Paper Roses (14 page)

“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.

“We women love our flower gardens.” A chuckle punctuated Mary’s words. “Why, Clay’s wife weren’t here very long afore she started one of her own. I reckon she hoped the baby would be a girl, so they could work together.”

“The baby?” By all rights, Sarah should be heading back to the Bar C, but she lingered, curious about the man whose home she shared. Martina, steadfastly loyal, did not indulge in gossip, and Sarah had not asked Isabelle about Clay. This was her chance to learn more about the man who might have been her brother-in-law.

Mary’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “You didn’t know Patience was expecting?” She shook her head, her lips pursed in disapproval. “Of course not. Those Canfields always were closemouthed. Don’t want nobody knowing their business. Why, they probably didn’t tell you what happened to Patience.” When Sarah nodded in confirmation, Mary continued. “I blame myself for the tragedy. If I hadn’t taken that fish chowder to the potluck, Clay’s wife might still be alive.”

Mary reached for her handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “I shouldn’t a’ done it, but Patience told me she had a hankering for a stew like she had at home. You know how women who are in the family way ofttimes crave peculiar foods. Patience wanted fish. I figgered Martina wouldn’t cook it, so I found an old recipe for Boston clam chowder. ’Course I didn’t have no clams, so I had to make do with a fish David caught.”

Thea looked up, as if intrigued by the story. Sarah doubted she’d understood many of the words, but her sister had always been sensitive to voices and seemed to sense Mary’s distress.

“To this day, I don’t know what spoiled. Coulda been the fish. Coulda been the cream. All I know is something went bad. Real bad.” Mary touched her stomach, remembering. “The only good thing was that the other church ladies wouldn’t touch the stuff. They said it smelled funny. Patience said that was the way it was supposed to smell and took a big helping. I couldn’t let her eat alone, so I took some too, but only a little bit. I reckon that’s why I lived and Patience didn’t.” Mary touched her abdomen again. “I tell you, Sarah, I ain’t never been so sick in all my life. Bearing David was easy as pie compared to that.”

As Thea started to whimper, Sarah reached down and drew her sister onto her lap, her own distress at Clay’s loss becoming secondary to the need to comfort her sister. A quick check revealed that Thea hadn’t hurt herself. Could it be that she was reacting to Mary’s story and that was the reason she cried so often? Just because she had been a widow for many years didn’t mean Mary wasn’t lonely. Perhaps she talked about her losses to Thea. Perhaps Thea wept, not because she longed for home but because she sought to comfort Mary in the only way she knew, by crying with her.

“It was the saddest thing you ever did see.” Mary’s words brought Sarah back to the present. “Clay was beside himself. I never seen a man so bereaved, and I hope I never do again.” Mary shook her head, her coronet of braids moving ever so slightly. “He loved that woman something fierce. I heard tell he wouldn’t let no one touch her things, wouldn’t even give away her clothes. It’s a pity, but I reckon he let her garden go to weeds too.”

Pity
was not the word Sarah would have used.
Tragedy.
Catastrophe.
Clay’s situation deserved more than an ordinary word like
pity
. It wasn’t only Thea who wanted to cry. Sarah’s heart ached, and she felt tears well in her eyes for the man Clay had been and the pain he had endured. First his father had suffered apoplexy; then he’d lost his wife and unborn child; and then, in a blow no man should have to bear, his brother had been killed. It was no wonder he was bitter. Though Sarah could not condone his plans for revenge, for nothing—absolutely nothing—justified killing, she understood what had brought him to that point, and her heart wept for him.

Clay was still in Sarah’s thoughts an hour later as she and Thea stood at the edge of the paddock, watching Nora graze. Lured by the sight of the vivid red flowers that Martina called Indian paintbrush dotting the field of bluebonnets,

Sarah and Thea had taken a walk to pick a few blooms for Pa’s room. Now they were back at Thea’s favorite part of the ranch, but while her sister seemed mesmerized by Nora, Sarah’s thoughts remained focused on the horse’s owner. It was logical that she’d think of Clay today, for she’d learned more of the tragedies that seemed to stalk him. Knowing that he’d been expecting and then had lost a child helped explain the apparent aversion he’d had to Thea. If Sarah was right, through no fault of her own, Thea reminded Clay of the baby he would never hold, of the son or daughter he would not raise. It was no wonder he hadn’t wanted to be near her, just as it was understandable that Sarah’s thoughts were focused on him this afternoon.

“Run, Sarah. Me wanna run.” Thea tugged on Sarah’s hand.

“All right, sweetie, but just to the corner and back.” Though Sarah could not run with her sister, the exercise would help dissipate some of Thea’s energy.