Paper Roses (2 page)

What else could go wrong? Clay Canfield bit back an oath as he stared at the mare. It wasn’t her fault. When he had come into the stable to harness the horses, Clay had discovered Nora ailing. If the fact that instead of greeting him eagerly as she did each day wasn’t enough, the sorrel mare lay curled in a ball. Those big brown eyes lacked their normal sparkle, and her nose didn’t even twitch when he pulled a carrot from his pocket. Clay clenched his fist, snapping the carrot from the force of his grip. He didn’t need this. Indeed, he did not. The last thing he needed was an ailing horse, particularly today. But he had one.

“Miguel,” he called when he heard the stable hand’s heavy tread, “Nora’s sick. You’d better look at the others before you feed them.” Clay knelt next to the mare and checked her gums, nodding when he saw they were still pink. “C’mon, girl.” He reached for Nora’s halter. “It’s just a touch of colic.” Clay wasn’t certain of that. It was, he had discovered over the past year, easier to treat people than animals. Humans told you what hurt, while horses could only look at you with mournful eyes. Nora might have colic; she might have something else. The one thing Clay knew for certain was that another innocent being could not die. Ladreville, Texas, had been the site of far too many Canfield deaths.

Clay glanced at his black armband and shuddered as waves of pain and anger swept through him. The man responsible for that would pay. Unfortunately, not today.

“C’mon, Nora.” Clay spoke softly as he slid the halter over her head. “We’re gonna get you on your feet and walk a bit.” That had helped the last time the mare had had colic. With a little luck, it would work again. Clay’s lips twisted in a wry smile. He was the last person on earth who should expect luck to favor him.

“I’m taking Nora out.” Miguel knew what to do in the stable. Clay walked, slowly at first, leading the mare around the paddock, trying not to look at the horizon, where the sun was even now tinting the sky. He should have been on the road by now. Instead . . .

As Nora whinnied, Clay stopped and laid a reassuring hand on her muzzle. “It’s all right, girl. We’ll get you feeling better soon.”

With her flaxen mane and tail and the white blaze, Nora was a beautiful horse. Despite her advanced age, Clay had received offers to buy her, offers that he’d refused without a second’s consideration. He’d never sell Ma’s horse. Nora deserved to live out her days on the Bar C. That was why Clay was taking endless circles around the paddock, trying not to think of how much time had passed since he’d discovered Nora lying in her stall, trying desperately not to think of the last time Nora had left the Bar C and how she’d returned, a lifeless body draped over her back.

Clay forced himself to take a deep breath. They’d keep walking. And they did. It was only when Nora’s digestive tract was once again functioning normally that Clay returned her to the stable.

“Good news, boss,” Miguel called out as Clay led Nora to her stall. “The others are all fine.”

“That is good news.” The first of the day. The first in a long time. Clay rubbed Nora’s nose again before giving her a ration of bran.

“I thought you were going to San Antonio today.” Miguel’s voice came from the other end of the stable, where he’d started to muck out stalls.

Clay shrugged his shoulders. “I was. I am.” He looked down at his sweat-stained shirt and wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t go looking or smelling like this. As he headed for the pump, Clay glanced up. The sun was now above the horizon, staining the sky a bright red that promised unseasonable warmth. It would be a good day for travel, if a man wanted to travel. Clay did not, at least not when that traveling involved a return trip to Ladreville and the Bar C. Unfortunately, what he wanted didn’t change anything.

He dipped his head under the pump, then walked toward the house. As he pulled out his watch, Clay frowned again. He’d be late. There was no way around that. Caring for Nora had taken more than two hours. Though he had planned to arrive in San Antonio before the stagecoach, now he would be late. Very late, and that meant Miss Sarah Dobbs and her little sister would have to wait.

Clay climbed into the wagon that Miguel had harnessed. It wasn’t fair. The woman had traveled all the way from Philadelphia, expecting to be met by her bridegroom. Instead, she would be forced to wait, and when that waiting ended, the only things she would have were Clay and a message he would have given almost anything not to be delivering. It wasn’t fair, but life, Clay had discovered on far too many occasions, wasn’t fair.

