by Amanda Cabot
“Isabelle, Sarah, dinner’s almost ready,” Madame Rousseau called.
“In a moment, Maman. This is important.” Isabelle took Sarah’s hands in hers. “I was so filled with bitterness that I couldn’t see anything good.”
It was as difficult to reconcile the story Isabelle was telling with the young woman Sarah knew as it was to believe Léon a thief. “What changed?”
Her answer was simple. “I did. I realized that my anger toward Léon was hurting me, not him. I was the one who was in prison, but it was a prison of my own making. It was only when I forgave him for his role in our emigration that I freed myself.”
Isabelle tightened her grip on Sarah’s hands. Though her eyes were dark with emotion, her smile reminded Sarah of paintings of saints she’d seen at the Museum of Art in Philadelphia. Isabelle was no saint, she knew, and yet she had the same peace-filled look on her face as she said, “If you’ve never experienced it, you may not believe me, but I felt like a new person. I was finally able to see how good our life here is. My parents have more opportunities. Léon has a new life, and so do I. Don’t you see, Sarah? God used Léon’s sin to give us all a better life.”
Sarah nodded slowly. It was a touching story, and there was no doubt that Isabelle believed it was true. But, no matter what Isabelle believed, nothing good could come from murder. As for forgiveness, Sarah would never, ever forgive her father. What he had done was unforgivable.
As days went, it was far from the best. Admittedly, it wasn’t as bad as the day Patience had died or the night Austin had been killed or when he’d learned of Pa’s stroke, but it wasn’t much better. Clay let the reins slacken as he reached the opposite bank of the river. Shadow knew the way home, and the horse was so attuned to Clay’s moods that he’d realized this was not a day for galloping. Though speed might soothe him momentarily, what Clay needed this afternoon was time to think.
He’d gone into town, looking for answers, and he’d found them. Unfortunately, they were not the ones he’d sought. Michel Ladre, wearing the smirk that seemed to be part of his wardrobe whenever he saw Clay, had declared the investigation complete. Austin had been killed by a stranger; the case was closed, or so the mayor claimed.
The mayor was wrong. He’d also lied when he claimed he’d checked every possible lead. Clay doubted that Michel had conducted more than a perfunctory investigation into Austin’s death. Why would he? Anything that resembled a true inquiry would have required him to look closely at the men who’d played poker with Clay’s brother that evening—a group of men that just so happened to include Michel’s son. Everyone in town knew that the Ladre name was sacrosanct and that not even the slightest insinuation was allowed to taint a member of the family. They were perfect, at least in Michel’s eyes.
Clay shook his head. That was a lesson Austin had refused to learn. He’d mockingly called the Ladres the town’s royal family right before he accused Michel of appropriating some of the community’s funds for his own personal use. It was no wonder Ladreville’s mayor and self-appointed sheriff cared little for finding Austin’s murderer. He had probably toasted his good fortune with several glasses of ale when he learned that the gadfly who dared to question him would question him no more.
Oh, Austin, why did you let your temper overrule your good sense? It was a question Clay had asked himself repeatedly that morning. Though he’d known that Austin had come close to fisticuffs with the mayor on more than one occasion, he wasn’t aware that the same statement could be made about Austin and a number of other people in Ladreville. Clay knew how quick Austin’s temper was, but not how often it flared, particularly on the last day of his life.
He had come to town hoping to retrace his brother’s steps, convinced that something had happened that day to trigger—literally—the killer. He’d hoped to narrow the list of suspects. Instead, he’d learned that Austin had argued with everyone he’d met. He’d accused Gunther Lehman of overcharging for the flour he’d milled. He’d been belligerent when Albert Mueller had told him the price of a dairy cow. He’d argued with William Goetz over the design for the chest the carpenter was making for Sarah’s bride gift. According to the men, these had not been casual disagreements, but violent arguments which Austin threatened to resolve with force. The men had all sworn that they’d backed away rather than fight with him. Though Clay knew they had a vested interest in protecting their own reputations, their words rang with truth. Austin could be hotheaded. On a bad day, even seemingly trivial events had been known to provoke Austin to fight. Clay knew that. What he did not know was what had caused his brother’s spate of anger that morning.
