Scattered Petals (10 page)

With all this money, he’d have no trouble getting home, and when he did, everyone would see what an important, powerful man he was. Isabelle would beg him to marry her. Zach Webster would do his share of begging too, only his would be done at the point of a rifle.

Jean-Michel was still laughing as he loaded the gold into saddlebags and mounted the horse he’d taken from the livery. He was on his way to Ladreville, where the two sweetest things in life awaited him: marriage and revenge.

The trail was cold. Lawrence Wood paused at the top of the hill and looked at the countryside. This was what he had feared. Though he’d followed the route he thought the Dunkler brothers were taking, he’d been unable to find them. Perhaps they’d changed their minds; perhaps they were holed up somewhere, trying to decide what to do without Zeke. Lawrence didn’t pretend to understand a bandit’s mind. All he knew was that he hadn’t found them.

He should have chased them immediately. They would have had no chance of escape if he’d gone after them as soon as he’d sent Zeke to meet his Maker. That would have been the prudent course of action if he hadn’t been worried about Priscilla—Miss Morton, he corrected himself. No matter how much he wanted to capture Chet and Jake Dunkler, he couldn’t simply abandon her. A man had responsibilities, and caring for an injured woman was more important than apprehending criminals.

Lawrence studied the valley one more time, assuring himself there were no signs of the bandits. This valley was like the last three he’d checked—filled with pastoral beauty but no trace of riders. They couldn’t have vanished. No matter how seemingly insignificant, they had left clues, and it was up to him to find them. More than his reputation as a Ranger was at stake. That was important, for he’d made a vow he intended to honor when he’d joined the Rangers, but there was also the matter of his promise. He kept his promises, including the one he’d made at the Bar C. How could he tell Priscilla—Miss Morton—that he’d failed to catch the Dunkler brothers? He couldn’t.

Lawrence let out a short laugh as he urged Snip to gallop. Wouldn’t his sister gloat if she could see him now, his head filled with thoughts of a beautiful woman with strawberry blonde hair and green eyes? He couldn’t explain it. This wasn’t the first time he’d rescued a damsel in distress. Lawrence smiled at the term his sister had used. When he’d told her he was joining the Rangers, she’d declared it was because he had an inner need to be a savior of women. He’d scoffed at the time. He wasn’t scoffing now. Though he couldn’t claim that he’d saved many, Lawrence had seen women after brutal Indian attacks, others who were injured in saloon brawls, still others left half-dead by robbers. They had all been damsels in distress, but none of them had lingered in his memory the way Priscilla did.

Perhaps it was because he’d spent more time with her than he had with the others. This was the first time he’d done more than deal with the crime itself. In taking Priscilla to the Bar C, Lawrence had gotten to know her, and what he’d learned had surprised him. She’d been plucky on the trail, never complaining, even though her injuries must have made riding painful. Other women would have wailed and wrung their hands when he suggested riding through the night. Not Priscilla. She had borne the hardships of their journey staunchly. There’d been no tears except for that first spate that had ended so abruptly.

No doubt about it, Priscilla Morton was unlike the other women he’d met. That must be the reason why he couldn’t get her out of his mind, why he felt such a longing to return to the Bar C and announce that he had captured the Dunkler brothers. He would do it. Somehow.

“I need your help.”

Though Clay did not normally join Zach when he rode the range, this afternoon he’d volunteered to accompany him. The reason was now apparent. Clay wanted advice of some sort, and judging from the fact that Clay had waited until they were out of earshot of the ranch, that advice probably concerned his bride-to-be. Zach cringed at the thought of being drawn into another discussion of women. Gunther, Michel, now Clay. Why did they think he had any knowledge of the female of the species? They’d all been married; he had not.

Clay stared into the distance, as if the cumulus cloud that threatened to block the sun would provide inspiration. When he spoke, his words confirmed Zach’s fears. “Since we’re postponing our wedding trip, I need to think of something special to do for Sarah after we’re married.”

