Hannah stood and gathered the empty glasses. ‘‘Oh yes, please stay for dinner. We have plenty, and that would give us a chance to get to know you better.’’ She walked inside, catching the screen door with her booted heel before it slammed closed.
A trickle of sweat inched down the back of Matthew’s neck. He reached for his hat. Part of him still wanted to run, but another part of him was so tired of running, of constantly looking over his shoulder, that he couldn’t imagine leaving this house without having secured this job. How else would he get north to find Johnny? He had no money. No other real friends to speak of. No family. And it wasn’t as if homesteads where he could pick up odd jobs every few days dotted the eastern plains for miles on end.
Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much of his hope he’d pinned on the pastor hiring him.
‘‘Pastor, about this ad . . .’’ He pulled the piece of paper from his pocket and held it out as though doing so would help make his point. ‘‘I want you to know I can do this job. I guarantee you I can. I’ve got the experience, and I can leave as soon as I get supplies inventoried and make sure the woman’s wagon and team are travel worthy.’’
Carlson motioned for Matthew to follow him down the porch steps. ‘‘Let’s take a walk around back. There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to. I’ve got to tell you . . . you sure seem to have the credentials we’re hoping for, Matthew, especially with your expertise in ranching.’’
Glad that Carlson seemed pleased with his credentials, he didn’t quite follow the man’s last comment. ‘‘I’m not sure what you mean about my expertise in ranching. The ad says you need a trail guide.’’
‘‘The widow I placed this ad for is bound for Idaho to ranchland her husband purchased some years back. I’m not sure what condition the ranch is in now, how far along it is, but I’m guessing she’ll need an experienced hand once she gets there—someone she can trust, if you’re interested. She knows nothing about ranching, and I understand there’s a lot of land.’’
‘‘Speaking of the woman, Pastor . . . If you don’t mind, can you tell me a bit about her?’’
Carlson turned and gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze. ‘‘I’ll do you one better than that, Matthew. I’ll introduce you to her right now.’’
The casual gesture of Carlson’s hand on his shoulder brought Matthew up short, reminding him of the way Johnny used to grab hold of the back of his neck when they were kids. Never enough to really hurt—just being boys. Johnny would always wear that smile too. It surprised Matthew how much he wanted to see his older brother right at that moment.
Though he’d been only four at the time, he had a distinct memory of Johnny coming into their bedroom late one night, putting an arm around his shoulders—something he didn’t normally do— and whispering that their mother had died. Johnny explained that it was because of a sickness in her heart. The doc said her heart had a peculiar weakness to it and it just plain gave out on her. But even at that young age, Matthew knew different.
His mother’s heart hadn’t just stopped—it had been broken by Haymen Taylor.
As he followed Carlson’s path around the side of the house, Matthew thought again of the things he’d said to Johnny the last time he’d seen him, how he’d said them. A streak of remorse flashed through him. Johnny had been in the wrong, but still . . . he could’ve handled things better than he did. He had to find a way to get up north, to find his brother again and make amends.
Which meant he had to get this job.
Looking beyond the pastor, he spotted a woman leaning against the fence railing that bordered the meadow. Something in her posture made him slow his steps, something that told him she was shouldering a heavy burden. Maybe it was the way her head was inclined as though listening for something on the wind, or maybe it was the manner in which she stared out across the field as though focusing on something in the distance.
Whatever it was, it gave him pause. What would it be like to travel hundreds of miles with a woman who was steeped in such grief?
He’d not had much experience around women—having had no sisters, and a mother who died before he’d gotten the chance to really ask about the gentler sex. But then again, how hard could it be to get along with her? Women were simpler creatures at heart, he figured, and had always taken a shine to him right off. Hopefully, this lady would be no different.
The woman turned. Her gaze went to Carlson first, then shifted to him.
Recognition landed a swift kick to Matthew’s gut.
