Scattered Petals (3 page)

“You ready, ma’am?” The Ranger stood at the side of a single wide grave. The fresh mounds of dirt a distance away told her he’d already buried the driver and the bandit. Dimly, Priscilla realized that he’d dug a single grave for her parents. She nodded slowly. It felt right. Mama and Papa might be in a strange land, but they were together.

Priscilla walked to the gravesite, then bent down and laid the reticule near Mama’s hand. A lady, Mama had insisted, never went outdoors without her reticule. She straightened Papa’s hat, which the Ranger had placed on his chest. There was nothing else she could do.

“I’m ready,” she said. With hands that were still shaking, Priscilla opened the Bible and began to read the familiar words. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” When she finished and said a silent prayer, the Ranger reached for his shovel. Unable to watch, Priscilla turned away, trying to block the sound of earth covering her parents.

“Where were you heading, ma’am?” the Ranger asked as he stowed the shovel in the back of the stagecoach.

He was matter-of-fact. She would be too. Papa was right; naught was gained by crying. “My brother-by-marriage was going to meet us in San Antonio and take us to his ranch.” Had it been less than an hour since she’d been eager to reach Ladreville? The thought brought a fresh wave of pain, and Priscilla squeezed her eyes closed to keep the tears from falling.

“Do you recall the name of the ranch?” If the Ranger saw her distress, he ignored it.

She nodded. “The Bar C. It’s just outside a town named Ladreville.”

“I’ve heard of the place. The best thing would be for me to take you all the way there. If we hurry, we can reach the ranch before your brother-in-law leaves for San Antonio.” The Ranger gestured toward his horse. “Let me help you up.”

Priscilla stared, horrified by his proposition. Didn’t he understand that she couldn’t do what he’d suggested? Getting on the horse would mean letting the Ranger touch her. Even worse, once she was mounted, she would have to hold onto him. Priscilla clasped her hands as memories assaulted her. The bandit’s fetid breath. The roughness of his hands. The . . . She forced herself to take a deep breath as she pushed the thoughts aside. There was only one thing to do, only one way to survive. She would ensure that no man ever again came that close to her. She would not get on that horse.

“Ma’am, we need to leave.”

“I can’t.” The Ranger stared at her as if she had lost her mind. Perhaps she had. All she knew was that some things were impossible.
You’re strong, Priscilla. You can do anything you set your mind to.
Unbidden, Papa’s words filled her head, reminding her of the day he’d pronounced them, the day she’d been afraid to strap on a pair of ice skates, lest she break her arm again. With Papa’s encouragement, she had skated that day and had rediscovered the pleasure gliding across the ice could bring.

“All right.” Priscilla stretched out her hand.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Clay Canfield’s grin practically split his face.

Zach looked at the man who’d become his closest friend. Though they both stood six feet tall and had blue eyes, the similarities stopped there. Clay’s hair was blond, not almost black like Zach’s, and anyone who looked at them could tell that Clay was unaccustomed to physical labor, while Zach had been raised outdoors. Clay was highly educated; Zach had far less schooling. Clay was a renowned physician; Zach ran ranches. On the surface, they had little in common, but despite—or perhaps because of—their differences, they had become almost as close as brothers.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Clay repeated the question.

This was clearly a time for discretion. As far as Zach was concerned, it looked like every other carriage he’d seen. Furthermore, he saw no way to determine that the object of Clay’s admiration was female. But Zach knew that uttering either one of those thoughts would not be prudent, particularly when the man who’d hear them was his boss as well as his friend, and so he said only, “Have you given her a name?”

Clay nodded. “Sarah wants to call her Bessie.”

“And whatever Sarah wants, she gets.” Though he had known Clay for only a few months, Zach had been amazed at how loving Sarah had changed Clay. He was a far happier man since Sarah had agreed to be his wife.

Clay’s grin broadened. “Don’t look so smug. You’ll feel the same way when you fall in love.”

He meant well. Zach knew that. He also knew this was not the time for explanations, and so he said lightly, “That day, my friend, will never come.”

“I’ve heard that before, and every time the man was wrong. Your time just hasn’t come, but who knows? Your bride might be arriving in the next few days.”

“What do you mean?” The words came out seemingly of their own volition. Zach certainly hadn’t meant to pronounce them.

“Priscilla.” Clay acted as if the answer should have been apparent. “Sunny Cilla may be just the woman for you. She’s pretty and smart and has a way of making even a rainy day seem bright. That’s why her parents called her Sunny Cilla.” Clay gave Zach an appraising look. “She’d be perfect for you.”

This conversation had lasted long enough. “Is Bessie ready to travel?”

“Indeed she is, and just in time. Tomorrow’s the day we go to San Antonio.” Clay patted Bessie. “You’re ready, aren’t you?”

