Scattered Petals (28 page)
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Webster.” As he dismounted, the Ranger doffed his hat. “I’m sorry for bothering you, but I wanted to assure myself that you were all right.”
The words surprised Priscilla. Why would he think something was wrong? Had the Dunkler brothers come this way, after all? Surely not. It had been more than six months since Zeke had been killed. If they blamed her for their brother’s death, surely they would have sought revenge before now. There must be another reason the Ranger was here. Perhaps he’d heard that Zach was gone and was simply checking on her, the way a neighbor might.
“I’m fine,” Priscilla said, “other than a bit lonely. You probably know Zach is riding the range.”
As the lawman shook his head, his eyes moved quickly, looking around the ranch, searching for anything out of the ordinary. Priscilla had seen him do that on his previous visits. This must be part of being a Ranger, having to be constantly vigilant. Perhaps he’d grown tired of it and that was one of the reasons he was considering leaving the Rangers.
“Might I trouble you for a glass of water?” he asked as he stepped onto the porch.
“It’s no trouble at all.” But it was the first time he’d accepted any form of hospitality. Something was different today. Though there was no wind, she shivered and wished Zach were home. Forcing a polite smile onto her face, Priscilla nodded at the Ranger. “I have fresh buttermilk if you’d prefer that.”
When she returned with the buttermilk and found him pacing the porch, Priscilla’s uneasiness grew. In the past, the Ranger had been calm, betraying no emotion and certainly not displaying any signs of anxiety. “Please have a seat.” She gestured toward the chair opposite her. Though it would be rude to tell him that his pacing made her nervous, she wanted it to cease.
He sank into the chair and took a long swallow of milk, his eyes never leaving her face. Carefully placing the glass on the floor, he leaned forward. “I worry about you.”
Priscilla tried to mask her surprise. Whatever she might have expected him to say, it was not that. “Why?”
“I know what you endured last year. That was more than any woman should have to go through. I worry that, because of the Dunkler brothers, you’ve been cheated out of the life you deserve.”
As the hair on the back of her neck began to rise, Priscilla sought a way to end the conversation. The Ranger was touching on things she did not want to discuss, but it wasn’t only his words that disturbed her. His eyes seemed unnaturally bright, as if he had a fever. Perhaps he was ill. Perhaps that was why he was saying such odd things. That would explain his asking for water. “I . . .”
He held up a hand. “Please let me continue. I know why you married Zach. It’s my fault.” If it wouldn’t have been incredibly rude, Priscilla would have risen, putting an end to the Ranger’s visit. But she could not be rude. Her mother had impressed on her the need to be polite, particularly to visitors. The Ranger was not just a visitor. He was the person who’d saved her life.
“You needed a man to protect you,” the Ranger continued. “I should have realized that and offered to marry you that day.”
“Mr. Wood . . .” This time Priscilla did rise. Rude or not, she was going inside the house.
“Call me Lawrence.”
The emotion in his voice kept her from moving. She couldn’t be cruel to this man. “Lawrence.” The name sounded odd on her tongue. In her mind, he was simply The Ranger. “I wasn’t in any condition to marry anyone that day.” She hadn’t been ready to marry in January, either, but her pregnancy had left her no choice.
“I know, but I hate the thought that I missed my chance.” The Ranger looked down at the porch floor, as if trying to compose himself. When he raised his eyes to meet hers, she saw the same brightness that had alarmed her earlier. “What I’m trying to say is that I love you, Priscilla. I always will.”
He was ill. That was the only explanation. But as Priscilla recalled the number of times he’d visited when there had been no real reason for him to be in Ladreville, she wondered if the illness was one of the mind, not the body. He had confused love with another emotion, perhaps sympathy, more likely pity. Whatever it was, it was not love. No one could love her, not after what had happened. Oh, it was true that Zach cared for her, but that was because he was a kind man. He didn’t love her—not the way a man would love his wife. The dream that had turned into a nightmare reminded her of that on a regular basis. Zach did not love her.
The Ranger didn’t, either. There had to be a way to make him understand that. Priscilla seized on the most obvious obstacle. “I’m married.”