Hers too, judging by the sudden widening of her eyes. Matthew heard the pastor speaking, but the sound came to him as through a long tunnel, over the rush of a freight train roaring in his head. He fought to breathe, to maintain his footing. He looked down at the advertisement still in his hand, and all he could picture was his brother.
Memories flashed at random intervals, faster than he could take them in—the way Johnny ducked his tall frame when passing through a doorway, his uncanny accuracy at reading the night sky and knowing tomorrow’s weather, and how years ago he’d gently won over that neglected half-starved filly until she responded to Johnny’s slightest whistle.
He winced at the searing glut of pain lodged in his throat, and at the next memory of his brother. Not so much an image, really, as it was a muffled sound—the familiar crack of leather meeting flesh.
Matthew bowed his head as something inside him gave way. And with a sickening realization, he knew he’d never see his brother again.
CHAPTER | SIX
ANNABELLE GROPED FOR THE fence at her back and stared at the last man she’d ever expected to see again, much less to answer her ad. Their eyes met, and she read everything in his expression.
She imagined every thought and emotion flashing through his mind as the pieces jarred painfully into place, and she knew the exact moment Matthew Taylor realized that Jonathan was dead.
His tanned face grew pale. His fists trembled. He looked from her to the piece of paper now crumpled in his grip and staggered back a half step. He let out a breath as part of him seemed to cave in on himself. Then a wounded look moved over him. He closed his eyes.
In that instant Annabelle felt the same stabbing loss as when she’d awakened in the wagon to discover Jonathan dead beside her.
Surprisingly, even after Matthew had hurt Jonathan so deeply, after he’d treated her with such contempt, Annabelle still wished she could comfort him somehow. Perhaps because she knew so keenly what he was feeling at that moment.
But when his gaze met hers again, the bold absurdity of that impulse hit her hard.
Matthew’s dark brown eyes turned near black with intensity, and in them welled up anger and judgment—swift, deep, and complete.
She told herself to look away, but she couldn’t. As surely as the older brother had loved her—had promised to keep on loving her—it seemed the younger was determined to hate her. How was it that in one brother’s eyes she’d always seen what she might be, whereas in the other’s she would always be reminded of what she’d once been?
‘‘Mr. Taylor, I’d like to present Mrs. Jonathan McCutchens. She’s the widow I was telling—’’ Patrick must’ve noticed Matthew’s expression because his own clouded. ‘‘Is something wrong?’’
Patrick looked at Annabelle for explanation, but she was unable to find the words.
Matthew cleared his throat and put his hat back on. ‘‘Seems I’m not the man for this job after all, Pastor. Sorry to have wasted your time.’’ His deep voice sounded strained, betraying emotion Annabelle knew he would have preferred to keep hidden from her.
‘‘Please give Mrs. Carlson my best. Good day to you, sir.’’
Not looking at Annabelle again, he walked away.
Patrick started after him. ‘‘Matthew, wait—’’ ‘‘Patrick, don’t.’’ Annabelle took hold of his arm, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘‘You don’t understand. Please, just let him go.’’
Annabelle watched Matthew di
sappear around the corner of the house, his bearing stiff and proud—a pride she’d first glimpsed two years ago, the night Kathryn Jennings had introduced them and Matthew delivered the news of a man’s body, presumably Kathryn’s husband’s, being discovered. Long ago Annabelle had grown accustomed to people shunning her. But this was something more.
Matthew’s disdain for her ran deeper than merely passing her over or calling out an insult on a town street. When she looked into Matthew Taylor’s eyes, she knew that no matter what she did, she would never be able to sway his opinion of her. Whatever scale he used for measuring a person’s worth, she would always weigh in somewhere right alongside dung.
‘‘What don’t I understand, Annabelle? He didn’t even get a chance to meet you. How could he just—’’ Patrick’s mouth fell open slightly. ‘‘Did you know him before? From the brothel?’’
Annabelle shook her head, taking no offense at the question. It was a fair one. ‘‘No, it’s nothing like that, I promise you.’’