From what he could piece together, the only person who’d seen Austin smile was the postmaster. Steven Dunn reported that Austin had stalked into the post office, his fists clenched as if he were spoiling for a fight, and demanded the Can-fields’ mail. But his mood had changed the instant Steven had handed him a package. When he’d seen the sender’s name and realized he’d received a gift from his betrothed, a smile had wreathed Austin’s face, chasing away the storm clouds.
Clay knew what had happened next. Austin had raced home, waiting until he was at the Bar C to open the box. Then he’d strutted around the ranch, as proud as the proverbial peacock over the miniature Sarah had sent him. Clay had seen only the happy side of Austin that day, the exuberant, almost playful part of his brother. The euphoria hadn’t faded by suppertime. If anything, it had increased as Austin had boasted of how envious the other poker players would be when they saw just how lovely his bride was. Clay didn’t doubt that the men had felt twinges of regret when they realized that their own brides—if they were fortunate enough to find them—might not be so beautiful, but mild envy was not a cause for murder.
“Who hated Austin enough to kill him?” Clay hadn’t realized he’d spoken the words aloud until Shadow whinnied. “You’re right, boy. It doesn’t make any sense.” While Austin’s temper might provoke anger, even a brawl, surely nothing he had said or done was serious enough to warrant death. But the fact remained: someone had killed his brother.
When he reached the ranch, Clay splashed water on his face and hands, washing off the road dust. He’d delayed so long that there wasn’t time for more complete ablutions, but at least he wouldn’t look totally unpresentable at the supper table. It was odd how he found himself looking forward to the last meal of the day. It must be because Pa was joining them every day now. Clay had been surprised when Sarah had suggested they would all benefit by having Pa there. Patience hadn’t wanted him to sit at the table, claiming it only served to remind Pa of all that he could not do. Though he’d said nothing, Clay had suspected it was Patience who preferred not to be reminded of her father-in-law’s disability.
Sarah was different. Clay suspected that if he lived to be a hundred, he would not understand her. A sensible woman would have gone back to Philadelphia and the comfortable life she’d led there. Not Sarah. A sensible woman would not have chosen a position at the mercantile where hours of standing could take their toll on her leg. Sarah had. Though he knew she was in pain, she would not surrender. Instead, she continued to insist that working at the Rousseaus’ store was the key to creating a new life for herself and Thea. Stubborn woman!
Clay frowned as he tried to picture her as Austin’s bride. How would she have dealt with his mercurial moods? Would she have been the steadying force he needed, or would she have grown frustrated by her unpredictable bridegroom? Would her independent streak have annoyed Austin, or would he have been charmed by it? Clay didn’t know. What he did know was that from the very first letter he’d received from Miss Sarah Dobbs, Austin had been convinced that she was the bride he wanted, and nothing Clay had said had dissuaded him.
“More chili, Pa?” Sarah smiled and offered the man who should have been her father-in-law another serving of Martina’s spicy stew. It must have been Clay’s imagination, but it seemed that Pa was having less difficulty eating. The strangest thing was, he seemed to wat
ch Thea and imitate her motions. It was almost as if he were learning to eat along with Sarah’s little sister.
That was another part of the puzzle that surrounded Sarah. Her sister. Clay hadn’t wanted her here, serving as a reminder of the child he and Patience had dreamed of, the unborn child who’d died with his wife that hot August day, but once again Austin had been adamant. And now that Thea was here, Clay had to admit it wasn’t as painful as he’d feared. And even if he would prefer having no reminders, it was clear that Pa enjoyed the little girl’s company. Clay would do almost anything to bring his father a few moments of happiness. If Thea could accomplish that, surely Clay could overcome memories of his own losses.
“Is something wrong?” The meal was over, and Pa and Thea were seated at the far end of the room, seemingly content to look out at the pasture. Sarah had remained at the table, drinking a final cup of coffee.
“Why do you ask?”
Though she gave him a small smile, her brown eyes were somber. “You appear troubled.”
