Revealed (12 page)

‘‘And why do I think you said something that put him in his place? Some witty reply, perhaps?’’ Hannah’s raised brow said that she was imagining what caustic comment might have left Annabelle’s lips that night.

Annabelle shook her head. ‘‘That’s just it. I saw what he was thinking, and . . . I couldn’t say a word. I just stood there. I had no witty reply, Hannah, because . . . because I knew that all the things he was thinking about me . . . were true. I probably
had
done all the things he was imagining. And worse.’’ She bit down on her lower lip. When she tried to swallow, the tightness in her throat wouldn’t allow it. She dared not lift her eyes when she spoke next. ‘‘I have sinned so much in my life,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could turn back time. That I could undo so much of what I’ve done.’’

She felt Hannah’s arm come around her shoulder and didn’t resist when she scooted closer.

‘‘But all of that has been forgiven, Annabelle. All the bad you’ve done, that I’ve done—whatever it was. You know that.’’

Annabelle nodded. Moments passed, and she wondered how much more of what was in her heart she should share. She already trusted Hannah; that wasn’t the issue. But she needed her friend’s assurance as well, and her guidance. ‘‘What I’m going to say next, Hannah, will you promise not to take any of it as a discredit to Jonathan as a man, or to his memory?’’

Hannah tightened her hold on Annabelle’s shoulder. ‘‘I promise.’’

‘‘I’d already seen Matthew before Kathryn introduced us that particular night. I’d been waiting for her to come home. Matthew came to her door, knocked, and then left when she didn’t answer. He never saw me.’’ Using her fingernails, Annabelle made a small slit at the top of the blade of grass and carefully peeled down until she’d torn it into two identical strips. ‘‘This is going to sound odd— it does even to me—but there was something about the man I saw that night that . . . drew me. And that’s not something that had ever happened to me before.’’ She shrugged, feeling awkward and exposed. ‘‘I know you think that sounds strange, coming from someone like me, who’s been with a lot of men.’’

‘‘No, actually that doesn’t sound strange at all, Annabelle. It makes a lot of sense.’’ A sparrow landed on a fencepost nearby, and they both watched in silence until it flitted away again. ‘‘So what was it about Matthew Taylor that attracted you to him that night?’’

The transparency of Hannah’s question brought to the surface what Annabelle had only hinted at before. What
had
drawn her to Matthew that night? ‘‘The man I saw that night had a certain . . . confidence about him. Not mean-like or intimidating. It was more in the way he carried himself. I told Kathryn it was like he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.’’

‘‘Matthew Taylor is a very handsome man,’’ Hannah said matter-of-factly. ‘‘That’s something I noticed right off. Don’t tell Patrick I said that though.’’ She playfully nudged Annabelle in the side. ‘‘Preacher’s wives aren’t supposed to notice those things.’’

Annabelle smiled, recalling the details of Matthew’s face, and those eyes . . . like warm whiskey on a winter night. She picked up another blade of grass and tore it as she had the other. ‘‘The second time I was introduced to Matthew Taylor was even worse. It made our first meeting seem downright friendly.’’ She told Hannah about the meeting in the shack and how Jonathan and Matthew had fought afterward.

Hannah gave a sad sigh. ‘‘Before seeing Matthew again that particular night, had you discovered that he was Jonathan’s brother?’’

Annabelle hesitated before answering, wishing again that she could go back and handle things differently. ‘‘Yes, I put two and two together not long after Jonathan and I were married.’’ In a way, she was actually indebted to Matthew. After Jonathan bought cattle in Denver last summer, he’d sent the herd north with his ranch hands, then came down to Willow Springs in hopes of finding his brother. Without Jonathan’s search for Matthew, chances were good they would never have met and married. ‘‘One night after we were in bed, Jonathan began talking about his younger brother, about growing up together in Missouri, and about their mother. Then he mentioned his brother’s name . . . and I knew.’’

‘‘Did you tell Jonathan then?’’

