Scattered Petals (16 page)

Priscilla was in the kitchen cutting vegetables for stew when she heard a carriage approaching. Wiping her hands, she hurried to the front porch, her heart filling with pleasure at the sight of Sarah and Thea. “I’m glad you came.” It had been three days since their last visit. After the first week, Sarah and Thea had stopped at the Lazy B every few days, and even if they stayed only half an hour, their arrival was cause for rejoicing.

Priscilla opened the front door. “Come in. I’ll make us some coffee.” She ushered her guests into the parlor, waiting until Thea appropriated one of the chairs and began an animated discussion with her doll.

“I’m still impressed with the changes you’ve made,” Sarah said. “Everything looks so much brighter and more inviting.”

Zach had said the same thing. “All I did was wash curtains and rearrange the furniture.” Priscilla had also taken down the somber portraits, feeling that bare walls were better than ones with the former owners’ disapproving ancestors staring down at her.

“You’ve turned a house into a home.” Sarah settled onto the settee. “I like it.”

When Priscilla returned with a tray of coffee, milk, and cookies, Thea held up her doll. “Cilla wanna play?”

Sarah shook her head and gave her sister a cup of milk. “Not now, sweetie. You and your dolly can play by yourselves for a few minutes.” When Thea started to pout, Sarah added, “You may have two cookies if you’re quiet while Priscilla and I talk.” She waited until Thea had drunk her milk before she turned to Priscilla. “I want your advice on something, but first, it’s not just the house that looks different. You look . . . Oh, how can I describe it? Contented. That’s the word. Are you?”

Priscilla thought for a moment. Though that wasn’t an adjective she might have used, she couldn’t dispute the fact that it applied to her. Other than the nightmares and that horribly embarrassing day when Zach had caught her sobbing over her locket, she had been content. “More than I thought possible,” she admitted. “I’m comfortable here and safe, so, yes, you could say I’m content.”

Zach probably wouldn’t believe that after the crying spell he’d interrupted. The odd thing was, it had helped. Not simply the crying, although that had been beneficial. If he’d been alive, Papa might have told her she had a wound that needed lancing, and the tears had provided that release. But what had made the most difference were Zach’s words of comfort. Priscilla had been startled when he’d referred to the life growing inside her as their baby. She hadn’t expected that, hadn’t even considered the possibility that he would regard the child as his. Oh, she’d known that he would protect the baby and would help her raise it, but she had never dreamt that he might treat it as if it were his child. She had been wrong. Zach had said the word
our
twice, and ever since that day Priscilla had clutched the memory close, smiling whenever she recalled it. That one small word had brought comfort. His other words had not. She would cling to Zach’s promises of comfort, not to his insistence that she forgive the bandits. Some things were not forgivable.

Oblivious to Priscilla’s internal turmoil, Sarah smiled. “I know I must sound like every new bride, but I think marriage is wonderful. That’s why I want Isabelle and Gunther to marry. They deserve the same happiness.”

It was Priscilla’s time to smile. “So you’ve decided to be a matchmaker. I thought that might be why you seated them next to each other at our wedding supper.”

Sarah nodded. “They’d make a wonderful couple. The problem is, they don’t seem to realize that. That’s why I wanted your advice.”

The reluctant bride as matchmaker. Priscilla wanted to laugh at the notion until she realized that she had some experience, albeit secondhand. “My mother used to claim the best way was to find reasons for a couple to be together. She was convinced that Clay was the perfect man for Patience. That’s why she insisted he take his meals with us most days. It would give him time with Patience.”

Sarah appeared surprised. “Clay never said anything about your mother’s matchmaking.”

“He probably wasn’t even aware of it. Mama was subtle.”

Sarah laid down her coffee cup and raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying my seating arrangement wasn’t subtle? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Your mother was probably right about proximity.” Sarah grinned. “It certainly worked for Clay and me. The problem is, Gunther has no reason to visit the mercantile more than once every month or so, and Isabelle never goes to the mill. How do I get them together?”

That was a problem, but there was a greater one. “We can’t forget Eva. My impression is that Gunther won’t marry anyone unless he’s convinced she’d be a good stepmother, and Eva seems protective of her father. You heard her. She doesn’t think he needs a wife.”

“You’re right.” Sarah nodded and took another sip of coffee. “At one time, I was the logical choice, because Gunther saw me with Eva every day and knew how much I loved her. It was the same with Olga Kaltheimer. She and Eva were together at the school, and Eva considered her a friend.”

“So we need a reason for Eva to spend time with Isabelle.”

“Are you and Cilla done talking?” Thea climbed onto Sarah’s lap and hugged her.

