by Amanda Cabot
A smile lit Gunther’s face as he considered a future with Isabelle as his bride. “What must I do?”
Zach was struck by the irony that he, the man who thought he would never marry and whose marriage was unconventional, was counseling a friend on the route to marital bliss. “I imagine she would like to be wooed. Most women do.” Gunther nodded, as if he’d heard that before. “One word of advice. Everyone knows you’re looking for a new mother for Eva.”
“It’s more than that.”
Gunther’s interruption told Zach what he’d hoped to hear. “If you love Isabelle, make sure she knows that’s why you’re courting her—for herself, not for Eva’s sake.”
“Ja. Sehr gut.” Gunther nodded in agreement. “But how do I do that?”
Zach frowned. What a hypocrite he was, giving advice that he hadn’t followed. He hadn’t wooed Priscilla, and he certainly hadn’t given her any reason to believe he cared for her. As far as Priscilla knew, the only reason Zach had married her was to protect her unborn child. Though that might have been true then, things had changed. The problem was, Zach had no idea how to tell Priscilla that he felt differently. His parents had insisted it was more important to show than to tell, but how did a man do that?
He looked at Gunther and shrugged his shoulders. “I wish I knew.”
Another dead end. Lawrence drained his glass and plunked it onto the table. Men fitting the description of the Dunkler brothers had been seen approaching Seguin, and so he had followed them, only to discover that they were simply two tall, dark-haired farmers, not the notorious outlaws he sought.
“One more,” he agreed when the waitress offered to fill his glass. It wasn’t as if he needed his wits about him tonight. The Dunkler brothers were not here, and neither was Jean-Michel Ladre.
Lawrence frowned as he thought of the apparently wily son of Ladreville’s founding family. The young whippersnapper was in a heap of trouble. It was bad enough that he’d stolen Albert Monroe’s money. The empresario might have agreed to a minor jail sentence for that crime had Jean-Michel not taken the horse. But he had, and Texans were mighty particular about their horses. Still, a healthy number of his father’s gold coins might have convinced Monroe that Jean-Michel should not hang. But now there was no chance of clemency. The day the young fool decided to end the peddler’s life was the day he signed his own death warrant. One way or another, Jean-Michel Ladre would die.
Lawrence took a swig of his drink. It was odd how it had lost its flavor, almost as odd as the way his life had suddenly seemed devoid of pleasure. A year ago he’d believed there was nothing more rewarding than being a Texas Ranger, but now . . . He tipped the glass and swallowed the last drops. There was no point in wasting good whiskey.
“What else can I get you?” The waitress appeared at his side so quickly that Lawrence suspected she’d been watching him. The way she just happened to brush against his arm and the sultry tone of her voice told him she was offering more than another drink.
“Nothing else.” Disappointment dimmed her smile. Lawrence shook his head as he rose. She couldn’t help it that her hair was brown, not strawberry blonde. She couldn’t help it that she was short and rounded, not tall and slim. She couldn’t help it that she wasn’t Priscilla. There was only one Priscilla, and she was another man’s wife.
His mood decidedly worse than it had been a minute before, Lawrence stalked out of the saloon.
“I bought something for us today.”
Priscilla turned and laid the paring knife on the sink. The potatoes could wait. Zach’s voice said whatever he had purchased was important. “I didn’t know we needed anything.”
His lips curved into a smile that made his face even more handsome than normal. “We may not need this, but I thought we could use it.” Zach stepped outside for a second, returning with his purchase.
“A basket.” Constructed of thin slats that had been bent and woven and boasting a sturdy handle, the container was both attractive and practical. It was also the only thing Zach had bought for Priscilla other than her wedding ring. What was the occasion?
“Not just a basket,” he said with another smile. “It’s a picnic basket. I thought we might go for a picnic after church on Sunday.”
A gift and an outing. Priscilla almost clapped her hands with glee. “Thank you, Zach. I haven’t been on a picnic since I was a child.”
“Then you’re overdue.”
