by Amanda Cabot
Jean-Michel’s eyes were cold with fury as he glared at her. “It’s thanks to your husband”—he spat the word as if it were an epithet—“that my father sold me into slavery. If it hadn’t been for Zach Webster, I would never have been banished. But, no, he had to interfere. He had to tell my father all those lies. Now he’s going to pay.”
Priscilla thought quickly. Somehow she had to warn Zach, and to do that, she had to distract Jean-Michel long enough to escape. “You must have traveled a long distance,” she said as calmly as she could. “I imagine you’re tired and hungry. Would you like something to eat?” She gestured toward the stove. “It will be hours before Zach comes home.”
“You think I’m stupid? That’s some kind of trick.”
“You think common hospitality is a trick?”
His stomach growled. “All right,” he said at last, “but don’t try anything funny.” He tugged her to her feet. “I’ll be watching every move.”
“I could heat some pot roast and fry some potatoes. How does that sound?” Priscilla kept her tone matter-of-fact as she took a step toward the stove. Then, before he could react, she whirled around, knocking the gun from his hand and jabbing her fingers into his eyes. As Jean-Michel yowled with pain, she ran outdoors and raced toward his horse.
Just another few steps, and she’d be there. Just another few steps, and she’d be on her way to find Zach. Just another . . . Priscilla’s heart was pounding so hard that she did not hear the footsteps behind her. All she knew was that one instant she was running, the next she was face first on the ground with a heavy body atop her.
No! Memories flooded her brain. Not again! Help me, Lord, she prayed. Help me.
Jean-Michel yanked her arms behind her and pulled Priscilla to her feet. “You shouldn’t have done that.” His lips curled with contempt. “Now I’ve got no choice. I have to kill you.”
The dream came again last night. The dream, not the horrible nightmare that had disturbed his sleep for so many years. Zach slid off Charcoal and began to inspect the fence. Thank goodness the wire was only bent and not cut. He wiped the sweat from his face as he recalled the dream. In it, he’d been riding home. As was true of dreams, while some of the details were vivid, others were not. He knew he’d been gone a long time, but whether it was weeks or months or even years was not clear. All he knew was that he was filled with an urgency to be home. He’d ridden through the thicket. Somehow, the trees had seemed taller and closer together than he remembered, as if they’d grown while he was gone. It should have taken only a few minutes to traverse the forest, but in his dream, it seemed endless. In desperation, he’d slid off Charcoal and made his way on foot, but that was worse, for he felt as if he were caught in quicksand, struggling with all his might, unable to make any forward progress.
And then at last he reached the clearing. There it was, the house he’d dreamt of for so long. He stood for a moment, smiling, though he knew others would not understand the way he felt about it. After all, it was nothing more than a simple farmhouse with a wraparound porch, steep gables, and flowers in front. Compared to the Bar C or even the Lazy B, it was nothing to brag about. And yet it was home. His home and hers.
As he approached the house, anticipation turned to disappointment. He’d thought she’d be on the porch waiting for him, but the porch was empty. Only the plume of smoke rising from the chimney told him someone still lived here. He climbed the steps, more slowly than normal, his hand hesitating for a second before he opened the door. And then he saw her standing just inside the door, beckoning him to enter. Her smile was so full of love that he wondered how he could have doubted anything. This was where he was meant to be. This was the woman he was meant to love.
She smiled again, then spoke so softly he had to strain to hear her. “Welcome home, Zach. I have something to show you.” She turned and led the way to a small room he hadn’t remembered being there. Gently, she turned the knob and swung the door open. There might have been other furniture. Zach wasn’t certain, for his eyes focused on the rocking chair and what stood next to it. For a second, he couldn’t identify the small wooden object, but when he did, his eyes widened.
One instant she was standing next to him. The next she was bending over to reach into the cradle. When she stood, a tiny form nestled in her arms, Priscilla smiled again. “Do you want to hold your son?”
That was when he woke. It was when he always woke, before he had a chance to cradle his child, to gaze at the baby’s face and touch the miniature features. The aftermath was predictable. Each time he had the dream, he would waken filled with an intense longing. It was only a dream, he would tell himself. It would never come true. And yet, though he knew he and Priscilla would never have a child, every fiber of his being wished that this dream would come true.
