Scattered Petals (24 page)

Priscilla clasped her hands, trying to hide their trembling. Today had been the first day she’d remained out of bed all day. Now that her strength was returning, she could delay no more. She knew what had to be done and had been rehearsing her words all day, hoping to deliver them without betraying her true feelings. The time had come.

“Zach, we need to talk.” She’d waited until supper was over to broach the subject. With the dishes stacked, ready for the woman who’d been hired to cook until Priscilla regained her strength, she was as ready as she’d ever be. She closed the front door behind her and took a step toward her husband, who was sitting on the steps, staring into the distance. At her words, he rose.

“What did I do wrong this time?”

“You?” Priscilla blinked in confusion. “You did nothing wrong. Why would you think that?”

Zach gestured toward the swing and waited until she was seated before he perched on the railing opposite her. “You were so serious. When my mother sounded like that, usually she’d discovered one of my misdeeds. I soon learned that tone of voice was not good news.”

“What I have to say is.” For him. One of the things Priscilla had decided as she’d lain in bed trying to accept the loss of her child was that she wouldn’t think about her future. What mattered was Zach’s. “I want you to know that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” Was that really her voice? It was like a stranger’s, the phrases stilted. Surely she hadn’t sounded so awful when she’d practiced.

“There’s no need for thanks.” Zach did not share her problem. His voice was normal, warm and filled with the kindness that was one of his finest characteristics. “You’re my wife. I’ve only done what any husband would.”

“That’s what we need to talk about.” Priscilla saw a question in his eyes and held up her hand to forestall him. “Please don’t interrupt. This is difficult enough as it is.” She took a deep breath, then let it out. “I’ve had a lot of time to think.” That had been one of the worst parts of her recuperation, the endless hours with nothing but thoughts for company. She took another breath, preparing to deliver the speech. Once she started, she would not pause for fear that she would be unable to continue. This was what was best for Zach, she reminded herself. It was what he deserved.

Priscilla opened her mouth and let the words tumble out. “Everything has changed. With the baby gone, there’s no reason for our marriage. You no longer need to protect me. Since ours was never a real marriage, it can be annulled. I think that’s what you should do.”

As she pronounced the final word, Priscilla stared at the man she’d married, the man who had been unfailingly kind to her. While she’d been speaking, the blood had drained from his face, leaving it gaunt and gray. “Is that what you want?” Zach’s voice cracked as he spoke the words, and he sounded like an old man.

Priscilla wouldn’t lie. She wouldn’t pretend an annulment was what she wanted. “It would be best for you,” she countered. “That way you’d be free to have a real marriage with a woman you loved.” Zach deserved to have children, and that was something she could not give him.

As color began to return to his face, he narrowed his eyes and gave her a piercing look. “What about you? What would you do?”

“I don’t know.” Once again she would not lie. In her thoughts, the future loomed before her, dark and empty. She couldn’t admit that, for Zach—kind, considerate Zach— would seize on it as a reason to remain in their sham of a marriage. He would insist on protecting her from an unhappy future just as he’d sought to protect her and the baby from shame. “It’s not important. What is important is setting you free.”

His lips thinned, and Priscilla sensed that Zach was trying to control his temper. Why would he be angry? She was offering him his freedom. Surely that was what he wanted.

“What if I don’t want to be ‘set free,’ as you put it?”

Priscilla noticed that he did not say he had no wish for freedom; he’d simply posed a rhetorical question. “You don’t need to spare my feelings, Zach. I know why you married me.”

“Do you?” There was no mistake. Anger tinged his words. “It wasn’t only to protect you. I wanted a home and a family. Those reasons are still valid.”

She couldn’t let him entertain hopes that she could not fulfill. “There won’t be a family. I can’t . . . I won’t . . .” This was more difficult than she’d expected. He was supposed to be grateful and agree to her suggestion of an annulment. Why was he making her put her failure into words? Priscilla swallowed deeply before she blurted out, “I can’t be a real wife. I can’t give you children.”

The pain she’d seen in his eyes returned. “We don’t need children to be a family.”

“But, Zach . . .” Why wouldn’t he understand? Surely he didn’t want to remain locked in a marriage that gave him nothing more than a house and a mealtime companion.

“Let’s not be hasty.” He spoke deliberately, as if he’d taken his own admonition to heart. “I’m in no hurry to be a bachelor again. The way I see it, our arrangement is working out fine.”

“But, Zach . . .”

He held up a hand, mimicking her earlier gesture. “Let me continue. I suggest we try it a bit longer—say another six months. Then if either one of us wants to end the marriage, we can. Does that sound fair to you?”

It was more than fair, more than she’d dared hope for. Though another six months with the man who brought sunshine to the grayest of days would make their parting even more painful, Priscilla could not refuse. She wanted to stay—oh! how she wanted to stay—and he’d given her the opportunity.

She had been wrong. God had not taken everything from her. He had left her with this wonderful man.

