Revealed (2 page)

His tenderness silenced the ready quip on her tongue, and the ache inside her rose to a steady thrum. She cared more for this man than she had any person in her life, so why couldn’t she coerce her feelings to mirror his? For as far back as she could remember, she’d known that feelings in themselves couldn’t be trusted. Emotions lived for a moment, then faded, and they even turned traitorous, given time. So she’d learned not to give them much heed. She’d simply expected things to be different between them as husband and wife.

She’d asked God many times to increase her desire for Jonathan.

But apparently God didn’t listen to prayers of that sort. Or maybe He just didn’t listen to hers.

‘‘Thank you for havin’ me as your husband, Annie. I had such plans for us . . . for our child.’’ He moved his hand, and she guided it to rest over the place where their son or daughter was nestled deep inside. Jonathan softly caressed her flat belly as though trying to comfort the tiny babe within.

His hand moved in slow circles over their child, and she shut her eyes tight as an unwelcome memory fought its way to the surface. She sat there, defenseless and mute, as years-old guilt and shame crept over her again. Pregnancies in brothels were common, but so were aloes and cathartic powders to terminate them, often leaving the girls who took them damaged beyond repair.

That she was carrying Jonathan’s child was a blessing. That she was pregnant again . . . was a miracle.

‘‘I’m so sorry to be leavin’ you like this, Annie. It’s not—’’ His deep voice broke with emotion. ‘‘It’s not turning out like I planned. I’m sorry. . . .’’

She shook her head and leaned close, bringing her face to within inches of his. ‘‘Don’t you dare say that to me, Jonathan McCutchens,’’ she whispered, laying a cool hand to his forehead. A sigh left him at her touch. ‘‘It’s me who needs to be saying it to you. I . . .’’ Her mouth moved but the words wouldn’t come. Knowing the path her life had taken, most people wouldn’t understand, but intimacy of this nature still felt so foreign. ‘‘I’m sorry for not being the kind of woman you deserved. You’re the—’’ She pushed the words past the uncomfortable knot in her throat. ‘‘You’re the finest man I’ve ever known, Jonathan. And I thank you for . . . for taking me as your wife.’’

He sighed again, his gaze moving over her face slowly, as though seeing her for the first time. Or maybe the last. Then with a shaky hand, he motioned behind his head, toward the front of the wagon.

‘‘There’s something in my pack there. Something I wrote this mornin’.’’

Annabelle glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. Without asking, she guessed what it was. She gave him a knowing smile, attempting to draw out the truth.

Jonathan’s focus remained steady.

His desire to provide for her was noble, but the loathing in his younger brother’s eyes the last time they’d seen him in Willow Springs remained vivid in her memory. Eight long years had passed since the two brothers had last seen one another before that ill-fated reunion last fall. And Matthew Taylor’s reaction that October night seven months ago made her certain that what Jonathan’s letter likely proposed would prove impossible.

Remembering how the two men had argued, and having been the cause, Annabelle still felt the sting of it. Born of the same woman but to different fathers, the brothers bore little resemblance in stature or mannerisms. Or, it would seem, in disposition.

Matthew didn’t know she carried his older brother’s child, but that wouldn’t change his feelings about her, or what she had been— what she would always be in his eyes.

With a small sigh, she shifted in the cramped quarters to retrieve the letter from Jonathan’s pack. She didn’t open the letter but laid it on her lap, then took Jonathan’s hand and leaned close to whisper, ‘‘You know I can’t do this, Jonathan. Even if we knew where he was, I couldn’t ask Matthew for—’’

His feeble grip tightened. ‘‘It’s not for Matthew. The letter’s . . . for the pastor.’’ A fit of coughing ripped through his body, and he fought for breath, clutching his chest until it passed. ‘‘I wrote it all down—everything. The pastor will know what to do . . . how to help you.’’

Annabelle smoothed her hand over his, wondering how much time they had left together. One of the women in their group familiar with heart ailments had told her he would only live a day or two at the most.

Annabelle looked into her husband’s face and glimpsed again what she’d seen that afternoon last summer when they first met in the front parlor of the pastor’s home. Jonathan McCutchens was the most honest man she’d ever known. Not that she’d known many honest men in her life. Kind, with a gentleness that belied his solid six-foot-two-inch frame, and loyal no matter the cost, he’d made his own share of mistakes and was wise to the ways of the world, and to what she had been. He claimed to have loved her from the moment he saw her, and though she didn’t understand how that could be, she cherished the notion that it might be true.

