Revealed (5 page)

Matthew still remembered his astonishment at recognizing Johnny’s handwriting on the envelope.

Johnny wrote that he had sold the family farm in Missouri— four years earlier—and had purchased ranch land in Idaho.

Idaho . . .
Matthew wondered again what had persuaded Johnny to do such a thing.

In the letter, Johnny had explained that since he’d used the proceeds from the family homestead to purchase the land in Idaho, half the land rightfully belonged to Matthew. Jonathan was inviting his brother to join him. But Matthew had very much doubted that the ‘‘ranch’’ Johnny had started in Idaho was anything to speak of. As far back as he could remember, his brother had always possessed a knack for stretching the truth. Besides, when leaving home at the age of fifteen, Matthew had knowingly relinquished any ownership to his birthright. And had done it gladly, without a backward glance.

Filled with painful memories, the homeplace hadn’t been worth much anyway, and Matthew would have paid any price to be out from under Haymen Taylor’s harsh hand. Which should have made what Johnny had penned next seem like a godsend.

Your father is gone now, Matthew. You can come home
.

As though it were yesterday, Matthew recalled reading those words for the first time and remembered the oppressive weight being lifted from his shoulders. But the freedom that accompanied hearing that news had also been laced with regret. It wasn’t right somehow . . . a son not mourning his father’s passing.

The memory faded, and Matthew gave the partially-opened door a nudge. It squealed on rusted hinges. He scanned the inside. Empty. A scene flashed in his mind, and through a haze of memory, he pictured his brother standing there just beyond the doorway last October.

Johnny’s face had reflected obvious surprise as he glanced from his new bride to his younger brother, his introduction still hanging between them. Johnny must have sensed something, because doubt flickered across his face. ‘‘Have you two already met somewhere?’’

Hesitating, her eyes wide, watchful, knowing, Annabelle Grayson finally stepped forward. She recognized him—there was no doubt in Matthew’s mind. ‘‘I look forward to getting to know you, Matthew. I’ve heard wonderful things about you from Jonathan.’’

He’d known her instantly. Her blue eyes appeared less pronounced without the smudged kohl, and her hair was much darker than he remembered. She’d traded a tawdry gown for simple homespun, but it couldn’t change what she was. Did Johnny really not know? Had the woman not told him?

Wordless, Matthew stared at her until her brow, formally heightened in greeting, slowly disappeared behind a mask of carefully guarded emotion. She truly expected him to act as if he didn’t remember who she was?

Something skittered in the cobwebbed corner of the nowabandoned shack, and Matthew shook his head to clear the memory. Surely by now Johnny had come to realize what a mistake he had made by marrying a woman like Annabelle Grayson and had put her aside. If not, Matthew planned on making sure he did, for Johnny’s sake as well as his own. Thankfully their mother, God rest her soul, wasn’t alive to know just how low her eldest had sunk.

Decent women were scarce in the western territories. But even with all his faults, his older brother deserved better than a woman like her. Annabelle Grayson had tried to take advantage of Kathryn Jennings’ friendship a while back, no doubt seeking money or whatever else she could get. Concerned about Kathryn’s reputation, Matthew had done his best to discourage her befriending the fallen woman. People always tried to take advantage of Johnny’s kindness too, but Matthew wasn’t about to stand by and watch it happen to his brother with this conniving little whore. Not when it could end up costing him his own birthright. A birthright he ended up needing now, however paltry.

Without a backward glance, Matthew closed the door to the shack. Considering what to do next, he gathered the reins and led the way to a place in the creek where the watercourse curved and the stream ran smoother and deeper. Letting the animal drink, he laid his hat aside and slaked his own thirst, then cupped handfuls and poured the icy water over his face and throat, freeing a layer of dust and dirt from the day’s ride. Maybe Johnny had thought to leave word for him in town. It was worth a try. After all, he’d come this far.

A half hour later, Matthew witnessed for himself that the seamier side of trade in Willow Springs hadn’t wasted any time expanding its boundaries. He passed two new saloons and another two-story wood-planked building that resembled the brothel one street over. Iron bars guarded the bottom floor windows, and red curtains shaded the top. Three women lazed against the porch railing. They leaned over invitingly and called out to him as he rode past.

