Revealed (11 page)

Surprised at his response, she savored it.

He guided their wagon down a side street, and her focus was drawn to a hunched-over figure not too far up ahead. ‘‘Patrick, would you mind stopping for a second. Please?’’ When he brought the wagon to a standstill, she climbed down using the wheel hub for a foothold.

The old peddler Kathryn Jennings had introduced her to pulled his rickety cart behind him on the side of the street, speaking to those he passed, whether they acknowledged him or not. When Annabelle caught his attention, a smile creased the sun-furrowed lines of Callum Roberts’ bearded face.

He plunked down his old cart. ‘‘Miss Grayson, why I’ll be. Don’t you look mighty pretty today.’’

Annabelle didn’t bother correcting him, on either point, and gently touched the tarnished brooch she’d pinned on her shawl that morning as an afterthought, so glad now that she’d worn it. Callum Roberts’ eyes lit when he saw it. The brooch was a purchase she’d made from Mr. Roberts when she and Kathryn Jennings had been in town together one day last spring. The jewelry served to remind her not only of the ancient hawker but of a lesson in kindness she’d learned from Kathryn.

She and Kathryn had been talking at the time, and Annabelle would’ve passed by the old peddler without notice. But not Kathryn.

Kathryn stopped and talked to him, looking him in the eye, fawning over his wares, and purchasing two items Annabelle knew she had no need of. Then Kathryn had hugged the man—actually hugged him! Despite his smell. A tear had trickled down the old man’s cheek, making Annabelle wonder how long it had been since someone had touched him, much less shown him such affection.

She leaned over and peered into the man’s cart. ‘‘What sorts of things do you have today, Mr. Roberts?’’ She assumed that this collection of odds and ends contained many of the same items Kathryn had sorted through a year ago.

‘‘Well, what are you hopin’ to find?’’

‘‘Oh, no telling what might strike my fancy. How has business been?’’ He looked as though he might not have eaten a good meal in several days. Or weeks.

Knowing the temptation might be there for him, she studied his face for signs of being into the bottle. But his eyes were clear and bright, no tremors in his hands. No smell on his breath either, other than staleness and rotten teeth.

‘‘Not too bad. Seems like more and more people are wantin’ to go to that fancy store down the way there. Don’t know why they would though, when I got what they need right here. For a bargain,’’ he added, leaning down to rub his right leg.

Annabelle thought she’d noticed him favoring that same leg when she first spotted him walking down the street. ‘‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr. Roberts.’’ She finally settled on a worn, thinning volume no larger than the palm of her hand. The tiny book appeared to still contain all of its pages, but from the stains browning the edges, she wondered if the verses within would even be legible. The author’s name on the cover wasn’t familiar to her, but the title was captivating enough —
The Tell-Tale Heart
.

She also picked up a handheld mirror that must have been painted gold several lifetimes ago. The mirror’s face was cracked in two places, and the ornate handle was marred by three hollow indentions that might once have boasted pieces of colored cut glass. Annabelle held it up to see her reflection, and she immediately noticed its obvious imperfections.

Her own, not the mirror’s.

At the angle in which she held the mirror, one of the jagged cracks in the glass matched almost perfectly the scar edging down her right temple. She slowly lowered the mirror and managed to find her smile again.

‘‘I can’t thank you enough for these items, Mr. Roberts. I’ve been looking for a book to read and will put this mirror to good use. These will do nicely, thank you.’’ She pressed some bills into his hand.

‘‘Well, I hope you enjoy ’em. I shined that mirror myself just yesterday. Can’t read much though, so don’t know if that book is worth its weight or not. It’s one of them stagecoach books, they tell me. It’ll fit right in your pocket while you travel.’’ Callum Roberts glanced down at the money in his palm, then back at Annabelle, who managed some quick backward steps toward the wagon. ‘‘Oh no, ma’am. This is too much. Way too much.’’

She climbed back up to the buckboard, a funny sensation flitting through her—like the sun was rising for a second time that morning, only this time . . . inside of her. She couldn’t keep from smiling. ‘‘Nonsense, Mr. Roberts. These items are well worth it to me. Now you take some of that and go see Doc Hadley about that leg. Get yourself a new coat for winter, and some gloves too. Then head on over to Myrtle’s and treat yourself to some of her fried chicken and bread pudding.’’

