Revealed (32 page)

He smiled. ‘‘You’ve done better out here than I thought you would.’’

‘‘So have you,’’ she added without hesitation, enjoying his grin.

‘‘I’m thinking of giving you a raise.’’

He laughed. ‘‘I just might take it after today. Either that or some of your biscuits.’’

‘‘It’s a deal. And with gravy this time.’’

A look of pleasure came over his face as though he were tasting them right then. ‘‘Now, that’s something a man can work for.’’ Tossing her a wink, he turned back to his work.

Unable to move, Annabelle watched him as he hefted a sizeable rock. Matthew Taylor was simply too handsome for his own good. And when he’d winked at her . . . Safe from his watchful eye, she playfully fanned herself.

A strong breeze kicked up just then, plastering her skirt against her legs. She looked north to the thunderhead, scanned the vast open plains to the southeast, and suddenly felt very small in comparison.

An hour later, she sat on the buckboard, reins in hand. A cool, raw wind whipped down from the northwest across the prairie, bringing the scent of rain and kicking up swirls of dust. Tumbleweeds scurried across the plains as though trying to outrace the storm. Charcoal-tufted clouds layered the skies overhead, blocking the sun and casting a veil of gray over the distant mountains.

Matthew stood gripping the harness at the front of the team. ‘‘Just hold the reins,’’ he instructed. ‘‘Don’t do anything unless I signal you.’’ He gave her a half-hearted smile. ‘‘You ready?’’

‘‘Ready,’’ she called with more confidence than she felt. She braced her legs for balance as he’d shown her. At his gesture, she flicked the reins and the wagon bumped and jolted as the wheels sought placement among the uneven gullies ribboning the dry gulch. Without warning, the wagon dipped to the left. The wheels groaned in protest, and crates and boxes in the back all shifted to that side.

Matthew held up a hand, and she pulled back on the reins as he had instructed.

She leaned over to see what the problem might be. ‘‘What happened? ’’

He came alongside and bent down. He ran a hand over the wheels. ‘‘They’re holding up fine. We just slipped into a gully, that’s all.’’

His tone might have been even, but Annabelle noted the firm set of his mouth. She peered down to see the wagon wheel partially obscured by the deep rut of earth, then felt the splat of a raindrop on her arm.

She looked up to see Matthew gauging the darkening skies. ‘‘We’ll go ahead and follow this one as far as we can across, then we’ll cut back over.’’ He jogged back to the front.

It sounded like an easy enough plan—not that they had much choice. Annabelle leaned over and followed the line of the rut ahead. She saw how deep it went. How far could a wagon tilt without tipping? Especially with this wind. Trusting Matthew, she waited for his signal, then gave the reins a snap. She braced herself as the wagon lurched forward.

They managed to cover only a few arduous feet before the skies opened.

She was quickly drenched, as was the once-dry creek bed. She thought again about how right Matthew had been. Within the space of five minutes, the creek bed was covered. Gauging from the shoreline, the water was no more than a couple of inches deep at most.

A crack of lightning jagged across the sky. She counted to three before hearing the thunder rumble overhead. Canopying a hand over her eyes, she had trouble making out Matthew’s form as he struggled in the rain to coax the four horses forward. The team seemed tentative to follow, whether from the load they pulled or the rain or the thunder, she wasn’t sure.

She glanced at the reins in her hands, wondering if she should help by urging their progress on this end. Matthew had said not to do anything until he signaled her.

She waited.

Sheets of blowing rain blurred her vision. She squinted. Did his arm just go up? That meant for her to stop the team. But they seemed to be moving pretty well. What if he was in trouble? Or had fallen . . .

Unable to see much of anything in front of her now, she pulled back on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt. ‘‘Matthew!’’

Then the wagon moved beneath her. Not really a jolt. More of a sway. Gripping the reins with one hand, she held on with her other and peered over the left side. Water reached halfway up the wheel.

She called his name again, then saw him striding toward her through the water.

‘‘What are you doing?’’ he yelled.

‘‘I thought you told me to stop!’’

He shook his head and bent to check the wheel, water swirling around his thighs. He shoved a hand through his hair. The wagon moved again, and Annabelle gripped the buckboard, certain it would tip any minute.