“Just a little while longer.” Sarah pretended to offer Thea’s doll a sip of coffee.

“Another cookie?”

“No. You may sit here, but you may not have another cookie.”

While Thea pouted, Priscilla considered the problem of Isabelle and Gunther. “He seems to think that teachers would make good mothers.”

“True, but Isabelle’s not a teacher.” Sarah’s face brightened. “She’s an excellent seamstress. Perhaps she could teach Eva to sew.”

“I imagine there are several unmarried German women who could do that.” Though neither she nor Sarah had broached the subject, Priscilla was certain that Isabelle and Gunther’s different heritages were a barrier to their romance. “What if Isabelle were to teach Eva to speak French?”

Sarah nodded slowly. “It would be a good idea, if Gunther believed that his daughter needed fluent French. The problem is, we’re trying to convince everyone in Ladreville that English is our common language.”

“You and I learned French, even though we speak English every day. I don’t know about you, but my mother claimed that all well-bred girls spoke French.”

Sarah cuddled her sister, who had started to fuss over the enforced inactivity. “My parents planned to take us to Europe. Mama said that was why I needed to learn it.”

“You could use that argument with Gunther. Tell him that Eva might want to travel to Europe some day, and she should speak both French and German when she goes.”

“That might work,” Sarah conceded. She narrowed her eyes. “There’s one more problem. We need someone to persuade him. I could try, but I’m not sure how effective I’ll be. Things have been a little strained since I refused Gunther’s offer of marriage. Besides, the idea would probably be best coming from a man.”

When Sarah refused to meet Priscilla’s gaze, she knew why the other woman had come to the Lazy B today. This was more than a neighborly visit, and Sarah wanted more than advice. She wanted Priscilla’s husband to help her. “All right. I’ll ask Zach.”

“You want me to be a matchmaker?”

Priscilla had waited until after supper before she broached the subject. One of Mama’s precepts had been that men were more amenable to suggestions when they were well fed. This was the first time she’d had to test the theory, and she hoped the stew and fluffy biscuits had done their job. “Not exactly,” Priscilla hedged. “Oh, all right—yes, I want you to help Sarah.” When Zach continued to look dubious, she added, “It’s not as if you’d be pushing Gunther and Isabelle together.”

“Just nudging my friend in that direction.” Though Zach had been sitting on the opposite side of the table, he rose and strode toward the door. When he reached it, he wheeled around. “Tell me, Priscilla, why do women feel this need to see their friends married? Can’t they understand that some men are meant to be bachelors?”

His words were spoken so vehemently that she knew he felt strongly, but he was right: she didn’t understand. “Who’s meant to be a bachelor? Gunther’s already been wed, so you can’t be speaking of him.”

“I . . .” Zach fell silent. “You’re right,” he said at last. “Gunther wants to marry again, and your plan might help him. I’ll do it.”

Late that night, Priscilla remained awake, remembering the conversation. Though he’d agreed, the troubled expression on Zach’s face told her he had misgivings. Those misgivings, she sensed, were not related to Gunther but to the fact that he believed some men were born bachelors. Who? He’d started a sentence with “I” but had said nothing more. Was he speaking of himself? Did he believe he was one of those men meant to remain unmarried? Priscilla cringed at the thought. If that was the case, he’d sacrificed even more than she’d known when he asked her to be his wife. Poor Zach!

Priscilla gripped the windowsill and stared into the distance. The bandits’ evil was like a stone tossed into a pond, sending out wider and wider ripples until it disturbed the entire pond. They’d hurt her, and through her, they’d hurt Zach.
Oh, Lord,
she prayed,
why did you let this happen? Zach deserves better.

9

“Did you ever think about children? Before Eva was born, that is.” Zach leaned against the doorframe, feigning nonchalance. The truth was, he couldn’t recall when he’d dreaded an encounter more. It was one thing for Priscilla and Sarah to claim that Gunther wanted a new wife and that Isabelle was the perfect candidate. It was quite another to involve Zach in their schemes. But here he was at the gristmill, pretending this was a casual visit.

Perhaps he’d been a fool to agree. After all, he knew nothing of matchmaking and had even less desire to learn. If Sarah had asked, he would have refused, but it was far more difficult to deny Priscilla anything. The day he’d found her crying over her missing locket had shown him that her seemingly calm exterior was only a fragile shell. Inside she was vulnerable, and that made Zach determined to do anything he could to help her, which was why he was having a sack of corn ground when no one needed cornmeal. That was the only excuse he had found to visit Gunther and ask inane questions.

