by Amanda Cabot
Pastor Sempert’s gaze moved from one pew to the next as he sought the answer from his congregation. When his questioning eyes approached her, Sarah lowered her head, lest he see her confusion. How could she—how could anyone— thank God for a murderer?
“For most of us, the answer is ‘not often enough,’” the minister concluded. “How do we honor our parents? We begin by thanking God for them.”
Sarah bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to cry. Pastor Sempert was wrong. He didn’t understand what had happened and why she could not thank God for her father.
“Our earthly parents are not perfect. Only God is.” The minister continued his homily. “Sometimes we see our parents’ imperfections and believe they are not worthy of our honor or our love. How wrong we are! If our heavenly Father loves us—and we know he does, for he gave his Son so we might have eternal life—surely we should follow his example. We should forgive our parents their imperfections. We should love them for what they are: God’s children, his creation and his gift to us.” Pastor Sempert bent his head. “Let us pray.”
In the distance Sarah heard the minister’s voice as he led the congregation in prayer. Dimly, she was aware of the woman next to her saying “amen,” but nothing else registered. Instead, Pastor Sempert’s earlier words echoed in her head, each one sending shafts of pain through her. She had been wrong, so very wrong. Though she’d labeled them hypocrites for their self-righteous judgments, she had been worse than the parishioners in Philadelphia. She’d judged Papa, calling his sin unforgivable, acting as if she were spotless. She was not. She was a sinner, a worse sinner than Papa, for she’d broken one of God’s holy commandments, not twice as Papa had, but countless times. Not only had she not honored her father, but not one day had passed when her heart had not been filled with anger toward her father—anger and worse: hatred.
When the service ended and the parishioners began to file out of the church, Sarah remained huddled in the corner of the pew, her head bowed as if she were praying. How would she ever lift her head again? Surely her shame was branded on her face. How could she continue to raise Thea when she was such a sinner?
“My child, you appear troubled.” Pastor Sempert stood at the end of the pew, his voice low and filled with concern.
Unable to face him, Sarah murmured the words that haunted her. “I am the worst of sinners.”
“Come with me.” He placed his hand on her arm, urging her to rise, then led her to his study. The small room held a desk, a bookcase, and two comfortable chairs. Almost Spartan, the room had no rug on the floor, no curtains at the window. The walls were bare, save for a crucifix. Unlike the rough-hewn cross in the sanctuary, this silver cross and porcelain figure of Jesus had been crafted by skilled hands. “Rest a moment,” Pastor Sempert said when Sarah was seated.
The tears she had been holding back began to spill. “How can I rest when I know how much I’ve sinned?” She looked at the minister, expecting condemnation. Instead, she saw only concern.
“We’ve all sinned,” he said.
“But my sin is unforgivable. I judged my father for his imperfections. I knew what he had done was wrong, and I . . .” Sarah lowered her voice, not wanting to admit the depth of her wrongdoing. “I hated him for it. I even prayed he would burn in hell.” She covered her face, trying to hide her shame. “I’m the one who will burn, for I’ve broken God’s commandments too.”
Pastor Sempert reached for her hands, holding them in his. He waited until she met his gaze before he said, “Our Lord forgives us. All he asks is that we be truly repentant.”
“I want to believe that. I do.” But how could anyone, even God, forgive her sins?
“When I’m troubled, I lay my burdens at the foot of the cross. That is where Jesus gave us the most precious gift of all. He died so that we could be saved. Accept that gift, Sarah. Open your heart to him.”
Could it be that simple? Sarah closed her eyes, then opened them again. Pulling her hands free, she slipped from the chair and knelt, but instead of bowing her head, she fixed her eyes on the cross. Oh, Lord, forgive me. She stared at the figure of Jesus, crowned with thorns, his arms nailed to the crossbeams, his feet pierced with a spike. Crucifixion was a horrible way to die, and yet Jesus had gone to his death willingly, obeying his Father’s command. Jesus had borne the suffering, the humiliation, the agony, and he had done it so all sinners could be saved. All sinners, even Sarah. Though she was unworthy, he had died that she might live. Thank you, Lord. Tears streaming from her eyes, Sarah bowed her head, accepting the gift he had given her, and as she did, peace filled her heart.