Perhaps humor would diffuse his friend’s seriousness. “You’re asking me?” Zach didn’t have to feign incredulity. “C’mon, Clay. This is your second marriage. You’re the expert, not me.”

“But you’re the one who helped me plan Sarah’s birthday party. That turned out well, even if you did tell me I ought to invite Gunther.”

Zach chuckled, recalling his friend’s discomfort at the thought of inviting one of Sarah’s suitors into his home. Clay had been so annoyed, he’d almost started a fist fight. “Gunther never had a chance of winning her hand. Even I could see that.” Gunther. Zach’s mood brightened at the realization that he could change the subject. “I feel sorry for the man. He wants a new mother for Eva, but no one’s interested.”

Clay’s lips twisted into a grin. Though Zach refused to smile, he couldn’t help being pleased that Clay had taken the bait. “Sarah’s got it into her head that Gunther and Isabelle belong together.”

“Isabelle Rousseau?” The idea was so unexpected that Zach thought he must have misunderstood. Why would Sarah even suggest that Gunther, a German, should marry Isabelle, a Frenchwoman?

“As far as I know, there’s only one Isabelle in Ladreville.”

“They’re both nice enough people,” Zach conceded, “but I can’t picture them marrying. The way I see it, it’ll take at least another generation before the town’s ready for that.” Though they worked together, for the most part peaceably, there was no ignoring the divisions between the German and the French settlers. Each group had its own church, and for a long time, the children had not been permitted to attend school together. While some of the barriers had been breached, there had been no intermarriage.

“That was my reaction too,” Clay admitted. “Sarah thinks otherwise. Let me give you some advice, Zach. Beware of women when they have matchmaking on their minds. I’ve never seen Sarah so determined.”

They rode for a few seconds in companionable silence before Clay said, “Come to think of it, you should be grateful Sarah has Gunther and Isabelle to worry about. Otherwise, she might turn her attention to you.”

Zach flinched. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to change the subject. “I’m not interested. Some men are meant to be bachelors, and I’m one.”

“You’ve said that before.” Clay’s expression reflected his skepticism. “My answer is the same as it was then: your time is coming, one way or the other. If you’re wise, you’ll take my advice and find yourself a bride before Sarah decides to pick one for you.”

“I’m not interested.” As Zach repeated his words, an image of Priscilla flashed before him. He might not be interested in the state of holy matrimony, but she should have been. The rides they’d taken together and the conversations they’d had during those rides had confirmed his initial impression of a kind, loving woman. If ever a woman was meant to marry, it was Priscilla, but now—thanks to the Dunkler brothers— she was afraid of men. For the life of him, Zach could not understand why God had let that happen.

Priscilla clutched her stomach as she tried not to gag. This wasn’t like her. Unlike her sister, who’d suffered from frequent mild ailments, Priscilla had always been healthy. In fact, Patience had pronounced her disgustingly healthy. She wasn’t healthy now.

Priscilla gagged again, then swung her legs out of bed. There was no reason for her to feel so queasy. She hadn’t eaten anything unusual yesterday, and she had no other symptoms of illness. Unfortunately, rationalizing was accomplishing nothing. As much as she wanted to deny it, there was no doubt about it. Last night’s supper was not staying in her stomach. She must have caught the grippe from Thea.

Priscilla grabbed the chamber pot and retched.

6

Thank goodness her stomach had settled. Priscilla laid the green poplin dress on the bed and smoothed the lace trim that she and Sarah had spent hours applying. The dress was lovely and would not look out of place at this afternoon’s wedding, so long as the wearer’s face wasn’t green. Though the mirror told her otherwise, that was how Priscilla felt each morning when her stomach rebelled against even the thought of food.

The reason for her queasiness wasn’t hard to find. After the first two days when she’d had none of the other symptoms, she’d realized she wasn’t suffering from the grippe. Her problem was anxiety. Papa had taught her that the mind could cause illness just as surely as a festering cut. That was most assuredly Priscilla’s case. First she had dreaded Christmas, and now there was Clay and Sarah’s wedding. Under other circumstances, both would have been joyous occasions, but these weren’t other circumstances.