Before Matthew could catch himself, his gaze lingered, which only emboldened their efforts. Immediately, he looked away. And as he did, words rose to his mind that helped drown out their impudent invitations.

‘‘Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her
house: Lest thou give thine honour unto others . . . lest strangers be
filled with thy wealth.’’

At the remembered warning in Scripture, Matthew thought again of Johnny. He prayed he could talk some sense into his brother this time. Before
that woman
saw to Johnny’s complete ruin.

Two men working together outside the Willow Springs Hose Company No. 1 looked up as Matthew passed. They waved, then went back to polishing the red-painted wheels of the hose cart. Commercial buildings crafted of wood frame and stone false fronts flanked the street, and at the corner stood the Baird & Smith Hotel. The hub of Willow Springs’s business district had changed little in his absence.

Matthew stopped at the livery to board his horse, guarding his side of the conversation with Jake Sampson, the livery owner. Sampson knew more about the people of Willow Springs than anyone had a right to, and he shared what he knew with little prompting. Which might just prove advantageous today.

Sure enough, with casual mention of the couple’s last name, Matthew had all the information he needed, or wanted, about the husband and wife he’d worked for when he last lived there. The man, his former boss, had been a good friend. Or so Matthew had once thought.

At midmorning the main thoroughfare in Willow Springs bustled with activity, and Matthew welcomed the anonymity of a crowd. The boardwalk swelled with people. Wagons lined the streets, workers loaded and unloaded freight. Women wrestled baskets in one hand and children in the other. Matthew opted to take the dirt-packed street instead and moved to descend the stairs. He knew where he needed to go next and headed in that direction, welcoming the chance to sort his thoughts.

He’d said things in anger to Johnny the last time they’d seen each other, most of which hadn’t even been true. Matthew had simply been giving vent to his disappointment in his brother—and in himself. He had so much he wanted to say to Johnny now, and one thing stood out above the rest. He needed Johnny to know how much he appreciated all he’d done for him, especially when they were younger. Haymen Taylor’s harsh discipline would have broken Matthew physically, just as the man’s words had crippled his spirit. But Johnny had stood in the gap for him, time after time, and Matthew intended on making it up to him somehow.

Being six years older, a good three inches taller, and with a barrel chest that made him look even more imposing, Johnny had always been a bit of a hero to Matthew, despite their differences. Matthew admired his brother in many ways, yet he’d never told him that outright. Their mother had remarried after Johnny’s father died, and according to Johnny, her second marriage had been a hasty one. Soon after, their mother became pregnant with a second child—with him. Laura McCutchens Taylor hoped this new man in their lives would offer the financial stability she couldn’t provide and that he would be a good father to her two sons.

Both of her wishes had been met with disappointment.

Spotting the post office ahead, Matthew stepped up to the edge of the boardwalk and waited for the foot traffic to pass. Then he entered and closed the door behind him, amazed at the sudden quietness without the outside noise. He took a place in line and spotted an announcement board on the wall a couple of feet away. One advertisement in particular caught his eye. Two words written in capital letters across the top immediately drew his attention.

He stared, letting them sink in. He read the next few lines, then reached over and yanked the handwritten slip from the billboard.

Stepping back into the queue, he read the notice again and weighed his options.

The advertised job would pay well and offered guaranteed wages. A third on hire, the rest upon reaching the destination. The amount listed wasn’t enough to erase what he owed, but it would certainly bring him a good sight closer. And the job would keep him moving in the right direction—north, and as far away from Texas as he could get.

A month had passed since he managed to disappear one moonless night from the town of San Antonio. Pushing north, he hadn’t lingered in any one place more than a night or two, skirting the larger towns and staying only long enough to chop firewood or repair fencing at an outlying homestead in exchange for a meal. But no matter how many miles he put behind himself or how many excuses he piled in his favor, he couldn’t outrun his guilt.

He’d made poor choices since leaving Willow Springs, and he knew it. He simply needed more time to get together the money he owed. Time the men in San Antonio hadn’t been willing to give.