She wasn’t certain how long she remained there, but when she rose, she turned to the minister. “I feel different.”
His smile was warm and comforting. “You are different,” he said. “You’ve given your life to Christ. That changes everything.”
Sarah nodded, acknowledging the truth of his words. The Sarah who had entered this room was not the one who would leave. “I feel as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and yet one remains.”
Pastor Sempert raised his eyes to the cross. “Our Lord bids us to forgive others, even as he asked his Father to forgive his executioners. Sometimes that seems the most difficult thing in the world, but it’s necessary if we’re going to find true peace. Anger and hatred hurt us, not the person we direct them at.”
He was speaking of her father. She knew that. “I don’t hate him any longer.” She’d laid that burden at Jesus’ feet, and he’d taken it from her. “I’m worried about my father’s soul. I know God would forgive him if he repented, just as he forgave me, but what if Papa didn’t?”
The minister nodded slowly, acknowledging her fear. “Do you remember the criminals who were crucified next to Jesus? The one repented, and Jesus promised, ‘Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise.’ We don’t know what was in your father’s heart in his last moments on Earth. We can only pray that he, like the crucified man, found peace.”
“Papa was a good man, except for that day.”
“Our Lord knows that. He hates the sin but loves the sinner. Can you do the same?”
Closing her eyes, Sarah began to pray for her father, and as she did, images rose before her eyes. She pictured him holding her on his lap, reading a story to her. She remembered the pain on his face when the doctor had predicted Sarah would never walk again and the joy he’d shown the day she’d taken her first steps.
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, “I love you. I pray that you are with Mama in heaven.” As she pronounced the words, Sarah felt a warmth enfold her. The last weight was gone, and so was the emptiness that had filled her heart. The morning she had thought so miserable had become the best day of her life, for she had found what was missing from her life: her Savior’s love.
16
Sarah’s heart brimmed with happiness. If she hadn’t experienced it, she would not have believed the sense of lightness that had enveloped her the moment she’d given her life to Christ. The emptiness was gone, replaced by the conviction that she was not alone, that she would never again be alone. The changes, she suspected, were more than internal, for Zach had given her several piercing looks yesterday afternoon, as if he’d discerned a difference but was reluctant to pry. She would tell him tonight, once she’d seen Isabelle. Since Isabelle had been the first to speak of faith and the difference that becoming a Christian made, it seemed right that she be the first to know.
When she’d finished writing the next assignment on the blackboard, Sarah walked to the door, intending to watch the children play. As she opened the door, her heart sank. Though she ought to be at work, Isabelle was approaching the school, her eyes red-rimmed, a handkerchief in one hand, ready to catch the next spate of tears.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said as Sarah led her back inside the schoolhouse. Her voice was listless, her shoulders slumped. Even the day Sarah had found Isabelle crying in the mercantile had not been like this. She had been upset then
; now she was despondent.
“It’s Léon, isn’t it?” For the past week, Sarah had overheard mothers discussing the increased frequency of thefts in Ladreville. Without exception, everyone blamed Léon.
Isabelle nodded. “There were two more robberies last night. Michel came to the store first thing this morning and demanded to see Léon. He was already at the Friedrichs’, but Michel searched his room. Now he’s gone out to the farm to find Léon. Oh, Sarah, I think Michel’s going to arrest him.” As tears began to flow again, Sarah wrapped her arms around Isabelle, trying to comfort her.
Isabelle looked up, then scrubbed her cheeks with her handkerchief. “I know Léon couldn’t have done it, because I heard him snoring all night. It was so loud, it kept me awake.”
Sarah forbore mentioning that Michel might claim Isabelle had dozed long enough for her brother to leave the house. “Did Michel find anything when he searched?”
“No, but one of Léon’s buttons was in a house that was robbed. That’s why Michel’s so sure he is responsible.”
“Was the button one of those fancy gold ones?” It was common knowledge in Ladreville that Léon’s Sunday coat sported unique buttons.
