Revealed (45 page)

Someone at the far end of the boardwalk caught his eye. But just then a freight wagon rounded the corner, crowding the thoroughfare and making it impossible to see. He moved down a couple of feet and stepped closer to the window.

He went cold inside.

He strode outside to the mare and unsheathed his rifle. Opting for the road instead of the congested boardwalk, Matthew made his way past the freight wagon and other wagons caught behind it, past carts and livestock, to the corner.

He only thought he’d spotted Annabelle. But he was positive he’d seen the bounty hunter.

He peered through windows of businesses as he passed. A barbershop, a land and title company. His steps slowed outside Haddock’s General Store, and he scanned the crowded aisles. Nothing. Standing on the corner, he searched down the street to his left, then to his right. On impulse, he headed west.

He passed a newspaper office, dress shop, and haberdashery. If anything happened to Annabelle because of this, he didn’t know what he would do.
God, don’t let her pay for my mistakes. Let me
stand accountable. But please . . . not her
.

He started to head in the other direction, then stilled.

There she was, entering a hotel a ways down the street. Heart pounding, he crossed the avenue and peered through the side of the front window. The lobby was clear. He stepped inside. Her voice carried to him from a side hallway.

Another patron approached the front desk, and Matthew seized the opportunity to scoot across the lobby and around the corner. A door was closing at the far end of the hall. He slowly started toward it, checking behind him as he went. Reaching the room, he leaned close, listening. Then he gently tried the knob.

It turned without complaint.

Nerves taut, he drew a last prayerful breath and flung open the door.

CHAPTER | THIRTY - EIGHT

A
NNABELLE STOOD TO
M
ATTHEW’S RIGHT,
facing him.

She stared, unflinching, and the disturbing sense that she’d been expecting him skittered across his nerves. The click of a chamber loading registered a fraction before he felt the barrel against his left temple.

‘‘Put down the gun, Mr. Taylor.’’

Annabelle winced, then nodded, as though telling him to do as he’d been asked. The lack of surprise in her expression confirmed his former suspicion. He turned slightly to see behind him, but a firm nudge from the steel shaft encouraged him to face forward again.

Rifle in his left hand, he raised his right. ‘‘Okay, I’m putting it down.’’

He bent forward slowly, scanning his surroundings as he laid the rifle on the floor. A bed, a table, a desk and chair in the corner. He stood up, watching Annabelle for a sign. A slight nod or a telling look—anything that would help him figure out what was going on.

Her eyes connected with his but revealed nothing.

If he had been alone, he might have tried something. But not with her here. His thoughts went to the child inside her. He heard the door latch behind him.

‘‘Cross the room and stand beside Mrs. McCutchens.’’

He hesitated.

‘‘Now!’’

The blunt barrel pressing against his back was persuasive enough. Once beside her, Matthew slowly turned, and discovered he’d guessed correctly. ‘‘Please, let Mrs. McCutchens go. Your business is with me, not with her.’’

‘‘Actually, my business used to be with you, Taylor.’’ A slow smile pulled at the man’s mouth. ‘‘Now it
is
with her.’’

Matthew’s gut twisted remembering the story Annabelle had told him last night. Imagining the sick fear she must be experiencing at this moment, he reached over for her hand, then angled his body in front of hers. He would die before he let this man touch her.

His hand found hers. She took his gently, not gripping in fear. He turned and looked at her. She seemed more remorseful than frightened.

‘‘Annabelle?’’ he whispered.

Tears rose to her eyes. ‘‘Matthew, this is Mr. Rigdon Caldwell.’’

She indicated the man holding the gun. ‘‘He’s been tracking you since you left Texas.’’

‘‘I know,’’ Matthew admitted, feeling the weight of guilt on his shoulders. ‘‘I never could bring myself to tell you before, Annabelle.’’ The shame he felt at her knowing about him was nothing compared to his need to see her safe. He should have told her a long time ago. If anything happened to her . . .

‘‘This is all real nice, you two, but I’ve got to be in Boise City by nightfall.’’

Matthew took a step toward Caldwell. ‘‘I’ll go with you, and I’ll go without a fight. Just as long as Mrs. McCutchens can go free, and unharmed.’’

Caldwell’s attention shifted between the two of them, finally settling on Annabelle. ‘‘Ma’am? I’m runnin’ out of time. Not to mention patience.’’

