Scattered Petals (27 page)
Priscilla frowned. According to Granny, Frau Lamar’s labors were always long and difficult. That meant Priscilla would be on her own.
Help me, Lord
, she prayed as Neville drove the buggy into town.
Show me what to do. Help me save Yvonne’s baby.
When they reached the house, Priscilla found Yvonne lying on her bed, writhing in pain. Neville took one look at his wife and grabbed the doorframe. “Oh, honey,” he said, his voice so faint that Priscilla feared he would topple over, leaving her with two patients.
“I’m scared,” Yvonne admitted when Neville had accepted Priscilla’s suggestion that he would be of more use if he remained in the parlor. “I’m afraid something is wrong with the baby.” It was a measure of Yvonne’s distress that she did not elaborate. The normally garrulous woman was uncharacteristically silent.
“It may not be that at all.” Perhaps something Yvonne had eaten wasn’t agreeing with her. But as she described the symptoms and showed Priscilla where the pain was centered, Priscilla knew this was much more than an upset stomach. Though it was far too soon, Yvonne was in labor.
“It’s the baby, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so.” Papa had told her that a five month baby had little hope of survival. It would take a miracle to save Yvonne’s child.
Help me be that miracle,
Priscilla prayed.
Let this baby live.
Though Priscilla tried everything she knew, her prayer was not answered.
Why, Lord, why?
she asked when it became apparent that the labor would not cease. There was no answer. Yvonne’s baby was tiny and perfect and stillborn.
Priscilla began to sob. It had been horrible, losing her baby, but somehow watching a friend endure the same pain was worse.
Why, Lord?
Though she did not expect an answer, deep inside her heart Priscilla heard a voice say,
Yvonne needs you.
She looked down and saw blood gushing. Brushing aside her tears, Priscilla began to work. Yvonne would not die. She would not spend weeks recovering from the loss of blood. Priscilla might not have been able to save the baby, but she could save her friend.
Half an hour later, when the bleeding had been staunched, she helped Yvonne into a clean nightdress. “Let me call Neville,” she said when she’d brushed Yvonne’s hair and rebraided it.
“No. I’m not ready to see him.” Tears streamed down Yvonne’s cheeks as she cradled her baby. “Why did God do this to me?”
Her words wrenched Priscilla’s heart as they brought back memories of the first few days after she’d lost her baby. She had asked the same question over and over again. “I don’t know, any more than I know why he let my baby die.” If that had been part of his plan—and it seemed that it was— Priscilla doubted she’d ever understand why he’d let her suffer so. The Bible claimed that God will turn everything to good for his believers and that suffering has a purpose. What purpose could there possibly be for a child’s death?
“How did you survive?” Yvonne asked. “I want to die so I can be with my baby.” She looked down at the tiny form that had never taken a breath on its own. “I want to die.”
Priscilla closed her eyes.
Please, God, give me the words to comfort her.
“Let me die.”
“I know how you feel.” In those first days, it had seemed there was no reason to continue living. One rainy morning when even the sun had deserted her, Priscilla had considered ending her life, but as she reached for the glass, intending to break it and use the sharp edge to cut her wrists, she remembered Zach saying there had been too much killing. He had struggled with despair and had conquered it. If he hadn’t, there would have been no one to help Clay’s father walk, no one to marry Priscilla when she needed protection. How could she make a mockery of Zach’s gift?
“Death is not the answer.” Priscilla shook her head and placed a hand on Yvonne’s shoulder. “What would Neville do without you? He needs you.”
“How could he need me?” Yvonne began to sob again. “I failed him. I lost our baby.”
Gently Priscilla took the lifeless body from her friend. “You didn’t fail Neville,” she said softly. “This happened.” She laid the child in the cradle Yvonne had prepared for it. “Bad things happen. I don’t know why they do. All I know is that we cannot give up. We cannot throw away the gift of life.”
“But what do I tell Neville?”
Priscilla was silent for a moment, searching for an answer that would help her friend. At last she said, “Tell him you love him and you need him.”
Yvonne gripped Priscilla’s hand. When she looked up, though her eyes were filled with sorrow, the despair was gone. “You’re right, Priscilla. I do love Neville, and I need him to help me bear this.” Yvonne brushed the tears from her face and looked at the door, as if expecting her husband to step through it. “Please call Neville.”
