Paper Roses (13 page)

Though Isabelle’s hands were soothing the ache in Sarah’s leg, her words were far from comforting. “How can you claim he’s a loving God when he allows so much evil?”

“He
is
a loving God,” she insisted. “It’s true he doesn’t stop evil, but he turns it to good. The Bible promises that.”

“Please don’t talk about Joseph again. I know you believe it, but I’ve never seen good come from evil.” Her father’s sins had been horrible, and nothing good had come from them, nor had Austin’s death led to anything positive.

“Sometimes it’s hard to trust.” Isabelle’s eyes reflected an emotion Sarah could not identify. “The good comes in God’s time, not ours.”

“I’d like to believe that, but I’ve seen no evidence that it’s true.”

“It is.” Isabelle straightened Sarah’s skirts, then rose. When Sarah started to join her, Isabelle shook her head and sank onto the bed, looking at Sarah for a long moment before she said, “No one besides my family knows what I’m going to tell you. I’m trusting you not to repeat it.” Her expression reminded Sarah of the day Isabelle had related Joseph’s story and how she’d seemed on the verge of confiding something, only to be interrupted by David Bramble’s arrival.

“I’m good at keeping secrets,” Sarah said. Especially her own.

Despite the assurance, Isabelle seemed reluctant to begin. At last she did, saying, “I didn’t want to leave Alsace. I loved our home there. It wasn’t perfect, but I had friends in our town and cousins in the next one. I was comfortable there, and I didn’t want to start over. If you ask them, my parents will probably deny it, but I know they felt the same.”

Sarah wondered where this was leading. “Then why did you emigrate? It’s a long journey, with many hardships.”

She looked around the room, her eyes lighting on the cuckoo clock Isabelle had brought from her previous home. She’d told Sarah that the clock reminded her of her friends and family in the Old Country and how she had refused to have it packed with the family’s furnishings. Instead, she’d carried it with her, carefully wrapped in a spare petticoat, so she could see it each day while they were traveling. “It was my link to home,” she’d explained.

Sarah’s hands rose to her ears, assuring herself that the earrings were still there. Like Isabelle’s clock, they were her memento of happier times, her link to her mother.

Isabelle hesitated before blurting out, “We had no choice. We couldn’t let Léon be jailed.”

“Léon? Your brother?” As the cuckoo emerged from his house and the clock chimed, Sarah tried to reconcile the Léon she knew, the teasing young man who treated her as a second sister, with a man about to be incarcerated.

“Léon has a wild streak,” Isabelle admitted, “and he let it overcome his good judgment. One night he broke into some houses, stole a few things, and was caught. The magistrate said the only way to avoid prison was to leave.”

Sarah tried and failed to picture Léon as a thief. She’d seen his protectiveness toward Isabelle and his anger with Jean-Michel. He was a good brother, a loving son. He also did not appear to be a man who expected something for nothing. Sarah knew the labor he performed for Karl Friedrich was more tiring and paid less than working at the store, and yet it was what Léon had chosen. How could this be the same man who’d stolen property in Alsace?

“Why would he steal?”

Isabelle’s lips twisted into a rueful smile. “He said it was fun. It was his way of proving to his friends that he was more clever than they. Some friends! When Léon was caught, they pretended they knew nothing.”

The same way Papa’s friends disavowed him. It was no wonder the Rousseaus had left their home. Like Sarah, they’d had few choices.

“Maman and Papa prayed for guidance,” Isabelle continued. “A few days later, when they heard about Michel Ladre’s search for emigrants, they knew that was what we were meant to do.”

Just as Austin’s advertisement had resolved Sarah’s dilemma. She hadn’t realized she and her friend had so much in common. “So you came here. I understand why you came, but I don’t see how that changed evil into good.”

“I haven’t finished. I was miserable the whole trip.” Isabelle managed a smile. “I must have been a real trial to my parents. I hated everything. I complained about the slightest mishap. And, of course, I blamed Léon for it all.”

