Rekindled

by Tamera Alexander

  Annabelle smiled and Kathryn caught the sincerity in it.

  “But I don’t mind tellin’ ya, that fella was mighty easy on the eyes.” Annabelle drew out the last part and licked her lips.

  Kathryn glanced back at the door, her beleaguered hope wary of another false start. Could it have been Larson? “You didn’t recognize him?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “No, and I’d remember him for sure. Tall, dark hair about to his shoulders, and had a certain—” she took another bite of the bread pudding and paused, as though trying to choose just the right word—“I don’t know . . . confidence about him. Not meanlike, mind you, just sure of himself. You know, like he knows somethin’ the rest of the world doesn’t.”

  A knock on the door caused them both to jump. Kathryn forced a laugh at the comical wide-eyed look Annabelle was giving her, clearly saying she hoped it was that man. Kathryn’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly manage the latch.

  Matthew Taylor filled the doorway, hat in hand. He had a wounded look about him, his expression somber. “Mrs. Jennings.” The smile he managed looked forced. “I came by a bit ago but guess you weren’t home yet.”

  The flatness of his voice drew Kathryn’s curiosity. “I just arrived a few minutes ago. Mr. Taylor, are you all right?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m fine. But . . .” He looked past her. “Would you mind if I came in for a minute?”

  She nodded and pulled the door open. “Yes, certainly.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Annabelle move to leave. “Annabelle, please stay. Mr. Taylor,” she offered, extending a hand in Annabelle’s direction, thankful Annabelle was there but already wondering how Matthew would react. Matthew was a decent, God-fearing man and Annabelle was . . . well, Annabelle was Annabelle. And she was dressed for work, as she often called it, and her clothing, her rougetinted cheeks, and her painted lips bespoke a woman of easy virtue. “This is Miss Annabelle Grayson, a friend of mine,” Kathryn added with purposeful inflection, hoping Matthew might take her lead and extend Annabelle undue social courtesy. “Annabelle, this is Mr. Matthew Taylor. Mr. Taylor was the foreman on my husband’s ranch. On our ranch.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Taylor.”

  When no reply came, Kathryn looked back at Matthew. She watched his gaze quickly travel the length of Annabelle’s body—not in a licentious way but as though struggling to make sense of her presence here. The somber edge of his expression gave way to surprise, then unmistakable shock. Little by little, another emotion emerged through the fog of Matthew’s responses. He glanced back at Kathryn and she recognized the look in his eyes. She’d experienced the same affront to her sense of dignity the first time she’d realized what Annabelle was, what she did for a living. Kathryn turned her attention to Annabelle and watched, silently hurting for her friend, as the smile on Annabelle’s face gradually slid away.

  Kathryn tried to think of something to say, still absorbing Matthew’s reaction and the thick layer of silence that weighed the room.

  Matthew finally managed the briefest of nods. “Miss Grayson . . . it’s nice to—” He hesitated, lips in a thin line, as though unable to force the words out. “It’s nice that you have such a good friend in Mrs. Jennings.”

  Matthew’s response had been honest, yet painfully devoid of warmth. But could Kathryn really blame him? After all, Annabelle wasn’t someone Matthew would normally associate with. And if she had been, Kathryn thought again, looking between the two of them, she wouldn’t have thought as much of Matthew as she did. Unable to fault him for his reaction, Kathryn waited for the frost to move into Annabelle’s eyes, as she’d witnessed yesterday with Mrs. Hochstetler at the mercantile. Or for Annabelle to have a quick comeback, something she’d say to put Matthew squarely in his place. Kathryn’s ears burned just thinking about it.

  But Annabelle didn’t say a word. The silence in the room became oppressive as she openly searched Matthew’s face for a moment before slowly lowering her eyes to the floor.

  Sharing her friend’s hurt, Kathryn tried again to think of a way to ease the moment.

  Matthew glanced down briefly, then turned back to face her. “Mrs. Jennings, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this . . .”

  The seriousness in his tone caused the thoughts forming in Kathryn’s head to evaporate.