It felt odd, like being a guest in her own home, but Yvonne would allow nothing less. She had arrived at the Lazy B an hour before, announcing that she had brought dinner for both of them and that Priscilla was to prop her feet on a hassock while Yvonne prepared the food. As was her wont, Yvonne chattered constantly while she unpacked the dishes she’d brought. The only time she seemed at a loss for words was when Priscilla asked why Isabelle had not accompanied her.

“She was busy,” Yvonne said shortly, then proceeded to entertain Priscilla with a tale of Neville’s attempt to make breakfast. “The poor dear thought he would pamper me,” she said with a fond smile, “but he wound up creating more work than if I’d done it myself. Men are wonderful, but they should not be allowed in the kitchen. Now, come try my
coq au vin
.”

The chicken was delicious, as were the onions and carrots that had simmered in the same wine sauce. It was only when Priscilla had eaten the last bite that Yvonne turned to her, her expression serious.

“I’m sorry about what happened to you. I can’t imagine what I’d do if I lost my baby. I don’t think I could bear it.”

Though most women worried that something might happen to their unborn children, Priscilla wondered whether Yvonne had a particular reason for her concern. “Didn’t Granny Menger say you were healthy?”

Yvonne nodded. “She said I was like a mule.”

“I thought they were known for being stubborn, not healthy.”

“Granny said that too,” Yvonne admitted. “That I was stubborn.”

Priscilla didn’t know the midwife well, but it sounded like a strange comment for her to have made. “Why would she say something like that?”

Yvonne raised her shoulders in a classic shrug. “She was giving me a piece of her mind. She told me I was like a mule because I wasn’t speaking to Isabelle.”

And that, Priscilla suspected, was the reason Isabelle had not joined them today. It wasn’t that she was too busy but rather that she hadn’t been invited. “Isabelle’s your friend. Why aren’t you two speaking?”

Yvonne’s flush said she did not like being questioned about her actions. “Because of Gunther, of course. How could she consider marrying that man? I’d never do it.”

“I imagine Neville is glad to hear that.” Priscilla tried to turn Yvonne’s obvious anger into a joke. “I don’t think bigamy is allowed in Texas.”

Her friend glared at her. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Ow.” Jean-Michel cradled his head in his hands, not daring to open his eyes. He could see sun trying to sneak its way under his eyelids, and experience told him that if he opened them, the pain would worsen. The best thing was to stay in bed until the pain and nausea subsided.

He turned over, then yelped. What was that? It felt like a rock. What was a rock doing in his bed? Grudgingly, Jean-Michel opened his eyes, cursing when he realized that he was sleeping in a field. How on earth had he gotten here? He started to rise, cursing again when he discovered his feet were bare. He never removed his boots when he slept outdoors. Never. And where was the horse? Though some infernal insects were buzzing loud enough to wake the dead, he heard nothing that sounded like a horse.

Struggling to a sitting position, Jean-Michel cursed again as dim memories of the previous night made their way into his brain. Two men. Talk of boots and saddles and . . . He felt inside his shirt. Nothing. The bag was gone. He redoubled his curses, punctuating them with loud shouts. How dare they do that? Those Dunkler brothers had taken everything—his money, his horse, his boots. They’d left him with nothing but a rock.

Jean-Michel reached for the rock, intending to hurl it away, but his eyes narrowed when he saw that it was covering a piece of paper. He smiled. Those fellows had been all right, after all. The missing boots, horse, and money were one of those practical jokes folks in this country seemed to enjoy. He grabbed the paper, knowing it would be a note telling him where he could reclaim his belongings. This might not be the kind of joke he liked, but he wouldn’t argue with the men. A smart man left when he was ahead.

As Jean-Michel unfolded the piece of paper and scanned the contents, his stomach began to heave. The likeness was good, amazingly good. What made him want to retch wasn’t his picture. It was the words that bracketed it: Wanted Dead or Alive. Zach Webster was going to pay for this.

“You’re healing well, my child.” Granny Menger nodded as she completed her examination. “Another week and you’ll be able to go into town.” She led the way to the parlor and settled into the rocking chair. “A bit of advice, though. You might want to avoid Yvonne for a while. She’s riled at you.”

Priscilla wasn’t surprised, since Yvonne had left in a huff. “I only told her the truth: that I like Gunther and think he’d be a good husband for Isabelle.”

“I happen to agree with you, but you and I are in the minority.” Granny began to rock. Though her foot set a vigorous pace for the old rocker, Granny’s coronet of braids did not so much as wiggle. “I haven’t seen the town this divided since everyone thought Léon Rousseau was stealing their valuables. If I weren’t the only midwife for miles, I doubt the French women would come to me.”

That seemed like an extreme measure. “I know the history of Alsace, but I don’t understand why things haven’t changed now that everyone is an American.”

Granny’s foot stopped rocking, and she shifted in the chair, as if uncomfortable with the conversation. “Folks have long memories. The French can’t forget that they were once conquered by Germans, and we Germans have the same memories of the French. It’s hard to imagine marrying someone you view as the enemy.”