Scattered Petals (5 page)

The flicker of warmth turned into a flame, engulfing Priscilla’s heart. She had been wrong when she’d told Sarah that everything had been taken from her. Thea’s gesture and her simple words had accomplished what nothing else had been able to. They’d shown her she was not alone. Perhaps God had not abandoned her. Perhaps he had sent this child to comfort her.

3

“Ladre! Get over here!”

Jean-Michel scowled. Albert Monroe was the second most disgusting person in the state of Texas, maybe even in the whole United States of America. Just because he was an empresario, just because he had more money than any one man deserved, he thought he could order Jean-Michel around. Why, the man treated him like little more than a slave. It seemed that no matter where Jean-Michel went, Monroe was watching. It was almost as if he knew Jean-Michel was looking for a way to escape, but that couldn’t be. Monroe wasn’t that smart. No one was as smart as Jean-Michel Ladre.

“Ladre!”

“Yes, sir.” Jean-Michel bowed slightly. The man was so stupid, he wouldn’t realize he was being mocked.

“Nelson told me you failed to load your share of bales yesterday. Your father will not be happy when he learns that your pay is being docked.”

“No, sir, he won’t.” Papa would fume and Mama would cry when they learned that their son was not a model worker. So what? It wasn’t his idea to be a common laborer. Jean-Michel was as close to royalty as the town of Ladreville had. All his life he’d been reminded that if it weren’t for Papa, there would be no Ladreville, Texas, and that he, Jean-Michel, was an important person. So what if he’d stolen a few things? Papa would never have found out. He was as dumb as Albert Monroe. If it hadn’t been for Zach Webster, Jean-Michel would still be in Ladreville. Maybe he’d even be married to Isabelle.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Jean-Michel looked at Monroe. “Yes, sir.” It wouldn’t happen again. Jean-Michel didn’t give a hoot about cotton. Why should he care that his wages were docked when he didn’t see a single penny? Everything he earned was sent back to Ladreville. Restitution, Papa had called it. Robbery was more like it. Those days would soon end. He’d find a way to escape, and when he did, Zach Webster had better beware.

Papa would never have believed Clay. He hated the man almost as much as Jean-Michel did, but Zach was different. For some reason, Papa had trusted him. He’d believed Zach’s lies, and because he had, he’d sent Jean-Michel into exile. That wouldn’t happen again. When Jean-Michel was done, no one would listen to Zach Webster. His days were numbered.

Priscilla awoke, disoriented. The sheets that tangled around her limbs were soft, so different from hotel bedclothes, that for an instant she thought she was at home, but the sweet scent in the air was unfamiliar, almost exotic. Priscilla forced her eyes open, searching for a clue to her whereabouts. Though the room was dark, a faint light sneaking under the door revealed the outline of furniture. Nothing looked familiar. A large bureau. A table and chairs. Perhaps she was still dreaming.

The sound of voices drifted into the room. At first they were muted, a man and a woman speaking of something, their words indistinguishable. As the man raised his voice slightly, memories rushed through Priscilla.
No! Please, no!
She squeezed her eyes closed in a futile attempt to keep the images at bay, but they washed over her like waves after a storm. The sight of bandits brandishing pistols, the stench of Zeke’s breath, the grip of his hands on her body, the soft thuds as the Ranger filled the graves. The memories were indelibly etched inside her head.

Priscilla sat upright and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to quell the trembling. She was safe now. That was Clay’s voice she heard. She was on his ranch. No one would hurt her here. Priscilla whispered the words aloud. Perhaps if she voiced them, if her ears heard them, she would believe them.

When her teeth began to chatter, Priscilla clenched her jaw. This wasn’t working. Thrusting her arms into the dressing gown Sarah had given her, she picked her way to the window and drew back the curtains. Her room, she remembered, was situated on the front of the house, its windows opening onto the porch. She looked outside, wondering where Clay and Sarah were that she heard their voices. Perhaps they were walking close by.

Priscilla gasped. Clay was sitting on the porch swing, his arm around Sarah. As memories of Zeke’s arms and their punishing strength assailed her, Priscilla gripped the windowsill, forcing herself to breathe deeply. An engaged couple often touched each other, she reminded herself. Their touches were gentle and loving, not harsh and hateful. Clay wasn’t hurting Sarah. He wasn’t like Zeke. He wouldn’t force himself on a woman. Though Priscilla’s mind knew all that, her heart continued to tremble with fear.

“We’ll postpone the wedding until she’s recovered.” Sarah’s words rang clearly in the night.

As Clay drew his fiancée closer, Priscilla shuddered again. She should draw the curtain, return to bed, and pretend she had heard none of this. But she stood there, frozen, as Clay said, “As much as I hate the idea of waiting, I know you’re right. Those bruises will take a few weeks to heal.”

It was worse than she’d thought. Nothing was private. Priscilla cringed at the realization that, though she had said nothing at the time, Sarah had told Clay of the damage the bandit’s fists had inflicted.

“Spoken like a doctor.” There was a hint of amusement in Sarah’s voice. “The bruises aren’t what concern me. I’m more worried about the invisible wounds. As horrible as it was for me to find Mama and Papa’s bodies, what Priscilla endured was much worse. She saw her parents being killed and then . . .” Sarah’s words trailed off.

“I don’t want to think about it either,” Clay admitted. “There are some things that are unspeakable, and what happened to Priscilla is one of them.” He pressed a kiss on Sarah’s head, and this time the gesture did not horrify Priscilla, for she had erected a barrier between herself and the rest of the world, just as she had when she’d ridden behind the Ranger. Though her body had been on the palomino he called Snip, her spirit had been miles away in a place where no one could find her.

Priscilla heard Clay chuckle. “My sweet Sarah, once again you’re right. We’ll postpone our wedding indefinitely.”

