Revealed (21 page)

He jumped and spun around. She took a quick step back, hot coffee sloshing over the sides of the cups.

‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Irritation darkened Matthew’s face as he moved the piece of parchment behind his back.

‘‘Good evening to you too, Mr. Taylor.’’ Wincing at the momentary sting, she quickly reminded herself why she’d come. Remembering helped curb her sarcasm. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me walk up just now.’’

‘‘You didn’t scare me. You just . . .’’ He shook his head, then strode to his saddlebag and stuffed the parchment inside.

The action drew her attention, and she wondered what it was that’d had him so engrossed. She liked to read, and it tickled her curiosity to guess what his favorite type of stories might be.

Personally she liked the ones with intrigue, those that left you guessing about the villain and where the stolen treasure lay hidden.

He motioned to stacks of crates and boxes near where they stood. ‘‘I already picked everything up from the mercantile and will go through it tonight, make sure the order’s all accounted for.’’

‘‘That’s not what I’m here about, but thank you.’’ Determined to see this through, she held out a cup of coffee.

He glanced at it, then back at her.

His tentative expression coaxed a laugh. ‘‘It’s safe, I promise you. I’ve already paid you a third of your salary, Mr. Taylor. It wouldn’t do for me to try and poison you now.’’ She nudged the cup a few inches closer to him. ‘‘I’d wait and do that once we’re closer to Idaho. Makes more sense, don’t you think?’’

That earned her a slight
humph
but not the half grin she’d hoped for. He took the coffee but didn’t drink it.

He stared at her for a second—then understanding registered in his features. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. ‘‘This is what’s left over after buying the supplies. I was going to give it to you tomorrow morning.’’ His tone grew defensive. ‘‘There’s almost seven dollars left. You can count it.’’

The visit wasn’t going as she’d planned. ‘‘I appreciate that, Mr. Taylor, but you can keep the money. No doubt we’ll need something else along the way.’’

‘‘Just want you to know how much is left.’’

‘‘I trust you, Mr. Taylor.’’ The words were out before she had fully processed them. And their untruth weighted the silence.

His stare turned appraising.

Her wish in bringing him coffee was that they might arrive at some sort of unspoken truce before leaving in the morning. But maybe that was too much to hope for, and too soon.

He stuffed the money back into his vest pocket, then shifted his weight.

She sensed he wanted her to leave. Which made her even more determined to stay. At the same time, she thought of their run-in two days earlier on the porch and silently asked for God to put a guard over her mouth. She didn’t know if there was a place in the Bible with that specific thought but knew there ought to be. If only for her.

She helped herself to a seat on a stool by the wall and sipped her coffee. ‘‘So . . . are you ready to leave Willow Springs?’’

His eyes narrowed. ‘‘Why do you ask?’’

Defensive again
. ‘‘No particular reason, just trying to make conversation.’’ He gave her that slow half smile. ‘‘Hobnobbing with the hired help, huh?’’

It was a start. ‘‘Something like that.’’ She glanced at his untouched coffee. ‘‘Would you like me to taste it first? Show you it’s safe?’’ A gleam lit his eyes, and she could well imagine the sharp replies running through his mind about drinking from the same cup as a woman like her.

He took a sip, the gesture answering for him.

‘‘I’m flattered. Seems you trust me too, Mr. Taylor.’’

‘‘Not hardly, ma’am. I just figure you need me. For now, anyway.’’ She lifted a brow.

‘‘Like you said, you’ve already paid me. I’m thinking I can enjoy coffee at least until we’re—’’ he tilted his head as though in deep thought—‘‘across Wyoming.’’

‘‘And then what?’’

‘‘Then I might have to start brewing my own.’’

Sarcasm shaded his smirk, but still there was a genuineness about it. He didn’t trust her, but at least he was honest in his distrust. Watching him, Annabelle tried not to analyze why his smile seemed to lift her spirits so. ‘‘I thought you said you couldn’t cook. Have you been holding out on me?’’

‘‘Nope. But given that or death, I might try my hand at it.’’

He looked at her then, and a frown crossed his face, as though he just remembered who he was talking to. He took another swig of coffee, watching her over the rim, then dumped the remains in the dirt. ‘‘I think I’ve had enough for one night, ma’am.’’

Annabelle studied him for a beat, then rose. He was dismissing her, and she let him. She’d gotten what she’d come for.

CHAPTER | SEVENTEEN

S
O YOU STILL HAVE NO LEAD
as to where Sadie might be?’’