Fortunately, Gunther seemed to find nothing odd in Zach’s question. “There wasn’t a lot of time to think,” he said with a grin. “Eva got started right away. It happened so quickly that Frieda was afraid if the baby came early, folks would think we jumped the gun, so to speak.” Gunther raised an eyebrow. “Why are you asking? You and Priscilla got babies on the mind?”

“Don’t all newly wedded folks?” Zach and Priscilla did, but not for the reason Gunther probably imagined. In another few months, it would be obvious that Priscilla was with child and that Zach was not the child’s father. He could only pray that the townspeople would not distress her with their speculation. He would not speak of that today. Instead, he said, “I’ve been thinking about all the responsibility—feeding them, clothing them, taking care of them when they’re sick.” That was nothing less than the truth. Though he’d never admit it to Gunther, the prospect scared Zach. How was he going to care for a tiny, helpless infant? He knew nothing about babies. But that wasn’t the reason he was here. He had to persuade Gunther that Eva needed Isabelle.

“It gets easier once they can talk. Then they tell you what they need.”

Thank you, Gunther.
He’d provided the opening Zach sought. “I suppose that does make it easier, and the school helps, but don’t you still worry about whether they’re learning everything they should? Last night at supper Priscilla was talking about the school she attended. They learned to do needlework, play the pianoforte, and speak both German and French.”

Gunther frowned. “Why do young’uns need all that?”

Zach had asked the same question, pointing out that life in Texas was different from Boston and Philadelphia. His wife’s answer had prepared him. “According to Priscilla, that’s what’s expected of ladies in America.”

The miller’s frown deepened. “I didn’t know that. Looks like I need to talk to the mayor. When he hires the next schoolmarm, he’d better make sure she can teach the piano and stitching.”

“Don’t forget French and German.”

Though he was normally affable, it was clear Gunther did not like the idea. His frown became a full-fledged scowl. “Eva already speaks German.” It was a measure of Gunther’s anger that his normally light accent grew more pronounced. “There’s no need for her to learn French. We’re Americans now.”

“True.” Zach had expected this argument. He had made it himself. “If Eva never leaves Ladreville, she’ll be fine, but what if she wanted to visit a big city? Priscilla said cultured ladies do that. They go to museums and opera houses and eat in fancy restaurants.” When Priscilla had ventured the explanation, Zach had cringed. Cities and crowds held no attraction for him. “I heard fancy restaurants serve French dishes. You wouldn’t want your daughter to seem ignorant in front of some waiter, would you?”

Gunther clenched his fists, clearly appalled at the thought that Eva might not be prepared for every social eventuality. “Of course not! Maybe Sarah can start those lessons right away. She speaks French.”

Zach repressed a smile. The morning was going better than he’d expected. Gunther had taken the bait. All he had to do was reel him in. “True, but she’s mighty busy, what with being a bride and caring for her sister. I reckon it would be a real imposition. Still, you’re right. The sooner Eva starts learning, the better.” Zach paused, as if searching for an alternative. A few seconds later, he clicked his fingers. “There might be a way.”

“What do you mean?”

The fish was in the air, headed for the creel. Zach kept his voice even, though inwardly he was chuckling. “I heard Miss Rousseau is good at fancy stitching, and she speaks French. I wonder if she might agree to tutor Eva. That would give your daughter a leg up when classes do begin.”

“
Sehr gut.
It’s a good idea,” Gunther said with a grin. As he handed Zach the sack of freshly ground corn, he narrowed his eyes. “If you want my advice, Zach, you and Priscilla shouldn’t wait too long before you start your family. Children are God’s greatest blessing.”

The pleasure Zach had felt in accomplishing his mission for Priscilla evaporated. Though he nodded in apparent agreement with Gunther’s statement, he doubted either Priscilla or Margaret considered their children blessings.

Married! She was married! Lawrence Wood schooled his face to reveal nothing, even though he felt as if someone had rammed a rifle butt into his stomach. He’d been whistling with anticipation when he’d ridden onto the Bar C. He wasn’t whistling now that the Canfields’ housekeeper had delivered unwelcome news. Though he hadn’t been sure what to expect and had even considered the possibility that she might have gone back East, one thing was certain: he hadn’t expected Priscilla to be married.

Why not, Lawrence?
he asked himself as he strode away from the ranch house.
She’s a beautiful woman. If you can’t stop thinking of her—and admit it, man, you can’t—what makes you think another man wouldn’t react the same way?
Women were scarce out here. As for beautiful, courageous women like Priscilla Morton—well, they were one in a million. It was no wonder Zach Webster had seized the opportunity. Chances like that didn’t come more than once in a lifetime.