The danger had passed.
As Priscilla gathered her bag and prepared to leave, her heart was lighter than it had been in months. She mourned her baby; she always would, but for the first time since that horrible day, she realized that her suffering had not been in vain. More than Granny Menger, perhaps more than anyone in Ladreville, Priscilla knew what Yvonne was feeling, and that had given her the wisdom to help her friend.
Was this your plan, dear Lord?
There was no answer, nothing but the warmth inside her heart. That was all the answer she needed.
“Look, Zach.” Michel Ladre didn’t bother to hide his exasperation. “I know Gunther is your friend. I like the man myself. He’s a mighty fine miller. I’d help him if I could, but the truth is, I’ve got my own problems to worry about.”
If he could redo the last fifteen minutes, Zach would not have entered the mayor’s office. Ever since their last encounter, he had been concerned about Michel, and that concern had only increased when he’d heard that neither Michel nor his wife had been seen for over a week. Today the normally friendly man was visibly distraught, pacing the floor rather than sitting behind the massive desk, and he’d spent the last quarter hour ranting about the lies that Ranger Lawrence Wood and others had spread. Though he had steadfastly refused to discuss the nature of those lies, at length Michel strode to his desk and picked up a stiff sheet of paper.
“How am I supposed to hang this in the post office?” he demanded. “I know it can’t be true, but what will people think?” He tossed the poster to Zach.
Zach gulped, unsure what he could say. Even if he hadn’t recognized the picture, the man’s name was printed in large, bold letters. “Jean-Michel Ladre, wanted for murder, dead or alive.” Unlike Michel, Zach harbored no illusions about Jean-Michel. He was a troubled young man who considered himself above the law. Indulged by both parents, he had turned to petty crime as a diversion. But murder? Zach read the fine print. According to it, in addition to stealing from the empresario, Jean-Michel had killed a man named Tom Fayette. That was a far more serious crime than he had expected.
Michel didn’t appear to notice Zach’s silence. “I can’t do it.” He grabbed the poster from Zach and crumpled it. “Jeannette would be humiliated if people thought our son killed a man. I can’t do that to my wife.”
“It could be a mistake.”
“The mistake was sending him to Houston last year. I should have kept him right here. I could have locked him up here.”
Zach’s head swiveled toward the town’s only jail cell. “Where everyone in town would know about it, and anyone who came inside could see him? How would that help your wife?”
Michel blanched. “You’re right. That would have been worse. I tell you, Zach, don’t ever have children. They bring nothing but heartache.”
As he left the mayor’s office, Zach told himself that children were not a subject he wanted to contemplate. It was more pleasant to think about Priscilla, for she seemed happier each day. There was no doubt that working with Granny Menger had been good for her. Zach had rejoiced with her when she’d recounted her role in the birth of Leah Dunn’s son, and she’d brought tears to his eyes when she’d told him of her experience with Yvonne Beauvais. The healing that he’d prayed for was occurring, but still there was a sadness in Priscilla’s eyes, a sadness he wanted to erase.
Zach greeted three men who were heading for the post office, but all the while that he listened to their tales of spring planting, part of his mind remained focused on Priscilla. There must be something he could do for her. When the men proceeded up the steps, Zach snapped his fingers. A present. That was the answer. He would give Priscilla something more than flowers that shed their petals the instant they were indoors.
Zach started toward the mercantile, then turned abruptly as he changed his mind. It was true he could buy something new and she’d be pleased, but perhaps he could do more than that. He hadn’t been able to forget the day he’d found Priscilla crying about her lost locket. Though she’d admitted it was foolish to weep over a piece of jewelry, the locket obviously meant a great deal to her.
Zach’s thoughts whirled. The Dunkler brothers wouldn’t have had any reason to keep it. As far as Zach knew, neither Chet nor Jake had a wife or a sweetheart. In all likelihood, they had sold the locket along with Priscilla’s parents’ jewelry. And if they’d sold it, there must be a way to find it. Zach suspected it wouldn’t be easy, but he’d long since realized that the best things were not. He had to try. But first there was one more thing he had to do. Resolutely, he entered the mercantile.
“Is your father available?” Though Isabelle smiled when Zach opened the door, the smile did not reach her eyes, and the shadows beneath them bore witness to sleepless nights. Zach took a deep breath as he tried to slow his pulse. No matter how his words were received, he was right to have come. He couldn’t let the situation continue without trying to change it.