  “I’ve just come from the sheriff ’s office.” He blew out a breath. “A body was discovered late this afternoon.”

  Kathryn felt something anchored deep inside her give way. She clutched her waist and felt Annabelle’s hand on her shoulder.

  Taylor’s eyes filled with emotion. “They think it’s your husband.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, a crowd gathered outside the paintpeeled clapboard building of the Willow Springs undertaker’s office. The buzz of speculation hummed beneath the overcast skies, and a late May drizzle dampened the air. Kathryn shivered and searched the unfamiliar faces around her. Most of them stared back, watchful, waiting. She supposed it was nothing more than morbid curiosity that drew them.

  “A man’s body was found in a ravine a few miles from town,” Matthew Taylor had told her the previous night.

  That’s all he’d said, but Kathryn had the feeling he knew more. She stared at the door that Taylor had disappeared through a half hour ago, fear of the unknown knotting her stomach. If the body beyond that threshold was Larson’s, then she had indeed lost everything. She wished Annabelle had come with her, but Matthew Taylor had insisted against it. Kathryn had glimpsed the sting of rebuff in Annabelle’s eyes when Matthew had voiced his strong opposition to her accompanying them. Annabelle had hugged Kathryn tight and hadn’t looked in his direction again.

  Kathryn pulled her coat tighter and wrapped her arms around herself. Lord, please let them be wrong. Don’t let it be him.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted Gabe standing at the edge of the crowd. Their eyes met, and he smiled gently. He worked his way through the clusters of people, careful not to jostle anyone in his path. Then he came and stood close beside her.

  Kathryn looked up into his face. After not having seen him for days, she wanted to speak with him but was completely bereft of words. In his eyes she sensed a depth of compassion she would have guessed him incapable of with his childlike purity. Without a word, he slipped an arm around her shoulders in a brotherly fashion, and she found herself leaning into his strength. What pain had this gentle man endured that he could so thoroughly, with a simple touch, render such peace?

  “Mrs. Jennings?”

  Kathryn lifted her head to see Matthew Taylor walking toward her. People drew back as he approached. Her gaze fell to the object in his hands, and she heard a guttural cry leave her throat.

  Larson’s coat. The one she’d bought for him in Boston for their first Christmas. Dark stains marred the tanned leather.

  She saw her own hand reaching to touch it while another part of her tried to hold it back. Maybe if she didn’t touch it, it wouldn’t be real. And he wouldn’t be dead. The leather felt cold and stiff and damp. Kathryn sank to her knees.

  Taylor knelt in the mud beside her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  She took the coat from him and in one last frantic hope, opened to the inner lining. The images blurred as she ran her fingers over the initials LRJ, then over their unique cattle brand she’d embroidered inside.

  “I want to see him.”

  He shook his head. “No you don’t. You don’t understand. The body is . . . Your husband’s been dead for several months now.”

  With his help, she rose. She started in the direction of the undertaker’s office.

  Matthew touched her arm. “Kathryn, please. Don’t do this. He’s not like you remember.”

  She stilled at his use of her name and looked up, her resolve holding fast.

  As though sensing it would take more than pleading to change her mind, he grimaced. “His body’s been ravaged. First by the cold, then by the spring t
haw.” His voice lowered. “And by . . . animals.”

  She closed her eyes as she imagined Larson’s body—the body she’d drawn next to hers and had clung to so tightly—being so horribly defiled. “Even so, Mr. Taylor,” she said quietly, so only he could hear, “it is my husband’s body and I will see him one last time before I bury him.”

  After a long moment, his determined look faded. Before he led her inside, he handed her a handkerchief. Kathryn realized why as soon as she entered.

  She held the cloth to her nose and stared in disbelief at the body on the table. Surely this couldn’t be Larson. Her eyes scanned the torn clothing and deteriorated flesh. Her stomach convulsed.

  With his coat still in her arms, she saw Larson’s boots on the table.

  “Mrs. Jennings.” A man’s voice sounded softly beside her.

  Kathryn turned. She hadn’t noticed the gray-haired gentleman standing there. She guessed him to be the undertaker.

