Paper Roses (11 page)

Sarah was smiling as she and Thea joined Clay for supper, but the smile faded when she realized Clay was in what Mama would have called a thunderstorm mood. He frowned when Thea called him “Papa Clay” and studiously ignored her for the rest of the meal, despite her attempts to catch his attention. Even more significantly, his responses to Sarah’s attempts at casual conversation were monosyllabic. Though no one would ever call Clay garrulous, he was not usually taciturn.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah asked when she could bear the silence no longer. Perhaps Clay had learned something about Austin’s killer and that was the reason he seemed morose.

His eyebrows shot up, as if he were surprised by the question. “We’ll discuss it later, once you’ve put Thea to bed.”

Sarah tried not to sigh at the realization that whatever he wanted to discuss, it was not pleasant. Though the cabin Austin had built for her and Thea was cheerful and normally made Sarah smile, tonight she was so worried about what was bothering Clay that she took no notice of it and could barely keep her mind on the story she was reading to Thea. It was with a sense of foreboding that Sarah reentered the ranch house.

Clay rose. “I heard something today that disturbed me,” he announced without preamble.

“Is it about Austin?” As she sank into a chair, she noticed the door to Robert Canfield’s room was closed. Though the older man did not join them for supper, normally the door was left open so he could hear the conversation. It made him realize he was still part of the family, Clay had explained. For some reason, he was being excluded from this discussion. That could only mean that whatever Clay had learned was too painful for his father to endure.

Clay shook his head. “No. It’s not about Austin. It’s about you.” He clenched his fists, then spat the words, “Martina said you’ve been torturing my father.”

Torture? Sarah recoiled as if she’d been slapped. Though her leg protested, she rose and took a step toward Clay, unwilling to let him continue to tower over her. “I have not been torturing anyone.” She enunciated each word carefully. Though she’d known Clay might not approve of her efforts, she’d not expected this reaction. “I would never torture anyone.” Her denial was as vehement as Clay’s accusation. “What I have been doing is exercising your father’s feet. That’s the first step toward helping him walk again.”

Clay was silent for a moment, and Sarah sensed he had only a tenuous grip on his temper. “Why would you do that? My father will not walk again. There is no reason to subject him to pain.”

“I beg to differ with you. I believe he will be able to walk.” The raised eyebrows told Sarah Clay felt otherwise. “On just what do you base this opinion?” Now his tone was condescending. “I am a trained physician, and I know otherwise.”

Perhaps she should have backed down. This was, after all, Clay’s father they were discussing. He loved him and wanted only the best for him. But so did Sarah. She hadn’t been mouthing platitudes the day she’d met Robert when she’d said she had been looking forward to having a new father. She needed him and, though neither he nor Clay might admit it, Robert needed her.

Sarah took another step toward Clay, deliberately softening her voice in the hope he’d understand. “Half a dozen doctors—some of the finest in the country, I might add—told my parents and me the same thing when I broke my leg. No one offered me the slightest hope, but I’m walking now.” She gestured toward her right leg. “Even though I’ll always limp, at least I’m not confined to a chair. If I could escape the chair, so can your father. I can show him how.”

Clay shook his head. “This is different. Pa suffered from apoplexy, not a fall from a horse.”

Clay sounded like all the doctors her parents had consulted. He might have gone to medical school, he might have helped many patients, but this time he was wrong. “That’s all the more reason to think he can regain the use of his legs. Nothing was broken.”

The look Clay gave her was filled with pity. “You don’t understand.”

“You don’t, either. The human spirit can overcome more than you imagine. The doctors said it would be a miracle if I walked. I don’t believe it was a miracle. I’m walking because of my determination.”

“And you believe your determination will let my father regain use of his legs? That
would
be a miracle. Unfortunately, I don’t believe in them any more than you do. Stay away from my father.”

But she would not.

5

It reminded her of Philadelphia. Though smaller, the building was filling with people. As she settled Thea on her lap, Sarah heard murmured conversations, the rustle of pages as others opened their hymnals, the occasional cry of a baby. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and inhaled the scent of candle wax mingled with the stronger fragrances of toilet water and hair oil. It was Sunday morning, only a few minutes before the service was to begin, time for the faithful and those who wanted to be counted among them to gather.