Zach laughed. What else was he to do? The man was as proud as a new parent, all because he had a carriage.

As a slender brunette emerged from the house, Zach tipped his hat. “I hear you’re responsible for this carriage’s unfortunate name,” he said as Sarah Dobbs, soon to be Sarah Canfield, approached. Though she’d always limp, thanks to a childhood riding accident, Zach was glad to see she had abandoned the cane.

“Am I to infer that you see something odd in giving a carriage a name?” Sarah drew herself up to her full five feet four inches and pretended to glare at Zach as if he were one of her schoolchildren.

“Well, ma’am,” he drawled, feigning ignorance, “I reckon this is the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.”

“Zach Webster, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, mocking a child’s idea.”

“You mean this was Thea’s suggestion?” Zach shot his friend a glance and was mollified when Clay appeared as surprised as he by the notion that Sarah’s young sister had named the carriage. “You let a two-year-old tell you what to do?”

Sarah shrugged. “Why not? She’s very persuasive.”

There was no denying that. The little minx had charmed everyone at the Bar C from Clay’s father to the ranch hands. Zach clapped Clay on the shoulder. “I don’t envy you in another fifteen years. You’ll have your hands full, dealing with Thea’s suitors.”

Clay gave his fiancée a fond glance. “I suspect that’s why Sarah’s marrying me. She wants some help.”

As Zach started to laugh, he heard the sound of an approaching horse. Turning, he saw a palomino with two riders. “You expecting company?” he asked Clay. As far as Zach knew, the visitors were strangers to the area. The man sat tall in the saddle, his gaze vigilant, while an obviously weary woman with reddish blond hair clung to him.

“It can’t be.”

Zach wheeled around at the sound of Clay’s distress. Blood had drained from his friend’s face, leaving him ashen. “Something’s horribly wrong. I don’t know who the man is, but that’s Priscilla with him.”

2

The long, horrible journey was over. This was the place she had longed to see, the place where Patience had spent her final months. Priscilla gazed at the ranch that had figured so heavily in her sister’s letters, trying to see it through Patience’s eyes. The land was not foreboding, as Patience had claimed. Like the countryside Priscilla had traversed for the past day, it was gently rolling with trees that had yet to shed their leaves. It was true that the trees were not the slender birches and stately spruces that had decorated their home in Boston and that prickly pear cactus had not dotted the Mortons’ front yard, but the Bar C had its own kind of beauty. It was less tamed. Some might say it was less civilized, but even as exhausted as she was, Priscilla saw the vitality. This was a new land, a land meant for adventure. Though the horrible emptiness deep inside her told her she had been wrong to have sought this adventure, she would not deny the appeal of Texas and the Bar C.

Priscilla looked at the outbuildings and the paddock Patience had described. They were the same. The house was not. Her sister would not have recognized it, for after the fire, Clay and Sarah rebuilt with adobe rather than lumber, but there was no mistaking the man who stood near what appeared to be a new carriage.

As the Ranger slowed the horse, Priscilla took a deep breath. It would be so good to get down from here. The trip had been more painful than she would admit. Riding astride, which was the only option since the horse had no sidesaddle, had stretched already tender muscles and exacerbated the bruises the bandit had inflicted. But that was over. She had arrived.

Three people stood next to the carriage: two men and a woman. Priscilla would have recognized Clay anywhere, for the tall, blond man looked the same as he had in Boston, other than his deep Texas tan. The petite brunette at his side must be Sarah, and the other man was . . .
No! It can’t be!
Waves of horror washed over Priscilla, and she closed her eyes, trying to blot out the terrible sight. Her eyes must have deceived her. Zeke was dead. The Ranger had buried him. Priscilla opened her eyes, shuddering when a quick glance confirmed what she’d seen before. What was Zeke doing here?

As the Ranger stopped the horse and dismounted, Clay rushed forward, his blue eyes filled with concern. “Priscilla, what happened?” When he raised his arms to help her off the stallion, she began to tremble. It was silly, she told herself. This was Clay, a man she’d known for years. He wouldn’t hurt her. All he was doing was being courteous. Her brain enumerated the reasons she should let him help her. Her heart refused to listen. Priscilla swallowed deeply, trying to fight back the bile that rose to her throat when she thought of a man’s hands on her. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let Clay touch her. The only way she had survived the ride was by telling herself that Lawrence Wood was not a man. He was a Ranger. They were a different breed. Even thousands of miles away in Boston, she had heard of the legendary Texas Rangers. The band of lawmen were so well known for their marksmanship and horsemanship, not to mention their almost unbelievable record of capturing outlaws, that peace-loving Papa had spent several dinner hours recounting the exploits he’d read about in the newspaper. That was why Priscilla had known she could trust Lawrence Wood. He was a Ranger.

