by Amanda Cabot
Jean-Michel led the horse back into the trees, resigning himself to another boring day. As much as he hated the idea of another night spent outdoors, it couldn’t be helped. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he would be in Ladreville. Tomorrow he would sleep in comfort again. And then . . . Jean-Michel smiled as he thought of Zach Webster’s lifeless body sprawled on the ground and Isabelle, sweet Isabelle, rushing into his arms. Soon everything would be perfect.
“Are you certain you won’t sit with us?” Isabelle raised an impeccably groomed eyebrow as she darted a glance at the pew where her parents and Léon were seated.
Priscilla shook her head. “We’ll be more comfortable in the back.” Though she and Zach occasionally sat with the Rousseaus, today was one day Priscilla wanted to keep a distance. She had heard nothing from Père Tellier and did not know how he and Pastor Sempert planned to address the problem with Isabelle and Gunther, but if he used today’s sermon to make a point, Priscilla did not want to be seated with the Rousseaus. If Monsieur Rousseau believed that she had meddled in his affairs again, he might grow angry, and the church was no place for a confrontation. “We’ll sit with you next time,” she told Isabelle.
“Good morning, Yvonne.” Priscilla greeted her friend as she entered the church.
Though she murmured a response, Yvonne kept her eyes averted from Isabelle and quickly moved into one of the pews. When Isabelle flushed at the insult and hurried toward her parents, Priscilla sighed. The rift between two women who’d once been friends was senseless, and yet it persisted. Afraid that Père Tellier and Pastor Sempert would be unable to change anything, Priscilla said a silent prayer, asking God to soften the parishioners’ hearts.
When Père Tellier moved to the pulpit for the sermon, the congregation settled back in their pews. Some of them, Priscilla knew from previous Sundays, would doze while he spoke, but the majority would listen. Like Pastor Sempert, Père Tellier was respected by the community, and his words bore far more weight than ordinary citizens’.
Priscilla looked at the man who’d raised her hopes for reuniting the town. Was it her imagination that he stood there silently for longer than normal, as if he were assessing his parishioners’ moods? But when he spoke, Priscilla tried to swallow her disappointment. It appeared she’d been mistaken in thinking he and Pastor Sempert would use their sermons to promote harmony.
“Today’s sermon is based on the gospel of Matthew, chapter 7, verses 16 through 20.” The minister paused, then began to read from his Bible. “‘Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.’” Père Tellier paused, his eyes once again moving slowly from the first to the last pew.
Priscilla recognized the passage and wondered what his message would be. Though Pastor Sempert sometimes used obscure references, Père Tellier did not. Priscilla took a quick breath when she realized that Pastor Sempert might have chosen this, that it might have a connection to Isabelle and Gunther.
“Our Lord was speaking of false prophets,” Père Tellier continued, “but his words apply to each one of us in our daily lives.” Priscilla nodded. That sounded like something Pastor Sempert would have said. Père Tellier kept his eyes focused on his congregation. “How do we judge our fellow men? Do we consider their fruits, the things they have accomplished, the deeds they’ve done, or do we measure them by other standards?”
He paused again, letting his questions ring throughout the church. Priscilla saw several people fidget, as if they were uncomfortable with the minister’s words. Her heart soared when she realized that Père Tellier was being a true shepherd, leading the flock in the direction he had chosen, using his words and the Lord’s as a shepherd would his crook.
“Do we judge men as more or less worthy because of the color of their hair or the language they speak?” Père Tellier lifted his Bible and held it so all could see the pages. “You heard our Lord’s words. I ask you, are hair color and language the fruits our Lord meant, or are they nothing more than outer trappings?” The fidgeting grew worse. Priscilla saw several people lower their heads, though whether in shame or prayer she did not know.
