Scattered Petals

by Amanda Cabot

  While she waited for her customer to choose between the red and the blue gingham, Isabelle considered the reasons Gunther Lehman was now pacing the floor. The last times he’d done this had been when he’d sought her advice on courting. First he’d come with questions about Sarah, then Olga. Who was next? And why did he think she was the town’s expert on wooing? Just because Pierre Erté and Jacques Gris had asked her father for permission to court her didn’t mean she knew more than any other woman in town. After all, her father had refused both men’s suits, claiming neither man was worthy of his daughter. That was just as well, for Isabelle could not imagine herself wed to either one. When she married, she wanted it to be to a man who was her friend as well as her husband, a man like . . . Isabelle flushed when she realized that the man who was wandering aimlessly through the mercantile fit the description. It was foolish to harbor such thoughts. Papa would never agree to her marrying a German. Besides, Gunther did not regard her that way.

  “Can I help you find something?” Isabelle asked him when Frau Bauer had finally selected and paid for the blue gingham and they were alone in the store.

  “Nein. Ja.” Gunther shook his head, as if he weren’t sure which response was correct.

  Isabelle repressed another smile. A friend didn’t laugh at her friend’s discomfort. Still, the fact that Gunther had reverted to German told her he was more flustered than usual. Whoever this woman was, he was worried about wooing her. As his friend, Isabelle was responsible for helping him. “We have some nice candies,” she offered. “I can make a pretty arrangement in one of these tins.” She held up a potential container.

  “But I don’t need candy. I need . . .” He stopped abruptly, his face flushing.

  “What is it you need?” Isabelle softened her voice.

  “I need you.” Though she’d thought his face could not redden any more, she was wrong. He flushed, and—to her further embarrassment—so did she. “That is,” Gunther corrected himself quickly, “I need your help. I don’t know how to ask.”

  Her help. Of course that was what he needed. It was quite silly—ridiculous, really—to have imagined he meant anything else. Isabelle came out from behind the counter so she could stand next to Gunther. Perhaps that would ease his discomfort. He often laughed at the fact that he was a full foot taller than she. Perhaps being so close would amuse him.

  “We’re friends, Gunther. You can simply ask me. I’m curious, though. Who is she?” For once, there had been no rumors. Normally the gossipmongers hurried into the mercantile to discuss possibilities, but they’d been oddly silent since Olga Kaltheimer had left Ladreville.

  Furrows appeared between Gunther’s eyes as he asked, “Who is who?”

  “The lady you’re courting, of course. That’s why you came here, isn’t it? For advice or maybe a gift.”

  “Nein! I’m not courting anyone.” Though his color remained high, Gunther shook his head vigorously.

  The relief that flooded through her startled Isabelle by its intensity. It was foolish to feel as if a burden had been lifted. Gunther was her friend. He needed a wife. Isabelle knew that, just as she knew she ought to be encouraging him to find the perfect woman. Instead, she was almost grinning with pleasure that he had not chosen the next Frau Lehman.

  “I’m not courting, but I still need your help,” he said.

  “All right.” It was more than all right, but she wouldn’t say that. “How can I help you?”

  “It’s Eva.”

  The pleasure Isabelle had felt evaporated, replaced by alarm at the realization that his daughter was the reason Gunther had been so flustered. The little girl who tried so hard to be an adult was one of Isabelle’s favorite customers. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, yes.” At least he was speaking English. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? Gunther took a step closer to Isabelle, his eyes earnest as he began his explanation. “Zach said that Priscilla and Sarah said that every lady should know how to embroider and play the pianoforte and speak French.”

  Eva did none of those. But, though Gunther appeared to believe that his daughter’s life would be ruined by her failure to master lazy-daisy stitches, Isabelle did not share his concern. “What Zach said is probably true in Philadelphia or Boston,” she agreed. “Life is different here. You know that, Gunther. Folks don’t put as much store in what Easterners call social graces. What’s important here is knowing how to survive a blue norther, when to plant the crops, and how to shoot straight. Don’t worry that Eva can’t play a Chopin prelude.”