The Ranger nodded slowly. “Let me help her.” Though he phrased it as a request, the look he gave Clay brooked no argument. “It’s all right, ma’am.” His voice was soft and soothing, the same tone he’d used since they’d first mounted his horse. “You’re safe here. They’re your family.”

But the black-haired man wasn’t. Once her feet were on the ground, Priscilla darted another look at him. He wasn’t Zeke. She saw that now. This man was taller, his shoulders broader, his features firmer. His brows weren’t bushy like Zeke’s, and his chin had a cleft that Zeke’s had not. Though her mind knew this was not the man who’d hurt her, she could not stop her hands from trembling.

“Priscilla, where are your parents?” Concern colored Clay’s words.

How could she tell him what had happened? She and the Ranger had spoken of trivialities, what they would eat, when they would rest. Not once had he referred to the horror he’d witnessed. And that was good, for it was unspeakable. Still, Clay had to know. Though Priscilla opened her mouth, no sounds emerged.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” Clay turned to the Ranger, his stance as well as the tone of his voice making it clear that he blamed the man for Priscilla’s uncharacteristic silence. The Priscilla he’d known was rarely at a loss for words.

“I’m Lawrence Wood, Texas Ranger. Three bandits attacked Miss Morton’s stagecoach about fifty miles east of San Antonio. There’s no easy way to say this. They killed her parents and . . .” He paused, apparently searching for the correct word. “They . . . er . . . hurt her.”

Clay’s face paled; the dark-haired man clenched his fists. Sarah stepped forward and put her arm around Priscilla’s waist. Though she was four or five inches shorter than Priscilla, it felt as if Sarah were supporting her. “You poor dear. Come with me. I’ll have a nice hot bath drawn for you.”

A hot bath. Brittle laughter spilled from Priscilla’s mouth. “That’s what Mama wanted, a hot bath. Now . . .”

Sarah continued walking, propelling Priscilla toward the ranch house. Despite her decided limp, she kept a steady pace and somehow managed to support Priscilla. Sarah might appear delicate, but appearances were deceptive, for she was strong as well as beautiful. “That’s what every woman wants after a long journey,” Sarah said, her voice low and soothing. “The Ranger must have had you riding night and day to get here so quickly. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

As they entered the low adobe building, Sarah paused to let Priscilla’s eyes adjust to the relative darkness of what was obviously a kitchen. A range flanked by cupboards dominated one wall, while a second boasted a window and a deep sink. The third wall was bare, save for a door. It took a moment for Priscilla to notice the woman working at the table in the far corner. Short and stocky, she had hair and eyes so dark they were almost black. That and her black clothing made her blend into the background.

“I was afraid to sleep,” Priscilla admitted to Sarah. The few times she’d dozed had been unpleasant. “When I do, the dreams come.” They were horrible, replaying all that had happened yesterday, filling her with a terror that was somehow worse than the reality had been. Each time she dreamt, foreboding heightened her fear, for she knew what would happen next. That was part of the reason she had not protested when the Ranger wanted to ride through the night. Being on horseback was so uncomfortable that it made it difficult to sleep.

“I felt the same way after my parents died.” Sarah inclined her head toward the woman who continued to knead bread and made brief introductions, explaining that the other woman was Martina, the one indispensable member of the household. As Martina began to heat water for Priscilla’s bath, Sarah opened the door on the long wall, revealing a room equipped with a large bathtub, a padded bench, and hooks for clothing. “When we rebuilt the house after the fire, I told Clay that even though he and the ranch hands saw no problem in bathing on the porch, Thea and I needed a room inside. A bathroom was one of the few things I missed from our house in Philadelphia.”

Priscilla nodded, remembering that, like her, Sarah had come to Texas from the East. The difference was, Sarah had planned to live here permanently as a mail-order bride, while Priscilla was only visiting.

“Mama would have liked this,” she said, her voice choking at the thought of her mother. “It’s bigger than our bathroom at home.” Home. Tears welled in Priscilla’s eyes as she thought of the three-story red-brick building she had shared with her parents. What would it be like, living there alone? She wouldn’t think of that. Not today.

“Thank you, Martina,” Sarah said as the woman handed her a pile of towels and a fresh bar of soap. When the woman returned to the kitchen, Sarah’s eyes registered a new concern. “I didn’t see any extra saddlebags, so I imagine the Ranger forgot to bring your clothes.”

At the time, Priscilla hadn’t cared, remembering how the men had rifled through the luggage. The thought of donning anything the bandits had touched was abhorrent, but what she had on was even worse. This was what she’d been wearing when . . . Priscilla looked at her travel- and grass-stained skirts and frowned. “I’m afraid this is all I have. We left everything with the stagecoach. The Ranger warned me it would probably be stolen before he could get back there.”