Matthew heard the post office door open behind him, and a tingle of awareness prickled up the back of his neck. In a move that was becoming disturbingly familiar, he slowly turned toward the two women who had just entered, one of them holding a small girl in her arms, then to the man now filling the doorway.

The stranger locked eyes with him, and Matthew’s mouth went dry.

If the guy was wearing a badge, his black duster hid it from view. But his solemn stare was enough to prod Matthew’s guilt until Matthew felt certain his expression alone would give him away. He forced himself to hold the man’s gaze for a few seconds, then slowly faced forward again. He spied a second exit behind the mail counter, roughly twelve feet away. He’d have to clear the tall counter, but that was doable, given the alternative. Wishing he knew what was happening behind him, he listened for the man’s approach. Then the woman directly in front of him turned and gave a sudden gasp.

Matthew tensed, fisting his hands in readiness.

‘‘James . . .’’ The woman took a step toward the door. ‘‘I thought we were supposed to meet at Myrtle’s. I’m not quite done here yet.’’

A long pause. ‘‘I got done early and thought I might catch you here,’’ the man finally answered.

Slowly, Matthew let out the breath he’d been holding. His eyes closed briefly as tension ebbed from his body. Hundreds of miles stretched between him and San Antonio, but still he couldn’t shake his sense of being followed. Moving forward in the queue, he chided himself for being so jumpy. He suddenly noticed a cluttered board that ran half the length of the post office wall, and the voice of reprieve inside him fell silent.

Pinned along the top and sides of the board, in no apparent order, were charcoal-drawn likenesses of men. They stared back at him, their hollow eyes silent in pronounced guilt of the crimes written beneath their names. Matthew slowly scanned each likeness, grateful when he didn’t see a single familiar face among them. Swallowing with effort, he suppressed an unmanly shudder.

Behind him, a woman softly cleared her throat. Matthew looked up and realized the queue had advanced in front of him yet again. He moved forward.

He shifted his weight, weary from weeks of riding and bothered by the reminder of why he’d originally left Willow Springs a year and a half ago. At the livery that morning, casual inquiry to Jake Sampson had provided the answer to some of his lingering questions.

Apparently Larson Jennings’ once-failed ranch was going to succeed, and Larson and Kathryn were expecting their second child come fall. Hearing the news stirred mixed emotions inside him. He once considered Jennings to be his friend, but the bitterness of betrayal tinged any thought of his former boss now. Matthew bowed his head.

‘‘Can I help you, sir?’’

A feminine voice drew him back. Matthew stepped to the vacant window. With any luck, the woman behind the counter would provide him with the information he sought. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. Would you please check and see if you’re holding any letters for a Mr. Matthew Taylor?’’

The clerk held his gaze briefly, repeating his name, before leafing through the drawer of mail beneath her counter. ‘‘I’m sorry, but we have nothing under that name, sir. Were you expecting something important?’’

Matthew nodded and pushed up the brim of his hat in order to see her better. ‘‘It might’ve been sent a few months ago. I’ve been away for a while. Or it could’ve been mailed from here to San Antonio and then returned. Is there anywhere else you could check . . . in case it was put aside?’’

A slow smile curved the corners of her mouth, and gradually Matthew became aware of her interest. She gave a slow nod in answer to his question. A dark wayward curl brushed against her cheek, and he responded to the twinkle in her eyes. She was attractive, and he’d wager from her manner that she was a lady on every count.

As though she could read the thread of his thoughts, a rosy blush deepened her cheeks. ‘‘I’d be happy to look in the back for you, Mr. Taylor. If . . . you have a minute.’’

‘‘I do,’’ he answered, smiling. ‘‘And thank you. I’d appreciate that.’’ He watched her go, absently fingering the advertisement in his hand. He glanced at it again, and as if the slip of paper could offer an opinion on the subject, it seemed to confirm the fact that he’d be moving on again, soon. And though tempted to pursue this lady’s wordless invitation, Matthew knew better. He stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket for safekeeping.

She returned minutes later, empty-handed, offering an apologetic shrug. ‘‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing there either.’’