Isabelle nodded.
“It must be a coincidence,” Sarah said firmly to assuage her friend’s fears. “I noticed one of the buttons was loose when I saw you after church last week, but I forgot to say anything. The button probably fell off when Léon was visiting them.” The Rousseaus, like many Ladreville families, paid social calls on Sunday afternoon.
This time Isabelle shook her head. “I wish it were that easy. The problem is, the button was found inside the Henkes’ house. Léon has never been there.”
Sarah closed her eyes and prayed for wisdom, for she did not like the direction her thoughts had taken. “If it wasn’t coincidence—and it doesn’t sound as if it was—putting the button at the Henkes’ must have been deliberate.” And that changed everything. Simple theft had suddenly become something much more sinister. “I imagine the button fell off elsewhere, maybe even in the churchyard, and someone saw it as an opportunity to blame Léon.” Before this, there had only been rumors and suspicions; now there was evidence, even if it had been planted. Though she was confident she knew the answer, Sarah had to ask, “Do you have any idea who would do something so underhanded?”
Isabelle turned to face Sarah. “Everyone likes Léon. Everyone except Frau Steiner, that is.” Isabelle’s eyes were dry, and for the first time, she appeared angry rather than sorrowful. “It makes no sense. Léon never got into arguments the way . . .”
“Austin did.” As she completed the sentence, Sarah frowned, realizing there were now two unsolved problems in Ladreville. “I wish I understood what makes people do things like this: murder, robbery, trying to pin the blame on someone else.”
“Evil exists, but if we fight it, it won’t triumph. I’m praying that the mayor finds whoever’s responsible.”
“So am I.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened, and a smile lit her face. “That explains it.”
“What?”
She smiled again, as if the answer should be obvious. “The peace I see on your face. You found him.” Isabelle nodded slowly. “No matter what happens to my brother, God answered my prayers for you.”
“And he’ll answer ours for Léon. He’ll keep him safe. I know he will.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in Léon Rousseau’s boots right now.” Clay stared into the distance, hoping for the sight of an unbroken fence line. Though he’d given Zach responsibility for the ranch, today Clay was riding the line with his foreman. After everything that had happened, he wanted to assure himself that Bar C cattle were not devouring Karl Friedrich’s crops. “The good people of Ladreville are ready to run Léon out of town.”
Zach frowned, perhaps at Clay’s sarcastic tone. He couldn’t help it. Clay hated the mob mentality, where groups ganged up on an individual, usually a weak one. Léon wasn’t weak physically, but he was vulnerable. If people believed him responsible for the rash of thefts, they might boycott the mercantile, hurting the people Léon loved most.
“If what Sarah said is true, he’s innocent.”
“I believe her.” Though he didn’t always agree with Sarah, this was one time Clay did. “Léon never struck me as sneaky, and that’s what the thief has been. It’s almost as if he’s playing a game with the rest of us, and he keeps changing the rules so we have no chance of winning.” Clay remembered Sarah’s concern when several houses became targets of multiple robberies. She’d been right in saying that was not a normal pattern. “I’m beginning to think the thief is doing this for the excitement, not because he needs money.” And that was frightening.
“People like that are the most dangerous.” Zach confirmed Clay’s unspoken fear. “Their minds don’t work the same way ours do, and that makes it very difficult to catch them.”
Clay paused, debating how much to tell Zach. In the time he’d been at the Bar C, his advice had proven sound. Though this had nothing to do with ranching, perhaps Zach could provide a new perspective. “Sarah thought the thief might also be the person who killed Austin.”
Zach’s head swiveled so quickly Clay feared he’d injure a tendon. “Do you believe that?”
“At first I didn’t, but now I don’t know. I just know I have to find whoever’s responsible. I want the thefts to stop, but mostly I want to see my brother’s killer punished. Austin’s death cannot go unavenged.”
“Be careful, Clay. The Lord says vengeance is his.”