As it had turned out, Christmas had been less painful than Priscilla had expected. Though the joy she normally found in the celebration of her Savior’s birth was tempered by the absence of her parents, the fact that she was in a place that held no memories of them seemed to assuage the worst of her sorrow. Those first few days of almost unbearable pain, remembering the bandits’ attack and the shock on her parents’ faces when they’d realized what was happening, had faded into a dull ache.

Though Sarah had extended the invitation, she had not pressured Priscilla to attend Christmas Eve services. Clay, ever the pragmatic physician, had urged her to leave the ranch, claiming that Christmas was the perfect time to meet the citizens of Ladreville. One look at Priscilla’s face had been all Sarah needed. She’d shooed Clay away and assured Pricilla there was no reason to go into town until she was comfortable. Instead, while the family had been at church, Priscilla had opened her Bible to the second chapter of Luke. She’d memorized the words long ago, but there was an undeniable comfort in holding the leather-bound book her grandmother had given her. “And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.” As she spoke the words aloud, a shiver of wonder rippled through Priscilla. Papa had always said that birth was a miracle, and the birth in the stable so many years ago was the greatest miracle of all.

Christmas Day itself had been pleasant. Thea had wakened everyone in the household with cries of delight when she snuck out of her room and saw the tree with its decorations and packages underneath it. Unable to resist her sister’s pleas to open gifts, Sarah had postponed breakfast and had asked Martina and Miguel as well as Zach to join the rest of the family.

Oddly, the most memorable moment was not Thea’s excitement when she found a miniature wagon for her doll. It occurred later in the morning when Zach walked around the Christmas tree to admire the décor. “What’s this?” he demanded, pointing at what appeared to be a pickle hanging from one of the branches.

Sarah’s eyes widened in faux surprise. “It’s a pickle, Zach. Can’t you see that?” she asked, her tone one she might have used with a difficult pupil.

Zach responded with a frown. “Of course I can see that it’s a pickle. What I don’t understand is why you have one on the tree. I understand berries and popcorn, but a pickle?”

Priscilla watched the exchange, puzzled. It wasn’t like Sarah to tease, and yet Priscilla sensed that was exactly what she was doing, for her eyes sparkled with mirth, though her voice was solemn. “It’s an old German tradition,” Sarah explained. “The woman of the household always hides a pickle on the tree, and whoever finds it is destined to be the next to marry.”

When the blood drained from Zach’s face, Clay clapped his friend on the shoulder and muttered, “Matchmaking. I warned you.”

Later Sarah had admitted that she’d stretched the legend a bit. Normally children searched for the pickle, and whoever found it received an extra surprise. She had reserved a piece of candy, expecting Thea to spot the unusual ornament, but when Zach discovered it, she couldn’t resist teasing him. “He’s too serious,” she told Priscilla. “Besides, a bride would be a surprise for him, wouldn’t it?”

Priscilla raised her arms to slide the last petticoat over her head as she thought about Zach’s reaction. Without a doubt, a bride would be a surprise, an unwelcome one. That puzzled Priscilla. Although most men weren’t as overtly eager for marriage as many women, Zach’s expression had verged on horror. Surely that was an extreme reaction. Perhaps it had only been shock. That made more sense, for Priscilla thought the revulsion had been mingled with regret. Whatever the cause, she’d felt a kinship with him, for she knew all too well the feeling of discomfort.

Priscilla tried not to frown as she reached for the green poplin dress. No matter how she tried to quell her fears, they returned, turning her legs to jelly and dampening her palms. It was no wonder her stomach had been upset each morning. Today wasn’t simply her first time leaving the safety of the Bar C. It was also her first foray into Ladreville’s society. They’d stare at her. She knew that. What roiled her stomach was not knowing whether the townspeople would regard her with pity or scorn. Priscilla wasn’t certain which would be worse.

