Authors: Tamera Alexander
Revealed (30 page)
‘‘And just what do you think it is I’ve been searching for? Both of us are talkin’ about the same thing—starting up a ranch. ’Cept I’ll start mine down in Texas. On my own.’’
‘‘On my own . . .’’ Johnny laughed softly. ‘‘Those can be dangerous words for a man to pin his hopes on.’’
‘‘Since when did you get to be such a philosopher, Johnny?’’
A slow smile came. ‘‘I’ve done some changing in the past few years.’’ Just as quickly, the smile disappeared. ‘‘You won’t find what you’re searchin’ for down in Texas. It’s not there, Matthew. And running from the memory of Haymen Taylor—what he did to you, to me—won’t lead you any closer to where you want to be. Believe me on that.’’
Matthew’s frustration mounted. ‘‘And you won’t find what you’re searching for between the sheets with that woman in there either. I’ve known women like her, and I can tell you exactly what they’re aft—’’
‘‘You’ve known women like her?’’ Johnny’s eyes narrowed.
In that instant, reading his brother’s expression and realizing what he was implying, Matthew steeled himself. Not for another punch. No, Johnny saved that for when he was good and angry and couldn’t think of a quick enough reply. This particular topic was well trod between them, and wearisome to Matthew. But Johnny wouldn’t dare let it pass. Not when another chance at poking fun at his little brother had just been handed to him.
‘‘You know what I meant.’’
‘‘No, I’m not sure I do. You said you’ve
known
women. Is that true?’’
Heat poured into Matthew’s face. ‘‘I didn’t mean it like that.
What I meant was that I know something about
this
woman. I know she’s worked in a brothel in town for years. I know things about her that will change your mind. I’ve heard stories from other ranch hands, Johnny. Things she’s done with them.’’
Johnny stood and took a step toward him. ‘‘How old are you now, Matthew?’’
Matthew held his ground. His brother had never been quickwitted, but he could be demeaning. And seeing Johnny’s expression— watchful, sober—Matthew realized he was going to drag this out by pretending to be none the wiser.
‘‘You must be what . . . thirty-two now?’’
Matthew’s fists curled tight around the rim of his hat as the implication of the question resonated in the silence. Blood surged through his veins, bringing instant heat. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Johnny was the one who should be ashamed—him and that whore in the next room. So why was
his
face burning?
‘‘Thirty-two . . . and you’ve never been with a woman.’’ Slowly, Johnny shook his head, surprise in his expression.
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and every muscle within Matthew tensed. Once, just once, he’d like to punch his brother hard enough to take him down.
Johnny shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘‘That’s okay, Matthew. It’s good, really. Our mama would be real proud of you for—’’
That was all the patronizing Matthew could take. He hauled back and put his full weight into a right punch. Straight to Johnny’s jaw.
Johnny staggered back a step but maintained his footing. His eyes went wide with shock.
Pain exploded through Matthew’s fist, only fueling his anger. He wanted to take his brother down. And he knew how to do it. ‘‘You know what, Johnny? Mama wouldn’t be proud of you. She wouldn’t be proud of what you’ve done or who you’re with right now.’’ Matthew threw a scathing glance at the bedroom door. ‘‘She’d be ashamed of you and what you’ve done with your life. For what you’re doing in there with that whore.’’
‘‘Matthew, you got me wrong. I was tryin’ to—’’
‘‘I got you just fine. I always looked up to you, and now I don’t know why I ever did.’’ He gave a humorless laugh. ‘‘You’re weak, Johnny. You’re weak and you’re foolish, and I’m glad our mother isn’t here to see just how much like Haymen Taylor you turned out to be.’’
Johnny’s face contorted, and Matthew braced himself, knowing this time the blow would knock him out cold. But nothing happened. As the haze of his anger thinned, Johnny’s face came into clearer view again, and a sick sensation knotted the pit of Matthew’s stomach.
‘‘You’re right, Matthew. Most of my life I’ve lived in a way I’m not proud of.’’ Johnny’s deep voice sounded small. ‘‘I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I’m sorry for those. Growing up . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I could’ve done better by you in a lot of ways. I know that now. But I’ve changed, Matthew. I’m tryin’ to be a better man, and . . . I’m not as foolish as I used to be.’’ He held out his hand. ‘‘If you’re willin’, I’d like another chance at being brothers again.’’