Studying him in the gathering shadows of the wagon, Annabelle wished she could see herself, just once, as Jonathan saw her. But she knew herself too well to ever imagine seeing anything other than a sullied and tainted woman when she looked in the mirror.

Something flickered behind Jonathan’s eyes, and she coaxed her tone to resemble more of a statement than the question lingering in her mind. ‘‘So the letter’s for Pastor Carlson, then.’’

He gave a slow nod. ‘‘I listed out everything. The ranch land waiting for you in Idaho, the bank where our money is.’’

Annabelle smiled. She’d brought nothing of material value into this marriage, yet he always referred to it as
our
money.

‘‘There should be enough left for you to live on, after the pastor hires a guide to get you there. The ranch is still young, Annie, but it should do well. Carlson can—’’ His breath caught, and he choked.

Annabelle could hear the sickness filling his lungs as he coughed. She rolled another blanket and stuffed it beneath his head and shoulders in hopes of helping him breathe. ‘‘Shhh . . . I’ll be okay, Jonathan. Don’t you worry about me. I’ll find my way,’’ she assured him, wanting to believe it herself.

Jonathan’s breathing came raspy and labored. His look grew determined. ‘‘Carlson can hire a trustworthy man to help you meet up with another group headin’ north. The pastor’ll take care of you. I’m sure of it.’’

His tongue flicked over chapped lips, and Annabelle moistened them again with a damp cloth. Though Jonathan harbored no ill feelings toward his brother—forgiving others seemed the same as drawing breath to him—she knew the wound from the broken relationship had left a scar. She wondered if Matthew realized how deeply Jonathan loved him, and therefore how deeply the rift had hurt him.

‘‘I want you to have all that’s mine, Annie. All that I wanted to share with you. Just take Pastor Carlson the letter . . . please.’’

Dabbing his fevered brow, she finally nodded.

She could tell he wasn’t convinced. She’d never tried to deceive him—except for that once. But when he’d looked into her eyes that night, he’d known.

With effort, Jonathan raised his head. ‘‘Annabelle, give me your word you’ll go back to Willow Springs and do as I’ve asked.’’

After all you’ve done for me, Jonathan. After all you’ve sacrificed
. . .
She managed a smile. ‘‘I give you my word, Jonathan.’’

He eased back onto the pallet, the strain in his features lessening.

‘‘Would you like more broth? Or more toddy for your cough? I left it warming on the fire.’’

He nodded without indicating a choice. She knew which would help more and rose to get it. Climbing back into the wagon, Annabelle settled herself beside him and lifted spoonfuls of the warm honey-and-whiskey mixture to his lips. He raised a hand after several swallows, and she put the toddy aside.

Not a minute later, his eyes were closed. He was resting. For now.

She let her gaze move over his brow and temple, then along his bearded jaw. By outward standards, he was a plain man, not one who would turn a woman’s head as he walked down the street. But thinking back on the more handsome men she’d known in her life, she realized that none of them matched the goodness of the man with her now.

She took his large work-roughened hand in hers. He didn’t stir.
How I wish I desired you the way a wife should desire her husband,
Jonathan McCutchens
. On their wedding night Jonathan had loved her as though she were a fresh young girl, untried and unspoiled. She’d sought to give him what she thought he wanted, fast and sure like she’d been taught, but she hadn’t counted on his patience or his earnestness in seeking her pleasure. Never had she counted on that. And there, too, she’d disappointed him.

Though she’d only meant to spare him hurt, that was the first— and last—time she’d ever tried to deceive him.

She slowly let out the breath she’d been holding.

His hand tightened around her fingers, and only then did Annabelle realize he’d been watching her. The depth of his obvious devotion, so thoroughly undeserved, sliced through her heart.

‘‘Will you lie down beside me, Annie?’’

A soft breeze flapped the wagon canvas. ‘‘Are you cold? Do you want another blanket?’’ She half rose to get it from a crate near the front.

He gently held her wrist and urged her down beside him. ‘‘No. . . . I just want to feel my wife beside me, for you to be with me for a while.’’

For a while
.