‘‘I’m going back up front,’’ he shouted. He held up both hands, fingers spread wide. ‘‘Count to ten. Then give the reins a good whip. The horses are spooked. Make it hard and firm so they feel it.’’

He disappeared into the gray murk, and she started counting, frantically wondering if he meant for her to count fast or slow. She reached ten before she thought she should have and prayed he was ready. She brought the reins down hard across the horses’ backs. They whinnied. But the wagon didn’t budge.

Gritting her teeth, she whipped the reins again, so hard her shoulders burned. And this time she sensed forward progress. Not a sway this time, but a definite pulling motion. The wagon rocked beneath her, and she knew the horses were struggling to pull the wagon out of the deep, muddy rut. She gave the reins another firm whip and nearly slipped from the buckboard when the wagon surged forward and suddenly righted itself. Wind splayed strands of hair across her face. She brushed them back with her forearm, the leather straps cutting into her palms.

She caught a glimpse of land ahead and blinked to clear her vision. The slope appeared and reappeared before her in the driving rain. In the failing light, it looked more formidable than it had a couple of hours ago.

She heard her name and turned to see Matthew climbing up beside her.

He leaned close. ‘‘The bank is slick, but we don’t have a choice.

If we don’t get up now . . .’’ He grabbed the reins, not finishing his sentence.

She turned to look behind them and her jaw went slack. Torrents of water swelled the sides of the once-dry gulch.

‘‘Hold on,’’ he yelled.

She did.

The reins made a sharp crack against the horses’ flanks, and the animals surged forward, pulling the wagon with them. They faltered and slid back. The creek’s swell crested the rim of the wagon bed. Annabelle thought of the flour, the cornmeal . . . then realized how foolish a concern that was in comparison to what they faced.

Matthew whipped the reins feverishly, and finally the first two horses crested the top of the bank. But the other two struggled, their hooves unable to gain footing.

He stood and shoved the reins at her.

She took them but grabbed his arm. ‘‘Where are you going?’’

‘‘They’re not gonna make it. Either that or the tongue’s gonna snap.’’ Without further explanation, he leapt from the buckboard and landed on the muddy embankment. He grabbed for the harness of the nearest horse but slipped in the mud. Annabelle’s breath caught when a hoof came dangerously close to his arm. She waited, then breathed again when he reached out and took hold of the harness. The animal pounded the muddy banks for footing but somehow Matthew managed to climb onto the horse.

Then she realized what he was doing. Foolish, brave man . . .

He dug the heels of his boots into the horse’s flank. It tried to rear up, finding itself encumbered by the harness. But the crescendo of power seemed infectious, and the other horses responded. The first two grays surged over the ridge, clearing the bank and spurring the second pair on behind them.

The wagon angled and tipped as it climbed. For a moment, Annabelle could see nothing but the angry gray of sky. Lightning streaked overhead. She half waited to hear the harness snap and to feel the wagon plunging beneath her back into the water. The blunt board of the seatback cut into her lower spine as she braced herself against the footrest and held on. Her legs ached from fatigue. Just when she thought she couldn’t hold on any longer, the sky took its rightful place again and land fanned out on either side of her.

The wagon kept moving so she held on until it came to a stop.

Then she set the brake and called for Matthew.

He didn’t come. She called again.

Her voice was lost on the wind, and suddenly she was twelve years old once more—alone, frightened, and searching for her parents’ faces in a sea of chaos. Men and women screaming. People running across the camp with nothing but their nightclothes on. She could feel the low rumble that had awakened her in the darkness so long ago. Like thunder, except that it moved through the earth that night, instead of the sky. The ground shook and the roar grew louder, as though the Kansas prairie was angry at having been awakened from a deep slumber. The patch of earth shuddered beneath her thin legs and she crawled to the edge to peer out from beneath the wagon.

‘‘Stay under the wagon, Annie!’’ Her father’s voice was harsh, but his expression wasn’t.

Obeying, Annabelle scooted behind a wheel and peered up at him through the spokes. ‘‘Where’s Mama?’’

‘‘She’s gone to find Alice.’’

Annabelle looked behind her and discovered her younger sister’s pallet empty. A sour pocket formed in the pit of her belly. It was
her
job to watch Alice.

The roar became deafening. Dust choked the air.

‘‘Whatever happens, Annie, you stay beneath this wagon. You hear me?’’