‘‘What is it then? What just happened here?’’ For the first time, Annabelle heard frustration in his voice. ‘‘He seemed perfect for the job. He has experience, and more than that, I think he’s the type of man Jonathan would’ve wanted to accompany you on a long journey like this.’’ His voice grew quiet. ‘‘The kind of man he was writing about in his letter, a man who would safeguard your honor.’’
Annabelle fought back a bitter laugh at the thought of her honor ever being in peril with Matthew Taylor. ‘‘On that count you’re absolutely right, Patrick. My honor, fragile as it may be, would indeed be safe with Mr. Taylor no matter how long the journey, I assure you.’’ A dull ache started in her left temple and she reached up to massage it. The events of recent weeks, paired with her pregnancy, were taking a toll.
‘‘He’s the only man who’s answered the ad, Annabelle. You might not get another chance to leave this spring.’’ When she didn’t offer further explanation, he stepped closer. ‘‘Please help me understand what just happened here. I spent the last hour interviewing this man, who seemed perfect for the job, I might add. Then I bring him around here to introduce him to you, and he acts like he’s seen a ghost.’’
The loss shadowing Matthew’s eyes still haunted Annabelle. She’d seen that look only one other time in her life, and that man had also been mourning the loss of his brother.
‘‘In a way, I guess he did see a ghost, Patrick. The ghost of my late husband. You see, the man you just interviewed’’—she raised a brow—‘‘the one you think would be perfect for the job . . . is Jonathan’s younger brother.’’
Matthew didn’t stop until he reached the banks of Fountain Creek near the edge of town. He slumped down in the shade of a large cottonwood tree and dropped his hat beside him. He fought to gain his breath. His gut ached, and he leaned back against the rough bark for support, hoping the pain would pass.
Johnny . . . gone. He couldn’t believe it.
Yet when he’d looked into that woman’s eyes a few minutes ago, having already heard the story from the Pastor, he’d known it was true.
Oh, God . . .
Matthew’s stomach suddenly rebelled, and he made it to the bushes before emptying its meager contents. After the nausea passed, he crawled to the creek’s edge and drank sparingly, then lay down on the sloping bank. Wiping his eyes, he let out a ragged breath. He squinted against the slivers of sunlight edging through the canopy of willows above him. A warm breeze rustled the branches.
He turned and fixed his gaze on the runoff swelling the creek’s muddy banks, the water surging and tumbling down from higher climes as winter snowpack succumbed to warming spring temperatures. How could Johnny be dead? How could he have still been with that harlot after all this time? And why? Matthew had been so sure his brother would come to his senses and cast her off. But Johnny always was too gullible, and look where it had gotten him.
Sitting up, forearms on his knees, Matthew rested his head in his hands until the throbbing that came with being ill lessened to a sluggish ache. He blew out a breath and rubbed his face, wiping the unfamiliar dampness from his cheeks. Exhausted, having nowhere else to go, and lonely in a way he couldn’t remember being, he gave in and lay back down, listening to the icy stream tumble and swirl past him as events of the day replayed in his mind.
Nothing had turned out as he’d thought it would. He was on the run, had no money, no job, no prospects for either . . . and he’d lost Johnny. Even if he had all the money he’d dreamed of making down in Texas, if things had worked out differently for him somehow, he would trade it all just to have his brother back.
When he awakened later, the afternoon sun was well on its daily trek toward the rocky peaks in the west. His stomach still ached, but it was more from emptiness now than from being upset. The earlier conversation with the pastor returned to him—what Carlson had said about ‘‘the couple.’’
All he’d mentioned about the man’s death was that he’d died from a failing heart. Knowing what kind of woman Annabelle Grayson was—deceitful, manipulative—Matthew couldn’t help but wonder if she’d had anything to do with it. Since learning about their marriage, he’d known she had only wedded his brother to escape the brothel and get whatever she could from him. Johnny had all but admitted as much. And now Johnny was gone and Annabelle Grayson was left with everything. Including the ranchland in Idaho, which should’ve rightfully gone to him. After all, Johnny had used the money from the sale of their family farm in Missouri, at least in part, to purchase the land up north, and he’d originally offered Matthew half when he asked him to come and work it with him last fall.
