shied from his touch. His heart thudded with dread as he looked at her hand. It was so fragile, the ring he’d placed on it seeming to weigh it down. Poor Priscilla. She’d lost so much. First her sister, then her parents, now the baby. Could it be time for her suffering to end?
Zach bit the inside of his cheek, trying to control his emotions as he considered the possibility. He knew that death was not the end but the beginning, the ultimate healing. God would heal Priscilla. She would be reunited with her loved ones. How could he not want that for her? It was only he who would suffer. His life would be empty if Priscilla were no longer part of it. Zach stared at her face. Never, not even the first day when she’d arrived at the Bar C, had it been so pale. And now . . . now it looked drained of blood, drained of life.
Tears welled in his eyes as he thought of the day they were married and how brave Priscilla had been, allowing him to slip the ring on her finger. They’d promised to love and honor until death parted them. Surely it was too soon for that. Zach brushed the tears away. He wouldn’t waste precious minutes weeping. If all he had were a few more hours with Priscilla, he would spend them remembering the times she had laughed. He drew her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on it.
Was this part of God’s plan? He had brought Priscilla into Zach’s life for a reason. Zach was certain of that. In the few months that he’d known her, Priscilla had become the most important part of his life. He cared for her. He wanted her to be happy. Zach inhaled sharply as another thought assailed him. I love her. The vows he’d taken hadn’t been empty words. He loved, honored, and cherished this woman. And, though it might be selfish, he did not want to lose her.
Keeping her hand between both of his, Zach bowed his head in prayer. “Dear Lord, you know what’s in my heart. You know what I’m about to ask. I know that Priscilla is a gift from you. I beg you, let her live.” Zach felt Priscilla’s hand move. It was the slightest of movements, and yet it felt as if she wanted to clasp his hand but lacked the strength. “I’m not worthy of her love, but you know that I do love her.” The tears were streaming down Zach’s face unchecked. “I know that you have plans for us, and that your plans are good. If you take her, I will try to understand, but I pray that you will heal Priscilla so that I can give her the love you’ve put inside me. Please, Lord, spare the woman I love.”
There was no answer, no change in Priscilla’s condition, but the anguish Zach felt began to subside, replaced with the greatest calm he had ever felt. Whatever happened, he knew he’d been given the strength to bear it.
13
It was cheap whiskey. Jean-Michel scowled as the liquid burned his throat. He was accustomed to far better, but this rotgut was all the saloon offered, or so the proprietor claimed. He looked around the smoky room. He’d chosen this establishment over its four competitors because it had the air of a place where questions were neither asked nor answered. Though he doubted anyone in the state of Texas was smart enough to connect him with the peddler’s death, Jean-Michel was taking no chances. No, sirree. He couldn’t afford to run into a lawman.
There were none of them in sight. A couple white-haired men bellied up to the bar, but other than Jean-Michel, no one sat at a table the way a lawman would. Jean-Michel had chosen a table in the far corner where he could watch everyone. That was what a smart man did, and he was the smartest of the smart. That was why he was heading back to Ladreville to marry the prettiest gal in town.
He took another swallow as his thoughts turned to his destination and his bride-to-be. They wouldn’t stay there. One rainy day when he’d been holed up in a stable, he’d realized there was no reason to remain in his parents’ town. He and Isabelle deserved more than life in a small Texas town. A man of his stature, particularly one with a beautiful wife, ought to live in a city, surrounded by the accoutrements of wealth. New York, Philadelphia, Boston. Why, he and Isabelle might even go to Paris. Of course. Paris. That was where they belonged.
“Another.” Jean-Michel had lost count of the number of glasses the bartender had put in front of him. Maybe this one would taste better than the rest.
As the door opened and a gust of wind cleared the air, he blinked. It couldn’t be. What was Zach Webster doing here? Jean-Michel blinked again and rubbed his eyes. Two? Why was he seeing two of Zach? How was he going to kill two of him?
“This way, Chet.”
Jean-Michel took a deep breath and started to relax when he realized that he wasn’t seeing double. There were two men, and neither one was Zach Webster, though to Jean-Michel’s eyes, they looked enough like Zach to be his brothers.
“Hey, pardner, what you drinkin’?” the man called Chet asked as he and the other dark-haired man pulled out chairs. Though they had the whole room to choose from, they’d picked the table next to him. It wasn’t hard to figure out the reason. They knew a man of quality when they saw him.
“Whiskey.” Jean-Michel considered giving the men his opinion of the vile liquid but thought the better of it. There was no point in riling the proprietor and giving him a reason to remember the man who maligned his liquor.
“Well, Jake,” Chet said to his companion, “it looks like we’re drinkin’ whiskey tonight.”
They might not be Zach’s brothers, but these two men were brothers. Jean-Michel would stake a pretty sum on that. “Where you heading?” he asked.
“Who wants to know?”
“Jean-Michel Ladre.” Now, where did that come from? Hadn’t he told himself he couldn’t let anyone know his name?