He nodded. “I’m painfully aware of that, but I don’t believe it’s a real marriage.” She blanched. How had he guessed that? She hadn’t told anyone that hers was a marriage in name only, and she doubted Zach had.
The Ranger appeared unaware of her distress, for he continued. “I’m not saying it isn’t legal, but I don’t think your marriage is based on love.” Priscilla took a deep breath, relieved that he didn’t know the truth of her arrangement with Zach. “If you ever decide to end it, I would be honored if you would become my wife.”
Priscilla rose and took a step toward the door. This conversation had gone beyond the bounds of propriety. There was no reason to continue it. “I’m sorry, but . . .”
The Ranger rose and looked down at her, his blue eyes filled with pain. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I took you by surprise. There’s no need to answer now. Just know that if you ever need me, all you have to do is send for me.”
As he mounted his horse, Priscilla gripped the porch railing, trying to calm herself. She wouldn’t send for Lawrence. Even if Zach asked for an annulment, Priscilla knew she would not wed again. There would never be anyone like Zach, a man who knew her deepest secrets and cared for her despite them, a man who’d captured her heart and shown her what love could be. Zach was the only husband she would ever have, the only one she would ever want.
When she heard the horse, Priscilla shuddered. Since Lawrence’s visit yesterday, she’d been almost afraid to go outside. It was silly, of course, to be so skittish, but she couldn’t help it. The memory of the Ranger’s conversation haunted her. What had she done to make him think she would be interested in marrying him? She’d been polite, even friendly, each time he’d come to the ranch, but surely she hadn’t done anything to encourage him or to make him think she harbored tender feelings for him. And why would he think she would want to end her marriage? It was true she’d offered Zach an annulment, but that was for his sake, not hers. If Zach decided he wanted to be free when the six months were over, Priscilla knew she would leave Ladreville, but she would not remarry. Why, then, had the Ranger asked her to marry him? It made no sense. But it also made no sense to remain inside the house, cowering just because a horse was approaching.
She stepped onto the porch, her fear disappearing as she realized that it was Zach who was only a few yards from the house. The smile she’d worn yesterday reappeared as she hurried down the stairs.
“It’s good to be home.” Zach covered the short distance between them in three long strides, then stood there, smiling down at Priscilla. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too. There’s so much to tell you.” She wanted to share everything that had happened while Zach had been gone, everything except the Ranger’s visit. “But first, were the cattle all right?”
Zach climbed the stairs and opened the door for Priscilla. “I don’t know,” he said as they entered the house.
Priscilla turned and stared at him. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
Zach gave her a sheepish grin. “I wasn’t riding the range. I was looking for something for you.”
“Me?” For the second time in as many days, Priscilla was at a loss for words. “What on earth were you looking for?” She led the way into the kitchen and sank onto one of the wooden chairs. Though the parlor was more comfortable, she knew Zach would not want to sit there until he’d bathed.
“Something special.” His smile widened. “Does it surprise you that I want to give you a present?”
“It’s not my birthday or Christmas.”
“It wasn’t either of those the day I gave you flowers, but you seemed to like them anyway.”
“I did.” She glanced toward the parlor where the china bowl with the dried petals sat. “I still do.”
“I think you might like this even better.” Zach reached into a pocket and handed her a small paper-wrapped item. When she stared at it, trying to imagine what might be inside, he said, “Go ahead. Open it.”
She unwrapped it carefully, then gasped. “My locket!” Somehow, somewhere he had found her locket. Tears of joy filled Priscilla’s eyes as she realized Zach had remembered the day when she’d wept over the loss of the necklace. Though another man might have dismissed her tears as female foolishness, Zach had done what he could to banish her sorrow. What a wonderful man she’d married. “Oh, Zach, where did you find it?”
“Near New Braunfels.” He acted as if what he’d accomplished was trivial, that this was an ordinary present, not the restoration of something she had believed lost forever. Zach’s lips curved in another smile. “I figured the Dunkler brothers would sell it, and they did. The biggest problem was figuring out where.” Zach gestured toward his travel-stained clothing. “It took a bit longer than I’d hoped to find the man who’d bought the locket. He was saving it for his wife’s birthday, but when he heard my story, he agreed to sell it to me.”