If she closed her eyes and pretended the parishioners were speaking English rather than French, Sarah could believe she was once again in Philadelphia. But she wasn’t, and for that she was supremely grateful. In Philadelphia, she would have been sitting alone. In Philadelphia, she would have been subjected to stares, to whispered comments, to outright snubs. Here she faced none of that. Instead, she was greeted with genuinely welcoming smiles. Oh, there was curiosity. She had expected that. But there was no condemnation and no pity. Since no one knew her past, there was no one to judge her for her father’s actions. The only judge was the voice deep inside, reminding her that she who’d been so quick to accuse the Philadelphia congregation of hypocrisy was guilty of the same sin.

Thea patted Sarah’s hand, urging her to turn another page. Though she managed a smile for her sister, Sarah could not dismiss the feeling that she was an imposter. The others had come to worship God; Sarah had not. She was here because she knew it was what Mama would have wanted for Thea. That’s why they were sitting in a pew with Isabelle’s family. That’s why Sarah was holding Mama’s Bible so Thea could pretend to read it. This was an obligation, nothing more.

When the organist paused, the whispering ceased, and a sense of anticipation rippled through the congregation as a slight, black-robed man entered the sanctuary, his hands urging them to rise. This was, Sarah knew, Père Tellier.

“Let us pray.”

Sarah moved mechanically, standing and kneeling at the correct times. Though the service was in French, the words were similar to those she’d heard every Sunday of her childhood. There had been a time when those words had touched her heart, when she had felt a joy so great it had brought tears to her eyes. But that time had ended. The joy had evaporated the day she’d heard two churchwomen discussing her. It was God’s will, they had said, that Sarah would not walk again.
How could that be?
she had wanted to scream.
How could
a loving God want me to remain an invalid?
There was no answer save one: he was not a loving God. If she had had any lingering doubts, they were destroyed the night he allowed gunshots to kill her parents. Nothing remained. Were it not for Thea and the need to create a normal life for her, Sarah would not be in church today. That was practicality, not hypocrisy, she told herself. She would not feel guilty.

As the service continued, Sarah marveled at how well her sister behaved. Though she had expected her to be fussy, Thea seemed fascinated by the people around her, her head swiveling as she regarded the parishioners. The thought assailed Sarah that this might be the reason her sister was unhappy staying with Mary Bramble. Perhaps she missed the company of others. It was true that Thea’s short life had been spent surrounded by many people. At home, there had been numerous servants bustling around the house, always taking time to spend a moment with the youngest member of the family. The journey West had involved crowded trains and stagecoaches. Perhaps Thea longed for the company of more than one person.

As if in response to Sarah’s thoughts, Thea’s eyes lit on a small girl two pews ahead of them. For the first time since the service began, the little girl turned and was staring toward the back of the church. Thea smiled, waved and gurgled, then started to talk. “Shush, sweetie.” Sarah laid a finger over Thea’s lips, admonishing her to be silent, and glanced around to see how many people her sister had disturbed. When she turned in her direction, Isabelle shook her head, as if to say no one minded. But surely that couldn’t be. Sarah continued to look around, anticipating the angry expressions, the lips pursed with disapproval that she would have encountered in Philadelphia. There were none. Instead, she saw indulgent smiles. This congregation, it appeared, did not subscribe to the belief that children should be seen and not heard.

For the first time since she’d entered the sanctuary, Sarah began to relax. Perhaps Isabelle had not exaggerated when she’d said that Sarah and Thea would be welcome in either church.

As Père Tellier climbed into the pulpit, the parishioners settled back into the pews, anticipating a long sermon. For Thea’s sake, Sarah hoped that was not the case. Her sister’s behavior had been amazingly good, but all good things ended. The black-robed pastor looked at his congregation, smiling as his eyes moved from one pew to the next. It was only when he’d silently greeted everyone that he spoke. “For today’s sermon, I have chosen one of the Ten Commandments: thou shalt not . . .”