Clay let out a sigh. He never had been good at hiding his feelings. That was a fault he and Austin shared. The difference was, Clay rarely acted on his emotions the way his brother did. “It was a bad day,” he admitted. Though he hadn’t planned to, Clay found himself recounting how he tried to retrace Austin’s steps, keeping his voice low so that Pa would not overhear. “All I’ve learned is that he fought with everyone he saw the day he was killed.”
“Austin?” There was no disguising Sarah’s surprise. She laid down her coffee cup and looked at Clay, her eyes wide. “That doesn’t sound like the man who wrote my paper roses.”
It was Clay’s turn to be surprised. “Your what?”
“Oh . . .” She smiled, a full smile this time, a smile that transformed her face into one of the prettiest Clay had ever seen. “That’s what I call the letters Austin sent me. He told me once he wished he could send me roses. Though he was apologizing, there was no reason. The letters were so beautiful that I thought they were flowers—perfect roses made of paper.” Sarah stared into the distance, her eyes focused on something Clay could not see. “When I answered Austin’s advertisement for a bride, all I expected was a business arrangement, but then the letters came, and I felt as if I were being wooed.” Her face softened again, and when she looked at Clay, he felt his breath catch at the emotion blazing in her eyes. “I fell in love with your brother without ever meeting him. His letters told me so much: that he was a gentle man, a sensitive man. That’s why I was so surprised by your story. The Austin I loved was not someone who’d fight with everyone he saw.”
A mule’s kick to the stomach would have hurt less than her words. Sarah was wrong. Dead wrong. But so was he. Clay lowered his eyes hastily, lest Sarah somehow guess the reason for his distress. He should never have written the words he had. That was clear now. He should have kept everything purely businesslike. But he hadn’t.
Clay swallowed, trying to dislodge the lump that had settled in his throat. When Austin had asked him to woo his bride, pointing out that he himself was incapable of using pen and ink to create a coherent sentence, Clay had agreed. It was no less than he could do, since Austin was giving up his dream of travel to ensure that the Canfield line would not end and that Pa would spend his final years at peace.
Clay had written the words, and Austin had copied them over so that his bride would have letters in his own penmanship. At the time, the arrangement had made sense. Austin had his letters, and Clay . . . Clay had gotten far more than he’d bargained for. Not even Austin knew how much he’d looked forward to reading Sarah’s letters and planning his response. The world had seemed bleak and his life a shambles after Patience’s death, but when he sat at this table and composed what Sarah called her paper roses, Clay had been able to forget all that was wrong in his life. For a few minutes, he’d been transported to a world where love and happiness flourished.
It had been a mistake. A huge mistake. Clay could see that now. Perhaps if he hadn’t written the letters, Sarah would have been more willing to return to Philadelphia. Perhaps she would have considered this a business arrangement that hadn’t turned out the way she’d expected. But the damage had been done. Sarah believed herself in love with a man who didn’t exist.
Clay drained his coffee cup as he considered the enormity of what he’d done. He could tell Sarah the truth. The Bible Austin was so fond of quoting claimed the truth would set a man free. Clay didn’t believe that. She was happy now, believing she’d been wooed by Austin. In her eyes, Clay’s brother was a hero. The truth would destroy her memories of him, leaving nothing in return. Surely that would be cruel. Let her keep her illusions. They were all she’d ever have.
6
“Why don’t you come in and sit for a spell?” Though the words were framed as an invitation, Mary’s tone made them little less than a command. The reason wasn’t hard to find. When Sarah had arrived at the Lazy B, Thea had flung herself at her, grabbing her legs and sobbing, “Me wanna go home.” Nothing Sarah did, not even gathering the child in her arms and murmuring soothing sounds, quelled the tears.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” Sarah doubted her sister would sit silently in Mary’s elegant parlor. The last time they’d been there, Thea had wanted to climb the stairs and had succeeded in scraping her hands when she’d tumbled, precipitating more tears. She bore no cuts or bruises today, but the tears continued to flow for reasons that weren’t clear. Sarah might have blamed her sister’s mood on the weather— even Martina, who’d lived here her whole life, admitted it was unusually hot for early April—had she not known how frequently Thea cried.
