She laid a hand on her midsection, thankful for this lasting connection with Jonathan, and willed the look on her face to match the lightness of her tone. ‘‘Besides, traveling a thousand miles with this baby jostling inside me wasn’t something I looked forward to anyway.’’
Annabelle hoped her smile looked more convincing than it felt. She’d spent most all of her life pretending, and she was good at it too.
Or at least she used to be.
CHAPTER | EIGHT
LATER THAT SAME AFTERNOON Annabelle helped Hannah and her young daughter, Lilly, hang laundry in the backyard.
Hannah seemed especially quiet, and Annabelle could easily guess why.
‘‘You know, Hannah, Denver’s not that far from Willow Springs. Maybe we could meet again before I leave next spring.’’
Eleven-year-old Lilly, with dark hair and violet eyes so much like Hannah’s, beamed with excitement. ‘‘We could make a trip and see Aunt Annabelle before she leaves!’’
Hannah finished hanging the sheet in her hands with a smile that Annabelle recognized as forced. ‘‘Lilly, would you please run inside and check on your brother for me? Bobby should be through with his snack by now.’’ She waited until the girl was out of earshot. ‘‘I just wish you could stay here until then, Annabelle. I don’t like the idea of you being in Denver all by yourself, especially being with child. If you don’t want to stay here with us, I’m sure we could find you a place to live with someone from church. Someone who would be understanding about your situation and who has some extra room, maybe lives a ways out of town.’’
Doing her best not to laugh, Annabelle snapped her fingers. ‘‘I know just the person! Mrs. Cranchet! I could live with her, and that way she and I could knit together and come up with ideas for Patrick’s sermons.’’ Hannah’s droll expression only encouraged her. ‘‘Let’s see, we could entitle the first sermon . . . ‘The Virtues of Chastity.’ ’’
Hannah’s eyes widened. ‘‘Annabelle McCutchens, you ought not joke about such things. It’s not proper.’’ She pursed her lips.
Her tone sounded serious enough, and for a moment, Annabelle wondered if her joking had crossed the line. Again. But when Hannah lifted a hand to cover her grin, Annabelle giggled along with her.
Hannah leaned closer. ‘‘Can you imagine what Mrs. Cranchet would do if we asked if you could live with her?’’
Annabelle cocked a brow. ‘‘Well, Patrick wouldn’t have to worry about her giving him any more advice—that’s for sure. She’d just keel over dead right there.’’
Though she had never attended church with Patrick and Hannah, Annabelle often wondered what it would be like to actually walk through the doors of a real church building, white steeple and all. Far-away memories, locked away since childhood, nudged the surface of her mind, yet they provided only the dimmest of recollections before fading. While living in Denver, she and Jonathan had spent Sunday mornings with a small group in someone’s parlor, with the men taking turns reading Scripture. Nice as that had been, the thought of meeting in a ‘‘house of God’’ still held such appeal.
Patrick and Hannah had asked her to attend with them, many times, but she’d always declined, certain of the reception she’d get from Mrs. Cranchet, among others. Plus she didn’t want the Carlsons paying for her mistakes—any more than they already had for taking her in to stay with them. So as much as she hoped to one day experience that type of gathering, the only sermons she recollected hearing were ones Patrick and Hannah, and a handful of others, lived out every day. As well as those Jonathan had lovingly delivered by example.
Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to feel the least bit slighted.
Hannah shook out a damp shirt and hung it on the line. ‘‘What are you going to do in Denver for the next year? How will you get by?’’
‘‘Most importantly, I’m going to have this baby, and I’ll manage fine. Don’t you worry about me. With careful spending and getting a job either ironing or cleaning, I should still have enough come next May. Jonathan laid aside ample for us, Hannah. More than I expected.’’
Working together, they hung the rest of the laundry. The comforting aromas of soap and sunshine scented the warm air as the damp sheets made a soft fluttering noise in the breeze. Annabelle had never minded doing laundry; the act of scrubbing something clean had always felt good to her.
‘‘Can I ask you a question?’’ Hannah picked up the empty basket and propped it on her hip.
Annabelle waited, sensing from Hannah’s change in tone something was coming.
‘‘About Matthew Taylor and what happened here yesterday . . .’’ Hannah looked at her for a moment as though testing the waters, then apparently decided it was safe to tread. ‘‘You told us last night that he was Jonathan’s younger brother, but then you said something about Matthew having known that you worked at the brothel here in town and how he held that against you.’’ Hannah bit her lower lip. ‘‘What doesn’t make sense to me is the timing of all that. You left that life when you married Jonathan last September. Matthew visited you both last October, after you were already married. So how did he know about that part of your life?’’
Knowing this answer wouldn’t be a quick one, Annabelle motioned to a split-log bench situated at the meadow’s edge. She sat down and Hannah joined her. ‘‘I first met Matthew Taylor about two years ago, through Kathryn Jennings. I’m not sure what you know about events that happened around then.’’