Think of all that is good, Zach admonished himself as he mounted Charcoal. Priscilla was healing. Though he doubted she would ever fully recover from the bandit’s attack, he took comfort from the fact that she no longer shied from him. Theirs might not be a conventional marriage, but it brought Zach more happiness than he’d thought possible. He would have to be content with that.
“C’mon, Charcoal.” Perhaps it was recalling the dream that made him anxious to be home. Perhaps it was simply thinking of Priscilla. Zach didn’t try to explain it. Instead, he leaned forward and urged Charcoal to gallop. The day was beautiful. Perhaps he and Priscilla could ride to the clearing after supper. Perhaps that was why he remembered the dream. Perhaps it was the clearing that was important, not the baby he’d never hold.
When he reached the Lazy B, Zach’s hackles rose. Why was a strange horse tethered to the front porch? This wasn’t the Ranger’s palomino, and no one in Ladreville would have such a poorly groomed animal. Itinerants came to town, but they would have no reason to be on this side of the river and even less reason to venture onto the Lazy B.
A shiver of dread passed through Zach as he recalled Lawrence Wood’s words. The Dunkler brothers. Had they come to exact revenge? Zach’s heart pounded at the thought of one of the men who’d killed Priscilla’s parents being inside the house with the woman he loved. He pulled his gun, then moved with the stealth he’d learned in prison. Silently Zach lifted the latch and entered the kitchen.
No! Blood drained from his face, and for an instant the world turned black. Though his heart shrieked denial, Zach knew he was not imagining the scene before him. This was worse than Perote, worse than any nightmare he’d ever had, for it was Priscilla’s worst fears come true. She hated to be touched, but she had obviously been touched, because there she was, tied to a chair. It was bad enough that her feet were roped together. Even worse, her hands were bound behind her. Zach knew how she hated to have her hands restrained in any way, for Zeke Dunkler had tied her hands before he attacked her. To complete the nightmare, a dark-haired man stood before her, his knife at her throat.
“Zach!” As Priscilla cried out his name, the man turned, and Zach’s blood turned cold. Not even in Perote had he seen such hatred on a man’s face.
“Hello, Zach.” Jean-Michel Ladre’s smile was little more than a sneer. “I’m glad you could join our party.”
“What are you doing here?” The man was evil. That was clear. He intended to harm Priscilla. That was equally clear. What wasn’t clear was why.
Jean-Michel smiled again. “I thought that was obvious. I’ve been waiting for you.”
Revenge. Zach remembered Jean-Michel’s threats the night he had been apprehended. At the time Zach had dismissed them as nothing more than an angry man’s ranting. Though it appeared he’d been wrong to underestimate Jean-Michel, that was unimportant now. What mattered was keeping Priscilla safe. Though he looked at Zach, Jean-Michel kept the knife so close to Priscilla’s throat that Zach feared even a twitch would slice the tender skin.
“You thought you were smart, turning me in to my father. Your lies were the reason he sent me to Houston to work as a common laborer. You’re the one who kept
me from marrying the woman I wanted.” Jean-Michel’s lip curled in contempt. “You thought you were smart. Well, look at you now. You’re not so smart. You’re going to watch your wife die, and then it’ll be your turn.”
Zach stared at the handsome young man who had thrown away his chance at a normal life. If Isabelle Rousseau had ever cared about him, it was only as a friend, but Jean-Michel had taken a simple neighborly smile and invented a grand romance. If the situation had not been so serious, Zach might have pitied Jean-Michel, but there was no time for pity.
He tightened his finger on the trigger. “You’re wrong. I can kill you before you have a chance to hurt Priscilla.” As he pronounced the words, Zach’s mind replayed the image of John Tallman’s body and he heard Margaret’s shrill cry. If you leave, I’ll kill your baby. Zach shuddered. Never again. He had sworn that he would never again be the cause of a death. And now . . .
“Don’t do it, Zach.” Though Priscilla’s eyes were filled with fear, Zach sensed the fear was for him, not herself.