“Isabelle, Sarah, dinner’s almost ready,” Madame Rousseau called.

“In a moment, Maman. This is important.” Isabelle took Sarah’s hands in hers. “I was so filled with bitterness that I couldn’t see anything good.”

It was as difficult to reconcile the story Isabelle was telling with the young woman Sarah knew as it was to believe Léon a thief. “What changed?”

Her answer was simple. “I did. I realized that my anger toward Léon was hurting me, not him. I was the one who was in prison, but it was a prison of my own making. It was only when I forgave him for his role in our emigration that I freed myself.”

Isabelle tightened her grip on Sarah’s hands. Though her eyes were dark with emotion, her smile reminded Sarah of paintings of saints she’d seen at the Museum of Art in Philadelphia. Isabelle was no saint, she knew, and yet she had the same peace-filled look on her face as she said, “If you’ve never experienced it, you may not believe me, but I felt like a new person. I was finally able to see how good our life here is. My parents have more opportunities. Léon has a new life, and so do I. Don’t you see, Sarah? God used Léon’s sin to give us all a better life.”

Sarah nodded slowly. It was a touching story, and there was no doubt that Isabelle believed it was true. But, no matter what Isabelle believed, nothing good could come from murder. As for forgiveness, Sarah would never, ever forgive her father. What he had done was unforgivable.

As days went, it was far from the best. Admittedly, it wasn’t as bad as the day Patience had died or the night Austin had been killed or when he’d learned of Pa’s stroke, but it wasn’t much better. Clay let the reins slacken as he reached the opposite bank of the river. Shadow knew the way home, and the horse was so attuned to Clay’s moods that he’d realized this was not a day for galloping. Though speed might soothe him momentarily, what Clay needed this afternoon was time to think.

He’d gone into town, looking for answers, and he’d found them. Unfortunately, they were not the ones he’d sought. Michel Ladre, wearing the smirk that seemed to be part of his wardrobe whenever he saw Clay, had declared the investigation complete. Austin had been killed by a stranger; the case was closed, or so the mayor claimed.

The mayor was wrong. He’d also lied when he claimed he’d checked every possible lead. Clay doubted that Michel had conducted more than a perfunctory investigation into Austin’s death. Why would he? Anything that resembled a true inquiry would have required him to look closely at the men who’d played poker with Clay’s brother that evening—a group of men that just so happened to include Michel’s son. Everyone in town knew that the Ladre name was sacrosanct and that not even the slightest insinuation was allowed to taint a member of the family. They were perfect, at least in Michel’s eyes.

Clay shook his head. That was a lesson Austin had refused to learn. He’d mockingly called the Ladres the town’s royal family right before he accused Michel of appropriating some of the community’s funds for his own personal use. It was no wonder Ladreville’s mayor and self-appointed sheriff cared little for finding Austin’s murderer. He had probably toasted his good fortune with several glasses of ale when he learned that the gadfly who dared to question him would question him no more.

Oh, Austin, why did you let your temper overrule your
good sense?
It was a question Clay had asked himself repeatedly that morning. Though he’d known that Austin had come close to fisticuffs with the mayor on more than one occasion, he wasn’t aware that the same statement could be made about Austin and a number of other people in Ladreville. Clay knew how quick Austin’s temper was, but not how often it flared, particularly on the last day of his life.

He had come to town hoping to retrace his brother’s steps, convinced that something had happened that day to trigger—literally—the killer. He’d hoped to narrow the list of suspects. Instead, he’d learned that Austin had argued with everyone he’d met. He’d accused Gunther Lehman of overcharging for the flour he’d milled. He’d been belligerent when Albert Mueller had told him the price of a dairy cow. He’d argued with William Goetz over the design for the chest the carpenter was making for Sarah’s bride gift. According to the men, these had not been casual disagreements, but violent arguments which Austin threatened to resolve with force. The men had all sworn that they’d backed away rather than fight with him. Though Clay knew they had a vested interest in protecting their own reputations, their words rang with truth. Austin could be hotheaded. On a bad day, even seemingly trivial events had been known to provoke Austin to fight. Clay knew that. What he did not know was what had caused his brother’s spate of anger that morning.