Matthew trailed Caldwell’s gaze back to Annabelle.

Her hand tightened around his. ‘‘Matthew, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it straight out. The night that you went into that gaming hall for Sadie . . . as soon as you went inside, Mr. Caldwell approached me on the street. He didn’t hurt me,’’ she said quickly, as though aware of the rush of protectiveness filling him at that moment. ‘‘He just talked to me and—’’

‘‘And told you about what I’d done.’’ Matthew tried to put a word to the emotion he saw moving into her eyes.

She winced slightly. ‘‘Actually . . . I’ve known about that since that night in Parkston. I saw your picture hanging on the wall in the back room with the bartender.’’

Unable to respond, Matthew stared as her meaning sank in. She’d known all along. . . .

‘‘Mrs. McCutchens, Mr. Taylor.’’

In unison, they both looked back across the room, and let go of each other’s hands.

‘‘Ma’am, you strike a hard bargain, but it’s been a pleasure to do business with you. Mr. Taylor, no need to keep checking over your shoulder anymore. Not for me, anyway. Consider your account with Se
or Sedillos settled, and he sends his gratitude for turning in Mason Boyd.’’ Caldwell moved toward the door, stopping to bend down and pick up Matthew’s rifle. He released the hammer, unloaded and pocketed the cartridges, and put the gun on the bed. ‘‘Just in case you’re the kind of man who carries a grudge.’’ He closed the door behind him when he left.

Matthew was still sorting through all the details of what had just happened. ‘‘All this time, you knew,’’ he whispered, both astonished and a bit irritated. ‘‘And you never said a thing. You let me go mile after mile after mile, looking over my shoulder, not sleeping at night, anxious every time we went into a town.’’

Her hands were knotted at her waist. ‘‘Yes,’’ she answered softly.

Strangely, only now did she appear afraid, after all they’d been through. ‘‘Where did you get the money?’’ As though he needed to ask.

‘‘I took a loan against the ranch.’’ She reached for something on the desk behind her and held it out. Her hand trembled. ‘‘This belongs to you.’’

The struggle mirrored in her expression unnerved him. He took the piece of paper and unfolded it, curious. He read it, then looked back at her. ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’

‘‘When I saw that document this morning, I realized that, from the start, Jonathan intended to share this with you. Not with me.

Why do you th—’’ She cleared her throat, a frown forming. ‘‘Why do you think there are two large bedrooms upstairs—identical to each other?’’

‘‘Annabelle . . .’’ He reached for her.

She pulled away, putting up a hand. ‘‘I saw the way you looked at me last night, Matthew. After I told you . . . about how I . . .’’ She blinked, and tears fell. ‘‘I know you can’t look at me in that way anymore.’’

Matthew brushed away a tear, knowing how wrong she was. ‘‘Can’t look at you in what way?’’ He moved closer. ‘‘Like I’m looking at you right now? Annabelle,’’ he whispered, ‘‘if you sensed anything from me last night, it was me wishing that I could go back and change things for you, make them right.’’

‘‘But that’s just it. You can’t change things, Matthew. What happened . . . happened. I can’t erase any of it.’’

‘‘And I’m not asking you—’’ She pointed to the document in his hand. ‘‘If you’ll just sign there on that line, that will make it official.’’

He scanned the sheet again, dwelling on the heavy mark striking through the first entry that contained Johnny’s name . . . as well as his. His throat tightened. When Johnny originally filed the deed, he had listed Matthew as co-owner. All those dreams they’d had as boys, Johnny hadn’t forgotten.

Annabelle’s name and signature were on the next line and had also been crossed through. Underneath that, the name Matthew Haymen Taylor had been written in. He recognized Annabelle’s handwriting.

She took a deep breath and let it out. ‘‘I took some money out for me and Sadie. Not much, but enough for the two of us to get settled. I think Jonathan would have wanted that, under the circumstances.’’

Matthew stared at the deed, taking in what she’d done. This foolish . . . good-hearted woman.

She motioned toward the quill and ink bottle on the desk.

‘‘You’re sure this will make the transfer of the ranch legal and binding? There’s nothing else we’ll need to do?’’ Waiting for her response, he watched the emotions play across her face. Any remaining doubt he had about the kind of woman Annabelle Grayson McCutchens was fell away completely in that moment.