  Though she meant her words to reassure Gunther, they failed. He was clenching his fist and looked as if he wanted to pound the counter. Apparently thinking the better of that, he opened his hand and placed it palm down on the flat surface. “I do worry. I want my daughter to have every advantage.”

  Isabelle waited until Gunther met her gaze before she spoke. “You’re a good father.” She accompanied her words with a smile.

  “You think so?” Gunther seemed genuinely surprised by the compliment.

  “I know so. Eva is fortunate to have you as her father.” While it was true that he wasn’t adept at braiding hair and needed advice about clothing suitable for a child Eva’s age, no one doubted the love Gunther lavished on his daughter.

  “She needs more. She needs . . .”

  “A mother.” Isabelle completed the sentence. “Everyone in Ladreville knows you’re looking for a new mother for her.”

  Gunther shook his head. “Not today. Today I’m worried that my daughter cannot speak French. If she ever goes to Boston or Philadelphia, I want her to fit in.”

  “Gunther,” Isabelle said as gently as she could, “they speak English there, not French.”

  “I’m not a Dummkopf. I know that. But Priscilla told Zach that food has French names. I don’t want my Eva to look like a Dummkopf if she goes to a fancy restaurant.”

  Isabelle forbore mentioning that Eva was years away from eating in a restaurant, plain or fancy. To say that would only distress Gunther, and she couldn’t do that to her friend.

  “How can I help?”

  Gunther’s eyes brightened, and the look he gave Isabelle was so warm that she knew she’d do anything he asked.

  “Teach her how to speak French, not just the names of foods, but all the words. And if you know how to do those other things—fancy stitching and the piano—could you help her with those too? I want my daughter to have every one of those things you call social graces. Don’t worry, though, I’ll pay you.”

  It was the longest speech Isabelle had ever heard him make. It was also the most insulting. “Shame on you, Gunther Lehman. Friends don’t ask for payment.”

  The sparkle fled from his eyes. “Then you won’t help?”

  “I didn’t say that. I simply said there will be no further talk of payment.” Isabelle waited until he nodded in agreement before she continued. “We don’t have a pianoforte, so I cannot teach her that, but I can help with the others. You understand that these will not be formal lessons. We’ll be interrupted by customers, but if you agree, we’ll start after school tomorrow.”

  “Danke schoen.” Gunther’s smile radiated both relief and gratitude.

  Feigning indignation, Isabelle wagged a finger at him. “It wouldn’t hurt you to learn some French. ‘Thank you’ is merci beaucoup.”

  “Mercy bo what?”

  “Coo.”

  “Mercy bo coo.” Though his accent was deplorable, Gunther repeated the words.

  “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

  “Nein.” As the German word came out of his mouth, Gunther laughed. Isabelle joined him, her heart lighter than it had been in weeks. This could be fun.

  Priscilla slid down from the horse and tied it to one of the hitching posts. Today, since she intended to buy only a few items, she’d decided to ride rather than bring the wagon into town, and Zach had brought her favorite mare from the Bar C. Though he had warned Priscilla about Charcoal’s aversion to water,
Nora appeared to enjoy crossing the river, for she whinnied and tossed her head the instant they started descending to the Medina. Nora might be old, but she had not lost her zest for life.

  The same could be said about the woman who greeted Priscilla.

  “Good afternoon, my child.” Even if she hadn’t recognized the voice, only one person in Ladreville called Priscilla “child.” She turned and smiled at Granny Menger. As the midwife returned the smile, her eyes moved slowly, appraising Priscilla. “It’s good to see you out and about.”

  “It was nothing serious. I just caught cold.”

  Granny Menger nodded at the bench the Rousseaus had placed in front of their store. “Let me rest my bones a bit,” she said as she lowered herself onto the seat Isabelle claimed had been designed for husbands whose wives were inside the store. When Priscilla had taken the place next to her, Granny nodded again. “Your ailment may not have been serious, but that husband of yours was mighty worried.”