Hannah made a cautioning motion with her hand. ‘‘And I’m not asking you to tell me anything that would compromise you or Kathryn, or Matthew for that matter.’’ She offered a weak smile. ‘‘But I must admit, what happened here yesterday afternoon did pique my curiosity.’’
‘‘I certainly never expected to see Matthew Taylor again, much less for him to show up here.’’ Leaning forward, Annabelle plucked a long piece of field grass and rested her elbows on her knees. ‘‘Like I said, Kathryn introduced us. Matthew Taylor took one look at me that night and . . . I could see it all in his eyes. The contempt . . .’’ She shook her head, remembering. ‘‘But it wasn’t just that he didn’t approve of what I did, of who I was. I was used to seeing that. It was the way he looked at me . . . Slowly, up and down, and not the way a man sometimes looks at a woman, mind you.’’
Hannah’s expression turned thoughtful. ‘‘Like he thought he was better than you?’’
Annabelle sifted the question in her mind. ‘‘No. More like he was glad that he wasn’t me. That he was thankful he hadn’t done the things I’d done or lived the way I’d lived.’’
‘‘Did he say anything to you that night, once Kathryn introduced you?’’
Annabelle nodded. ‘‘But I think it just about choked him.’’ She managed a tiny laugh to ease the tension, but the sting from the memory still felt surprisingly fresh. ‘‘I remember what he said, word for word. ‘It’s nice that you have such a good friend in Mrs. Jennings.’ So polite, so pleasant on the surface. But I knew what he was really thinking.’’
‘‘And why do I think you said something that put him in his place? Some witty reply, perhaps?’’ Hannah’s raised brow said that she was imagining what caustic comment might have left Annabelle’s lips that night.
Annabelle shook her head. ‘‘That’s just it. I saw what he was thinking, and . . . I couldn’t say a word. I just stood there. I had no witty reply, Hannah, because . . . because I knew that all the things he was thinking about me . . . were true. I probably had done all the things he was imagining. And worse.’’ She bit down on her lower lip. When she tried to swallow, the tightness in her throat wouldn’t allow it. She dared not lift her eyes when she spoke next. ‘‘I have sinned so much in my life,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could turn back time. That I could undo so much of what I’ve done.’’
She felt Hannah’s arm come around her shoulder and didn’t resist when she scooted closer.
‘‘But all of that has b
een forgiven, Annabelle. All the bad you’ve done, that I’ve done—whatever it was. You know that.’’
Annabelle nodded. Moments passed, and she wondered how much more of what was in her heart she should share. She already trusted Hannah; that wasn’t the issue. But she needed her friend’s assurance as well, and her guidance. ‘‘What I’m going to say next, Hannah, will you promise not to take any of it as a discredit to Jonathan as a man, or to his memory?’’
Hannah tightened her hold on Annabelle’s shoulder. ‘‘I promise.’’
‘‘I’d already seen Matthew before Kathryn introduced us that particular night. I’d been waiting for her to come home. Matthew came to her door, knocked, and then left when she didn’t answer. He never saw me.’’ Using her fingernails, Annabelle made a small slit at the top of the blade of grass and carefully peeled down until she’d torn it into two identical strips. ‘‘This is going to sound odd— it does even to me—but there was something about the man I saw that night that . . . drew me. And that’s not something that had ever happened to me before.’’ She shrugged, feeling awkward and exposed. ‘‘I know you think that sounds strange, coming from someone like me, who’s been with a lot of men.’’
‘‘No, actually that doesn’t sound strange at all, Annabelle. It makes a lot of sense.’’ A sparrow landed on a fencepost nearby, and they both watched in silence until it flitted away again. ‘‘So what was it about Matthew Taylor that attracted you to him that night?’’
The transparency of Hannah’s question brought to the surface what Annabelle had only hinted at before. What had drawn her to Matthew that night? ‘‘The man I saw that night had a certain . . . confidence about him. Not mean-like or intimidating. It was more in the way he carried himself. I told Kathryn it was like he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.’’
‘‘Matthew Taylor is a very handsome man,’’ Hannah said matter-of-factly. ‘‘That’s something I noticed right off. Don’t tell Patrick I said that though.’’ She playfully nudged Annabelle in the side. ‘‘Preacher’s wives aren’t supposed to notice those things.’’
Annabelle smiled, recalling the details of Matthew’s face, and those eyes . . . like warm whiskey on a winter night. She picked up another blade of grass and tore it as she had the other. ‘‘The second time I was introduced to Matthew Taylor was even worse. It made our first meeting seem downright friendly.’’ She told Hannah about the meeting in the shack and how Jonathan and Matthew had fought afterward.