Kathryn packed the last of the coffee in the wooden box and tamped the lid shut with a hammer.

‘‘None at all,’’ Annabelle said, surveying the last remaining items on the kitchen table. She relayed to Kathryn what she’d told Patrick and Hannah on Thursday night.

The entire house had awakened early—all but the children. Darkness still cloaked the world beyond the warm glow of the Carlsons’ kitchen. Annabelle had hardly shut her eyes last night for the anticipation of the journey, and she was already feeling the effects from lack of sleep. She took a deep breath and waited for the discomfort in her lower back to pass, careful not to reveal it in her expression.

Larson walked into the kitchen and looked around. ‘‘What goes next, ladies?’’

Patrick followed behind him. ‘‘Load us up.’’

Annabelle pointed to the box Kathryn just finished, then to two others on the table. ‘‘Thanks, fellas. We’re almost done in here.’’

Both men gave her a silent salute, shouldered their loads, and disappeared out the door.

Now that it was time to leave Willow Springs, her feelings were in a jumble. She’d visited the cemetery last evening and laid fresh flowers on Jonathan’s grave. Oddly, that hadn’t bothered her as much as she’d thought it would. He was no more in that hole than she was. He had started his new life, somewhere, wherever heaven existed, and she was starting a new life too. One that waited for her far away from here.

What bothered her most was leaving these friends behind. She looked across the kitchen at Kathryn and Hannah, busy chatting as they packed the last few items. Annabelle wished she could inscribe every detail about them on her memory so that once she was far away and lonely for the familiar, she would be able to recall with clarity the contrast in their hair color—the way Kathryn had her long blond tresses swept up while Hannah’s dark curls spilled down her back—the warm bubble of their laughter, and most of all, what it felt like to be accepted by them.

Would she make friends where she was going? Movement beyond the kitchen window caught her attention, and a shadowed figure emerged from the barn. Matthew’s confident stride was easily recognizable. Remembering the unspoken truce they’d reached last night, Annabelle wondered if she might make a friend on this journey after all.

At the touch on her shoulder, she turned.

Kathryn’s expression held reassurance. ‘‘We’ll get word to you if we hear something about Sadie, okay?’’

Annabelle nodded, knowing in her heart that they wouldn’t. Whoever had Sadie was long gone. When she turned back to the task at hand, she caught Hannah raising the lid of a box they’d already sealed shut. Annabelle wouldn’t have thought anything about it but for the guilty look on her friend’s face. Hannah slipped something inside, then closed the lid again. Bless that woman’s heart, she couldn’t lie to save her life.

Annabelle walked over beside her. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

‘‘What?’’ Hannah straightened and brushed her skirt. ‘‘Nothing. Just . . . finishing up packing.’’

Annabelle lifted the lid and let out a sigh. ‘‘Oh, Hannah, no. These are two of your best napkins, and you only have four to begin with.’’

Hannah’s feigned look of surprise melted into a smile. ‘‘Maybe it’ll bring some civility to the long trip. Use them on occasion and think of us.’’

‘‘No, I can’t. . . .’’

‘‘Don’t try arguing with her, Annabelle.’’ Kathryn’s tone smacked of conspiracy. ‘‘What they say about pastors’ wives is true. Sweet on the outside, tough as nails within.’’

Knowing the comparison was accurate, Annabelle looked at the embroidered treasures and felt tears rising in her throat. ‘‘Thank you, Hannah,’’ she whispered and ran a finger over the elaborate
C
encircled with delicate flowers.

‘‘You be sure and take Matthew with you when you go into those towns looking for Sadie, all right?’’ Hannah laid a hand on her arm. ‘‘You don’t need to visit those places alone. Especially at night. It won’t be safe.’’

Annabelle offered something resembling an affirming nod and hoped her friends would take it as such. ‘‘Don’t forget, I’m used to dealing with those places, and those people. It’ll be fine.’’

Kathryn stopped folding the towel in her hand. ‘‘Annabelle McCutchens, that was not a yes.’’

‘‘And we’re waiting for a yes.’’ Hannah stood, feet planted, hands on hips.

Annabelle had to smile at seeing the less-than-intimidating sight before her. ‘‘I’m not afraid to go by myself. I know how things work. I’ll be careful. I give you my word.’’

‘‘I know a little bit about how those things work too, and I’d feel much better knowing Matthew was with you.’’ Kathryn tried to look stern, but Annabelle didn’t buy it. ‘‘You are the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met, Mrs. McCutchens.’’