Following Isabelle’s directions, Zach climbed the stairs and entered the Rousseau residence. The man he sought was sitting behind a small desk, apparently working on his accounts.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rousseau.” Zach chose the address carefully, wanting to remind Isabelle’s father that he was in America now.
The Frenchman looked up, his dark eyes hostile. “If you’ve come about Gunther, don’t waste your breath. Nothing will change my mind.”
There had to be something. Though it had not been offered, Zach took the seat on the opposite side of the desk. “I know you love your daughter.”
Mr. Rousseau inclined his head. “That is precisely the reason I will not permit her to ruin her life. She will marry the man I choose, or she will not marry at all.” He placed his hands on the desk and steepled his fingers. “You have no children yet, so you cannot pretend to understand how I feel.”
“That is true.” Zach wouldn’t deny that he was on shaky ground where parenthood was concerned, but he did know how adults felt. “There’s been some ugly talk in town. People are threatening Gunther, and they’re claiming you’re behind it.”
The older man’s lips thinned. “A man does what he must to protect his family.”
“Even when an innocent man might be harmed? Even when anyone can see that your daughter is miserable? I don’t understand how you can call yourself a Christian and yet justify such acts.”
His face flushed with anger, Isabelle’s father rose. “Get out of here.” He pointed at the door. “You have overstepped your bounds.”
Zach picked up his hat. When he reached the door, he turned. “What will it take to change your mind?”
“A sign from God.”
That was something Zach could not provide. Though his heart was heavy, thinking of Gunther and Isabelle’s plight, he had done what little he could. Now it was time to help Priscilla.
That night at supper he said as casually as he could, “I’ve been putting it off, but I need to ride the range.” That wasn’t a lie. It simply wasn’t what he was going to do for the next few days. “I’ll be back as soon as I can, but it might take a week.” A week of hard riding, long hours in the saddle, and only minutes of sleep. A wiser man would have planned a more leisurely journey, but Zach didn’t want to leave Priscilla alone any longer than absolutely necessary, for he knew that she found life on the Lazy B lonely.
She looked at him, those pretty green eyes widening with surprise. “Oh!” For a few seconds, though she said nothing else, Zach sensed that she was going to ask him to remain. What would he do? The dilemma resolved itself, for she cleared her throat and asked what she could prepare for him. It was only the next morning when he was loading the saddlebags that Priscilla’s smile faltered. “Stay safe, Zach,” she said softly. “I’ll miss you.”
Jean-Michel punched the saddle. He did not care what anyone said. A saddle did not make a good pillow. Oh, it was better than a rock, but then, anything was better than a rock. He supposed some men—like those despicable Rangers—thought they were living well when they wrapped themselves in a horse blanket and laid their heads on their saddles. Jean-Michel did not. He knew what living well meant, and soon—very soon—he would be doing exactly that.
In three days he’d be there. If everything went as planned, by the end of the week all would be complete. Zach Webster would be dead, and Isabelle would be his bride. Jean-Michel grinned, thinking about his wedding day. Revenge and a beautiful wife. What more could a man want? But first he had to get to Ladreville.
He turned, trying to find a comfortable position. Curse those Rangers! They were the reason he was forced to sleep outside. He’d heard they were after him. They were probably the ones who’d put out that “Wanted” poster. So what? They’d never catch him. He was smarter than all of them put together. They didn’t have a chance of finding Jean-Michel Ladre. No, sirree.
He turned again, filling the air with curses as a rock dug into his shoulder. A man of his stature should not sleep on the ground. And he wouldn’t, once he got to Ladreville. He had it all planned. The first thing to do was kill Zach. Though his finger itched to pull the trigger, he knew it wouldn’t be that simple. He had to find the right time and place. That meant taking a couple days to watch Zach and learn his patterns. Only a stupid man would risk killing him when others were around. Jean-Michel was not a stupid man. He knew what he had to do, and when he’d done it, he’d have his prize: Isabelle. He’d whisk her away from Ladreville and give her the life they both deserved, a life that would never again include sleeping on the ground.