He tightened his grip on the reins. If he’d been able to ride Shadow, he could have made up lost time, but riding wasn’t an option, not when he needed to transport Miss Sarah Dobbs and all her earthly possessions to Ladreville. So here he was, driving the wagon, while the sun’s inexorable rise reminded him of just how late he was and how many miles he had yet to cover before he met his brother’s bride.

And the child. Mustn’t forget the child that Austin had claimed was part of God’s plan. Some plan. Clay clenched his fists, trying to fight back the pain.
Why?
he demanded.
Why
did you let it happen? Austin believed in you. He said you
were a loving God.
There was no answer. It appeared God was not listening. No surprise there. God hadn’t listened to Clay Canfield in a long time. And, it appeared, he had not been listening to Austin, either. That was why Clay was on his way to San Antonio to meet the Canfield bride. And the child.

What would she do when she learned the truth? Clay tugged on his hat brim, trying to block the sun. As the red ball lit the horizon, the horses continued to lower their heads. Clay wished he could follow suit, but—unlike them—he needed to watch more than the road. This country held hazards far more serious than potholes, including marauding Comanche. And at the end of the road was the greatest hazard, at least to Clay’s equilibrium: Miss Sarah Dobbs.

How would she react? How would any woman handle the announcement he was forced to make? Clay lowered his chin in another vain attempt to keep the sun from blinding him. If Patience had been faced with the news, what would she have done? Would she have swooned or simply wept buckets of tears? Clay had seen her do both when she had been upset. He squinted, and this time it was not in response to the sun’s rays. Odd. He could not conjure the image of his wife’s face. That had never happened before. Clay shook his head, trying to clear it. What mattered today was Miss Sarah Dobbs, the woman whose stagecoach was even now lumbering into San Antonio.

How was he going to tell her? An hour later as he drove the wagon into the heart of the city, Clay was still searching for the words to make the announcement easier to bear.

He stared at the woman who stood in front of the
cabildo
, a small child at her side, looking at the town hall’s clock tower with what appeared to be barely controlled impatience.

Though he could see only her back, there was something about the tilt of her head that spoke of anger. Clay couldn’t blame her for that. In a similar situation, he doubted he would have bothered to mask his impatience. The stagecoach had arrived over an hour earlier. Austin should have been here, ready to help her alight from the coach, showing her that he was as eager to marry her as his letters had claimed. Instead, Miss Sarah Dobbs and her sister had been left alone in the middle of San Antonio, as out of place as a piece of mesquite in a Boston parlor.

The woman turned slightly, revealing her profile. There was no doubt about it. This was Sarah. Clay would have known her, even without the miniature she had sent to Austin.
“Medium height, medium brown hair, medium brown
eyes,”
she had written in one of her letters. This woman was all that, and more. Though her fancy clothing was the first clue, the slightly imperious tilt of her head and the proud angle of her shoulders announced to the world that this was a lady, an Eastern lady. She turned again, and this time she looked directly at Clay, her eyes flickering from the top of his hat down his dusty clothes before she dismissed him. The action surprised Clay almost as much as the fact that she had remained outdoors rather than seeking the sanctuary of the
cabildo
. Sarah Dobbs was no shy miss. Instead, she appeared to possess more self-assurance than he had expected, certainly more than Patience had. Clay clenched his jaw at the knowledge that he would be the one to destroy that confidence.

Trying to control his anger, he jumped out of the wagon and approached his brother’s fiancée. “Miss Dobbs,” he said softly as he doffed his hat, not wanting to startle her. Two cowboys on the opposite side of the street appeared to be keeping watch. Clay suspected that if Miss Dobbs let out a cry of alarm, their protective instincts might result in a brawl. He most definitely did not need that. “Miss Dobbs,” he repeated, a bit louder this time.