Sarah gave her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll find something.” When Martina returned to dump the first kettle of hot water into the tub, Sarah turned to her. “When you’re done with this, would you ask Zach to ride to the Lazy B? There’s a trunk of Mary’s clothes in the attic. They’ll be a little long for Priscilla, but they’ll fit better than mine. Tell Zach to bring the whole trunk.”

Zeke was here? Priscilla gasped as the memories rushed back, stronger and more painful than ever. Sarah and Clay knew Zeke?

“It’s only until we can have some new clothing made. No one will mind if you wear Mary’s in the meantime, least of all her. When she and her son left Ladreville a few months ago, they didn’t take much with them, and I doubt they’ll be back.”

Priscilla grabbed the edge of the tub to keep from collapsing. Sarah obviously misunderstood the reason for her alarm. “Zeke?” She managed to squeak the word.

“Zach.” Sarah corrected her. “Zach Webster. He’s the dark-haired man you saw outside. Zach is our foreman and Clay’s closest friend.”

Priscilla took a breath, trying to calm her nerves. The stranger was not the same man. She’d already told herself that Zeke Dunkler was dead. Now she reminded herself that Zach Webster would not hurt her. Still, the similarity in appearance and name was troubling.

When Martina emptied the last pot and billows of steam rose from the tub, Priscilla tried to unbutton her dress, but her fingers seemed incapable of following her brain’s commands. “I’m not normally like this.” She frowned at her fumbling fingers.

“I can’t imagine how you feel after all that happened to you.” Like Priscilla, Sarah seemed unwilling to pronounce the ugly word. Sarah took a step closer and deftly unfastened Priscilla’s bodice. “But I do know nothing is the same when your parents die. I walked around in a haze for days afterwards.” Sarah turned her attention to Priscilla’s skirt and soon had it pooling on the floor. “If I hadn’t had Thea to worry about, I might have done that for months.”

As the last of the petticoats joined her skirt, Priscilla removed her chemise and let Sarah help her into the tub. Though she must have seen them, Sarah made no comment on the bruises Zeke had inflicted.

“Tell me about Thea,” Priscilla suggested as she sank into the warm water. It felt good, so very good, to know that every inch of her would be clean. Maybe if she washed away the last traces of the bandit, the memories would disappear along with the dirt.

Sarah began soaping a cloth. “Where do I start? You already know Thea’s my little sister, or—as my parents used to call her—their big surprise. Of course, I can’t call her ‘little’ in her hearing. She’s almost three, and she never fails to tell me that that makes her a big girl.” Furrows appeared between Sarah’s brown eyes. “She was so young when our parents died that sometimes she forgets that I’m her sister, not her mother. As for Clay—she’s always called him ‘Papa Clay.’ The poor man!” Sarah’s frown deepened. “Listen to me, babbling about things that mean nothing to you. I’m sorry.”

Priscilla shook her head. “I don’t mind.” Sarah’s babbling, as she called it, was soothing, as were her ministrations. Though it had been years since anyone had soaped her arms, Priscilla did not protest. She was so weary and sore that she wasn’t certain she could have managed it on her own.

“Lean back,” Sarah said, “and I’ll wash your hair.” She filled a small bucket with water and poured it over Priscilla’s head, then began to massage soap into her scalp. “Your hair is beautiful,” she said as she reached for the rinse water. “It reminds me of the sky at sunset.”

“Unfortunately, freckles seem to accompany reddish hair.” They certainly were companions to Priscilla’s strawberry blonde locks and her mother’s auburn tresses. “I used to have them everywhere. You know how children can be. Even the slightest snub seems monumental. I can remember coming home from school crying because the other children teased me about my freckles. I was so upset that Mama took one of the lemons she’d been saving for a special treat of lemonade and let me rub it on my face, saying it would bleach the freckles. I don’t think it did, but it did make me feel better. And now most of them have faded.” Priscilla touched the bridge of her nose, where three persistent freckles could be found. “These are all that are left.” As the words left her mouth, she frowned. What was happening to her? Her life had changed irreparably, and yet she was talking about something as mundane as freckles. This was worse than Sarah’s babbling.

Sarah seemed to find nothing amiss. “Don’t be surprised if Thea wants to touch them. She’s at a curious stage.” Sarah squeezed the water from Priscilla’s hair before she helped her climb out of the tub. “Why am I talking about stages? I believe Thea was born curious.”

“Mama used to say the same thing about me. She and Papa claimed that if Patience and I didn’t look so much alike, they wouldn’t have believed we were both their daughters.” Her legs suddenly weak, Priscilla sank onto the bench, clutching the towel as if it were a lifeline. “Mama, Papa, Patience. They’re all gone. Oh, Sarah, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m all alone.”

Sarah wrapped a second towel around Priscilla’s legs. “You have Clay and me. More importantly, you have God.”

Shaking off Sarah’s hand, Priscilla shook her head. “That’s where you’re wrong. God has deserted me.”