“Well, Jean-Michel Ladre,” the brother named Chet said, “what do you say we share a bottle?” Without waiting for an answer, the two men dragged their chairs to Jean-Michel’s table. “I’m Chet, and this here’s my brother Jake. Dunkler,” he added.
The man acted as if Jean-Michel should recognize the name. Though he didn’t, he nodded. A smart man didn’t disagree with anyone, leastwise not men who looked as tough as these two did.
“Them’s mighty fine boots you got,” Jake said with an odd look at his brother.
“You got a saddle to match them?” Chet asked.
Jean-Michel nodded and puffed out his chest. It was clear the Dunkler brothers recognized him for what he was: a man of consequence. He felt inside his shirt for the sack of gold. “Let me show you what else I’ve got.”
“Clay says it’s a miracle you’re alive.” Sarah’s eyes were serious as she urged Priscilla to take a spoonful of chicken broth.
Four days had passed since Priscilla had lost the baby, four days in which Sarah had come to the Lazy B before and after school, bringing food and doing her best to cheer Priscilla. Her efforts, though well-intentioned, had failed. Not even the
vibrant blue of the Texas sky and the sight of puffy cumulus clouds which had always brought joy to Priscilla’s heart had penetrated the miasma of despair.
“I wish I had died.” Life here on the Lazy B, the future she had planned, her marriage to Zach—none of it made any sense now that there would be no child.
Sarah shook her head and drew a chair next to the bed. “I thank God you didn’t. You’re my friend, and I don’t want to lose you.” She patted Priscilla’s hand in a gesture that was meant to comfort. Like her cheerful words and chicken soup, it failed. Sarah’s eyes were somber as she said, “I believe God has a plan for all of us. I don’t know why he took your baby, but maybe he will give you another one, one that’s Zach’s as well as yours.”
“No!” The word came out with more force than Priscilla had intended. There would be no second baby. Never, ever. She would die before she’d endure what her mother had referred to as the marriage act. Priscilla closed her eyes as the memories she had tried so desperately to repress rushed through her. The pain, the shame, the horrible, horrible feeling of being unclean. It didn’t matter that Zach was not Zeke. It didn’t matter that she harbored gentle feelings for him, that she might even love him. Nothing mattered but the fact that Priscilla would never let a man touch her that way. This had been her one chance at motherhood, and she’d lost it. God had ended her dream of a child to love and nurture just as he’d taken Patience and her parents. Thanks to him, the future looked bleak. There was no reason left to live, but still she lived. Endured was more like it.
“Zach’s a good man. He cares for you.” Sarah reached behind her for the tray she’d placed on the table and handed Priscilla a glass of milk. “Drink this.”
It was easier to obey than to argue with Sarah. Priscilla took a sip. “I know Zach’s a good man,” she said as she wrapped both hands around the glass, lest, in her weakness, she drop it. She cared about Zach; she wanted him to have a life filled with love. That was why she had to release him from this charade of a marriage. Unbidden, tears began to spill down Priscilla’s cheeks.
Sarah wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s all right to cry,” she said softly. “Tears can help.”
Nothing would fill the emptiness deep inside her.
Zach was not enjoying his ride, and Charcoal sensed it. The stallion was restive and balked more than usual when they reached the river. “C’mon, boy. Charlotte’s waiting for her money.” It was time for him to send her the monthly package. Normally, a trip into Ladreville was a treat for Zach, but today was different. Today worries about Priscilla overshadowed everything, even the fact that there’d probably be a letter from Charlotte Tallman, telling him of Joshua’s latest exploits.
Though it sounded as if the boy was a bit of a scamp, Charlotte invariably excused his hijinks, claiming they were nothing more than mischief and exuberance. A man didn’t have to read between the lines to know Charlotte loved her son. Each word she penned made that evident. She was born to be a mother, just as Priscilla was. But now Priscilla’s child was gone, and she was suffering.
Clay claimed sorrow was normal, and Zach wouldn’t dispute that. Anyone would mourn the loss of a child. He did. But Priscilla’s mourning wasn’t normal. She was in a funk, unable to find pleasure in anything. This was far worse than when she first came to Ladreville. He’d seen her despair then, and it had been mild compared to this. Then she had at least pretended to have a normal life. She’d dressed, eaten meals, spoken with others. Now she would not leave her bed, and that worried Zach.
He feared that Priscilla’s current mood was dangerous. Clay was a talented physician, but he had no experience with suffering and despair so deep that they made life untenable. Zach did. He’d known those dark moments of the soul when nothing seemed worthwhile. He’d reached the bottom of the pit in Perote and, had it not been for Clay’s father, Zach would have taken his own life and spent eternity in hell. Somehow, someway he had to keep Priscilla from reaching that point. But first he had to send Charlotte her money.
Zach dismounted and tied Charcoal to a hitching post. If he did not tarry, he could be home within an hour.
“You look as miserable as I feel.” Gunther crossed the street and joined Zach in front of the post office. “What’s wrong with you?”
