Revealed (7 page)

She wouldn’t reconstruct that wall of isolation, not when hands of love and friendship had worked so hard to tear it down, brick by stubborn brick. Not when she remembered Jonathan and the grace he’d introduced into her life. Still, it baffled her how folks could read the same book and come to such different conclusions. Funny how the Bible seemed to soften some while toughening others.

‘‘I understand what you’re saying, Patrick, but Willow Springs can never be my home again. I can’t stay here—not even if it’s only until next spring.’’

Looking as though he wished he could change her mind, or perhaps the circumstances, he finally nodded. ‘‘But if we don’t get a response soon, you might have no choice. Traveling alone with a guide until you catch up with Brennan’s group is one thing, but traveling alone with a man you don’t know for three months or more is another. I don’t think that would be wise, Annabelle.’’ He paused. ‘‘If I might be so bold, you’re an attractive woman, and though it’s not plain to see yet, you’re carrying your husband’s child. I feel honor bound to Jonathan to make sure you’re both safe.’’

The intensity in Patrick’s eyes caused Annabelle’s own to sting. ‘‘Thank you,’’ she whispered. ‘‘That’s one of the kindest things anyone’s ever said to me.’’

‘‘Jonathan loved you very much. He was right to put conditions on who he wanted to escort you there.’’

She frowned. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

‘‘In his letter.’’ Patrick’s brow wrinkled. ‘‘You haven’t read it yet?’’

At the shake of her head, he motioned for her to stay there. He returned minutes later and held out the letter. ‘‘I apologize for not sharing this with you earlier. Forgive me.’’

Patrick’s expression was pure kindness and seemed to see straight into her heart. She wondered if this was how Jesus might’ve looked at people.

‘‘Jonathan McCutchens was right to have loved you as he did, Annabelle. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you read this.’’

She took the letter.

‘‘Patrick! Annabelle!’’

They both turned to see Hannah hurrying toward them from the house, a spark of urgency speeding her step. ‘‘There’s someone here to see you, Patrick. And no, it’s not Mrs. Cranchet.’’ She took a second to catch her breath, then grabbed Annabelle’s hands in hers. ‘‘It’s a man. And he says he’s answering your ad!’’

CHAPTER | FIVE

H
E’S WAITING ON THE
front porch.’’ Hannah’s tone conveyed her hopefulness about the prospect, but Annabelle’s stomach somersaulted at the news.

A mixture of excitement and alarm raced through her. She hadn’t considered what she would ask about a man’s experiences or references, or how she would gauge whether he was qualified.

Patrick pressed his sermon notes into Hannah’s hand, then turned to Annabelle. ‘‘With your permission, I’ll interview him first, just to get a feel for how he might work out.’’ He waited, his expression holding a question.

Relieved, Annabelle nodded.

Patrick glanced at Jonathan’s letter still in her grip and that expression of kindness moved into his eyes again. ‘‘I’ll see if he meets Jonathan’s criteria.’’

Eager to read the letter, she agreed. ‘‘I’d appreciate that. Then, if you think he does, I’d like to speak with him before we hire him.’’

As Annabelle watched Patrick and Hannah walk back to the house, she couldn’t help marveling at how she had reacted to Patrick’s suggestion that he interview the man first. She once would have balked at such an offer. Annabelle
Grayson
had spent the majority of her life shunning men’s help, doing everything within her power to avoid being dependent on anyone— especially a man.

Yet in the past year, Annabelle
McCutchens
had learned to open her heart. Granted, those old defenses oftentimes rose up without warning, but the past months of knowing Jonathan, of learning— in gradual increments—to trust, and finding that trust confirmed, had softened her. She liked the change.

As soon as Matthew spotted him through the screen door, he realized why the name on the slip of paper had sounded so familiar. He took a step back as the pastor pushed open the screen door. ‘‘Pastor Carlson, I appreciate you meeting with me, sir.’’ He extended his hand and introduced himself.

‘‘Mr. Taylor, good to meet you.’’ Carlson had a solid grip and a smile that encouraged trust. ‘‘My wife tells me you’re answering the advertisement. I appreciate your interest in the job.’’ He motioned toward one end of the porch.

Matthew opted for a chair by the porch swing, preferring something stationary. His nerves were jumpy enough from thinking about the interview on the way over. This job was an answer to prayer—he could feel it. He had the necessary experience, and if he could just make it past this initial interview with Pastor Carlson, he felt certain he could win the widow’s favor and the job would be his.