From what he could piece together, the only person who’d seen Austin smile was the postmaster. Steven Dunn reported that Austin had stalked into the post office, his fists clenched as if he were spoiling for a fight, and demanded the Can-fields’ mail. But his mood had changed the instant Steven had handed him a package. When he’d seen the sender’s name and realized he’d received a gift from his betrothed, a smile had wreathed Austin’s face, chasing away the storm clouds.

Clay knew what had happened next. Austin had raced home, waiting until he was at the Bar C to open the box. Then he’d strutted around the ranch, as proud as the proverbial peacock over the miniature Sarah had sent him. Clay had seen only the happy side of Austin that day, the exuberant, almost playful part of his brother. The euphoria hadn’t faded by suppertime. If anything, it had increased as Austin had boasted of how envious the other poker players would be when they saw just how lovely his bride was. Clay didn’t doubt that the men had felt twinges of regret when they realized that their own brides—if they were fortunate enough to find them—might not be so beautiful, but mild envy was not a cause for murder.

“Who hated Austin enough to kill him?” Clay hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words aloud until Shadow whinnied. “You’re right, boy. It doesn’t make any sense.” While Austin’s temper might provoke anger, even a brawl, surely nothing he had said or done was serious enough to warrant death. But the fact remained: someone had killed his brother.

When he reached the ranch, Clay splashed water on his face and hands, washing off the road dust. He’d delayed so long that there wasn’t time for more complete ablutions, but at least he wouldn’t look totally unpresentable at the supper table. It was odd how he found himself looking forward to the last meal of the day. It must be because Pa was joining them every day now. Clay had been surprised when Sarah had suggested they would all benefit by having Pa there. Patience hadn’t wanted him to sit at the table, claiming it only served to remind Pa of all that he could not do. Though he’d said nothing, Clay had suspected it was Patience who preferred not to be reminded of her father-in-law’s disability.

Sarah was different. Clay suspected that if he lived to be a hundred, he would not understand her. A sensible woman would have gone back to Philadelphia and the comfortable life she’d led there. Not Sarah. A sensible woman would not have chosen a position at the mercantile where hours of standing could take their toll on her leg. Sarah had. Though he knew she was in pain, she would not surrender. Instead, she continued to insist that working at the Rousseaus’ store was the key to creating a new life for herself and Thea. Stubborn woman!

Clay frowned as he tried to picture her as Austin’s bride. How would she have dealt with his mercurial moods? Would she have been the steadying force he needed, or would she have grown frustrated by her unpredictable bridegroom? Would her independent streak have annoyed Austin, or would he have been charmed by it? Clay didn’t know. What he did know was that from the very first letter he’d received from Miss Sarah Dobbs, Austin had been convinced that she was the bride he wanted, and nothing Clay had said had dissuaded him.

“More chili, Pa?” Sarah smiled and offered the man who should have been her father-in-law another serving of Martina’s spicy stew. It must have been Clay’s imagination, but it seemed that Pa was having less difficulty eating. The strangest thing was, he seemed to watch Thea and imitate her motions. It was almost as if he were learning to eat along with Sarah’s little sister.

That was another part of the puzzle that surrounded Sarah. Her sister. Clay hadn’t wanted her here, serving as a reminder of the child he and Patience had dreamed of, the unborn child who’d died with his wife that hot August day, but once again Austin had been adamant. And now that Thea was here, Clay had to admit it wasn’t as painful as he’d feared. And even if he would prefer having no reminders, it was clear that Pa enjoyed the little girl’s company. Clay would do almost anything to bring his father a few moments of happiness. If Thea could accomplish that, surely Clay could overcome memories of his own losses.