“My children, God has brought us here to a new country. He has blessed us with health and prosperity. How do we thank him? Do we follow his commandments? Do we seek to live a life that shows the world we are disciples of Christ? Or do we come here each Sunday and make promises that are no more than empty words?” Though Père Tellier’s voice had risen, he lowered it to little more than a whisper as he said, “I ask you to look deep inside your hearts. Are you judging each other—even those who are not members of this congregation—by their fruits or by something else, something contrary to our Lord’s commandments?”
He was silent for a long moment, letting his words penetrate his parishioners’ hearts. “In the very same chapter of Matthew, verses 1 and 2, our Lord says, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’” The minister folded his hands as he looked at his flock. “Search your hearts, and if you have wronged another through your judgment, today is the day to make amends. Today is the Lord’s day. Let us use it to do his will.”
The church was silent as Père Tellier ended his sermon. Instead of immediately announcing the final hymn, he said nothing, merely stood in the pulpit, his head bowed in prayer. Two rows in front of Priscilla, Yvonne turned to Neville, and there was no mistaking the tears that coursed down her cheeks. Thank you, Lord, for opening her heart. There was a rustle further forward. Priscilla’s eyes widened as Isabelle’s father stood and made his way to the front of the church. When he turned to face the congregation, he appeared to have aged a dozen years.
“In anger, I told Mr. Webster that only a sign from God could change my mind. I did not want such a sign, but today Père Tellier has given it. He is right.” Monsieur Rousseau’s voice was little more than a whisper. Clearing his throat, he spoke again, more loudly this time. “I have counted myself a righteous man. I come to church each Sunday. I read the Bible every day, but I have failed my Lord. I have judged a man—many men and women—by things that are unimportant. I’ve measured them by their surnames, the church they attend, the language they speak.”
As Monsieur Rousseau’s face contorted with pain, Priscilla heard Zach’s intake of breath, and he whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
Isabelle’s father straightened his shoulders as he looked out at the congregation. “I have been the worst of hypocrites. I was happy to have Ladreville’s German citizens come into my store. Their money was as good as anyone’s. But when a man—an honorable man—asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage, I refused him for the simple reason that he was a German.”
He closed his eyes for a second, perhaps in an attempt to fight back tears. When he regained his composure, he said, “I was wrong. I will ask his forgiveness as I will beg for my Lord’s. Now I ask for yours. If my words and deeds have led you to consider our German brothers and sisters less worthy than us, I was wrong. Please forgive me.” He looked at the pew where his wife, daughter, and son were seated. “Gunther Lehman is a good man. If he will forgive me, I will be honored to call him my son-in-law.”
A second later, Isabelle was at her father’s side. Though tears were streaming down her face as she wrapped her arms around him and led him back to their pew, everyone in the church heard her say, “I love you, Papa.”
“I won’t call it a miracle,” Clay said an hour later as Martina served Sunday dinner at the Bar C, “but it came close.”
Priscilla laid down her fork. Though the roast chicken and sweet potatoes were delicious, what Clay was saying was more important th
an any food. He confirmed what Priscilla had surmised, that Pastor Sempert’s sermon was similar to Père Tellier’s.
“The men who’d been the most outspoken in their criticism of Gunther surrounded him when the service was over,” Clay continued. “I saw some pretty sheepish faces.”
“The same thing happened to Isabelle,” Priscilla told her friends. “I was so happy when I saw Yvonne hug her that I wanted to shout ‘hallelujah.’” Père Tellier’s sermon had been the most powerful one Priscilla had ever heard, leaving no doubt that God had directed his words.
Sarah handed her sister another biscuit. “Today has been an answer to prayer.”
Zach raised one of his brows as he looked from Priscilla to Sarah, his expression appraising. “I guess this means you ladies consider your matchmaking a success.”
At the far end of the table, Clay’s father made a sound that was suspiciously like a chuckle. When Sarah nodded, Clay’s lips quirked in a grin. It appeared he shared his father’s amusement. “Zach, my friend, I have some bad news for you. If you think they’re retiring, you don’t know women very well. Sarah and Priscilla will find another set of victims.”