Priscilla fingered the locket that she held in one palm, then looked up at the man who had brought it to her. “Oh, Zach, I don’t know how to thank you. I never thought I’d see this again.” Though she was eager to clasp it around her neck, there was something far more important to do first. Priscilla slid her fingernail between the two halves.
“Wait a minute.” Zach spoke quickly. “I know what you’re looking for, but the pictures are gone. The farmer said the locket was empty when he bought it. The bandits must have thrown the photographs away.” Zach’s eyes were serious as he said, “I’m sorry, Priscilla. I know how much you cherished them.”
They were what had made the locket special, for they were her last link to her family. Priscilla stared at the necklace for a moment, preparing herself for the disappointment. Now that she knew the locket was empty, perhaps she should not open it. Nothing would be served by confirming Zach’s words, and the sight of the plain metal would only revive unhappy memories.
Priscilla unhooked the chain, determined that once the locket was around her neck, it would never be removed. She reached behind her neck, but as she started to fasten the clasp, her hands refused to complete the simple task. No matter how painful it was, she needed to look inside. With trembling hands, Priscilla opened the delicate heart-shaped locket. As Zach had told her, the two halves that had once held her parents’ and her sister’s portraits were now nothing more than empty frames. But, though the locket was empty, Priscilla’s heart was not. Instead of the pain she’d expected, she felt only joy at the realization of all Zach had done for her.
“I’m sorry the pictures are gone,” he said again. “An empty locket doesn’t seem right.”
Priscilla rose. “It won’t be empty for long.” A moment later, she returned from the parlor, the china bowl filled with dried flower petals in one hand. When Zach raised an eyebrow, Priscilla explained. “I’m going to put petals in place of the pictures.” She stirred the potpourri carefully before pulling out two of the larger pieces. As Zach watched, she slid them into the two halves of the locket, then closed it and clasped it around her neck. “It’s perfect,” she said, willing him to understand how much he had given her. “The locket was part of my past, but now it will be part of the present too. Don’t you see, Zach? It’s perfect that the gift from my parents should be filled with the first thing you gave me.”
He appeared unconvinced, as if she made little sense. Priscilla smiled again as she said, “Thank you, Zach. There are no words to tell you how happy you’ve made me.” That was the problem. Mama had always said actions were more powerful than words. She needed to show Zach, not just tell him. Priscilla took a step closer, then bent to press a kiss on his cheek. But as her lips approached him, memories of the bandit’s rough skin and fetid breath assailed her.
Priscilla jumped back with an anguished cry. “I can’t!”
It was Sunday. Jean-Michel kicked the ground in frustration when he heard the distant peal of bells. Somehow he’d lost track of the days, and now he’d have to wait another twenty-four hours. As unfortunate as the delay was, he couldn’t risk going into Ladreville on a Sunday. Nothing was predictable on Sunday, and that increased the chances of being seen. He couldn’t let that happen. He’d come too far and planned his revenge too carefully to do anything that would jeopardize his success.
Jean-Michel led the horse back into the trees, resigning himself to another boring day. As much as he hated the idea of another night spent outdoors, it couldn’t be helped. Tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow he would be in Ladreville. Tomorrow he would sleep in comfort again. And then . . . Jean-Michel smiled as he thought of Zach Webster’s lifeless body sprawled on the ground and Isabelle, sweet Isabelle, rushing into his arms. Soon everything would be perfect.
“Are you certain you won’t sit with us?” Isabelle raised an impeccably groomed eyebrow as she darted a glance at the pew where her parents and Léon were seated.
Priscilla shook her head. “We’ll be more comfortable in the back.” Though she and Zach occasionally sat with the Rousseaus, today was one day Priscilla wanted to keep a distance. She had heard nothing from Père Tellier and did not know how he and Pastor Sempert planned to address the problem with Isabelle and Gunther, but if he used today’s sermon to make a point, Priscilla did not want to be seated with the Rousseaus. If Monsieur Rousseau believed that she had meddled in his affairs again, he might grow angry, and the church was no place for a confrontation. “We’ll sit with you next time,” she told Isabelle.
“Good morning, Yvonne.” Priscilla greeted her friend as she entered the church.