Though she had worried that rain might spoil the picnic, Sunday dawned clear and sunny. Priscilla had the chicken fried, the biscuits and the dried apple pie baked. All that remained was to pack the basket when they returned from church. She was humming softly as she dressed, wondering what today’s sermon would be. Like Sarah and Clay, Priscilla and Zach alternated churches, and this was their week to worship with the Germans. Priscilla knew that for the past four weeks Pastor Sempert had followed his Lenten tradition of preaching about the events that led to Good Friday and Easter Sunday. Which would he choose today?
She and Zach slid into one of the back pews, where they were soon joined by Gunther and Eva. When the little girl nestled close to Priscilla, whispering, “You smell pretty,” Priscilla resolved to buy a bottle of toilet water for the child. Perhaps, if everything went the way Sarah hoped, Eva would be able to wear it for her father’s wedding to Isabelle.
All thoughts of Gunther and Isabelle fled when the minister climbed into the pulpit. “The Scripture reading for today is Matthew 19, verses 13 through 15.” Priscilla blinked. For some reason, Pastor Sempert had deviated from custom, for this passage did not relate to Christ’s death. The minister opened his Bible and began to read, “‘Then were there brought unto him little children, that he should put his hands on them, and pray; and the disciples rebuked them. But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. And he laid his hands on them, and departed thence.’” Pastor Sempert looked out at his congregation. “Today, as we enjoy the beauty of spring and the rebirth of all living things, let us reflect on the blessings our Lord has given us, including the blessing of children.”
Priscilla lowered her eyes, unable to meet his gaze. Did he know? Was the message for her? Sarah had told her how one of Pastor Sempert’s sermons had led her back to her Savior. Had he somehow guessed that Priscilla was still struggling with the memory of how her child was conceived, and was this his way of comforting her? Whether or not the sermon was directed at her, Priscilla drank in his words, feeling like a flower that had been struggling to survive in parched earth as it received the first drops of spring rain.
“Good sermon.” Though she and Zach normally discussed the sermon on their ride home, today he said nothing more. Instead, he changed the subject abruptly, suggesting she wear older clothing for the picnic.
Half an hour later, they were back in the wagon, heading north. When they reached the end of the road, instead of turning right to cross the river, Zach continued on a barely visible track. Though Priscilla knew the ranch extended past the road, she’d never been this far.
“Where are we going?”
“It’s supposed to be a surprise,” he said as he feigned a frown. “I’m beginning to realize your parents were right in not naming you Patience.”
She laughed. “It’s true. Patience and I were very different. My sister inherited all of our father’s patience.”
“And what did you get?”
“I’m not sure. Neither of my parents craved adventure the way I do.”
Zach slowed the horses as the track worsened. “It appears to me, Mrs. Webster,” he said, giving the formal address a joking tone, “that you’re on an adventure right now. You’re headed for parts unknown.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Webster, for indulging my fancy.”
“I hope you like where we’re going.” A serious note crept into his voice, as if he were uncertain of her reaction. They’d entered a heavily wooded section of the ranch. Though she found the sha
de and the cool air refreshing, Pricilla was thankful she was not driving the team. It was clear only a skilled driver could maneuver a wagon between the trees.
“Should we walk?” she suggested.
“Patience, Mrs. Webster. Patience. We’re almost there.”
A minute later the wagon emerged into a meadow so carpeted with flowers that it appeared blue.
Priscilla caught her breath. “Oh, Zach. It’s beautiful!”
He grinned. “They’re bluebonnets. You can find patches almost everywhere this time of the year, but this is the biggest one I’ve seen.”
“It’s magnificent.” When he stopped the wagon, Priscilla climbed out and touched the delicate flowers. “Look. From a distance, I thought they were solid blue, but there are bits of white and yellow on the petals too. And look.” She knelt on the ground and pointed to a vibrant red flower. “What’s this?”
“Indian paintbrush. I can never decide which one is prettier.”