“We’ll sit on the porch,” Mary announced. “It’s cooler there, anyhow. Thea, I have milk and cookies for you.”
Though Thea’s eyes brightened at the prospect of her favorite snack, she did not release her grip on Sarah. “It’s all right, sweetie. We’ll go home as soon as we have our milk.” Apparently convinced, Thea loosened one hand long enough to brush the tears from her cheeks.
When she and Sarah were seated on the porch swing with a now smiling Thea playing at their feet, Mary turned her attention back to Sarah. “Your sister is a puzzlement.”
Sarah gulped, fearing this was the prelude to Mary’s saying she could no longer care for Thea. She’d been expecting that announcement, and today’s crying spate, which was little less than a tantrum, might have convinced Mary of the futility of watching a young child. Sarah folded her hands, trying not to let her dismay show.
“I ain’t never seen a child cry so much. At first, I reckoned it was cuz she was a girl.” Mary’s expression was stern as she looked down at Thea. “I got no experience with little girls. Boys are different. The two Canfield boys spent as much time here as they did on their ranch.”
“More milk.” Thea rose to hand her empty cup to Sarah.
“Please,” Sarah admonished. When Thea repeated the word, she poured a few ounces into the cup and settled her sister back on the floor.
“I figgered she’d get better,” Mary continued, “but she ain’t. She cries most of the time and keeps talking about home.” Mary stared into the distance, as if choosing her next words.
For a moment, the only sounds were the creaking of the swing, Thea’s slurping, and a few songbirds’ trilling. Sarah gazed at the meadow, wondering if she would ever grow accustomed to the sight of an ordinary green meadow suddenly transformed into a carpet of blue. Though Isabelle had told her that this part of Texas was famous for its wildflowers, the reality surpassed even Isabelle’s exuberant praise. The bluebonnets were quite simply gorgeous. With puffy white clouds drifting slowly across a sky that rivaled the flowers’ hue, it would have been a scene of pastoral tranquility, if Sarah had no worries. But she did. No matter what Mary said, it was clear the situation could not continue. Thea was miserable and Mary frustrated.
When Mary spoke, her words were not what Sarah had expected. “You may not want an old woman’s advice, but I reckon
you should take Thea home.”
“I will, as soon as she finishes her milk.”
The older woman shook her head. “Not to the Bar C. Back to Philadelphia. That’s the only home your sister knows.”
Sarah cringed at the thought and the myriad of unpleasant memories it conjured. It wasn’t Mary’s fault. She had no way of knowing how impossible her suggestion was. “I can’t.” The words sounded as bleak as a November day.
“Why not? It ’pears to me that’s the only thing that will make Thea happy.”
Sarah tightened her fingers until the knuckles whitened, forcing herself to loosen her grip as she tried to repress images of the home she and Thea had once shared. Thoughts of the three-story brick residence with its leaded glass chandelier and the gracefully curving staircase brought nothing but pain, for they were inevitably followed by memories of the last time she’d entered Mama and Papa’s bedchamber.
“The house is sold,” Sarah said bluntly. Mary didn’t need to know that creditors had taken everything except Mama’s Bible. “Ladreville is our home now.”
Mary’s face softened. “Forgive me for prying.” She looked down at Thea. “We’ll keep trying.”
Sarah took a deep breath and let the relief flow through her. Perhaps she was being foolish, believing tomorrow would be better, but oh! how she hoped it would. “Thank you,” she said softly, knowing there was no way she could repay this woman for her kindness.
“I’ll do the best I can to make her happy. There must be something.” Once again, Mary stared into the distance, a small smile crossing her face. “That’s it. We’ll work in the garden. Young’uns always like dirt.”
As a wave of pleasant memories washed over her, Sarah nodded. “Our mother had a rose garden. While she was working on the bushes, she let Thea dig in one corner.” Sarah looked down at her sister. Thea had drained her cup and was drowsing, apparently worn out by her earlier tears.