“Victims?” Priscilla feigned indignation. What joy it was, laughing with friends on a beautiful day. The sun was out in all its glory, and God had opened the townspeople’s hearts. What more could anyone ask? “That’s a horrible way to describe Gunther and Isabelle. They’re not victims. Why, I doubt there’s anyone in Ladreville who’s happier than they are today.”
Sarah looked up from the biscuit she was buttering, and her eyes sparkled. “Clay and I might challenge them for that honor.” She gave her husband a smile of pure happiness before she said, “We have some good news. We’re expecting a baby.”
A baby. Priscilla pushed a stab of envy aside. If anyone deserved happiness it was Sarah and Clay. Besides, it wasn’t their fault that she was childless. She could have a baby of her own, if only . . . Taking a deep breath, Priscilla tamped down the memories that even now had the power to roil her stomach. “That’s wonderful.” She rose and hugged Sarah, then flashed Clay a bright smile. “When is the baby due?”
“October.” It was Sarah who answered. “I expect you to deliver it.”
Priscilla gave her another hug. “I’m so happy for you.” And she was. Truly. She’d had her chance at motherhood. Now her mission was to help other women’s babies be born.
“Me going to have baby to play with,” Thea announced.
“You are, indeed.” Priscilla nodded at the little girl who’d welcomed her into her heart the first day she’d come to La-dreville. “Sarah will need your help.”
“Me know. Me and Papa Clay help with the baby.” For the second time Clay’s father chuckled.
As Priscilla took another bite of chicken, she watched Zach clap Clay on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ll be a great father.”
“So will you. Your turn is coming.”
Though Zach looked away quickly, Priscilla saw the discomfort on his face. Had he lied when he said that he didn’t need children? It appeared he had regrets, deep regrets.
He had intended to wait until dark to enter Ladreville, reasoning that fewer people would be outside, and that even those who were would have trouble seeing him. But then a new idea had popped into his brain. He was so smart! This plan was better. There was no reason to go through town. If he continued north, bypassing Ladreville, he could cross the river upstream where no one lived. All it meant was a couple miles more riding, but that was better than hanging around in the forest, waiting for the sun to set. Once he forded the river, he’d be on the west bank. Perfect. No houses and lots of trees. What a great plan! No one would see him, and he’d get to the ranch in time for dinner.
Jean-Michel spurred his horse as the thought of a good meal made him salivate. Even though the Brambles had been gone for months, he’d bet there was some food left. At a minimum he reasoned there’d be canned goods, and maybe if luck continued on his side, there’d be some smoked meat. Whatever else folks might say about the Widow Bramble, she was a fine cook. Jean-Michel’s stomach growled at the memory of the pies she occasionally provided for their poker games. And then there were the jams she used to bring to the potluck suppers. Those were mighty delicious. Even if all he had was hardtack, it would be tasty with some of Widow Bramble’s peach preserves on it. Yes, indeed, this was a good plan.
Two hours later, he reined in his horse as he approached the ranch house. There was no point in being foolhardy. A smart man took no chances, and Jean-Michel Ladre was a smart man. He looked around. The place was better cared for than he’d expected. There were even some flowers growing close to the porch. It was almost as if someone had planted them. A prickle of concern snaked down his back, but he dismissed it. Who would have planted posies? No one lived here. There was another explanation, a simpler one. Didn’t his mother talk about flowers coming back year after year? That’s what happened here.
He was grinning as he drew closer. Yes, sirree, that house looked downright appealing. He’d have a roof over his head and a soft bed under his back. Mighty fine.
Jean-Michel’s grin faded abruptly when a strange woman stepped onto the front porch. He drew his gun. It had been different in the Old Country, but Texas ladies could be just as dangerous as the men. He was taking no chances.
“Who are you?” he demanded. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone here. The woman had reddish hair, and even from here he could see that her eyes were green. She was pretty enough, if you liked tall women and fiery hair. Jean-Michel didn’t. He had his mind set on wedding a brunette who came no higher than his heart.