The naked supplication of his simple request only deepened the thrumming inside her.
Until the end, is what you mean
. She lifted the cotton blanket and tucked herself against him. Careful not to put her weight on his chest, Annabelle pressed close, aware that he wanted to feel her body next to his. She strained to hear the beat of his heart, to memorize its rhythm.

‘‘I need to say some things to you, Annie, and I—’’ Pausing midsentence, he held his right arm against his chest for a moment, taking in shallow breaths, before finally relaxing again. ‘‘And I know you’re not keen on this kind of talk.’’ His voice came gentle in the encroaching darkness, resonating through the wall of his chest in her ear. ‘‘My brother’s young. He didn’t have the best of chances when he was a boy, like I told you before. The hurt he took on then, bein’ so young, stayed with him and went deep. I was older, so I think I bore it better than he did. He still has a lot to learn, but he will. You and me, Annie, we—’’ He gave an unexpected chuckle, and Annabelle remembered her reaction the first time she’d ever heard him laugh. Like a sudden rain shower on a dusty summer day, the sound shimmered through her and eased the burden of the moment. ‘‘You and me, we got an advantage over Matthew in a way. At least that’s how I see it.’’

‘‘Advantage?’’ She huffed a laugh. ‘‘Oh yes, I can see what an advantage a man like you and a wh—’’ His arm tightened around her. Annabelle caught herself and pressed her lips together. So often Jonathan could quiet a sharp reply with the slightest look or touch.

Jonathan was no saint and neither was she, but Matthew Taylor struck her as being an upstanding citizen, well liked and respected—despite his opinion of her. The few times she’d seen Matthew when he was helping Kathryn Jennings, he’d been outwardly cordial, but she’d read the truth in his eyes, reminding her of how far she’d fallen. What advantage they had over a man like him, she couldn’t imagine.

As though reading her thoughts, Jonathan cradled her head with his hand. ‘‘We’ve both been forgiven so much, and we know it. We’ve seen who we are without Jesus, what we look like with all our stains coverin’ us. Until a person realizes that, I don’t think they can be near as grateful as they should be. They can’t give other people the mercy they need because they haven’t seen their own need yet.’’

Nestling into his embrace, she let the truth of his words seep into her. The pastor’s wife back in Willow Springs had said much the same thing to her the morning Larson and Kathryn Jennings remarried a year and a half ago. Annabelle could still remember the chill of snow stinging her cheeks the day of their wedding, after Larson Jennings had, in essence, returned to his wife from the grave.

‘‘Someone who has been forgiven much, loves much.’’ Wisdom shown in Hannah Carlson’s eyes as they watched the happy couple. ‘‘Take Larson there. He was so filled with jealousy and distrust that it nearly blinded him a second time to the woman God had chosen for him. But now his love for her is greater than it ever was because he’s seen his own weaknesses, as well as Kathryn’s. They love each other in spite of those weaknesses. Actually more, because of them—if that makes any sense.’’ Hannah’s gaze had moved to settle on her husband. ‘‘A couple can’t really love each other like they’re called to until they truly know each other, and a love like that takes a while to happen. Most times it takes a lifetime, coming slowly. Then at other times, the swift power of it can take your breath away.’’

Annabelle envied the love shared by Larson and Kathryn Jennings—the couple who first started her down this new road leading away from who she’d been to who she was now.

Someone who has been forgiven much loves much
.

Hannah had eventually shown her the passage of Scripture where that thought came from, and Annabelle had tucked a hair ribbon between the pages to mark the spot. It was still there. She considered getting up to retrieve her Bible, but she didn’t want to leave Jonathan’s side. She remained quiet beside him, carefully tracking the slow rise and fall of his chest.

She reached up and fingered the thick brown hair at his temples, brushing it back with soft strokes. He turned his head into her touch, and she marveled again at the depth of his feeling for her.

‘‘You redeemed me, Jonathan,’’ she whispered, not knowing if he could hear her or not. ‘‘You saw past what I was, who I’ve been.’’
Who you’ll always be,
came a familiar whisper. But as Hannah had taught her, Annabelle pushed it aside. ‘‘You ransomed me in a way, Jonathan. I would’ve died in that brothel without you.’’

Then it struck her, and the irony of the moment crowded the silence of the wagon bed. Here they were, abandoned and alone on the prairie. She, finally ransomed and free of her old life, and Jonathan—the one who’d paid the price for her freedom—facing death. Life simply wasn’t fair.