He perched his hat on the porch railing and leaned back in the chair, not wanting to appear overeager. ‘‘I’m definitely interested in hearing more about it, seeing if it’ll be a good fit for me. I think the timing could be right, and I’ve had experience on the trail—that’s for sure.’’

‘‘You look familiar to me, Mr. Taylor. Have we met before?’’

‘‘Call me Matthew, please. And both yes and no to that question. I visited your church before, a while back, but we’ve not formally met.’’

‘‘Ah . . . thought so. I rarely forget a face, especially those of people who’ve fallen asleep during my sermons.’’

Appreciating Carlson’s matter-of-fact delivery, Matthew also caught the subtle gleam in his eyes. ‘‘I only slept through the boring parts that morning, Pastor. I promise.’’ Then he smiled. ‘‘Had me a right good nap though.’’

Carlson feigned being stabbed in the heart, then sat up straight again. ‘‘You’ve been talking to my wife, Matthew. Sounds like something she would say.’’

They both laughed, then exchanged pleasantries before finally turning to the business at hand.

The pastor leaned forward in his chair. ‘‘Let me take a few minutes to tell you about the situation. I’m meeting with you first, Matthew, as a courtesy to the widow on whose behalf I placed the ad. She’s been through a very difficult time, and I offered to help her by speaking with all interested parties first, asking them some general questions, making sure they had the experience the job requires.’’

Matthew nodded, attentive to the phrase
all interested parties
. How many other men was he up against?

‘‘So why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? Where you’re from, what jobs you’ve had . . .’’

‘‘I’m originally from Missouri,’’ Matthew started. ‘‘Left there back in ’52 and have lived out West ever since. I’ve traveled throughout the western territories, been to California and Washington too.’’ He summarized his travels, skimming over his time in Colorado, knowing that if Carlson asked where he’d worked in Willow Springs, Larson Jennings would likely not give him a favorable recommendation. Not after what had happened with his wife, however innocent the circumstances had been. ‘‘I know the Colorado Territory like the back of my hand, and the land up north through the Wyoming and Montana Territories.’’

‘‘I hear that’s pretty country up there.’’

‘‘Mighty pretty, with lots of space for a man to breathe.’’ Matthew raised a brow, remembering the bitterest December he’d ever experienced while he was in Montana. ‘‘But it gets cold in the winter, with some powerful north winds . . . snowdrifts that’ll cover a cabin in no time.’’ He glanced past the porch to some horses grazing in the side field.

‘‘Do you get home often?’’

Matthew turned back at the question. ‘‘Home?’’

‘‘Back to Missouri?’’

‘‘Ah . . . no, I don’t. Not nearly as often as I’d like,’’ he added, knowing the answer was a far stretch. ‘‘Most recently I’ve been down in Texas, but I’d like to make my way up north again.’’

‘‘Well, this job would certainly take you in the right direction. I’m assuming you’re not married, Matthew?’’

‘‘No, sir. Haven’t had that pleasure yet.’’

‘‘But you hope to one day?’’

Hesitating at the unexpected question, Matthew finally gave a shrug. ‘‘One day, I guess. Sure. When I meet the right woman.’’

Carlson’s gaze grew intent, and Matthew got the impression that the pastor was watching his reactions just as closely as he was listening to his answers. Matthew didn’t shy away from the scrutiny.

‘‘Do you hold the Bible and Jesus’s teachings in high regard?’’

It suddenly sounded like Patrick Carlson was interviewing him more for would-be suitor rather than trail guide. But Matthew chalked it up to the man being a minister. Men of the cloth were a breed unto themselves. He’d learned that at an early age.

‘‘Yes, sir, I do. Have since I was young.’’

Carlson leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees. ‘‘I appreciate that, Matthew.’’ He paused, obviously choosing his next words with care. ‘‘The advertisement stated that the woman you would be accompanying is a widow. What it didn’t say is that she’s very recently widowed. Barely two weeks ago, in fact. She and her husband were on their way north when he took sick. He died on the trail, from a failing heart is what the coroner in Denver said after she described her husband’s symptoms to him. She brought his body back here for burial.’’

‘‘So they were originally from here, then?’’