Annabelle slowly exhaled. ‘‘No. But once Matthew showed up at the shack, I wished I had. I just honestly never thought they’d see each other again—not with having lost track of each other all those years.’’

‘‘How could you have ever known he’d just show up like that?’’

Annabelle winced slightly. ‘‘Well, turns out Jonathan had learned of Matthew’s whereabouts from Jake Sampson at the livery. After what happened with Kathryn and Larson, Matthew headed south to Texas. I don’t remember where exactly. But I can’t say that I blame him. He was probably as anxious to leave then as I am now. What I didn’t know at the time was that Jonathan had written Matthew and had asked him to join him in Idaho.’’ She looked out across the fields. ‘‘Had I known about that letter . . . believe me, Hannah, I would have handled things very differently. Maybe then some of this could have been avoided. Especially with how things were left between them.’’

Hannah exhaled slowly, as though taking it all in. ‘‘The two brothers certainly didn’t favor each other much, did they? Not only in their coloring but in temperament it would seem.’’ She gave Annabelle a knowing look.

Annabelle acknowledged it, then glanced toward the spot where Matthew had stood yesterday.

Physically, Jonathan had been tall and plain, built solid and broad, but was kinder and gentler than any man of that stature had a right to be. While Matthew’s height and weight didn’t rival his older brother’s, his physique was lean and well-muscled, his dark hair unruly, but in a roguish way that made his brown eyes even more striking. Annabelle felt a check in her spirit. How strange it was that the better you got to know some people, the more—or sometimes less—attractive they could become.

‘‘They had different fathers, so that would account for the difference in their appearance,’’ Annabelle answered. But what about their temperament? What would make two brothers so different from one another? ‘‘From what Jonathan told me, his mother remarried when Jonathan was still young, and Matthew’s father turned out to have a mean streak, especially when he drank. Jonathan had scars across his shoulders and arms from the man’s whippings.’’

Hannah didn’t answer for a moment. ‘‘I can’t imagine someone who would beat a child. Or who would treat a woman that way either, Annabelle.’’

Absentmindedly Annabelle touched the scar that ran along her right temple and cheek, and the thread of memory tying her to her old self pulled taut once again. She’d come to think of her life at the brothel not in terms of years but as a separate life, so different from the life she was living now. For so long she’d been certain that she would die in that place. Had no doubt. But Jonathan had proven her wrong. He’d purchased her at a price and had then shown her the even greater price that had been paid to ransom her so long ago.

Seeing Hannah looking west, Annabelle traced her line of vision. The sun’s golden rays bathed the range of snow-covered peaks in a luster of light, making it appear as though the mountains were glowing from the inside out.

When Annabelle looked back, Hannah’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. One finally fell and traced a path down her cheek. Hannah gave her a wordless hug, then stood and walked back to the house alone. Annabelle watched her go. Hannah reminded her of Kathryn Jennings in many ways. They were both so innocent, so nai
ve to the cruelty people were capable of.

Annabelle looked down at the shredded bits and pieces of prairie grass littering the dirt. It wasn’t the meanness in people that surprised her anymore. It was the good in them that she found so unexpected.

CHAPTER | NINE

M
ATTHEW’S RESENTMENT TOWARD HER
mounted as he walked through town toward the pastor’s home. He’d wasted the last couple of nights stewing over it. Then he finally decided—why should he be made to feel like a beggar by the likes of a woman such as Annabelle Grayson? And for something that rightfully belonged to him in the first place?

He’d lain awake most of last night, turning the situation over in his mind.

That land had belonged to Johnny. As boys, they’d dreamed of one day owning a spread out west somewhere, of working the land together and leaving Haymen Taylor far behind. Haymen Taylor was gone now, so under the circumstances, even if the childhood dream had faded in Matthew’s memory through the years, the property should rightfully be passed to Johnny’s closest and only blood kin.

The thought of spending any length of time in that woman’s company made Matthew’s stomach churn. But considering the ranchland in Idaho and Johnny’s original offer to share the land with him—Johnny’s
desire
that they share it—Matthew kept moving forward. Besides, anyone who knew what Annabelle Grayson was and understood the truth about why she had married his brother to begin with would agree.