  Though Zach had mentioned that he’d met Granny Menger when he delivered the notes to Isabelle and Yvonne, he had neglected to mention that he’d discussed Priscilla’s illness with the midwife. “I told Zach there was no reason to worry.”

  “But he did. God chose a good man for you.”

  “I don’t think marriage was part of Zach’s plan.” The instant the words were out of her mouth, Priscilla regretted them. While they were nothing less than the truth, there was no reason for Granny or anyone other than Zach, Sarah, and Clay to know the circumstances of their marriage.

  Apparently unfazed, Granny asked simply, “Why not? It seems to me that you and Zach are good for each other. You can heal each other’s wounds.”

  Was Granny a mind reader? That was the only reason Priscilla could imagine for her to be speaking of wounds. “What do you know of Zach’s past?”

  As two women left the mercantile, they stopped to greet Granny and Priscilla. It was several minutes later that Granny turned back to Priscilla, her eyes serious. “I know no more than anyone else in Ladreville,” she said, dashing Priscilla’s hopes. “Zach is mighty closed-mouthed, and he doesn’t frequent the saloon, so nobody’s heard anything he doesn’t intend them to know.” Granny paused before she added, “He’s a bit like you that way. Still, you only need to look into Zach’s eyes to know he’s suffered and is still suffering.” Granny stared into the distance for a moment. “I reckon if he tells anyone, it’ll be you.”

  “Maybe not. There are some things no one wants to talk about.”

  “Like what happened to you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Priscilla frowned. “How do you know? Zach said no one would learn what happened.”

  “I guessed.” Granny patted Priscilla’s hand. “You needn’t worry. If anyone suspects the baby isn’t Zach’s, they won’t say anything.”

  This was worse than she’d expected. “You know about the baby? Did Zach tell you?”

  “No. Like I said, he’s closed-mouth. I guessed the first time I met you.” When Priscilla let out a small sigh, Granny said, “I’m a midwife, child. I know what to look for. If I’d had any doubts, they would have vanished when I saw Zach that night. He was so worried about you. He was acting just like an expectant father.”

  Zach, it seemed, had accepted the baby more easily than Priscilla. “There’s no point in denying what will soon be obvious, is there?”

  Granny shook her head. “How are you feeling? Still queasy in the morning?”

  “Yes, but by afternoon I feel fine.” Which was why she’d waited until then to come into town. “The only other difference I’ve noticed is that I’m hungrier than before.”

  “That’s natural.” Granny gave her hand another pat. “Now, don’t you fret. Women have been having babies since Eve. You just call me when your pains start, and I’ll be there. Lord willing, you and Zach will have a healthy baby. Now, you go on and do whatever it was that brought you into town.”

  Though she could not have predicted it, her conversation with Granny Menger, though brief, marked a turning point for Priscilla. As she entered the mercantile, for the first time, she thought of the life that was growing inside her as her baby. Always in the past, it had been “the baby” or simply “it.” In the middle of the night, when the nightmares wakened her, it was “the bandit’s child.” Even when Zach called it “our baby,” she had never used the words. But today, Priscilla smiled as she touched her abdomen. Granny was right. This would be her child and Zach’s.

  “I saw Granny Menger when I went into town today,” Priscilla told Zach that evening as they ate supper. “She guessed about the baby.”

  Apparently unperturbed, Zach nodded. “It won’t be long before others notice. I figured that we’d wait another month or so before we told anyone. Mentioning it to one or two is all it will take. After that, the Ladreville rumor mill will spread the news.” When Priscilla frowned, he shook his head. “That’s not bad. After all the troubles we had last year, folks need something happy to talk about.”

  “I suppose they do.” And new life, no matter how it began, was cause for rejoicing.

  “Have you thought about what you want to name the child?”

  The question, which seemed to be additional proof that Zach regarded the baby as his, surprised Priscilla. She nodded slowly. “Halfway. If it’s a girl, I’d like to call her Patience after my sister, but I can’t think of any boys’ names I favor.” Perhaps that was because she continued to pray that the baby would be a girl. A girl, Priscilla reasoned, would be less likely than a boy to remind her of Zeke Dunkler.

  “Would you consider John?”