‘‘They met and courted here. Willow Springs is as close to a home as either of them had since they married. I think that’s what made coming back here the right thing for her to do in this situation, at least for the time being.’’ Carlson looked away momentarily. ‘‘Her husband was a fine man. He loved his wife very much and cared for her with a great deal of gentleness and thought. In a final letter penned to me, he was very specific about the kind of man he wanted assisting his wife on this journey. First in joining their wagon train, then in escorting her on to Idaho. It’s going to take time for her to work through her grief at his passing—it being so unexpected and them being newly married.’’

Newly
married. Matthew’s attention honed in on that. He’d naturally assumed from the term
widow
that it would be an elderly woman he’d be escorting. In light of this information, Carlson’s more personal questions took on new meaning. Especially if the woman was nearer to his own age.

Carlson’s wife appeared at the screen door with a tray of drinks in her hands. Matthew stood immediately and went to open the door for her.

‘‘Why, thank you, Mr. Taylor.’’ She set the tray down on a table beneath the front window and handed them each a glass of tea, then held out a plate of cookies.

Matthew’s mouth watered at the sight of them. Not wanting to appear greedy, he resisted the urge to take more than two. Biting into the first, he remembered how hungry he was.

Both cookies were gone within a minute. ‘‘Those were the best oatmeal cookies I’ve ever had. Thank you, ma’am.’’

She offered him more, playfully nudging the plate forward when he hesitated. He gladly took two more and thanked her again. Mrs. Carlson was a pretty woman, dark-haired and with eyes so kind they made you look twice just to be certain the kindness in them was real. It sure seemed to be.

Matthew polished off another cookie and took a long drink of tea. Mrs. Carlson sat in the porch swing, her expression bright with curiosity. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to answer another passel of questions to win her over as well. But from the look on her face, that hope was slim.

‘‘So have the two of you been getting to know each other?’’ Realizing she’d directed the question at him, Matthew swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘‘Yes, ma’am, we have.’’ He quickly searched for something to comment on, hoping it might redirect the conversation. He spotted the pots of flowers set out along the steps leading up to the porch. ‘‘You’ve made a real nice home here, Mrs. Carlson. Something a man would appreciate coming home to.’’

‘‘Why, thank you again, Mr. Taylor. That’s very kind of you to say.’’

‘‘Mr. Taylor’s been telling me about his travels,’’ Carlson told his wife. ‘‘What groups he’s guided and where he’s been. He’s got a lot of experience.’’

Taking the cue, Matthew washed down the last of his fourth cookie with a quick swallow of tea. Though he’d never exactly guided a group before and hadn’t told the pastor he had, he knew that the way he’d presented the information to Carlson moments before had left that point open for interpretation. He didn’t intend on lying to this couple, but he’d braved more mountain passes than he could count, along with crisscrossing the arid plains east of the Rockies, and he could do this job. He knew he could. And he needed it. He only had to convince Carlson—both Carlsons, it would seem—that he was qualified.

He set his glass beside him on the floor and straightened in his chair, then turned his attention to Mrs. Carlson. ‘‘Like I was telling your husband, I’ve traveled a great deal. In the past several years, I’ve ridden trail from here up to Washington and Oregon, then back down through California. I’ve been from here to Wyoming and Texas and—’’

‘‘Wait . . . have you lived here in Willow Springs before?’’ Hannah Carlson’s eyes went round.

Matthew made a conscious effort not to wince when Carlson’s wife leaned forward. Two thoughts ricocheted through his mind at that moment. One, that the pastor would ask why he hadn’t seen him in church more often once discovering how long he’d lived here. That could be answered easily. A second, and far more dangerous question, was that Carlson might inquire—no, definitely
would
inquire by the way he looked at that moment—as to where Matthew had worked while living here. Actually, it was surprising that he’d been able to evade the question so far.

Matthew took another swig of tea, his mind working. ‘‘Yes, ma’am, I did live here briefly.’’ No, that was a lie. ‘‘Actually, I lived here for six years . . . before going to Texas, where I’ve been involved in—’’

‘‘Really?’’ Mrs. Carlson held out the plate of cookies to him again. ‘‘Then I’m sure we know some of the same people.’’

His appetite soured, he shook his head at her offer . . . and at her question. ‘‘I doubt it, ma’am. I worked at a ranch a ways south of here. Remote place in the foothills.’’