Hannah tossed Kathryn a look. ‘‘Oh I don’t know about that, Mrs. Jennings. You could give her a run for her money.’’

Kathryn’s mouth fell open. ‘‘And just whose side do you think you’re on, Mrs. Carlson?’’

Annabelle enjoyed the way they playfully went after each other. Oh how she would miss these women. Struck with an idea, she cleared her throat. ‘‘I don’t claim to be knowin’ whose side anyone is on, my dears,’’ she said, surprising them with her best Miss Maudie imitation, ‘‘but I’m for sure knowin’ that God must’ve cut us
three such fine women
from the same cloth, don’tcha know.’’

She was certain their laughter could be heard halfway to town.

‘‘It’s the relationship between you that concerns me most, Matthew. That’s what I’m unsure about.’’

Matthew and Pastor Carlson strode from the wagon into the barn. Matthew tugged his gloves into place, then hefted two of the remaining boxes. A few more trips and they would have everything. He hadn’t slept well last night, unable to shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen.

Not wanting to leave things with Pastor Carlson on a bad note, Matthew worked to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘‘What do you mean, Pastor, when you say, ‘the relationship’?’’

‘‘I mean the two of you heading out together like this, barely able to talk to each other.’’ Carlson grabbed two boxes and fell in step behind him.

‘‘That’s not true, Pastor. We talk.’’ When she left him no choice. Carlson huffed. ‘‘Yes, when you have to, and then it’s with clipped answers. And there seems to be this . . . undercurrent running between you two, like the creek when it swells with the spring thaw. There’s always the potential for danger.’’

Stalling for a response to that last comment, Matthew set his load down by the wagon and went back to the barn. He wasn’t partial to conversation this early in the day—especially one that struck such a deep nerve. At least Jennings wasn’t present to hear this. He was helping the women inside.

Undercurrent . . .
Matthew sighed. That was a good way to describe what he felt when he was with Annabelle. Something hidden passing between them that he couldn’t see, and didn’t care for. And even worse, couldn’t predict. They’d be talking about one thing when he’d suddenly get the feeling she meant another. He’d made a pledge to Kathryn Jennings to try and view her ‘‘dear friend’’ differently, but that was one promise he’d be hard-pressed to keep. As far as he was concerned, Annabelle Grayson was still the woman who had tricked his older brother and stolen his own birthright. Selfishness, plain and simple, was why he’d taken this job. He needed to leave Willow Springs, and she was his ticket out. Plus she had something that belonged to him, and he aimed to get it back.

He stacked one box atop another. ‘‘We’re civil to each other, Pastor.’’

‘‘That’s just it, Matthew. You’re civil—sometimes you’re even polite. But you don’t really mean it.’’ Carlson shook his head, his expression heavy with concern. ‘‘At least you don’t seem to from where I stand.’’

Matthew suppressed a sigh. A twofold band of pain stretched from the back of his neck around to both temples. Its steady drum kicked up a notch as he lifted two boxes and retraced his steps to the wagon, with Carlson behind him.

He hadn’t seen Annabelle yet that morning but had heard her laughter coming from the kitchen moments ago—him along with half the townsfolk she’d probably awakened. She tended to laugh a lot when she was with Hannah and Kathryn, and something about overhearing their laughter earlier had sparked a jealousy inside him, one he couldn’t explain and didn’t welcome.

He looked back at the house, almost hoping she wouldn’t be ready on time. He would enjoy seeing the look on her face when he reminded her that she’d wanted to leave right at sunrise. Just thinking about it lightened his mood.

Carlson dumped his load beside the wagon and let out a sigh. Matthew sincerely wished he could say whatever it was the man wanted to hear.

‘‘Pastor, I get what you’re trying to say—I think I do, anyway. And I understand your concern. I’ll admit there’re moments I even share it. I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, headin’ across the plains with that woman. But she hired me, I accepted the job, and we’re leaving within the hour.’’ He hesitated, bowing his head. None of that had come out right. ‘‘Sir, it’s like you’re asking me to change how I feel down deep, and I can’t. Not just like that. Every time I look at her, I see my brother, and I’m reminded that . . .’’ Emotion tightened his throat. Matthew looked away, gauging how much to share. Bringing up the issue of the land would only further muddy the waters, as would mentioning Annabelle’s partial admission of why she’d married Johnny in the first place. Best to stick to the more general truth. ‘‘I’m reminded that Johnny’s not coming back. And I can’t help but wonder if things might’ve been different if he’d never met her. If she was still in that brothel.’’