Clay shouldn’t have been surprised. Like his brother, Zach was in the habit of quoting Scripture, but he was surprised, for he had thought Zach would understand. Unlike Sarah, who’d been appalled by frontier justice, Zach had lived here his whole life. He ought to understand the realities of life— and justice—in a land with few lawmen.
“That may be so, but I haven’t seen God capturing the killer. Michel Ladre is no use. He wouldn’t call in the Texas Rangers, and I don’t think he performed more than a perfunctory investigation.” Though that wasn’t a surprise, given the animosity between Michel and Austin, it still rankled. The town’s mayor and self-appointed sheriff should have been able to put personal feelings aside. “Sorry, Zach, but it appears to me that I’m the only one who cares that my brother’s murderer is still free. That means I’m the one who has to find him, and when I do . . .” Clay let the words trail off.
“Killing, even when you believe it is just, is not the answer.” Though Zach spoke softly, his voice resonated with feeling. “That’s one thing I learned during the war. Life is uncertain. It can end any day. Like the day the Mexicans decimated us.”
Clay jerked the reins in an instinctive reaction to Zach’s words. Decimation was truly the stuff of nightmares. Pa had mentioned that day only once and only then because his screams had roused both Clay and Austin. Frightened by their father’s cries, both boys had rushed into his room. By then he’d wakened, but the sight of his haggard and gray face was almost as alarming as his shouts had been. In a low, broken voice Pa had described what he called the darkest day of his war service, the day a lottery determined which of the Americans would be killed.
It was a diabolical scheme, the “game,” as their jailors called it, almost as terrifying as the ending, for each man knew that he held his fate in his hand. Literally. Their captors had placed beans in a large can, one black for every nine white ones. As each prisoner drew a bean, his fate was sealed. Those who’d chosen black would stand before a firing squad. The others would watch, knowing that the process might be repeated the next day or week or month, whenever the jailors felt the need for entertainment. Pa had survived, and so had Zach, but Clay knew neither man could have forgotten that day.
“I should have died,” Zach said. “If it hadn’t been for John Tallman, I would have.” This was part of the story Pa had not told. “I was a coward,” Zach continued. “When I drew the black bean, all I could do was shake with fear.
I wasn’t ready to die. John wasn’t either. He was only a couple years older than me, with a wife and a child at home. He had every reason to live, and yet he took pity on me. Before the Mexicans could see what was happening, he switched beans with me. John died in my place.”
Zach’s eyes reflected the anguish of the day. “Afterwards, I didn’t know what to do. I was so ashamed of my cowardice that I wanted to die. At one point, I came close to taking my own life. It was your pa who stopped me. He told me not to let John’s sacrifice be in vain, that I should live each day to the fullest, that I should love instead of hate.”
Clay nodded slowly, trying to imagine how Zach must have felt in the face of such a sacrifice. It was no wonder Pa had given him the advice he had. Pa believed in love. At one time Clay had too, but Austin’s death changed everything. “Unfortunately, that’s easy to say, not so easy to do.”
“The best things often aren’t.”
Nothing was going right. Instinctively, Clay tightened the reins, then murmured reassuring words to Shadow. It wasn’t the horse’s fault that he was in such a foul mood. It also wasn’t completely true that nothing was going right. The ranch was running smoothly, thanks to Zach, and Clay’s medical practice was flourishing. More quickly than he’d expected, he had taken over almost all of Herman’s patients, a state that seemed to bother the older doctor not one whit. In words reminiscent of Clay’s conversation with Zach, Herman declared that he was going to enjoy each day of sight that remained. He’d added that he would not risk a patient’s health to his failing eyesight and that it was best that Clay assume full responsibility for the town’s health. Doing so had proven surprisingly satisfying. The rest of Clay’s life, however, was filled with frustration.
Zach could preach all he wanted, but the fact remained: the need to find Austin’s killer was intrinsic, as necessary to Clay as eating and sleeping. Furthermore, his continued failure was worse than an open sore. It had become a cancer deep inside him, consuming every vital organ. He owed it to Austin; he owed it to Pa; he owed it to himself to bring the murderer to justice. Each day Clay woke, convinced that would be the day he’d learn something. Each night he faced the fact that he had made no progress.