“Luckily you don’t need to decide. They’re both here, and they’re both beautiful.” Though Priscilla had seen magnificent gardens in Boston, their beauty paled against this.
Zach nodded as if he’d heard her thoughts. “Sarah and Mrs. Bramble made pretty gardens, but to my mind, nothing compares to this. This is God’s garden. And now, Mrs. Webster, it’s time for the picnic you promised me.” He pulled an old quilt and the basket from the back of the wagon.
Priscilla eyed the quilt and the masses of wildflowers. “I don’t want to spread it on the ground. We might hurt the flowers. Maybe we should eat in the wagon.”
Zach shook his head. “That’s not a picnic. Don’t worry. The flowers are sturdier than you think. Besides, the way I figure it, God put them here for us to enjoy.”
She couldn’t argue with that, and so she helped Zach spread the quilt. As she served the food, Priscilla watched the man she’d married. Perhaps it was the setting, but today he seemed happier than she’d ever seen him. Though his eyes still held sorrow, it seemed to have diminished. “This is a wonderful place,” Priscilla said softly. “It’s so peaceful here.” The only sounds were their breathing, a bird’s trilling, and a rodent scurrying through the grass.
“I saw it for the first time last fall when Clay took over the Lazy B. It may sound strange, but I felt at home here.”
Priscilla looked around and smiled. “That doesn’t sound strange to me. This would be the perfect location for a house.” She wondered why the Brambles hadn’t chosen it. The meadow was large enough to hold a house, a few outbuildings, and a garden, and if the house were located near the trees, they’d provide shade from the summer sun.
“That’s what I thought. At the time I didn’t think I’d be staying in Ladreville, but I told myself that if I ever did settle down, it would be in a place like this.”
“And now you’re going to own it.”
A smile creased Zach’s face. “God has a way of working things out for us, doesn’t he? If he hadn’t sent you here, I wouldn’t have a house of my own and a family to make that house a home.”
He was venturing into dangerous waters. Though they’d spoken of many things, they had not revisited the reason for their marriage. Priscilla knew that she had changed, that her feelings had altered. Had his? There was only one way to know. “Then you’re content with our arrangement?”
“Yes.” He answered without hesitation, but his eyes darkened and his expression was solemn as he turned to her. “And you?”
Priscilla nodded. She had sought reassurance, and so, it appeared, did Zach. “Four months ago I would not have dreamt that I’d be saying this, but yes, I am content. I’ve come to love Ladreville. Somehow it feels more like home than Boston ever did.” She paused, then laid her hand on her stomach. It was time to tell Zach how she felt. She wouldn’t embarrass him with words like love, for she wasn’t certain that was what she felt, but she could talk to him about the baby. “Thank you for marrying me and accepting my child. If it weren’t for you, I know I wouldn’t be able to say this, but I’m looking forward to the baby . . . our baby.”
12
If there was one thing Isabelle did not like, it was rainy days. There were fewer customers when it rained, and those who came were almost invariably grumpy, acting as if she were somehow to blame for the inclement weather. To make things worse, Karl Friedrich, the farmer who had hired her brother Léon to help with his crops, had no work for Léon today, and so her brother was stomping around the store, muttering that the shelves weren’t stocked properly and that she hadn’t displayed the ribbons to their advantage. As if he knew anything about ribbons. He was simply grousing because he hated being indoors. Today, so did she.
“What you need is to do something useful.”
“Just what would you suggest?” Léon spat the words at her.
“You can mind the store while I go out.” Isabelle reached for her umbrella.
Her brother stared at her as if she had suddenly lost her mind. “Are you crazy? It’s raining.”
“I am well aware of that.” Maman would fuss about damp shoes and skirts, which she claimed led to the grippe. She would probably echo Léon’s words and claim that Isabelle was crazy to walk in the rain, but at least she wouldn’t be complaining about Gunther. Though Maman had had nothing but kind words for him last summer when he was courting Sarah, now not a meal passed without at least one disparaging comment.