Austin’s mail-order bride had moved and was once more staring at the town hall, her hand placed protectively on the little girl’s shoulder. At the sound of his voice, she turned to face Clay. For a second, her eyes were brilliant with hope. But as quickly as it had been ignited, the hope faded. “I beg your pardon, sir. May I ask who you are?”

“Papa!” The child grinned and raised her arms toward him.

Clay’s hand tightened on his hat brim. “No,” he said, forcing his voice to remain even, though he wanted to shout his denial. “I’m not your papa.”
Thanks to Austin’s God,
I’m not anyone’s papa.

He raised his gaze to Sarah. “I’m Clayton Canfield, ma’am. Clay for short,” he said as calmly as he could. In case she had forgotten the part of the letters where Austin had described his family, Clay added, “Austin’s brother.” As she nodded, Sarah looked past him, clearly expecting his brother to appear. The poor woman. She didn’t deserve this. While his heart balked at pronouncing the words, Clay couldn’t let her continue to believe that Austin was in San Antonio. “I’ve come to take you to the ranch.”

Sarah Dobbs’s composure seemed to slip. “But . . . I thought . . .” The woman who had seemed so self-assured now appeared vulnerable. Silently Clay railed at the events that had put uncertainty in her eyes. Sarah swallowed before she asked, “Where’s Austin?”

The taller of the two cowboys straightened and took a step into the street, glaring at Clay. Seconds later, apparently reassured that Sarah was not being coerced, he returned to the shelter of the doorway.

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” Clay took Sarah’s arm and led her toward the wagon. “There’s no easy way to tell you this.” He lifted the child onto the seat, then assisted Sarah, waiting until she was settled before he spoke. Only then did Clay take a deep breath and force himself to utter the words that haunted him. “My brother is dead.”

Austin was dead. Sarah stared at the man who now would never be her brother-in-law. Austin was dead. It couldn’t be true. But it was. The man with the black armband had no reason to lie. Austin was dead.

“Take another sip,” Clay Canfield urged. Obediently, Sarah raised the tin cup to her lips and swallowed the lukewarm water. He must have thought she was going to faint. That was why he had insisted she sit before he told her the news. That was why he produced the canteen and cup. That was why he counseled her to take deep breaths. But she wasn’t going to swoon. She wasn’t even going to cry. Fainting and tears solved nothing.

Sarah closed her eyes for a second, grappling with the fact that the man who had written those beautiful letters asking her to marry him was gone before she had had the chance to meet him, to hear his voice and to see whether his smile really was as big as the state of Texas.

“What happened?”

“Drink, Sarah?”

Thea’s words interrupted whatever Clay might have said. Instinctively, Sarah clutched her sister. Precious, precious Thea. She was all Sarah had left. Losing her was unthinkable. But so was the loss of their parents. Mama had been so happy when Thea had been born, so excited about the grand tour of Europe she and Papa planned for all of them, so eager to hold her first grandchild. And then . . .

Thea yipped.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“Drink.” Thea grabbed for the cup.

Loosening her grip on her sister, Sarah held the cup while Thea sipped.

“What will Thea and I do?” The words tumbled out. An instant later, Sarah wished she could retract them. How selfish! This man’s brother had died, and all she could think about was her own situation. Hers and Thea’s. She was being as unkind as the parishioners who had shunned her, lest the scandal of her parents’ deaths taint them.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I can’t even imagine how I’d feel if something happened to Thea.”

“God willing, you’ll never know.” Clay Canfield recapped the canteen and stowed it behind the seat, then flicked the reins, setting the wagon in motion.

“Where are you taking us?”

He shrugged, as if that should be evident. “To the Bar C. You must be fatigued from your travels. I imagine you’ll need a week or two of rest before you take the stagecoach East.”

Sarah shuddered at the enormity of her dilemma. Return to Philadelphia? Impossible. “We can’t go back,” she said, wincing at the desperation she heard in her voice. There was nothing for them in the City of Brotherly Love other than ridicule, ostracism, and humiliation.