Scattered Petals (2 page)

“No!” As the memory of her parents’ lifeless bodies flashed before her, Priscilla gathered every ounce of strength she possessed. Twisting abruptly, she broke Zeke’s grip and began to run.
Help me, Lord
, she prayed.
Help me!
The grass was thick beneath her feet, the air filled with the scents of horses and recent rain. She could do it. She could escape. She could almost taste freedom. A second later, she lay face first in the grass, a heavy weight on top of her.

“I always did like feisty ones,” Zeke said as he wrenched her arms behind her and tied them. “Now, gal, let’s see what you taste like.”

He rolled her over, grinding his lips against hers as he lifted her skirts.

“No!” Priscilla screamed the word, but no sound emerged.
No!
She twisted. She turned. She tried to kick, but it was to no avail. Zeke was big; he was strong; he was determined.
Please, Lord, help me!
As the blood pounded in her ears and she cried out in pain, Priscilla heard the sound of hoofbeats and a single shot.

“C’mon, Charcoal.” Zachary Webster stroked his stallion’s mane as they forded the river. Though Charcoal preferred galloping on dry land to swimming the Medina and invariably protested when they headed for Ladreville, Zach always smiled when he crossed into town. Though less than fifteen years old, Ladreville had an air of permanence that he suspected was the result of its settlers’ determination. When Michel Ladre had arrived from Alsace with his band of French- and German-speaking immigrants, he’d insisted there would be no temporary accommodations in the town that bore his name. Everything would be built to last. Everything would be designed with pride. And it was. With its half-timbered buildings, a part of its Alsatian immigrants’ legacy, Ladreville was unlike any place Zach had ever seen. It was true that all of God’s creation had its own beauty—all except Perote. Nothing could make the Mexican castle that had been turned into a prison beautiful. Though the rest of the world he’d seen was appealing, somehow this small Texas town touched Zach’s heart as no other location had. That was one of the reasons he sought excuses to leave the ranch and come to town. Today, however, he needed no excuse. It was payday, and he was on his way to the post office.

“Mornin’.” Steven Dunn, Ladreville’s postmaster, greeted him with a broad smile. “I figgered you’d be here today. I told my wife you was regular as clockwork.”

Zach chuckled at the realization that he’d become so predictable. He doubted anyone who’d known him as a youngster would have expected that. “The next thing I know, you’ll be accusing me of being stuck in a rut.”

The postmaster checked the boxes behind him, then shook his head. “No mail for you or Clay. As far as that rut, with all that’s going on, I don’t reckon there’s much time to get stuck in anything at the Bar C.”

“Don’t forget the Lazy B.” No doubt about it, it was a challenge, being the foreman of two large ranches, but Zach had never been one to shy from challenges. He enjoyed his work, and the fact that Clay Canfield, who hadn’t known him from Adam six months ago, trusted him enough to give him complete control over not just his own Bar C but also the neighboring Lazy B was cause for another smile. Two prosperous ranches and a town that had caught his fancy. It was more than a man deserved.

“Heard tell you got some visitors comin’ from the East.”

Zach nodded. There were few secrets in a small town, not that there was any reason to hide the arrival of Clay’s wedding guests. “Clay’s happy as can be that the Mortons are coming. You’ve probably heard that Doc Morton hired Clay as his assistant back in Boston, and the next thing anyone knew, Clay was marrying the older Morton girl.”

“She was a right pretty gal, Patience was, but a mite standoffish.”

It wasn’t the first time Zach had heard that complaint. “Maybe it was just that she was from Boston,” he suggested. “Folks are more formal back East.”

“Mebbe. My wife sure hopes the parents and the other gal are friendlier.” The postmaster cleared his throat and held out his hand. “Got your package ready?”

“You bet.” Zach gave him the box. He was certain Steven knew the package contained money, but he’d never asked why Zach sent some each month. That was one of the things that pleased Zach about Ladreville. Though the town loved gossip, its postmaster did not indulge in Ladreville’s favorite pastime, and that suited Zach just fine. The good citizens of Ladreville had no reason to know that he sent a substantial portion of his pay to Charlotte Tallman, a woman who was not related to him. If they knew, they would only speculate.

“Thanks, Steven.”
For so much.

As Zach turned to leave, the postmaster stopped him. “I reckon the lady’s mighty happy to hear from you so regular like.”

“I owe her a lot. Her husband saved my life.” Zach blinked at the sound of himself pronouncing words he’d never intended to. Only Clay and his father knew what had happened at Perote and how much he owed John Tallman’s widow.

Steven shrugged, as if the revelation were insignificant. “Like I said, she’s a mighty lucky lady you write so regular like.” He emphasized the word
write
. “Mighty lucky. I reckon she thanks the Lord for you.”

Steven was wrong. No woman thanked the Lord for him, not Charlotte and especially not Margaret.
“If you leave me, I’ll . . .”
Zach pushed the memories from his mind as he strode out of the post office and mounted Charcoal. It had been fifteen years, half his life. By now a reasonable man should have been able to put the past behind him. Zach had tried and failed. He knew God had forgiven him. He’d begged for and received forgiveness long ago, but he still didn’t know why Margaret had refused his offer of help unless she had followed through on her threat. Zach fought back the pain that that thought always brought and nudged Charcoal into the water. Perhaps it was time to accept that he would never understand Margaret’s motives. One thing was certain. It was time to learn what God had in store for him next.

“What the . . . ?”