Jean-Michel sneered again. “Listen to your wife, Zach. She’s smarter than you are. Besides, everyone in Ladreville knows you’d never kill a man. We all heard you say there’d been too much killing.”
There had been. Zach took a deep breath, keeping his gun trained on Jean-Michel. He didn’t want to kill him, but if he didn’t do something, another innocent person would die. Lord, give me strength. Show me the way to save Priscilla. “Let her go. Your quarrel is with me.”
“Why should I let her go? Thanks to you, I learned a lot of lessons. One of those lessons was that killing is easy. There are no regrets.”
Zach steeled himself to show no emotion. As he had feared, Jean-Michel was like several of the jailers, a man with no conscience. There was no reasoning with someone like that. Lord, open his heart. Let him see how wrong he is.
“Leave, Zach. Leave while you can.” The blood had drained from Priscilla’s face, making her three freckles stand out in relief.
“That’s right, Zach,” Jean-Michel taunted him. “Show your wife what a coward you are. Leave her here to die alone.”
There was no choice. Zach raised his gun slightly, aiming it at Jean-Michel’s arm. “Drop the knife, Jean-Michel. You know it’s no match for a six-shooter.”
“No match? What do you think of this?” He pressed the knife into Priscilla’s throat.
As Zach watched, beads of blood began to form on the blade. Jean-Michel wouldn’t stop. Zach knew that. Unless he acted, Priscilla would be dead. Help me, Lord. He pulled the trigger.
“You won’t . . .” As he pronounced the words, Jean-Michel wheeled around, and the bullet that had been aimed at his shoulder slammed into his chest. A second later, he lay crumpled on the floor, an expression of surprise on his lifeless face.
Zach’s stomach heaved. Priscilla. He had to help Priscilla. There was nothing he could do for Jean-Michel. Zach grabbed the knife and slit the ropes, releasing both her hands and feet. As she shook her hands, trying to restore the feeling, he fished a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it to her throat to staunch the bleeding.
“Are you all right?”
Priscilla examined the handkerchief. “The bleeding is stopping. Thanks to you, I’m fine.” Her eyes darkened. “What about you? Are you okay?”
Zach looked at the lifeless body on the floor. “I don’t know.”
18
He’d vowed never to kill again, and yet he had. Tears welled in Zach’s eyes as he stared at Jean-Michel’s body. Zach’s finger had pulled the trigger, and because of that, a man was dead. Regardless of the circumstances, he had broken his vow. Thou shalt not kill. The commandment echoed inside his head, followed by the memory of Robert Canfield’s words. There has been too much killing. Zach had not heeded his mentor, and—far worse—he had disobeyed his God. He dropped to his knees and bowed his head. “Dear Lord, forgive me.” The words came out as little more than a whisper, but he knew his heavenly Father heard him.
So, too, did Priscilla. She knelt beside him and offered her own prayer. “Thank you, Lord, for answering my prayers. Thank you for sparing my life and keeping Zach safe. And thank you for making him the instrument of your will.”
Astonished by the direction her prayer had taken, Zach turned to stare at her. “Do you think it was God’s will that I kill Jean-Michel?” God did not condone killing; he forbade it.
Priscilla’s eyes were clear and filled with conviction as she said, “I believe he sent you to save me. I also know you are not a murderer. I saw what you tried to do. You were aiming for Jean-Michel’s arm. If he hadn’t turned, you would have only wounded him and forced him to drop the knife. It was Jean-Michel’s action, not yours, that killed him.”
Though he wanted to accept her words, Zach could not. The presence of the still form was proof that he had failed. Another being had died because of him. Zach bowed his head again and closed his eyes. Listen to her, the voice deep inside him said. As he nodded, peace flowed through Zach. Thank you, Lord. He remained in silent prayer for another minute before he rose.
“Even though I didn’t plan to kill him, the result is the same. Jean-Michel is dead. How can I tell his parents?” Zach thought of the conversations he’d had with Michel and how much both Ladres had worried about their son. Now the worries were ended, but not in a way anyone would have chosen.