A recurring sense of loneliness stole through Matthew as he considered his lost opportunities. Both with the land and with his brother. Never mind that he’d snubbed Johnny’s offer at the time— that didn’t change the fact that the land should go to him.
He stood and reached for his hat. So what should he do now? Where should he go? Even if he still wanted the job, which he didn’t—no way was he helping that scheming, loose-moraled woman—he didn’t stand a chance once Larson Jennings and the pastor compared notes. Besides, Annabelle Grayson would paint him in the worst light possible.
No, the only thing left for him was to find a job here, for the time being, until he could get enough money to move on again. Though he didn’t know where he would go.
Heading back to the livery for his horse, a thought struck him and Matthew changed his course. He approached his new destination with caution, wanting to make certain no one else was around. It didn’t take him long to locate the spot.
The recently shoveled dirt mounding the plot had settled but wasn’t yet the hard-packed ground it soon would be in this dry climate. The patch of earth the pastor had chosen to bury Johnny pleased Matthew. Near Fountain Creek, in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, it was peaceful and a place Johnny would’ve liked.
Reading his brother’s name carved across the top of the simple wooden cross, Matthew removed his hat and stood for several moments in the quiet, the rush of the creek the only sound filtering through the silence. He figured Carlson had spoken at the burial, and he wished he’d been around to hear. Matthew hoped he had said fine things about his brother, personal things. A man shouldn’t be laid to rest without words particular to him being spoken, words about his life, about how he’d lived and what contributions he’d—
‘‘Taylor?’’
Surprised, Matthew looked up. Seeing who it was, his eyes narrowed. He knew the man standing in front of him, or had at one time. But it still felt as though he were staring at a stranger.
‘‘I figured you might stop by here before leaving town again, and I wanted to see you.’’ Furrows of scarred flesh lined Larson Jennings’ face and neck, and the skin on the right side of his face had healed at an awkward angle, sloping his eye. He took a step toward Matthew, then stopped. Jennings looked like he’d aged twenty years in two. ‘‘I’d like to talk to you about what happened between you
. . . and my wife.’’
Matthew detected accusation in Jennings’ tone, and his defenses rose. He already had a good idea of what Jennings would like to say to him and wasn’t eager to hear it. ‘‘I’ve got some things I’ve been wanting to say to you too.’’
Jennings nodded. ‘‘I’m sure you do.’’ Then he said nothing, as if giving Matthew the opportunity to go first.
‘‘You were wrong not to reveal who you were from the start, Jennings. To let us go on thinking you were gone. How could you do that to her? Letting her think you were dead all that time?’’
His former employer looked as though he might offer a reply, then apparently thought better of it. At least he knew when he was wrong.
One particular night stood out in Matthew’s memory, when he’d waited for Kathryn outside of Myrtle’s Cookery and had walked her home. He’d tried to kiss her that evening. Heat poured through him wondering if Jennings might’ve been there in the shadows, watching that too. ‘‘Do you know what Kathryn went through all those months? Waiting for you, wondering if you were dead or alive? Trying to hold on to the ranch? Then the afternoon they found that body . . .’’
Matthew shook his head, recalling the day he’d escorted Kathryn to the coroner’s office to view the remains of what they thought was her husband. Part of him had been thankful Jennings’ body had finally been found. He hated seeing Kathryn in so much pain, and yet he also hated not being able to be with her, to take care of her like he had wanted to do at the time.
‘‘You should’ve seen what she went through, Jennings. How could you do that to her? And her carrying your child.’’
Jennings took in a slow breath. ‘‘That’s just it, Matthew. I didn’t know she was carrying my child. I thought . . .’’ He glanced away as though ashamed to look at Matthew. ‘‘I thought the child belonged to someone else.’’ His raspy voice grew even softer. ‘‘For a while I . . . I thought the child was yours.’’
Revealed Page 7