“You’ll catch your death out there.”
Ignoring her brother’s dire predictions, Isabelle opened the door and unfurled her umbrella. The rain, though still a steady downpour, was less intense than it had been half an hour before. Admittedly, it was not the ideal day for a stroll, but she’d be sheltered once she reached her destination: the town’s open air market. All the vendors had tents over their tables. In the summer, the tents provided shade from the hot Texas sun. Today they’d keep the rain off customers as well as their merchandise.
Though water seeped inside her shoes, Isabelle smiled, thinking of the first table she would visit. Frau Bauer’s unique jewelry, consisting of natural materials, had long intrigued her. When she’d come into the mercantile earlier that week, the German matron had mentioned the new style of jewelry she had made. Instead of using pinecones, as she usually did, these were fashioned from dried seeds. “Some of them look almost like pearls,” she had explained. Isabelle smiled again. Admiring Frau Bauer’s craftsmanship and perhaps buying a piece would surely lift her spirits.
As her feet squished and rain sluiced off her umbrella, Isabelle turned onto rue de la Seine, quickly covering the short block to rue du Marché. Though the market that had given the street its name was located directly behind her family’s store, a tall wooden fence separated the lots. As she turned into the market grounds, Isabelle stopped abruptly, astonished by the sight of the man who was striding toward her. Why was he here?
“Isabelle!” Gunther sounded as surprised as she. “What are you doing out in this weather?” Unlike her brother’s, Gunther’s voice held no disdain. Instead, he grinned and his eyes sparkled as he juggled a package and his umbrella so he could doff his hat for her. No man could be more courtly than Gunther Lehman. That was one of the things she loved—she liked, Isabelle corrected herself quickly—about him.
“I could ask you the same question.” Though she tried to keep her voice level, Isabelle’s heart was racing, and she could feel blood rush to her face at the silly direction her mind had taken. This was Gunther, her friend, she reminded herself. No matter what hopes she might harbor, he had never crossed the boundaries of friendship.
If he noticed her discomfiture, Gunther gave no sign. Instead, he shrugged and answered her question. “No one wants grain milled today.”
“No one wants to shop at the mercantile, either.” Isabelle looked around the market. Though several of the tents were empty, the majority of tables were as filled with merchandise as on a sunny day. “I’m surprised to see so many vendors.” The weather seemed to have discourag
ed all but a dozen customers. If she hadn’t been restless, Isabelle would not have come. As for Gunther, she could not imagine what had brought him to the market today. The package he had tucked underneath his arm was too small to be bread or other foodstuffs.
He shrugged again as he looked at the tables laden with goods. “I suppose a few sales are better than none at all.” He paused, as if unsure what to do. Isabelle shared the feeling. Gunther had been headed in the opposite direction, probably going home, when she had arrived. She could hardly expect him to prolong his time in the rain. And yet, though the weather was less than conducive to conversation, she didn’t want him to leave. They had so few opportunities to talk without every word being overheard. Despite the rain and the discomfort it brought, she and Gunther had a modicum of privacy here.
Gunther’s eyes seemed to reflect some of the same ambivalence. “May I accompany you?”
Though her heart leapt with pleasure, Isabelle had to caution him. “You may find it boring.” Léon and her father certainly would. “I came to see Frau Bauer’s new designs.”
Gunther reddened and glanced at his package. “Oh . . . well . . . um . . .” He stared at the ground as if he expected to see the words that eluded him written on it. At last he raised his eyes to meet Isabelle’s. “Perhaps you shouldn’t go there.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because . . . um . . .” Gunther took a deep breath, then looked around. Was he worried that they would be overheard? Though the ten or so vendors who’d brought their wares to the marketplace had undoubtedly noticed Gunther and Isabelle’s arrival, no one was close enough to hear them. Gunther shook his head slowly. “This isn’t the place I would have chosen, but . . .” He pulled out the package that he’d been cradling next to his body and handed it to Isabelle, his face reddening again as he said, “I thought you might like this.”