Her stomach went cold at the look on her father’s face. ‘‘Yes, Papa!’’ She nodded, hot tears sliding down her cheeks.

He started to leave but then reached back and touched the tip of her nose like he always did. ‘‘I love you, Annie girl.’’

Her chin had quivered. ‘‘I love you too, Papa.’’

Not until Annabelle heard her own sobs did she realize she was crying. She closed her eyes in hopes of persuading her memory, but no matter how she tried, she couldn’t recall the exact features of her parents’ faces anymore. Nor those of sweet young Alice. Then she felt a touch to her arm, and the tide of emotion crested inside her.

She opened her eyes to see Matthew motioning for her to climb down. She breathed in short bursts, trying to keep the tears at bay.

He took hold of her arm as she stepped down, then brushed wet strands of hair back from her face. ‘‘Are you hurt?’’

She shook her head as childhood memories, long since buried, clawed the back of her throat.

He framed her cheeks with his hands. ‘‘Annabelle, are you okay?’’

‘‘Where did you go?!’’ she screamed, the haunting image of her father disappearing into the night still filling her head—the last time she’d ever seen him.

Matthew stared. ‘‘I had to check the horses and the wagon.’’ His tone clearly said she should have known that.

Annabelle nodded and tried to turn her face away, but he guided it back. ‘‘Are you sure you’re okay?’’ He briefly looked down at her midsection, then back up.

So he was finally acknowledging there was a child, or at least the possibility. ‘‘I’m fine,’’ she said, both thankful and weary. Before she could pull away from his hold, he lowered his head.

Sensing what was coming, Annabelle panicked—then stilled when his lips brushed her forehead.

Once, twice.

Warmth melted down through her chest and into her arms and legs, and she did what she’d wanted to do the other day but hadn’t.

She laced her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. His arms came around her and drew her closer, and she was certain she’d never felt so safe in all her life.

Matthew chanced a look at her across the camp while still working the flint and steel to get a fire going. Not an easy task since all the kindling was soaked clean through from the storm, just as they were. There’d been a moment this afternoon when he had feared the swollen rain waters would sweep the wagon away, taking them with it. He’d seen the stark fear in Annabelle too, and that had spurred him on.

The temperature had dropped when the storm hit and then a second time once the sun dipped behind the mountains. His fingers were stiff and cold, and he rubbed his hands together to make them more agile. Gathering a tuft of damp tinder about the size of an egg, he rubbed it between his fingers and blew on it until the moisture lessened and it finally separated. Balancing the tinder in his left hand, he went back to work with the flint and steel. After several failed attempts, the memory of their first night on the trail came to mind, and he smiled recalling how long it had taken Annabelle to get her fire started. But she hadn’t given up.

A spark flew.

He dropped the flint and steel to cradle the fledgling flame and gently breathe life into it. It crackled and glowed in his palms. He quickly transferred it to the stack of wood and, kneeling, blew on it again until the flame took hold.

He felt warmth seeping through his damp shirt as he rubbed his right arm. It hadn’t hurt much until now.

‘‘You’re bleeding!’’ Annabelle came and knelt beside him.

‘‘Only a little.’’ Her hair was still damp and hung in a tangled mass down her back. Mud streaked her face. ‘‘You did good back there. Real good.’’

She huffed. ‘‘I could’ve gotten us killed.’’ Remorse shadowed her eyes. ‘‘Now take your shirt off.’’

He caught her hand. ‘‘You couldn’t see, Annabelle. I couldn’t either. You thought I’d told you to stop. You did nothing wrong.’’

She frowned and gave him a begrudging nod, then lifted her chin. ‘‘If you want those biscuits tonight, Mr. Taylor, you’d best be taking off that shirt.’’

Obeying, he smiled at the smartness in her tone, still hearing lingering traces of guilt. ‘‘Have you checked the supplies yet?’’

‘‘We lost most of the cornmeal, and half the flour and salt. But I figure those are things that can be replaced.’’

‘‘And we didn’t lose any of the horses.’’ Pulling his right arm through the shirtsleeve, he grimaced.

‘‘Oh, Matthew . . .’’

Worry furrowed her brow, and he craned his neck to see the back of his arm, unable to make out much more than blood and bruising. But he sure felt it. ‘‘What’s it like?’’