As a light drizzle began to fall, Jean-Michel cursed again. Hard ground, rocks, and rain. It wasn’t fair. Once he reached Ladreville, he would find a place to hide out, and you could bet your last dollar that that place would have a soft bed. It was a pity he couldn’t go home. He had a mighty comfortable bed there, and the food was a sight better than anything he’d had since he left Houston. Home would be good. His mother would hide him. Jean-Michel knew that. The problem was, he wasn’t sure about his father. After all, Papa was the one who’d sent him to Houston. Nope, he couldn’t trust him. But there had to be a warm, dry, comfortable place to stay. He’d find it.
Jean-Michel pulled the blanket over his head, and as he did, he recalled all that had happened the night he’d been caught. It hadn’t been just his life that had changed. Though the reasons were different, one of his friends had also left Ladreville that night. Jean-Michel grinned. That was the answer. The Lazy B would be empty. Perfect!
It was not a good day in Ladreville. Cold drizzle was falling, fraying people’s tempers, and two normally friendly women had practically snarled at her when she’d greeted them with a smile. Priscilla couldn’t help smiling. She was so happy that she felt as if her joy would bubble over. What a wonderful day it had been! When she’d reached the Samourins’ home, a quick examination had told her it would be a difficult morning, for the baby was in the wrong position. Though Granny Menger had explained what to do with a breech birth, Priscilla’s hands had shaken throughout the delivery, and she’d murmured silent prayers for both the mother and the baby’s safety. Her prayers had been answered, for Annette Samourin was now basking in her husband’s smile as she cradled their newborn son.
Her work done, Priscilla had left the Samourins’ house, eager to return home and share the news with Zach. He would understand. He would take pleasure in her success. But Zach wasn’t there. Priscilla’s smile faded slightly as she realized how much she missed him. The house felt empty, not just in the evenings, which he normally spent with her, but all the time. And it wasn’t only the house. Somehow, her whole life seemed empty without him to share it. Though he figured in her dreams almost every night and was in her thoughts all day long, that wasn’t the same as being able to talk to him. With Zach out riding the range, Priscilla’s life lost much of its color, becoming as gray as this morning’s sky, but not even that could quench the joy she felt over the Samourin baby’s birth. There must be someone she could tell about Ladreville’s newest resident.
Priscilla looked down the street, her eyes resting on the mercantile. Slowly, she shook her head. Though Isabelle was a dear friend, she was so caught up in her own problems that she wouldn’t understand what Annette Samourin’s safe delivery meant to Priscilla. Yvonne would understand, but it would be cruel to tell her, for she was still recovering from the loss of her baby. Sarah couldn’t be disturbed while she was teaching. Granny Menger was attending a delivery of her own and wasn’t expected back until tonight.
Priscilla tried to swallow her disappointment. She’d go home, fix herself a cup of hot tea, and tonight she’d ride to the Bar C to tell Sarah. Though it wouldn’t be the same as sharing her elation now, it would have to do.
She was passing the French church when a black-robed figure hurried from the parsonage. He wore no hat, carried no umbrella, and seemed oblivious to the rain. Bemused, Priscilla wondered which of his parishioners had summoned Père Tellier. To her surprise, he stopped in front of her. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Webster.” The minister’s eyes flitted over her face, as if he were looking for something. “Were you seeking me?”
There was something so eager about his expression that Priscilla hated to disappoint him. Rather than lie, she said, “Not really.”
He tipped his head to one side, reminding her of a bird studying the ground. “That’s odd. I had the strongest feeling that you needed me.” He gestured toward the parsonage. “Come inside where it’s warm and dry. Madame LeBrun has made fresh coffee, and I’m certain I smelled pastries baking.”
The rumbling of her stomach reminded Priscilla that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Perhaps Père Tellier was right. Perhaps she had been seeking him, though not consciously. She had wanted to share her news with someone, and though he wasn’t a close friend, Père Tellier would understand what she was about to tell him. “I just delivered Madame Samourin’s baby,” she said when she was seated in the parsonage’s main room, a cup of steaming coffee and a freshly baked pastry in front of her.
As the minister had promised, the parsonage was warm and dry, although devoid of embellishments. No rug covered the wooden floor, and the chairs were mismatched. Remembering the elegance of the French church, Priscilla was surprised by the almost Spartan environment of Père Tellier’s home.
“Are Madame Samourin and the child all right?” The young pastor’s eyes sought Priscilla’s for confirmation.