Through the thick growth of his unkempt beard, his lips quivered. ‘‘Thank you, ma’am. You’re a good woman, you are.’’

Before emotion got the best of her, Annabelle indicated to Patrick with a nod that she was ready to pull away. When they’d gone some distance down the road, she chanced a look back.

Callum Roberts stood exactly where she’d left him, one hand resting on his cart, the other raised in a half wave. She offered the same in return.

When they reached the corner, Patrick glanced down at the items in her lap. ‘‘You just never know the value of some things, do you?’’

Annabelle didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. As Patrick maneuvered their rig around a buggy in the street, she just kept thanking God for this marvelous, undeserved grace she’d somehow stumbled into.

Patrick pulled the wagon behind the house minutes later, hopped down, and came around to her side. Annabelle accepted his assistance as he helped her down. Then their eyes met. Something flickered behind his expression. That same
something
she thought she’d glimpsed in town earlier.

She smiled. ‘‘Okay, whatever it is . . . go ahead and say it.’’

‘‘Go ahead and say what?’’ He turned away, but not before she saw a sheepish grin inching his mouth upward.

‘‘You’re not a good liar, Patrick. But it’s a shortcoming that serves you well.’’

He turned back. ‘‘I was just wondering if there’s any way I could still reach Matthew Taylor if he’s in town, maybe talk to him about taking the job. You need to leave Willow Springs, Annabelle. Have a chance to start over again.’’ As though sensing her disapproval, he continued without a pause. ‘‘When Larson and I spoke yesterday, he said that Matthew would make an excellent guide. I’m pretty good at reasoning with people, and I think I could—’’

She held up a hand. ‘‘We discussed this last night, Patrick. Matthew is long gone by now.’’ She started toward the house and Patrick followed. ‘‘He wants nothing to do with me, I assure you. And for you and Hannah to hope otherwise . . .’’ She turned when she reached the back stairs, intentionally softening her tone. ‘‘Or for me to hope otherwise, is plain foolish. I’ll leave for Denver this week. I’ll get a room at a boardinghouse I know of there, wait until next spring, and then join up with the first wagon train that’s heading north. I’ll be fine, Patrick. I’ll get a job—a respectable one, I promise.’’ She winked. ‘‘And the months will pass in no time.’’

She laid a hand on her midsection, thankful for this lasting connection with Jonathan, and willed the look on her face to match the lightness of her tone. ‘‘Besides, traveling a thousand miles with this baby jostling inside me wasn’t something I looked forward to anyway.’’

Annabelle hoped her smile looked more convincing than it felt. She’d spent most all of her life pretending, and she was good at it too.

Or at least she used to be.

CHAPTER | EIGHT

L
ATER THAT SAME AFTERNOON
Annabelle helped Hannah and her young daughter, Lilly, hang laundry in the backyard.

Hannah seemed especially quiet, and Annabelle could easily guess why.

‘‘You know, Hannah, Denver’s not that far from Willow Springs. Maybe we could meet again before I leave next spring.’’

Eleven-year-old Lilly, with dark hair and violet eyes so much like Hannah’s, beamed with excitement. ‘‘We could make a trip and see Aunt Annabelle before she leaves!’’

Hannah finished hanging the sheet in her hands with a smile that Annabelle recognized as forced. ‘‘Lilly, would you please run inside and check on your brother for me? Bobby should be through with his snack by now.’’ She waited until the girl was out of earshot. ‘‘I just wish you could stay here until then, Annabelle. I don’t like the idea of you being in Denver all by yourself, especially being with child. If you don’t want to stay here with us, I’m sure we could find you a place to live with someone from church. Someone who would be understanding about your situation and who has some extra room, maybe lives a ways out of town.’’

Doing her best not to laugh, Annabelle snapped her fingers. ‘‘I know just the person! Mrs. Cranchet! I could live with her, and that way she and I could knit together and come up with ideas for Patrick’s sermons.’’ Hannah’s droll expression only encouraged her. ‘‘Let’s see, we could entitle the first sermon . . . ‘The Virtues of Chastity.’ ’’

Hannah’s eyes widened. ‘‘Annabelle McCutchens, you ought not joke about such things. It’s not proper.’’ She pursed her lips.

Her tone sounded serious enough, and for a moment, Annabelle wondered if her joking had crossed the line. Again. But when Hannah lifted a hand to cover her grin, Annabelle giggled along with her.