The blood drained from Sarah’s face as he pronounced the final word.
Kill
. How had he known? Instinctively, her arms tightened around Thea, squeezing her sister so tightly that she squirmed.
Oh, Thea. I thought I could protect you. I was
wrong.
Somehow, the past she had believed they had escaped had followed them. Sarah closed her eyes, wishing she could simply disappear. But, of course, she could not, for nothing was simple. She took a deep breath, willing her hands to stop trembling. When at last she’d regained a modicum of composure and opened her eyes, Sarah darted surreptitious looks around her. She’d expected contempt, perhaps even condemnation. Instead she discovered no one was looking at her. Their attention was focused on the minister, who continued to expound on his chosen commandment. Sarah exhaled the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. How foolish could she be? It was her imagination that had caused those moments of panic. No one knew what had happened. No one would ever know.

When the service ended, Isabelle touched Sarah’s arm as they waited to leave the church. “I’m so glad you decided to come. I hope you’ll attend services here every week.”

“I’m not sure.” Sarah thought she would visit the German church next Sunday. If the congregation was equally welcoming, she and Thea could alternate between them.

Isabelle’s eyes darkened. “Please don’t think it was intentional. I’m sure he didn’t mean to upset you.”

Before Sarah could ask what Isabelle meant, Thea batted her hand against Sarah’s cheek.

“Down!” she demanded. “Down.”

Accepting the inevitable, Sarah lowered her sister to the floor but refused to relinquish her hand. Thea could squirm all she wanted, but she would not run through the group of people waiting to greet the pastor.

“I’m sorry.” She faced Isabelle again. “You were saying . . .”

“The sermon. Père Tellier had no way of knowing you’d be here today. I’m certain he didn’t mean to remind you of Austin’s death when he chose ‘thou shalt not kill’ as his subject.”

Austin. Of course. If anyone had seen Sarah’s distress, they would have believed she was mourning him. How shocked they would be to learn she had not thought of him once. Sorrow for the man who should have been her husband came at unpredictable times; today had not been one of them. Sarah managed a brief smile for Isabelle. “I know that. I’m fine now.” And she was. As they stood in line, waiting to greet the minister, Sarah chatted with her friend as if nothing unusual had happened.

After accepting the pastor’s warm welcome, Sarah stepped into the sunlight. Though Isabelle’s parents had invited her and Thea to join them for Sunday dinner, this was one meal at the Bar C she could not miss. Sarah headed toward the wagon. Unfortunately, progress was slower than she would have liked, for it seemed that everyone wanted to greet her. Though she’d met many of the women and children when they’d shopped at the mercantile, the men were strangers. Dutifully, they doffed their hats and muttered a welcome, their sidelong glances making it clear they’d rather be part of the group of men standing in one corner of the churchyard, despite the fact that that conversation was provoking scowls and clenched fists. Sarah herself was anxious to go home—to the Bar C, she corrected herself.

She and Thea had almost reached the street when Jean-Michel Ladre approached them.

“I’d like you to meet my parents.” He nodded toward the older couple standing behind him. Even without the introduction, Sarah would have known the trio was related. Jean-Michel had inherited his father’s coloring and regal posture, but his face was a masculine version of his mother’s. It was no wonder Jean-Michel was such a handsome man, for his mother was one of the most beautiful women Sarah had ever seen. She bit back a smile at the thought of all the women who tried to surpass Madame Ladre by creating more elaborate gowns. This woman would be beautiful dressed in rags.

“Welcome to Ladreville. I trust your stay here will be pleasant.” As the man who founded the town spoke, Sarah understood why he’d had no problem recruiting emigrants to populate his dream. Monsieur Ladre’s voice was low but compelling, imbuing even a simple greeting with charisma. It appeared that he was what her father would have described as a born leader. It also appeared that he was laboring under a misunderstanding. Sarah was not visiting.

“You chose a beautiful location for the town.” She accompanied her words with a smile. “This is a fine place for Thea and me to make our home.”

Madame Ladre gave her son a long look before she returned her gaze to Sarah. “Then Jean-Michel was correct. We thought he’d misunderstood when he said you plan to remain here. After Austin . . .” Her voice trailed off as the townspeople’s frequently did when they spoke of Austin. What could one say to a woman whose fiancé was killed before she’d had a chance to meet him?