  “John Webster.” Priscilla liked the way it sounded. “Was that your father’s name?”

  “Nope. He was Zach like me. Or rather,” Zach said with a wry smile, “I was named Zach like him.” The younger Zach Webster’s expression sobered. “I always thought that if I had a son, I’d like to name him after John Tallman. John’s the man who saved my life.”

  Though he said the words calmly, Zach’s eyes filled with remembered pain. Priscilla took a deep breath as she considered that Granny Menger might be right: Zach might be ready to confide in her. “I understand if it’s too painful, but will you tell me what happened?”

  He nodded slowly. “I’ve come this far. You might as well know the rest.” Zach took a long swallow of coffee before he began. “I was just a kid, barely fifteen, when Sam Houston mustered an army to march to Mexico. This was late in ’42.”

  Priscilla’s knowledge of Texas history was sketchy, but she remembered reading that there were numerous skirmishes between Texas and Mexico, even after Texas gained its independence.

  “At first, things were going our way. We captured Laredo and thought we were winning the war, but later that month a bunch of us were captured and taken to a place called Perote.” Zach’s eyes darkened with the memory. “The Mexicans call it a castle. I call it the worst place on Earth. Conditions were unspeakable—not enough food, brutal guards, locked in a dungeon with no sunlight. We were sure it couldn’t get worse, but it did the day they decided to punish us with decimation.”

  “You mean killing one out of every ten?” Priscilla had heard the term but had thought the practice had been discontinued.

  “That’s right.” Zach nodded. “Our jailers had a pot of beans, one black for every nine white. We stood in a line, and one by one, we had to pull a bean out of the pot. Whoever picked a black one would be killed. That’s what I got.”

  Priscilla shuddered as she imagined the terror Zach must have felt. He was, as he admitted, little more than a child. Though he must have known that death was a possibility when he’d joined the army, it was one thing to die on a battlefield, another to face a firing squad. “How did you survive? Did John Tallman help you escape?”

  Zach shook his head. “We were too heavily guarded for there to be any possibility of escape.” He stared into the distance for a moment, his eyes so filled with anguish that Priscilla knew he must
be reliving that horrible day. “John was as close to a saint as any man I’ve met.” Zach’s voice quavered. “When he saw how scared I was, John switched beans with me. He took the black bean and died in my place.”

  Priscilla’s eyes filled with tears. No wonder Zach looked haunted. He was. He was haunted by the memory of a man who’d given him the most precious gift of all: life. “Oh, Zach, what a wonderful gift!”

  “It was, but it came with one stipulation. John wanted me to forgive our jailers. He told me that was the only way I’d be truly free.”

  “Did you?” The Bible told of Jesus asking his Father to forgive the men who crucified him, but he was divine. It was far more difficult to imagine an ordinary man being so forgiving.

  “Not at first,” Zach admitted. “I was so ashamed of my cowardice that I could hardly bear each day. At one point, I even thought of killing myself.”

  Priscilla shuddered. “If you’d done that, you would have squandered John Tallman’s gift.”

  “Clay’s father said the same thing. He told me only a coward would take that road, that a brave man would live and make each day of his life a testimonial to John’s generosity. But first I had to learn to forgive.” Zach drained his cup and placed it back on the table. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, to give up my anger and hatred, but once I did, I found a greater peace than I dreamt possible.”

  As she looked at the man she’d married, one thing was clear. “That’s why you advised me to forgive the bandits.” Priscilla had been wrong. She had believed that Zach had spoken glibly, that he had no understanding of what she’d endured, but he did, for what he’d suffered at the hand of the guards was worse than her ordeal. The jailers had tried to destroy both his body and his spirit, but Zach had survived. More than that, he’d emerged a stronger man.

  “Yes. John was right when he said forgiveness was the path to freedom. Our memories can imprison us more surely than the thickest walls.”

  Priscilla recognized the truth in Zach’s words. It was the memories of what the Dunkler brothers had done that robbed her life of joy. She looked across the table and nodded slowly at Zach. “I’m not sure I can do it, but I’ll try.”