Matthew’s emotions warred inside him. He was ashamed for having said those things. None of them were true. He’d said them from injured pride and from wanting Johnny to see what a mistake he was making with Annabelle Grayson.
Then something caught his eye. The bedroom door opened slightly. Had that woman heard their argument? Heat poured through him at that possibility and at imagining the mocking a harlot like Annabelle Grayson would no doubt give him upon learning about his inexperience. Especially at his age.
‘‘Matthew?’’
Something moved beside him and yanked him back to the present. Matthew jumped, half rising from his pallet.
Annabelle knelt beside him, firelight accentuating the shadowed concern on her face. Matthew knew it was her, but still . . . the injured look on Johnny’s face was all he could see. Shame and regret poured through him remembering the last thing he’d ever said to his brother, and especially in knowing that Annabelle had no doubt overheard every word.
‘‘Matthew, are you all right?’’
Her eyes, a deeper blue in the firelight, searched his, and the awareness in them unnerved him.
‘‘I’m fine.’’ He sat up. ‘‘Why are you awake?’’
‘‘I thought I heard something a minute ago.’’ She lifted a shoulder and let it fall.
He ran a hand over his face and reached for his rifle. ‘‘I’ll check things out. Go back to sleep.’’
He made a loop around the camp twice, finding everything quiet. Stopping by the wagon, he stared up into the dark night sky, swallowing hard as the stars began to blur. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t block out the words that kept replaying, over and over, in his mind. Words he regretted more now than when he’d said them in anger last autumn.
‘‘I’m ashamed of you, Johnny. I wish I’d
never had a brother.’’
T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT,
Matthew paused just outside a gaming hall in western Wyoming. Rowdy noise from the crowd within carried through the open doors, and a buggy passed behind him on the street. He was thankful Annabelle wasn’t with him, but that didn’t lessen his concern for her since they had parted ways in town moments ago. It had been his idea to handle it this way. At first, she’d put up an argument, but after their experience in Parkston nearly two weeks ago, he’d insisted that he visit the saloons and gaming halls in the towns they passed—despite the risk to him—and that she visit the brothels. He honestly believed she’d be safer since she knew that side of things far better than he did. But more importantly, he didn’t want to risk her discovering the truth about him and what he was running from.
Back in Willow Springs it had bothered him that she might find out and use the knowledge of his gambling debts against him. Now he was concerned she would learn the truth and discover he wasn’t the man she thought he was. Somehow that possibility hurt even more.
That morning, as the sun roused itself from slumber, he had gone to the creek, bathed and washed his clothes, and returned to camp before Annabelle awoke. He’d paused and watched her as she slept, remembering what she’d said about him having equal time to bathe. He’d never met a woman who handed out opinions so freely while still managing to hold other things so close to her vest.
Taking a deep breath, he walked through the open doors of the gaming hall. His goal tonight was simple. He’d order a drink that he would barely touch, ask a few questions, then leave.
‘‘What’ll ya have?’’ A wiry little man with a head too large for his body awaited his response opposite the bar.
‘‘Whiskey, straight up.’’
The bartender poured him a drink, and Matthew couldn’t help but contrast this man’s slight stature to that bear of a bartender back in Parkston. Just his luck . . .
He cleared his throat. ‘‘Where can a man get some entertainment around here?’’
‘‘One street over. Gray clapboard building on the south side. Tell ’em I sent you.’’ The barkeep leaned forward. His eyes grew larger— if that were possible. ‘‘They’re good about keepin’ tally of the clients I send their way, if you know what I mean.’’
Matthew nodded, circling the top of the glass with a forefinger.
‘‘They got all kinds?’’ He took a slow sip.
The man smiled and reached beneath the counter. With the same ease he might use when dealing a hand of draw poker, he laid out five photographs on the bar.
Matthew nearly choked.
The man chuckled. ‘‘They’re somethin’ aren’t they? ’Specially this one.’’ He tapped the corner of a picture with a tobacco-stained forefinger.
Matthew had heard ranch hands talking about photographs like this, but he’d never seen one himself. He scanned the women’s faces, though the pictures had clearly not been taken to showcase those specific features. None of the women appeared to be Chinese, but Annabelle had told him there were ways of making a girl look altogether different, like a woman before her time. Still, he didn’t think any of them could be Sadie, as Annabelle had described her.