Though she murmured a response, Yvonne kept her eyes averted from Isabelle and quickly moved into one of the pews. When Isabelle flushed at the insult and hurried toward her parents, Priscilla sighed. The rift between two women who’d once been friends was senseless, and yet it persisted. Afraid that Père Tellier and Pastor Sempert would be unable to change anything, Priscilla said a silent prayer, asking God to soften the parishioners’ hearts.
When Père Tellier moved to the pulpit for the sermon, the congregation settled back in their pews. Some of them, Priscilla knew from previous Sundays, would doze while he spoke, but the majority would listen. Like Pastor Sempert, Père Tellier was respected by the community, and his words bore far more weight than ordinary citizens’.
Priscilla looked at the man who’d raised her hopes for reuniting the town. Was it her imagination that he stood there silently for longer than normal, as if he were assessing his parishioners’ moods? But when he spoke, Priscilla tried to swallow her disappointment. It appeared she’d been mistaken in thinking he and Pastor Sempert would use their sermons to promote harmony.
“Today’s sermon is based on the gospel of Matthew, chapter 7, verses 16 through 20.” The minister paused, then began to read from his Bible. “‘Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire. Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.’” Père Tellier paused, his eyes once again moving slowly from the first to the last pew.
Priscilla recognized the passage and wondered what his message would be. Though Pastor Sempert sometimes used obscure references, Père Tellier did not. Priscilla took a quick breath when she realized that Pastor Sempert might have chosen this, that it might have a connection to Isabelle and Gunther.
“Our Lord was speaking of false prophets,” Père Tellier continued, “but his words apply to each one of us in our daily lives.” Priscilla nodded. That sounded like something Pastor Sempert would have said. Père Tellier kept his eyes focused on his congregation. “How do we judge our fellow men? Do we consider their fruits, the things they have accomplished, the deeds they’ve done, or do we measure them by other standards?”
He paused again, letting his questions ring throughout the church. Priscilla saw several people fidget, as if they were uncomfortable with the minister’s words. Her heart soared when she realized that Père Tellier was being a true shepherd, leading the flock in the direction he had chosen, using his words and the Lord’s as a shepherd would his crook.
“Do we judge men as more or less worthy because of the color of their hair or the language they speak?” Père Tellier lifted his Bible and held it so all could see the pages. “You heard our Lord’s words. I ask you, are hair color and language the fruits our Lord meant, or are they nothing more than outer trappings?” The fidgeting grew worse. Priscilla saw several people lower their heads, though whether in shame or prayer she did not know.
“My children, God has brought us here to a new country. He has blessed us with health and prosperity. How do we thank him? Do we follow his commandments? Do we seek to live a life that shows the world we are disciples of Christ? Or do we come here each Sunday and make promises that are no more than empty words?” Though Père Tellier’s voice had risen, he lowered it to little more than a whisper as he said, “I ask you to look deep inside your hearts. Are you judging each other—even those who are not members of this congregation—by their fruits or by something else, something contrary to our Lord’s commandments?”
He was silent for a long moment, letting his words penetrate his parishioners’ hearts. “In the very same chapter of Matthew, verses 1 and 2, our Lord says, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.’” The minister folded his hands as he looked at his flock. “Search your hearts, and if you have wronged another through your judgment, today is the day to make amends. Today is the Lord’s day. Let us use it to do his will.”
The church was silent as Père Tellier ended his sermon. Instead of immediately announcing the final hymn, he said nothing, merely stood in the pulpit, his head bowed in prayer. Two rows in front of Priscilla, Yvonne turned to Neville, and there was no mistaking the tears that coursed down her cheeks.
Thank you, Lord, for opening her heart.
There was a rustle further forward. Priscilla’s eyes widened as Isabelle’s father stood and made his way to the front of the church. When he turned to face the congregation, he appeared to have aged a dozen years.
“In anger, I told Mr. Webster that only a sign from God could change my mind. I did not want such a sign, but today Père Tellier has given it. He is right.” Monsieur Rousseau’s voice was little more than a whisper. Clearing his throat, he spoke again, more loudly this time. “I have counted myself a righteous man. I come to church each Sunday. I read the Bible every day, but I have failed my Lord. I have judged a man—many men and women—by things that are unimportant. I’ve measured them by their surnames, the church they attend, the language they speak.”