Despite his reluctance to prolong his time in town, Zach would not ignore his friend. “Priscilla’s ill.”
Gunther scuffed his boot on the ground, clearly uneasy with a discussion of female ailments. “I heard about the baby.” He raised his head and looked at Zach. “Was it yours?”
Zach took a deep breath, trying to control his anger. Though he’d told Priscilla the townspeople would not openly speculate about the baby’s father, it appeared he had been wrong. Or perhaps it was only because Gunther was a friend that he felt free to pose the question. Still, the fact that he had asked rankled.
There was only one possible response. “Yes, it was mine.” In every way that mattered.
“Then it’s a pity she lost it.”
As Gunther’s words registered, the anger Zach had tried to tamp down flared. How dare Gunther say that? How dare he insinuate that the child would have been less worthy of life if it had been fathered by a bandit? Zach fisted his hands and took a step forward. There was nothing he wanted more than to plant a fist on Gunther’s face. He stopped abruptly and forced his hands to relax. Hitting Gunther would solve nothing. It would only confirm the town’s speculation and make Priscilla’s situation more difficult. The simple fact was, the baby’s parentage was of no importance. All that mattered was Priscilla.
“I’m worried about her,” he said, ignoring Gunther’s last statement.
“Women are funny creatures. After Eva was born, Frieda spent days crying. She couldn’t explain it, and I sure couldn’t understand what was wrong. There we were with a beautiful, healthy baby and she had turned into a watering pot.”
Zach wondered if there was something in the female constitution that made them prone to tears. Although he supposed that was possible, Priscilla wasn’t given to fits of weeping. In fact, the only time he’d seen her cry had been over the loss of her locket. But she was grieving now. “What ended it?”
Gunther tipped his hat as a woman left the post office. When she was out of earshot, he said, “I wish I knew. One day Frieda woke up happy. The tears were gone. Mark my words. You’ll soon have your cheerful wife back.”
“I hope so.” But in the meantime, he had to find a way to comfort Priscilla.
“At least you have a wife.” Gunther glanced down the street as he had at least a dozen times before. Though Zach doubted he’d admit it, his friend was watching the mercantile, perhaps looking for Isabelle. “I tell you, Zach, this courting business is harder than I imagined.”
“You making any progress?”
Gunther scowled, then looked back at the mercantile. “Only if you count going backwards progress. I talked to Isabelle’s father last night. I figured that when I told him I loved his daughter, he’d forget I was German and agree that I could marry her.” Gunther’s scowl darkened. “I was wrong. Dead wrong. Monsieur Rousseau told me I wasn’t worthy of Isabelle and never would be.” Gunther kicked a pebble, waiting until it had stopped rolling before he spoke. “I don’t know what to do next.”
Though he was anxious to finish his errands and return home, Zach couldn’t abandon his friend without suggesting one last course of action. “You could marry without her father’s approval.”
Gunther shook his head, confirming Zach’s belief that he wouldn’t like the final resort. “I can’t do that to Isabelle. She loves her parents. If we married without their blessing, I’d be putting a barrier between her and them. I can’t do that.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
That made two of them.
Priscilla clasped her hands, trying to hide their trembling. Today had been the first day she’d remained out of bed all day. Now that her strengt
h was returning, she could delay no more. She knew what had to be done and had been rehearsing her words all day, hoping to deliver them without betraying her true feelings. The time had come.
“Zach, we need to talk.” She’d waited until supper was over to broach the subject. With the dishes stacked, ready for the woman who’d been hired to cook until Priscilla regained her strength, she was as ready as she’d ever be. She closed the front door behind her and took a step toward her husband, who was sitting on the steps, staring into the distance. At her words, he rose.
“What did I do wrong this time?”
“You?” Priscilla blinked in confusion. “You did nothing wrong. Why would you think that?”
Zach gestured toward the swing and waited until she was seated before he perched on the railing opposite her. “You were so serious. When my mother sounded like that, usually she’d discovered one of my misdeeds. I soon learned that tone of voice was not good news.”
“What I have to say is.” For him. One of the things Priscilla had decided as she’d lain in bed trying to accept the loss of her child was that she wouldn’t think about her future. What mattered was Zach’s. “I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” Was that really her voice? It was like a stranger’s, the phrases stilted. Surely she hadn’t sounded so awful when she’d practiced.
“There’s no need for thanks.” Zach did not share her problem. His voice was normal, warm and filled with the kindness that was one of his finest characteristics. “You’re my wife. I’ve only done what any husband would.”
“That’s what we need to talk about.” Priscilla saw a question in his eyes and held up her hand to forestall him. “Please don’t interrupt. This is difficult enough as it is.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.” That had been one of the worst parts of her recuperation, the endless hours with nothing but thoughts for company. She took another breath, preparing to deliver the speech. Once she started, she would not pause for fear that she would be unable to continue. This was what was best for Zach, she reminded herself. It was what he deserved.