Hannah leaned closer. ‘‘Can you imagine what Mrs. Cranchet would do if we asked if you could live with her?’’

Annabelle cocked a brow. ‘‘Well, Patrick wouldn’t have to worry about her giving him any more advice—that’s for sure. She’d just keel over dead right there.’’

Though she had never attended church with Patrick and Hannah, Annabelle often wondered what it would be like to actually walk through the doors of a
real
church building, white steeple and all. Far-away memories, locked away since childhood, nudged the surface of her mind, yet they provided only the dimmest of recollections before fading. While living in Denver, she and Jonathan had spent Sunday mornings with a small group in someone’s parlor, with the men taking turns reading Scripture. Nice as that had been, the thought of meeting in a ‘‘house of God’’ still held such appeal.

Patrick and Hannah had asked her to attend with them, many times, but she’d always declined, certain of the reception she’d get from Mrs. Cranchet, among others. Plus she didn’t want the Carlsons paying for her mistakes—any more than they already had for taking her in to stay with them. So as much as she hoped to one day experience that type of gathering, the only sermons she recollected hearing were ones Patrick and Hannah, and a handful of others, lived out every day. As well as those Jonathan had lovingly delivered by example.

Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to feel the least bit slighted.

Hannah shook out a damp shirt and hung it on the line. ‘‘What are you going to do in Denver for the next year? How will you get by?’’

‘‘Most importantly, I’m going to have this baby, and I’ll manage fine. Don’t you worry about me. With careful spending and getting a job either ironing or cleaning, I should still have enough come next May. Jonathan laid aside ample for us, Hannah. More than I expected.’’

Working together, they hung the rest of the laundry. The comforting aromas of soap and sunshine scented the warm air as the damp sheets made a soft fluttering noise in the breeze. Annabelle had never minded doing laundry; the act of scrubbing something clean had always felt good to her.

‘‘Can I ask you a question?’’ Hannah picked up the empty basket and propped it on her hip.

Annabelle waited, sensing from Hannah’s change in tone something was coming.

‘‘About Matthew Taylor and what happened here yesterday . . .’’ Hannah looked at her for a moment as though testing the waters, then apparently decided it was safe to tread. ‘‘You told us last night that he was Jonathan’s younger brother, but then you said something about Matthew having known that you worked at the brothel here in town and how he held that against you.’’ Hannah bit her lower lip. ‘‘What doesn’t make sense to me is the timing of all that. You left that life when you married Jonathan last September. Matthew visited you both last October,
after
you were already married. So how did he know about that part of your life?’’

Knowing this answer wouldn’t be a quick one, Annabelle motioned to a split-log bench situated at the meadow’s edge. She sat down and Hannah joined her. ‘‘I first met Matthew Taylor about two years ago, through Kathryn Jennings. I’m not sure what you know about events that happened around then.’’

Hannah made a cautioning motion with her hand. ‘‘And I’m not asking you to tell me anything that would compromise you or Kathryn, or Matthew for that matter.’’ She offered a weak smile. ‘‘But I must admit, what happened here yesterday afternoon did pique my curiosity.’’

‘‘I certainly never expected to see Matthew Taylor again, much less for him to show up here.’’ Leaning forward, Annabelle plucked a long piece of field grass and rested her elbows on her knees. ‘‘Like I said, Kathryn introduced us. Matthew Taylor took one look at me that night and . . . I could see it all in his eyes. The contempt . . .’’ She shook her head, remembering. ‘‘But it wasn’t just that he didn’t approve of what I did, of who I was. I was used to seeing that. It was the
way
he looked at me . . . Slowly, up and down, and not the way a man sometimes looks at a woman, mind you.’’

Hannah’s expression turned thoughtful. ‘‘Like he thought he was better than you?’’

Annabelle sifted the question in her mind. ‘‘No. More like he was glad that he
wasn’t
me. That he was thankful he hadn’t done the things I’d done or lived the way I’d lived.’’

‘‘Did he say anything to you that night, once Kathryn introduced you?’’

Annabelle nodded. ‘‘But I think it just about choked him.’’ She managed a tiny laugh to ease the tension, but the sting from the memory still felt surprisingly fresh. ‘‘I remember what he said, word for word. ‘It’s nice that you have such a good friend in Mrs. Jennings.’ So polite, so pleasant on the surface. But I knew what he was really thinking.’’