  “My condolences to you, ma’am.” He slowly extended a bundle to her. “These papers were found near your husband’s body. They’re hardly legible now, but I thought you might want them. And there’s something else. I found it in the pocket of his coat.” He held a crudely fashioned metal box in his hand.

  Swallowing, she took the box and opened the lid. Her eyes filled when she read the inscription inside. She saw the key on the side and gave it a slight twist, doubting anything would happen. Her lips trembled as a tinny Christmas melody plinked out from the mechanism within. Larson, you remembered after all. . . .

  Matthew Taylor stepped closer, paused for a moment, then laid a hand to her arm. “I’m sorry, Kathryn. Your husband was a good man. A lot of snow fell Christmas Day. Even the best tracker would’ve gotten lost in that storm.”

  She nodded. But how could he be gone? She still felt him with her. Inside her.

  The gray-haired gentleman turned, drawing her attention. He nodded to the table. “Oh, this man here didn’t die from the elements, leastwise not that alone.” His expression flashed to Matthew and then back to her. Regret lined his face. “I . . . I’m sorry, ma’am. I thought you’d already been told. Your husband was shot before he died, square in the chest. No doubt he died quickly, if that’s any consolation.”

  Kathryn felt her mouth slip open. “But, I don’t understand. . . .”

  The look the man gave her clearly told her that he didn’t have the answers either. And even if he did, it wouldn’t bring Larson back.

  Her eyes flashed briefly again to Larson’s body, then to his left hand. She wished, not for the first time, that he would’ve allowed her to purchase a wedding ring for him. She looked down at the simple band of gold adorning her left hand and wondered why such a silly thing would matter at a moment like this.

  True to Matthew Taylor’s word, Larson’s body was not as she remembered. Nor as she wanted to. Kathryn almost wished the painful image could be erased from her mind even as the talons of truth sank deeper into her heart. Her loss was complete. She turned to leave.

  Then a slight flutter quivered in her belly, and her breath caught tight. In that instant, she knew she was wrong. She hadn’t lost everything.

  Larson skirted the boundary of Willow Springs and made his way up the mountain pass. He still held hope that Kathryn had kept the ranch, but even if Kohlman had called the loan in, Larson knew that, by contract, Kathryn could continue to live in the cabin until the bank foreclosed. To that end, he gently nudged his aging mount around an outcropping of boulders and down the familiar path toward home.

  In the past, he’d never have given his swayback horse a second glance. But using the money he’d found stashed in his pack a few days into his journey, he’d managed a fair barter for the pastured mare with a few bills to spare. He reached down and ran a gloved hand over her less than lustrous coat, thankful for every grueling mile she’d spared him from walking. Then he aimed his thanks heavenward again for the gift of Isaiah and Abby.

  He carefully tugged off the leather gloves and looked at his misshapen hands. Gently flexing his fingers, Larson winced at the unpleasant sensation shooting up his right arm. The skin was nearly healed but was stretched taut over the back of his hand, much as it was over half of his body. He may have denied death its victory, but the grave had certainly claimed a bit of him in the struggle.

  A sense of dread washed through him. What would Kathryn’s reaction be at seeing him like this for the first time? He pulled the gloves back on.

  His yearning to see her, to hold her, had deepened with each mile. But along with his anticipation mingled a foreboding that tasted far more of fear than festivity. He shifted in the saddle and stared ahead at the winding trail of dirt and rock that had been the haunt and haven of his dreams, both waking and sleeping, for the past five months.

  He’d lived this moment a thousand times over, and it still sent a chill through him.

  Maybe if he’d been a better husband to her, a better provider, or perhaps if he had treated her more gently, he’d feel differently about coming back. The truth of their marriage was as real to him now as the scars marring his body. And the fault of the relationship rested mostly with him. Hadn’t God chiseled that truth into his heart in the past months?

  After several hours of riding, Larson’s pulse kicked up a notch when he rounded the bend and the familiar scene came into view. It still took his breath away. The cabin, nestled in stands of newly leafed aspen and willow trees, crouched in the shadow of the rugged mountains that would always be his home.