She fastened the last of the buttons, then headed toward Sarah’s room. The house was quieter than normal this morning, for, mindful of the ancient tradition that a groom should not see his bride’s face before the ceremony, Clay had spent the night at the neighboring ranch, an event which had displeased Thea enough that she’d thrown a tantrum. Priscilla preferred not to consider how Thea would react tonight with both Sarah and Clay gone. When Granny Menger had offered the newlyweds her house for their wedding night, Priscilla had agreed she’d watch over Thea. It was, she had reasoned, the least she could do for the people who’d been so kind to her. But that was before she’d experienced one of Thea’s tantrums.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Sarah said as Priscilla entered her room. “My hands are shaking so much I can’t fasten a single button.”

Priscilla smiled. “That’s bridal jitters. Patience was the same way. She couldn’t get dressed by herself, and I had to fix her hair.” Giving Sarah’s coiffure a quick look, Priscilla gestured toward the dressing stool. “Sit down. I’ll do yours too.” She took the curling iron to the kitchen to heat, then began to brush Sarah’s hair.

“I don’t know quite how to ask this,” Sarah said a moment later. “It’s almost too late, but . . .” She hesitated, as if uncomfortable with the subject. At last she blurted out, “Are you sure you don’t mind that Clay’s marrying again? I’m not trying to take your sister’s place.”

Though she’d been standing behind her, Priscilla moved so Sarah could see her face. Today of all days it was vital that Sarah believed what she was about to say. Priscilla had already told Clay how she felt. Sarah needed to know, as well. “I’m happy for both you and Clay, and I know Patience would be too.” Her sister had never been a selfish woman. “She loved Clay dearly. I’m certain Patience would be glad he’s found happiness a second time.” As Sarah nodded, apparently convinced of Priscilla’s sincerity, Priscilla reached for the curling iron. “Perhaps you’ll be able to give Clay the children he longs for.”

Sarah colored slightly as she nodded. “We’re praying that God will bless us with many babies.”

Half an hour later, Sarah was dressed, her dark hair arranged in ringlets framing her face. Though she was beautiful on an ordinary day, today she was radiant.

“Are you two almost ready?” Zach’s voice carried through the door. “Clay will never forgive me if you’re late.”

Priscilla opened the door and ushered the bride into the main room, her gaze stopping abruptly at the sight of Zach. Though this was not the first time she’d seen him in a suit, for he’d worn one on Christmas, today he looked more distinguished, more handsome, than ever before. Perhaps it was because he’d visited the barber, and his hair was freshly cut. Perhaps it was the new cravat, a Christmas gift from Sarah and Clay. Perhaps it was simply the smile that softened his face at the same time that it emphasized the cleft in his chin. Priscilla didn’t know. All she knew was that he was an arresting figure, and something—she couldn’t imagine what—was making her heart beat faster. She had never before felt like this, all fluttery inside, her legs turning to jelly. It was different from the grippe that plagued her each morning. That was unpleasant. This was . . .

“Me ready!”

Priscilla wrenched her gaze from Zach and turned her attention to Thea, relieved that the odd sensations had vanished as quickly as they’d appeared. Bless Thea for the interruption! The little minx had escaped Martina’s grip and was racing toward her sister.

“Me ready!” Thea skidded to a stop and stared at Sarah and Priscilla. “Sarah pretty. Cilla prettier.”

It was not the best thing to say to a woman on her wedding day. Far from being insulted, Sarah laughed. “Leave it to my sister to put me in my place.” She bent down to give Thea a kiss. When she rose, she turned toward Priscilla. “Are you certain you’re ready to care for her?”

“Of course.” It was, after all, only for one night. If she was fortunate, Thea would consider it an adventure, not punishment. “We’re good friends, aren’t we, Thea?”

“Yes! Me love Cilla.”

Zach grinned at the exchange. “Now that that’s settled, may I escort you three beautiful ladies to the carriage?”