“Oh yes, Father. It was a difficult birth, but they’re both healthy, and Monsieur Samourin is proud as can be.”
Père Tellier bowed his head. “Thank you, Lord, for bringing us a new soul, and thank you for leading Mrs. Webster to us. The town is blessed to have her.”
“It is I who am blessed to be here,” Priscilla said when the pastor had completed his prayer. “I didn’t expect it, but I feel more at home in Ladreville than I ever did in Boston. I have friends here, and helping Granny Menger is very fulfilling. My life would be perfect if only . . .” Rather than complete her sentence, Priscilla picked up her cup.
When her words trailed off, Père Tellier prompted her. “If only what?”
She hadn’t meant to speak of Isabelle and Gunther, and yet she couldn’t stop now. “If only the town weren’t so divided.”
He nodded. “I assume you’re speaking of Mademoiselle Rousseau and Herr Lehman.”
“Yes.” Priscilla took another sip of the rich coffee. “I believe God means them to be together, but the town is keeping them apart.”
Père Tellier chewed his pastry slowly, apparently lost in thought. “I know them both well. Isabelle, of course, is one of my parishioners, but I visit Gunther occasionally.” The pastor looked at Priscilla, his eyes twinkling. Before he spoke again, he glanced down at the plate of pastries. “Madame LeBrun has already warned me that she will stop baking if he leaves Ladreville. She claims no one else could mill flour as well as he.”
Priscilla smiled. Though she doubted the pastor’s housekeeper would follow through on her threat, it was a positive sign that not all the French townspeople were opposed to Gunther. “Then we both have reasons for wanting him to stay. Gunther’s a fine man, and he’d be a good husband to Isabelle if only he had a chance. Oh, Father, isn’t there something you can do?”
He was silent for a long moment. “I doubt I would have much effect alone, but perhaps if Pastor Sempert and I joined forces, we could do something.” Père Tellier picked up his coffee cup, then placed it back on the saucer. “That’s it,” he said with a smile. “We’ll try.”
Lawrence Wood tried to bite back his disappointment. He’d traveled every street in Ladreville, talking to residents and looking for clues, but there was no doubt about it. Jean-Michel Ladre was not here, and that was difficult to accept. Lawrence’s instincts were rarely wrong, and those instincts had told him a man like Jean-Michel would return to his home. By all accounts, the man who’d turned from petty thievery to murder was a man who liked his creature comforts. Lawrence’s lip curled as he thought of the places he’d tracked Jean-Michel. He certainly hadn’t had many comforts there, but everyone agreed he had been pampered here. That’s why it made sense that he would have returned. Unfortunately for Lawrence, it appeared that he had not. The trail, which had been absurdly easy to follow at the beginning, had ended twenty miles away. It was almost as if Jean-Michel had disappeared. Lawrence mounted his horse. People didn’t disappear. They simply went into hiding. That’s what Jean-Michel had done. The question was, where?
A chill ran down Lawrence’s spine as he thought of the woman who lived on the opposite bank of the river. He gripped the reins, then forced himself to relax. Priscilla was not in danger, at least not from Jean-Michel. The man had never met her. Even if he was over there, he would have no reason to harm her. Besides, it made more sense for Jean-Michel to stay on this side of the river. After all, that’s where his parents and their nice, comfortable life were. Logic said that Lawrence’s quarry would be on this bank of the Medina. Lawrence trusted logic, just as he trusted his instincts. And yet, though he knew it was illogical, he could not dismiss his fear.
A minute later, he was fording the river, heading for the Lazy B. He had to be certain Priscilla was safe.
Zach! Zach was home! The thought ricocheted through Priscilla’s mind as she raced to the door. The sound of hoof-beats served as a siren song, drawing her outside to welcome her husband. She stepped onto the porch, her heart pounding with anticipation, her smile so wide she felt as if her face would split. It would be wonderful to see Zach again, to hear about his week and to tell him of hers. How grateful she was that the waiting was over! It had been less than a week, but it seemed that Zach had been gone far longer than that. And now he was home again.
She squinted, anxious for her first glimpse of her husband, and as she did the elation that had buoyed her drained away. The approaching rider was the Ranger, not Zach. Numb with disappointment, Priscilla took a step forward to greet her visitor.