As his words registered, the barrier Priscilla had constructed shattered. They couldn’t do that! Heedless of her dishabille, she raised the window and leaned out. “No, you mustn’t wait.”

Both Sarah and Clay turned abruptly, the moonlight revealing Sarah’s shock. “Oh, Priscilla,” she said as she rose from the swing and walked toward the window, “I’m sorry we woke you. I hadn’t realized we were so loud.”

Clay followed a pace behind her, his expression filled with concern. Priscilla tightened her grip on the window as she realized that, far from alleviating her friends’ worries, she had augmented them.

“You slept through supper,” Sarah said when she reached the window. “Would you like me to bring you some food?”

“No.” Hunger was the last thing on Priscilla’s mind. “I’m sorry to have eavesdropped, but you mustn’t delay your wedding.”

Sarah gave Clay a quick look before she said firmly, “We’ve already decided.”

“Then undecide. I don’t want you to disrupt your lives because of me.”

The corners of Clay’s mouth turned up, and Priscilla thought she saw grudging respect in his eyes. That was better—infinitely better—than pity. “You sound like Sarah when she first arrived,” he told Priscilla. “She kept saying she didn’t want to be a burden.”

“He wouldn’t listen to me,” Sarah warned, “so I doubt you’ll be any more successful. When Clay makes up his mind, he rarely changes it.”

This time would be different. Priscilla leaned her arms on the windowsill, hoping the position and the relative darkness would camouflage the way she was trembling. “You must listen to me. Don’t you see? If you change your plans, the bandits will have won again. They’ve already done too much damage. We can’t give them any more power over us.” Wasn’t it bad enough, knowing that if she hadn’t been so insistent on attending Clay’s wedding, her parents would still be alive? Priscilla could not undo that, but she could keep Sarah and Clay from suffering because of her.

Clay shook his head. “It’s too soon. I owe your parents a formal mourning period.”

Priscilla shuddered at the thought of black clothing and all the other trappings of mourning. “They wouldn’t have wanted it. You know that, Clay.” Though Mama was traditional about most things, she had frequently deplored the refusal to lead a normal life after a loved one’s death. “They wanted you to be happy.”

“Still . . .”

Priscilla turned toward his fiancée. “Convince him, Sarah. If you can’t, send in Thea. She seems to be a master at getting her way.”

“Don’t remind me.” A groan accompanied Clay’s words. Priscilla chose to interpret it as acquiescence.

“Then it’s settled. You’ll be married on December 28, just the way you planned.”

Sarah whispered something to Clay. When he nodded, she said, “All right. We won’t change the date, but we’ll wait a while before we take our wedding trip.”

“That’s not necessary.”

Sarah smiled. “Don’t forget that if we go away, you’ll be responsible for Thea.” Mama had been ecstatic at the idea of caring for a small child while Sarah and Clay honeymooned and had had no reservations when Clay had asked if she and Papa and Priscilla could extend their visit long enough to help him and Sarah.

Sarah’s lips quirked up again. “Be careful, Priscilla. As you reminded us, Thea is quite a handful. You may not want us to leave you alone with her, at least not for a while.”

Priscilla nodded. “You win.”

“She always does.” Clay gave his bride-to-be a fond look.

The next time Priscilla wakened, the sun was high and her stomach was rumbling. She dressed hurriedly, then walked to the kitchen where Martina greeted her with a warm smile.

“I reckon you’re hungry,” the older woman said when she’d asked how Priscilla liked her eggs cooked. “You slept like . . .” She bit off her words, as if she realized that Priscilla might not appreciate the traditional ending to that phrase.
The dead.
Martina had no way of knowing that words did not hurt. It was only memories that were painful, memories and this horrible feeling of emptiness, knowing she would never see Mama and Papa again.

She would not dwell on those thoughts, Priscilla had resolved when she woke. When she was a child, her parents had nicknamed her Sunny Cilla. Though she didn’t feel particularly sunny today, Priscilla would do her best to live up to their expectations.

She took a seat at the small table while Martina cracked eggs into a bowl. “I can’t recall ever sleeping so much.” Mercifully, she had had only one nightmare.

“Most likely you never rode for so many hours. I heard the Ranger set a fierce pace.”

“He did.” But Priscilla had not complained. Each hour in the saddle meant more miles between her and the Dunkler brothers. “Where is the Ranger? I want to thank him for all that he did.”

When she’d poured the eggs into a large skillet, Martina plunked a cup of coffee in front of Priscilla. “He’s long gone. I heard him tell Clay he needed to find them others before the trail got cold.”

“What about Sarah?” Priscilla had heard no sounds this morning other than those emerging from the kitchen.

“She’s off to school. I reckon you know she’s the schoolmarm.” Martina chuckled as she scrambled the eggs. “Little Miss Thea didn’t want to go with her, not one bit. She near to threw a tantrum.”

“I can imagine.” Though adorable, the girl appeared headstrong. That wasn’t altogether bad. Priscilla thought that if she had a daughter, she’d like her to have Thea’s kindness and her independence. But that, she reminded herself as she took a sip of coffee, would never happen. The bandits had killed her dream of marriage and children as surely as they had shot Mama and Papa. Even if the horror faded and one day she could bear the thought of a man’s touch, marriage was unlikely. No man would want Priscilla now that she was used goods.

Martina pulled a platter of bacon from the oven and placed several strips on the plate next to the eggs and toast. “Eat up,” she urged Priscilla. “I’ll fetch more coffee for you.”

Priscilla was chewing a bite of eggs that looked delicious but oddly had no taste when she heard the clank of metal and Martina’s cry of pain. Somehow the older woman had dropped the coffee pot, spilling hot liquid over her hand.