Lawrence kicked a rock, deriving scant satisfaction when it skittered away. He’d been a fool. An utter fool. Only a fool acted like a schoolboy, dreaming dreams that would never come true. Only a fool took on a new assignment when the first one wasn’t finished, simply because it would bring him close to her. And, worst of all, only a fool believed a woman like Priscilla would care about him.

His heart heavy with the weight of shattered dreams, Lawrence mounted his horse. He ought to leave right now. He knew that, just as he knew he wouldn’t. It might be foolish, but he had to see her one last time.

Jean-Michel pulled the six-shooter from its holster and aimed it. Bull’s-eye! The prickly pear pad had a hole precisely in its center. He laughed out loud, pleased by this latest proof of his prowess. He had always known he was smarter than ordinary men, but until recently he hadn’t realized he was so much more powerful. That had changed the night he’d killed the peddler.

Why hadn’t anyone told him how wonderful it felt, knowing you had the power of life and death? And wielding that power—was there anything so magnificent? He’d felt a rush of pleasure greater than anything he’d ever experienced when he saw the peddler lying there, his eyes open and sightless. That was what being a man felt like.

He, Jean-Michel Ladre, knew what it was to be a man. The others were too stupid to recognize how much power they held in their hands. They never dared to kill. Then there was Zach Webster. Everyone in Ladreville knew he’d vowed never to kill again. How could he give up such pleasure? The man was weak; he was stupid; he was a fool. Soon he’d be a dead fool.

It was early afternoon when Priscilla heard the sound of hoofbeats. Setting aside the embroidery that had failed to hold her interest, she hurried to the window, her heart beating faster at the thought that Zach might have come home early. Anticipation turned to fear when she saw that the horse was a palomino, not Zach’s charcoal black stallion, and the rider a stranger. A strange man. Her heart thudding with dread, Priscilla looked around, searching for something to use as a weapon. She couldn’t let the man come near. She couldn’t let him hurt her. No matter what she had to do, no man would ever again touch her.

He was closer now. Priscilla shuddered. Why, oh why, hadn’t she listened when Zach had told her she needed to learn to fire a shotgun? It was too late now. All she could do was try to defend herself. Quickly she latched the front door. She would barricade herself in her room and hope that one of the ranch hands was close enough to hear her scream.

As she hurried toward her room, she glanced out the window at the rider who was now dismounting.
Silly Priscilla. There’s no cause for alarm.
This was not a stranger. It was the Ranger, Lawrence Wood. Mentally castigating herself, Priscilla realized she should have recognized him or at least the palomino she’d ridden for two days. Instead, fear had blinded her, causing her heart to beat faster than a runaway horse’s hooves. Would it always be this way? Would nothing more than the sight of a man cause her to panic? Though she hoped not, Clay had not been able to answer the question, and Papa’s medical books had not discussed the aftermath of a bandit attack.

Taking a deep breath and willing her heart to return to normal, Priscilla opened the door and walked onto the porch to greet the Ranger. He’d promised he would tell her when he’d caught the bandits. That must be why he was here.

“Good afternoon, Ranger Wood.” She beckoned him onto the porch. Thank goodness her voice no longer betrayed her fear.

“Good afternoon, Miss Morton. The folks at the Bar C told me I could find you here.” The Ranger doffed his hat as he climbed the steps, then corrected himself. “Sorry. I heard you’re Mrs. Webster now. May I offer my best wishes?”

Though the Ranger looked the way she remembered—tall, blond,
big
, with eyes almost as deep a blue as Clay’s—something was different. Priscilla didn’t recall any signs of discomfort when they’d traveled together, but today he seemed unwilling to meet her gaze. Surely it was her imagination that his voice sounded strained. It must be her imagination, for the words were ordinary, and there was no reason to think he was somehow distressed by her marriage.

Recalling her mother’s lessons in deportment, Priscilla gave her visitor a warm smile. “You look as if you’ve traveled quite a distance. May I offer you some refreshment? It won’t take long to make a pot of coffee.” Fortunately, the day was warm enough that she could serve it on the porch. Though she knew there was no cause for fear, for this was the man who’d rescued her, Priscilla did not want a man—any man other than Zach, that is—inside the house.

The Ranger appeared to hesitate. “I can’t stay long, but I wanted to see you. That is, I wanted to see how you were faring.” This time there was no doubt about it. Priscilla heard discomfort in his voice.

“At least sit down.” She gestured toward the swing as she settled herself in one of the chairs. When she’d rearranged the furniture, she had placed a small table between the two chairs, ensuring that if Zach sat in the other one rather than taking a seat on the swing, he would be far enough away that their arms would not inadvertently touch.