Priscilla touched her throat. Zach wasn’t certain whether she was checking to see if the wound had reopened or whether the action was a simple reflex. Her gaze met his as she said, “We’ll tell them together.”
They waited until dark. Though Priscilla had been ready to go immediately, Zach remembered Jeannette Ladre’s humiliation when the town had learned of her son’s actions last year. It would only add to her sorrow if someone saw the body in the back of the wagon and started to gossip. Even with the blanket covering Jean-Michel, a curious onlooker would readily identify the form in Zach’s wagon as a human body, and if they saw the wagon near the mayor’s house, speculation would commence. The least Zach could do was spare the Ladres that pain.
Though his face turned gray and he seemed to age ten years in the space of as many minutes, Michel listened in silence as Zach recounted what had happened. When he finished, Jeannette jumped to her feet. The beautiful Frenchwoman’s face was contorted with anger, and in that moment the resemblance to the man who had held Priscilla hostage was striking.
“You killed my baby!” Jeannette clenched her fists and began to pound on Zach’s chest. “You’re a murderer! You killed my son!”
Zach let her shriek. Her anger and sorrow needed an outlet. Though she’d regarded Priscilla with suspicion when they’d first arrived at the house, Jeannette had blanched at the sight of the angry red line where Jean-Michel’s knife had slit Priscilla’s skin. Madame Ladre couldn’t direct her anger at Priscilla, when it was obvious she had been as much a victim as she believed her son to be. That left Zach, the man who had pulled the trigger.
“I hate you,” she screamed.
When Jeannette’s venom was expelled, Zach looked at Michel before returning his gaze to Jean-Michel’s mother. “I ask your forgiveness for my part in your son’s death.” Zach included both parents in his plea, though he doubted Michel would say anything. The news of Jean-Michel’s attack on Priscilla and his plan to kill Zach appeared to have silenced the mayor.
“I will never forgive you.” Jeannette spat the words. “Do you hear me, Zach Webster? I will never forgive you.” She turned to her husband, her lips curled in anger. “It’s just as much your fault as his. All you care about is this town. Ever since we came here, you’ve had no time for Jean-Michel or me. Look what it’s gotten you. Our son is dead.”
The next morning the town was buzzing with the news that the Ladres were gone. No one knew why they’d chosen to leave their home in the middle of the night. No one knew where they were headed, but by noon, everyone in Ladreville knew that Michel had left a note, saying he could be of no further us
e and that he and Jeannette would not return to the town that bore their name.
“Oh, Priscilla, I’m so happy!” Isabelle slid off her stool and ran around the counter to hug Priscilla. “It’s only sixty-seven days until Gunther and I are wed.”
Priscilla smiled at her friend. In the two weeks that had passed since Jean-Michel’s death, she had made daily trips to the mercantile to help Isabelle with wedding plans. That was better than remaining in the house and remembering what had happened there. Though Zach did not speak of it, Priscilla knew that Jean-Michel’s death weighed heavily on his heart. Her own heart ached at the price Zach had paid to save her.
Here at least there were no reminders of the young man whose life had gone so wrong. Without fail, each day Isabelle greeted Priscilla with the number of days until her wedding. Priscilla wagged her finger as she said, “You’ll need every one of those days if you don’t decide on the pattern for your dress.”
“But I did!” Isabelle gave her a radiant smile and opened a copy of Godey’s Lady’s Book. “What do you think?” She pointed to a sketch.
Priscilla studied the gown, not surprised that Isabelle, who had a reputation for being the most fashion-conscious woman in Ladreville after Jeannette Ladre, had chosen a style that would flatter her. “You’ll be a beautiful bride,” Priscilla told her friend. “Of course, you’re beautiful no matter what you wear.”
Isabelle flushed. “Jean-Michel used to say the same thing, but I never believed him.”
Priscilla dropped her eyes to the sketch, lest her expression betray her. She and Zach had agreed that no one in Ladreville needed to know that Jean-Michel was dead. They would tell Lawrence Wood the next time he came to town so the Ranger could stop his search, but as far as everyone else was concerned, Jean-Michel was still in Houston. With his parents gone from Ladreville, no one would expect him to return.