With effort, he focused on his drink and cleared his throat.
‘‘How young do they go?’’
The bartender grunted. ‘‘I’m followin’ ya, friend, but you’re about a month late on that one. Had a young one through here around then. Didn’t ever get upstairs to see her, but I heard about her. Far away lookin’ gal, from what I was told. Black hair clear past her waist.’’
Matthew’s heart pounded against his ribs. He could already imagine Annabelle’s reaction at hearing the news. He forced a disappointed sigh. ‘‘But that girl’s not here anymore.’’
‘‘ ’Fraid not.’’
Matthew hesitated, not wanting to appear overeager, but needing to know. ‘‘Any idea where she might be now?’’
The man shook his head, then tapped the picture again. ‘‘But hear me out—this one right here, she’ll for sure . . .’’
Matthew left his drink on the counter with the man prattling on. When he reached the corner where he and Annabelle were supposed to meet and she wasn’t there, he continued in the direction of the brothel and spotted her walking toward him.
‘‘Nothing,’’ she whispered when she got closer, her head bowed.
‘‘I could only talk to the madam, and she wouldn’t tell me a thing.’’
He gently tilted her chin upward. ‘‘Sadie was through here— about a month ago. We’re getting closer, Annabelle. We’re going to find her.’’
Her breath left in a rush. Her eyes misted. She stepped forward like she might hug him, then stopped and clasped his hand between hers instead. ‘‘Thank you, Matthew,’’ she whispered, and gave his hand a brief squeeze before letting go.
Silently, they walked on down the street to where they’d left Manasseh tethered. Matthew snuck a few glances at Annabelle along the way, at a loss to explain the unexpected disappointment dogging his steps.
He yanked the reins free from the post and led the horse around. ‘‘You ride forward this time.’’
‘‘I don’t mind riding in back again.’’ She gestured for him to mount first, as though the matter were settled.
Annoyance quickly replaced Matthew’s disappointment. ‘‘I nearly lost you on the way into town tonight. Twice. And as I recall’’—he tipped one side of his mouth to show it wasn’t that big of a deal, while wondering why he was making it into one—‘‘I told you to hold on.’’
She lifted her chin. ‘‘I did hold on.’’
‘‘To the back of the saddle, yes! But not to me.’’ The response came out gruffer than he intended.
She held his stare for a moment, then shrugged and looked away.
From the way she was acting, a person might get the notion she was shy of touching him, which seemed highly unlikely given her experience. He quickly reviewed the time they’d been on the trail together so far and tried to recall the last time he could remember her purposefully touching him. And couldn’t. Even more frustrating, he didn’t know why that would bother him so much—but it did.
Aware of how harsh his voice had sounded moments before, he intentionally softened it. ‘‘I just don’t want to get back to camp and find you’re not with me, that’s all.’’
She peeked up at him, then smiled and slid a boot into the stirrup. She swung her leg over, quickly situating her skirt. ‘‘Uh-oh . . .’’
Her foot was dangling, still several inches from reaching the stirrup irons. ‘‘I’ll fix it,’’ he said, brushing aside the folds of fabric from her skirt. He searched for the stirrup leather in order to shorten the strap.
She leaned forward and cooed to the horse, whispering in a soft, low voice. The folds of her skirt shifted again and lifted to reveal a shapely calf.
Matthew averted his eyes, trying to focus on his task, but suddenly all he could see were those photographs. It was as if the images were burned into his mind. Without warning, a question jumped to the forefront of his thoughts. ‘‘Did you ever let anyone take pictures of you?’’
She stilled at the query, then turned. For a moment all she did was stare. ‘‘No,’’ she finally whispered, ‘‘I did not.’’
Matthew was partly ashamed for having asked, but mostly relieved at her response. She moved her leg as he reached again to shorten the strap, pressing her skirt to her ankle with one hand this time. She did the same when he came around to the other side.
He slid his boot into the stirrup iron, gripped the cantle, and swung up behind her.
She turned her head slightly. ‘‘You saw some photographs. . . .’’
Heat flooded his face. Her statement came out soft, not accusing, yet he felt an accusation anyway. ‘‘I didn’t ask to see them. The bartender just . . . showed them to me.’’
Saying nothing, she faced forward and gave Manasseh a firm prod.