Priscilla cringed at the sight of the blond man sitting on a horse, his pistol pointed at her. Though the man bit off his words, sparing her what was probably a string of profanity, nothing could camouflage his anger.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Fear caused Priscilla’s heart to skip a beat, then begin to pound furiously. Though every instinct shrieked that she should flee, she couldn’t, for Zeke’s body pressed her into the grass. He was big and heavy and immovable. He had been silent and motionless since she’d heard the shot, and the smell of blood told her he’d been wounded. Perhaps more than wounded.

Priscilla’s eyes widened as the blond man slid off his horse, covering the few yards between them in three long strides. What was he going to do? Was he like Zeke? Was he going to . . . ? She couldn’t complete the thought. What Zeke had done was unthinkable.
Help me, Lord. I can’t bear any more.
Priscilla kept her eyes fixed on the stranger, trying to read his thoughts. She saw anger and something else, perhaps pity. A second later he yanked Zeke off her, tossed him aside like a piece of trash, then straightened her skirts.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

She would never again be all right. She would never again be clean. She would never again be whole. Priscilla shook her head, then nodded as she managed to sit up. She was as close to right as she was going to be. She was alive, and— as far as she could tell—nothing was broken. No bones, at least. She didn’t want to think about the injuries Zeke had inflicted, just as she didn’t want to think about the big man standing over her. If she stood, he’d be less threatening, but try though she might, with her hands tied behind her, she could not rise to her feet.

“Who are you?” she asked. He didn’t look like Zeke or his brothers. Though he’d worn a bandana, this man had tugged it off as he’d slid from the horse, as if—unlike the bandits— he had no fear of people recognizing his face.

“Lawrence Wood, ma’am. I’m a Texas Ranger.” This time there was no question. His eyes were filled with pity. “Let me untie you.”

Priscilla shuddered at the thought of him, of any man, touching her. “No, please. Don’t touch me.” The words came out as little more than a squeak.

He nodded slowly, as if he understood. “I won’t hurt you, ma’am. I’d swear that on a Bible if I had one handy. Let me help you.”

She had no choice. As Priscilla nodded, the Ranger knelt beside her and slit the bandana that had tied her hands. Then he rose quickly, distancing himself from her as she rose to her feet. She ought to thank him. Priscilla knew that. But somehow the words would not come out. She closed her eyes, trying to block the sight of the bodies lying on the grass. Perhaps if she kept them closed, she could pretend it hadn’t happened. Perhaps she could pretend that Mama and Papa were still alive, that they were on the stagecoach, making their way to San Antonio, and she had not been . . . Priscilla shuddered again. She wouldn’t pronounce the word, not even in her thoughts.

“How many of them were there?”

The Ranger’s voice brought her back to reality. No matter how much she wanted to pretend, today had happened. Everything.

“Three.”

He turned Zeke’s body over and frowned at the sight. “Zeke Dunkler. I knew I’d catch up with him eventually. The others must have been his brothers, Chet and Jake.”

Priscilla nodded. Those were the names she’d heard.

“This one won’t be hurting you or anyone else ever again.” The Ranger looked around, his eyes assessing the scene. “Just like the other times. They took the horses and anything valuable they could find.” He walked slowly toward Mama and Papa’s bodies. “Did you know the other passengers?”

“They’re . . . ” A sob caught in her throat. “My parents.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” The Ranger’s voice rang with sincerity. “I wish it were different, but there’s nothing I can say to make it better.” He scowled as he looked at the bandit’s body. “Scoundrels like the Dunkler brothers shouldn’t be allowed to live. I can’t undo what they’ve done, but I promise you they’ll pay for it.” The Ranger rummaged through the back of the stagecoach, emerging with a shovel and a soft cloth.

“What are you going to do?”

“Bury your parents and the driver. I ought to let the coyotes and birds take care of Zeke, but I can’t do that.” He held out the cloth and nodded toward the small stream she’d barely noticed. “You might want to freshen up a bit while I dig the graves.” As if he knew that being too close to her frightened her, he laid the cloth on the grass.

As the rhythmic sound of the shovel hitting soft earth continued, Priscilla scrubbed her skin. The cool water washed away the dirt and blood, but nothing could cleanse her memories, nothing could erase what the bandits had done. The sounds, the smells, the sights, and—worst of all—the memory of Zeke’s loathsome touch remained. Priscilla knew those moments would haunt her for the rest of her life. She sank onto the ground and buried her face in her hands.
Oh, Lord, why did you let this happen? It would have been better for me to die. Then I would be with Mama and Papa and Patience. Oh, why didn’t you let me die? Where were you when I needed you?
There was no answer, nothing save the pounding of her heart.

She raised her head and looked at the man who was digging her parents’ graves. Why couldn’t he have come ten minutes earlier? If he had, perhaps Mama and Papa would still be alive. Instead, they would soon be buried in this land Mama had found so foreign. It wasn’t fair! The tears Priscilla had been holding back began to flow, accompanied by great body-racking sobs.

Now, child, you know tears solve nothing. When you want to cry, find something to do.
As the memory of her father’s words echoed through Priscilla’s mind, she brushed the tears from her cheeks. Papa was right. There were things she needed to do to help prepare her parents’ final resting place. As crude as the grave was, it was all they would have. It was up to Priscilla to do her best. Even though there was no minister in sight, her parents could not be buried without a prayer. She rose and entered the stagecoach, emerging a minute later with her mother’s Bible and the reticule she’d hidden from the bandits.