‘‘Yes, I already spoke with the man at the bank this morning.’’

Satisfied, he leaned down to use the top of the desk, then returned the quill to its holder. Annabelle reached for the paper, but he pulled it back slightly, sighing as he did. ‘‘You knew about me but you never said a thing. You never gloated, you never threw it back in my face. You didn’t remind me over and over about what I’d done wrong . . . even though that’s exactly what I did to you.’’

A frown shadowed her lovely brow. He resisted the urge to smooth it away and held out the paper instead. She stared at him for a second, then lowered her eyes to the page. He knew the moment she understood what he’d done.

She gave a small gasp. ‘‘You’re not serious. . . .’’

He closed the distance between them. ‘‘Would I write it in ink if I wasn’t serious, Mrs. McCutchens?’’

A single arched brow said she knew what he was doing, and a hint of a smile said she had sufficiently recovered from her surprise.

‘‘So . . . do I get an answer now?’’ He glanced back at the closed door. ‘‘Or do I have to sweep in and rescue you again?’’

That drew a laugh, as he’d anticipated. ‘‘Oh, please, not that!

I’m afraid if you keep trying to rescue me, you’re going to get us both kill—’’ He put a finger to her lips, remembering the incident at the saloon in Parkston. On impulse, he leaned down and kissed her right cheek, most leisurely, three times—then drew back. ‘‘Just give me your answer, Mrs. McCutchens. Please,’’ he added softly.

Her eyes gained a sparkle. She held up the document and read from it. ‘‘ ‘Matthew Haymen Taylor and Annabelle Grayson McCutchens, equal partners.’ I like the sound of that.’’

Matthew laid the deed aside and gently drew her against him, aware that she came without the least hesitation. ‘‘I’m making that offer on one condition.’’

‘‘And what condition would that be?’’

‘‘That you’ll be open to exploring future partnership opportunities of a more . . . personal nature.’’ Already having seen the answer in her eyes, he traced the curve of her lips with his forefinger. ‘‘Why, Mr. Taylor, are you asking me to dance?’’

He smiled, remembering that night on the prairie. ‘‘In a manner of speaking . . .’’ He brushed the hair back from her right temple and slowly kissed the length of the scar there, willing whatever wounds were left inside her to be made whole and asking that God might somehow use him to help. ‘‘Yes, ma’am, I guess I am.’’

Once she opened her eyes, she searched his face. ‘‘And if I miss a step, will you teach me?’’

Matthew cradled the back of her neck, hearing both the playfulness and seriousness of her request. ‘‘How ’bout we just take things slow and agree to learn together?’’

‘‘I’ll match whatever pace you set, Mr. Taylor,’’ she whispered, smiling. ‘‘I do believe we have ourselves a deal.’’

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

One name may grace the cover of a book, but its contributors are many. To the following, I offer my sincerest thanks.

To Jesus, your endless grace and mercy sustain me. To Joe, your wonderful wit has made these past twenty-one years and counting such a joy. I look forward to many more! To Kelsey, your vibrant spirit is a reflection of Christ and a blessing to all who know you— your mom most of all. To Kurt, your tender heart reveals a man of God and makes this mother proud. To Doug and June Gattis, your enthusiasm inspires me. What a blessing to have parents who are also dear friends. To Dr. Fred Alexander, my father-in-law, you donned your editor’s cap to read the final galleys, and your comments and catches were stellar, as expected. Thanks for being one of my greatest (and most humble) encouragers.

To Deborah Raney, you read all my words and make them, and me, so much better. I’m so glad you’re always just a click away. To the
CdA Women
, your fingerprints of creativity and humor are all over this book. To Judy Hicks, your knowledge about horses is invaluable, as is your friendship. To Suzi Buggeln, you add such sparkle to my life. Thanks for brainstorming
Remembered
(Book 3) with me at Red Robin. To Virginia Rogers, your insightful comments helped to shape this story early on, and really encouraged me. To the women at Journey, your prayers and kind support continually renew my strength. To Karen Schurrer, your gift with words makes all the difference in my writing, and our shared laughter . . . well, all the difference in my day. To my Bethany House family, partnering with you is pleasure in the purest sense.