“We need a bridge,” Sarah said ten minutes later as the horses descended the shallow bank into the river. She and Priscilla occupied the rear seat, while Thea was happily ensconced in front between Zach and Clay’s father, seemingly oblivious to the fact that neither man was responding to her chattering.

Sarah gestured toward the water, which was now only three feet deep. “Isabelle warned me that summer rains bring flash floods, and it’s impossible to cross the river for days. Fortunately, that didn’t happen this past summer, but I still worry.”

The words, though ominous, barely registered, for Priscilla’s attention was focused on the town they were approaching. Patience had described it as quaint, but that word hardly did justice to the charm of the half-timbered houses with their steep roofs. Other than the streets, which were laid out on a precise grid rather than twisting and turning, and the distinctly Texan trees, Ladreville looked like a scene from a picture book, the quintessential European town.

“It’s beautiful,” Priscilla said softly as she admired the small town. Even from this distance, she could see that the streets were spotlessly clean. In summer, she suspected, the window boxes would be filled with flowers, bright splashes of color against the black and white buildings. At any time of the year, the two church steeples would remain the dominant features, standing taller and prouder than the other buildings.

Sarah nodded. “I’d forgotten this was the first time you’d seen the town. That’s the school.” Unlike the older buildings, the school was a simple wooden building, utilitarian rather than ornamental. Still, there was no mistaking the pride in Sarah’s voice. As the horses emerged from the water, she pointed at the street. “For some reason, the townspeople named the east-west streets after rivers. This one’s Rhinestrasse.” She gestured toward the right. “The next one’s rue de la Seine, and the third is Potomac Street.”

Priscilla smiled. “I see all three countries are represented.” Though she’d failed to describe the town’s appeal, Patience had mentioned the rivalry and occasional hostility between the German and French settlers and their mistrust of the original Anglo settlers. Those problems appeared resolved, at least for the day, for the entire town had been invited to Sarah and Clay’s wedding. Lest anyone be insulted, the bride and groom had been careful to include everyone. Though the ceremony was to be held in the German church, both ministers would officiate, and the reception was being hosted by the French church.

When they arrived at the German church, Sarah and Thea were whisked off by her friend Isabelle, leaving Zach to lead Priscilla and Clay’s father into the sanctuary. Once they were seated, the church would be opened to the guests. “You’ll be in the front row,” Zach said as they walked slowly, pacing themselves to Mr. Canfield’s halting gait. Even with two canes, he had difficulty moving smoothly, but it was, Sarah had assured Priscilla, a miracle that he could walk at all, a miracle Clay attributed to both Sarah and Zach. Sarah had started the process, but it was Zach’s persistence that had resulted in Robert Canfield leaving his wheeled chair.

Priscilla had seen the love Sarah lavished on her soon- to-be father-in-law and was not surprised that, although his infirmity kept him from escorting her down the aisle, Sarah had asked him to join her at the altar and be the one to give her hand in marriage.

Once they were seated, Priscilla spent a few moments studying the church. It was far different from anything she’d seen in Boston, devoid of stained-glass windows and padded pews. The altar was simple, graced with two elaborate silver candelabra that must have been brought from Europe. In sharp contrast was the rough-hewn cross, which Sarah had told her the parishioners had constructed from a local tree during their first Lent in Ladreville. Despite the obvious differences, the peace Priscilla had always found in church began to envelop her, and she closed her eyes in prayer.

“That must be the sister.” A piercing whisper disturbed her meditation. This was what she had feared. This was the reason her stomach had been so queasy. It was one thing to know she was the subject of speculation, quite another to face it.

“Her hair’s the same color as Patience’s.” Priscilla realized the woman with the French accent was seated directly behind her. Though she’d been aware of sounds and muted conversation as the church filled, this was the first time she’d distinguished words. These words were innocent. The next ones might not be.

“It’s downright sinful what happened to her parents.” A second French woman joined the conversation. Priscilla stiffened. Clay’s father must have sensed her disturbance, for he murmured something. His words might be unintelligible, but his tone was comforting.