As Monsieur Rousseau’s face contorted with pain, Priscilla heard Zach’s intake of breath, and he whispered, “Thank you, Lord.”
Isabelle’s father straightened his shoulders as he looked out at the congregation. “I have been the worst of hypocrites. I was happy to have Ladreville’s German citizens come into my store. Their money was as good as anyone’s. But when a man—an honorable man—asked for my daughter’s hand in marriage, I refused him for the simple reason that he was a German.”
He closed his eyes for a second, perhaps in an attempt to fight back tears. When he regained his composure, he said, “I was wrong. I will ask his forgiveness as I will beg for my Lord’s. Now I ask for yours. If my words and deeds have led you to consider our German brothers and sisters less worthy than us, I was wrong. Please forgive me.” He looked at the pew where his wife, daughter, and son were seated. “Gunther Lehman is a good man. If he will forgive me, I will be honored to call him my son-in-law.”
A second later, Isabelle was at her father’s side. Though tears were streaming down her face as she wrapped her arms around him and led him back to their pew, everyone in the church heard her say, “I love you, Papa.”
“I won’t call it a miracle,” Clay said an hour later as Martina served Sunday dinner at the Bar C, “but it came close.”
Priscilla laid down her fork. Though the roast chicken and sweet potatoes were delicious, what Clay was saying was more important than any food. He confirmed what Priscilla had surmised, that Pastor Sempert’s sermon was similar to Père Tellier’s.
“The men who’d been the most outspoken in their criticism of Gunther surrounded him when the service was over,” Clay continued. “I saw some pretty sheepish faces.”
“The same thing happened to Isabelle,” Priscilla told her friends. “I was so happy when I saw Yvonne hug her that I wanted to shout ‘hallelujah.’” Père Tellier’s sermon had been the most powerful one Priscilla had ever heard, leaving no doubt that God had directed his words.
Sarah handed her sister another biscuit. “Today has been an answer to prayer.”
Zach raised one of his brows as he looked from Priscilla to Sarah, his expression appraising. “I guess this means you ladies consider your matchmaking a success.”
At the far end of the table, Clay’s father made a sound that was suspiciously like a chuckle. When Sarah nodded, Clay’s lips quirked in a grin. It appeared he shared his father’s amusement. “Zach, my friend, I have some bad news for you. If you think they’re retiring, you don’t know women very well. Sarah and Priscilla will find another set of victims.”
“Victims?” Priscilla feigned indignation. What joy it was, laughing with friends on a beautiful day. The sun was out in all its glory, and God had opened the townspeople’s hearts. What more could anyone ask? “That’s a horrible way to describe Gunther and Isabelle. They’re not victims. Why, I doubt there’s anyone in Ladreville who’s happier than they are today.”
Sarah looked up from the biscuit she was buttering, and her eyes sparkled. “Clay and I might challenge them for that honor.” She gave her husband a smile of pure happiness before she said, “We have some good news. We’re expecting a baby.”
A baby. Priscilla pushed a stab of envy aside. If anyone deserved happiness it was Sarah and Clay. Besides, it wasn’t their fault that she was childless. She could have a baby of her own, if only . . . Taking a deep breath, Priscilla tamped down the memories that even now had the power to roil her stomach. “That’s wonderful.” She rose and hugged Sarah, then flashed Clay a bright smile. “When is the baby due?”
“October.” It was Sarah who answered. “I expect you to deliver it.”
Priscilla gave her another hug. “I’m so happy for you.” And she was. Truly. She’d had her chance at motherhood. Now her mission was to help other women’s babies be born.
“Me going to have baby to play with,” Thea announced.
“You are, indeed.” Priscilla nodded at the little girl who’d welcomed her into her heart the first day she’d come to La-dreville. “Sarah will need your help.”
“Me know. Me and Papa Clay help with the baby.” For the second time Clay’s father chuckled.
As Priscilla took another bite of chicken, she watched Zach clap Clay on the shoulder. “Congratulations. You’ll be a great father.”
“So will you. Your turn is coming.”
Though Zach looked away quickly, Priscilla saw the discomfort on his face. Had he lied when he said that he didn’t need children? It appeared he had regrets, deep regrets.