  His stomach clenched tight as he watched for movement from the homestead. He hadn’t seen signs of cattle yet, but they could’ve already been herded through the pass to the lower pasture. He frowned as he rode past the unkempt garden. Normally Kathryn would have the plot cleared by now, the soil tilled and ready for planting. More than likely she was overworked from the ranch. His lack of provision for her thrust the stab of guilt deeper within him.

  An explanation for the shape of things corralled his thoughts. His emotions argued against it, but a heaviness weighted his chest. What if Matthew Taylor and the ranch hands hadn’t been able to keep the ranch going? What if they’d lost the land he’d worked so hard to claim? But remembering Taylor’s skill lessened Larson’s unease. Taylor was a hard worker and an honest man. He would’ve helped Kathryn in any way he could, Larson was certain of that. Taylor was a man he could trust.

  As he rode closer, a breeze swept down from the mountain, whistling through the branches overhead. The door to the cabin creaked open and Larson’s eyes shot up. A rush of adrenaline caused every nerve to tingle.

  “Kathryn?” he rasped. Though Abby’s tea had worked wonders, his voice still reminded him of a music box whose innards had been scraped and charred. The comparison tugged hard at a well-worn memory, but he resisted the pull and stuffed it back down.

  He eased off his horse and glanced at the barn. Eerily quiet.

  It took him a minute to gain his balance and get the feeling back in his limbs. His right leg ached, and he was tempted to reach for the staff tied to his saddle but he resisted, not wanting Kathryn’s first image of him to be that of a cripple. With each stuttered stride toward the cabin, he fought the urge to feel like less of a man. Would he ever be able to look at himself again and not flinch? But more than that—would Kathryn?

  He stopped and briefly closed his eyes, wishing he could mimic the simple eloquence of Isaiah’s prayers. Vulnerability flooded his heart, sweeping away all pleas but one.

  God, let her still want me.

  He continued toward the cabin, his eyes trailing upward to the smokeless chimney. A light mist filtered down through the hearty blue spruce he’d planted their first spring here. Remembering that day gave him hope. Larson pulled his knit cap farther down over his scalp and turned up his coat collar to meet his sparse beard— partly to protect the still-sensitive skin on his neck from the chill and damp, but mostly to lessen the initial shock for her.

  He gently pushed
open the door. “Kathryn?”

  He stepped inside and scanned the room. Deserted. Empty. Dust covered the wood plank floor. He heard something scurry in the far corner. The door to the bedroom was closed, and he crossed the room and jerked the latch free. The room was empty but for the bed they’d shared. Scenes flashed in his mind of being here with Kathryn that last night. Disbelief and concern churned his gut.

  He strode from the cabin and searched the barn. It too was empty. He called her name, but his voice was lost in the wind stirring among the trees. Chest heaving, he ignored the pain and swung back up on his mount.

  Later that afternoon, exhausted from the hard ride back to Willow Springs, Larson’s body ached from the unaccustomed abuse. If anyone would be able to tell him what had happened to Kathryn, it would be Jake Sampson at the livery. He’d dealt with him for years, and Jake kept up with all the town’s business, whether he had a right to or not.

  The livery doors stood open. Larson walked in and spotted Sampson bent over an anvil by the fiery forge, pounding red-hot steel. Larson stopped in his tracks.

  He watched the rhythm of Jake’s body as he worked, the muscles flexing and bunching in his forearm as he brought the hammer down with practiced expertise. Larson couldn’t help but stare. A whole body, healthy and unmarred, was a masterful thing—something he’d never fully appreciated until now, until it was too late.

  He took a step forward. “Jake?”

  His head didn’t turn. Larson took another step and called out again, motioning this time.

  Jake’s head lifted slightly. He acknowledged him with a nod. “Let me finish this and I’ll be right with you, sir.”

  “Jake?” Larson repeated.

  Jake looked up again and paused. Hammer in hand, he took a step through the smoke-layered air and into the sunlight. “You got a horse you need boardin’ while you’re in town, mister? I charge fifty cents per—” His eyes took in Larson’s face, and his smile faded. He turned away but not quickly enough to hide his grimace.