‘‘Good day to you, sir.’’

Matthew slowed on hearing the voice.

‘‘Care to look at my wares? I’ve got some nice things. You might find a little somethin’ for your wife . . . or maybe a sweetheart.’’

Matthew turned and eyed the old codger approaching him. The man’s clothing, dirty and stained, hung loose on his thin frame, and when he smiled, a scruffy beard parted to expose yellowed teeth. It was about that time the smell reached him. Matthew took a step back. The man was pulling a wooden handcart behind him, and Matthew peered inside, glancing at the contents, highly doubtful they were anything he would want, or anything of worth for that matter.

‘‘I have some nice combs here.’’ The peddler held out something. ‘‘Or maybe a perfume bottle she could put to good use.’’

Matthew thought of a good use for the perfume right now, if there’d been any left. ‘‘Sorry. Not interested.’’ Even if he had a few coins to spare, which he didn’t, Matthew feared that whatever he might give this man would end up in the saloon’s cash drawer sooner or later. And, from the looks of things, he would guess sooner rather than later.

‘‘Sorry, sir. I can’t help you.’’ Not waiting for a response, Matthew crossed the street, fully expecting the man to call after him, badgering him to buy something.

‘‘That’s okay, son. Maybe next time. Thanks for lookin’, and God bless you today.’’

Hearing the voice behind him, Matthew slowed his steps and turned. The sight created a lasting picture in his mind. The aged hawker’s feeble hand raised in a parting wave, baggy clothes hanging from his frail body, both reeking from having gone too long unwashed.

Yet the man wore a smile, and with so little in his possession.

Matthew shook his head, sensing a smile of his own coming on. In a parting gesture, he touched the rim of his hat and watched the man’s face light up. Somehow knowing that the old codger wouldn’t want to be the first to look away, Matthew continued on down the street, feeling oddly beholden to the man.

When the pastor’s house came into view, Matthew’s determination to regain his lost opportunity deepened. This job was his only means of getting north to claim the land, and he felt certain that with some explaining to Carlson, it could be his. Even if he had to swallow a chunk of his pride in the process.

Climbing the front porch stairs in twos, he removed his hat and rapped lightly on the screen door. He stepped back, wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans.

It felt good to have his hunger satisfied. He’d earned yesterday’s dinner and that morning’s breakfast by mucking out stalls. It had taken him well past dark last night to finish, and then he’d bedded down in the bunkhouse with the other ranch hands for a short night of little rest. When the rancher asked him earlier that morning if he could stay on for a while longer, Matthew declined. He had something better waiting for him.

When no one answered, he knocked again, harder this time.

A moment later the door opened.

‘‘Why . . . Mr. Taylor, good morning.’’ Unmistakable surprise registered in Mrs. Carlson’s expression. She smiled, her brow wrinkling slightly.

‘‘Good morning, ma’am. Is your husband in? I’ve come back to see him about the job.’’

She opened her mouth as if to say something, then nodded and indicated for him to come inside. ‘‘Yes, of course. Patrick’s in the kitchen. He’s . . . speaking with someone.’’

Just then Matthew heard Carlson’s voice. A man’s response followed, then a woman’s soft laughter. They must be entertaining another couple for breakfast. He hesitated. ‘‘I’m interrupting something. I can come back later if this isn’t a good—’’

‘‘Not at all.’’ Mrs. Carlson’s smile came more easily this time, and she waved him inside. ‘‘Now is fine. Please, make yourself comfortable here in the parlor. I’ll tell Patrick you’re here.’’

‘‘Thank you, ma’am.’’

Preferring to stand, Matthew scanned the small front room. When he’d spoken with Patrick Carlson on Monday, he’d not been inside the house. A sofa and chair took up most of the space, the bare plank floor was neatly swept, the furnishings were simple but tasteful. He’d eaten earlier, but still the aroma of what he guessed to be pancakes and sausage made his mouth water.