“I’m Priscilla Webster.”
“Webster?” Was it possible? Had luck come his way? Jean-Michel narrowed his eyes. “Are you related to Zach Webster?”
The woman nodded. “I’m his wife.”
Elation shot through him. Zach had a wife! Oh, what a perfect day! Coming here had been a stroke of pure genius. A dry bed, good food, and a double helping of revenge. What more could a man want?
Jean-Michel dismounted and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go inside.”
The man was evil. She could see it in his eyes. Though his facial features were not the same, his eyes held the same gleam as Zeke Dunkler’s. Priscilla started to shake as memories of the stagecoach holdup and its aftermath surged through her. Help me, Lord, she prayed silently. Give me strength. When her trembling subsided, she faced the stranger. “It appears you’ve lost your way.” Perhaps if she pretended she didn’t see the menace in his expression, he would leave.
He shook his head. “That’s where you’re wrong. I’m right where I’m meant to be.” He walked toward her, swaggering slightly as if he owned the ranch. “I’ve got a score to settle with your husband.”
Why would anyone hold a grudge against Zach? He was a peace-loving man who had vowed never to hurt another. Still, there was no doubt about the stranger’s feelings. Whether the cause was imaginary or not, he meant to hurt Zach. Priscilla blanched at the thought of the Dunkler brothers’ rifles and her parents’ lifeless bodies. She couldn’t let that happen to Zach. Somehow she had to warn him and keep him away from the ranch until the stranger left. Oh, why did today have to be the day the ranch hands were helping at the Bar C?
“Who are you?” Though she was confident she had never met him, something about the stranger tugged at Priscilla’s memory.
Keeping his gun trained on her, the man sneered. “I’m Jean-Michel Ladre.” Priscilla nodded slightly. Now that she knew to look for it, there was a resemblance to the town’s mayor. The name did not reassure her. This was the man who’d robbed his employer and killed an itinerant peddler.
“My mama taught me to always say ‘at your service’,” Jean-Michel continued, “but the truth is, you’re at my service.” He waved his gun toward the front door. “Inside. We’ll wait for Zach there. I can think of some mighty pleasant ways to pass the time.”
The smile he ga
ve her sent another shiver of dread through her. Jean-Michel wore the same expression as Zeke Dunkler just before he had attacked her. Priscilla clenched her fists. She would not be a victim. Never again. She had to get away from him. Her eyes moved quickly, measuring the distances. She had no chance of reaching Jean-Michel’s horse. That left only the house. She was closer than he, for he still had to climb the stairs. Priscilla spun around and raced into the house, sliding the lock behind her.
“Let me in!” It was only an instant before he pounded on the door. “Let me in!” His words were followed by a burst of gunfire.
Priscilla dropped to the floor, covering her head as bullets entered the house. When the shots ceased, she took a deep breath, then shuddered. The kitchen. She’d forgotten there was another door. Scrambling to her feet, she ran into the kitchen, but she was too late.
As she entered the room, she felt his presence. Somehow he’d moved more quickly than she. It was almost as if he knew the house. Of course he did. Hadn’t Sarah said that Jean-Michel was one of the men who’d played poker here every week? The thoughts tumbled through Priscilla’s mind in the instant it took for him to reach out from behind the door and drag her against him. She gagged at the smell of his body and the pressure of his arm around her. Help me, Lord, she prayed. Show me what to do.
“Not so smart are you, little lady?” Jean-Michel chuckled as he pressed his gun into the small of her back. “You just learned a lesson. No one’s smarter than me.”
There had to be a way to stop him. Though her heart was beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings, Priscilla willed her voice to remain even. “What do you want?”
“Your husband.” To Priscilla’s relief, Jean-Michel pushed her into one of the chairs, then perched on the edge of the table, keeping the gun pointed at her. Her first prayer had been answered, for it appeared that he had no intention of harming her. Keep Zach safe, she prayed. Take away this man’s anger.