Hannah gave a sad sigh. ‘‘Before seeing Matthew again that particular night, had you discovered that he was Jonathan’s brother?’’
Annabelle hesitated before answering, wishing again that she could go back and handle things differently. ‘‘Yes, I put two and two together not long after Jonathan and I were married.’’ In a way, she was actually indebted to Matthew. After Jonathan bought cattle in Denver last summer, he’d sent the herd north with his ranch hands, then came down to Willow Springs in hopes of finding his brother. Without Jonathan’s search for Matthew, chances were good they would never have met and married. ‘‘One night after we were in bed, Jonathan began talking about his younger brother, about growing up together in Missouri, and about their mother. Then he mentioned his brother’s name . . . and I knew.’’
‘‘Did you tell Jonathan then?’’
Annabelle slowly exhaled. ‘‘No. But once Matthew showed up at the shack, I wished I had. I just honestly never thought they’d see each other again—not with having lost track of each other all those years.’’
‘‘How could you have ever known he’d just show up like that?’’
Annabelle winced slightly. ‘‘Well, turns out Jonathan had learned of Matthew’s whereabouts from Jake Sampson at the livery. After what happened with Kathryn and Larson, Matthew headed south to Texas. I don’t remember where exactly. But I can’t say that I blame him. He was probably as anxious to leave then as I am now. What I didn’t know at the time was that Jonathan had written Matthew and had asked him to join him in Idaho.’’ She looked out across the fields. ‘‘Had I known about that letter . . . believe me, Hannah, I would have handled things very differently. Maybe then some of this could have been avoided. Especially with how things were left between them.’’
Hannah exhaled slowly, as though taking it all in. ‘‘The two brothers certainly didn’t favor each other much, did they? Not only in their coloring but in temperament it would seem.’’ She gave Annabelle a knowing look.
Annabelle acknowledged it, then glanced toward the spot where Matthew had stood yesterday.
Physically, Jonathan had been tall and plain, built solid and broad, but was kinder and gentler than any man of that stature had a right to be. While Matthew’s height and weight didn’t rival his older brother’s, his physique was lean and well-muscled, his dark hair unruly, but in a roguish way that made his brown eyes even more striking. Annabelle felt a check in her spirit. How strange it was that the better you got to know some people, the more—or sometimes less—attractive they could become.
‘‘They had different fathers, so that would account for the difference in their appearance,’’ Annabelle answered. But what about their temperament? What would make two brothers so different from one another? ‘‘From what Jonathan told me, his mother remarried when Jonathan was still young, and Matthew’s father turned out to have a mean streak, especially when he drank. Jonathan had scars across his shoulders and arms from the man’s whippings.’’
Hannah didn’t answer for a moment. ‘‘I can’t imagine someone who would beat a child. Or who would treat a woman that way either, Annabelle.’’
Absentmindedly Annabelle touched the scar that ran along her right temple and cheek, and the thread of memory tying her to her old self pulled taut once again. She’d come to think of her life at the brothel not in terms of years but as a separate life, so different from the life she was living now. For so long she’d been certain that she would die in that place. Had no doubt. But Jonathan had proven her wrong. He’d purchased her at a price and had then shown her the even greater price that had been paid to ransom her so long ago.
Seeing Hannah looking west, Annabelle traced her line of vision. The sun’s golden rays bathed the range of snow-covered peaks in a luster of light, making it appear as though the mountains were glowing from the inside out.
When Annabelle looked back, Hannah’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. One finally fell and traced a path down her cheek. Hannah gave her a wordless hug, then stood and walked back to the house alone. Annabelle watched her go. Hannah reminded her of Kathryn Jennings in many ways. They were both so innocent, so nai ve to the cruelty people were capable of.
Annabelle looked down at the shredded bits and pieces of prairie grass littering the dirt. It wasn’t the meanness in people that surprised her anymore. It was the good in them that she found so unexpected.
CHAPTER | NINE
MATTHEW’S RESENTMENT TOWARD HER mounted as he walked through town toward the pastor’s home. He’d wasted the last couple of nights stewing over it. Then he finally decided—why should he be made to feel like a beggar by the likes of a woman such as Annabelle Grayson? And for something that rightfully belonged to him in the first place?
He’d lain awake most of last night, turning the situation over in his mind.
That land had belonged to Johnny. As boys, they’d dreamed of one day owning a spread out west somewhere, of working the land together and leaving Haymen Taylor far behind. Haymen Taylor was gone now, so under the circumstances, even if the childhood dream had faded in Matthew’s memory through the years, the property should rightfully be passed to Johnny’s closest and only blood kin.
The thought of spending any length of time in that woman’s company made Matthew’s stomach churn. But considering the ranchland in Idaho and Johnny’s original offer to share the land with him—Johnny’s desire that they share it—Matthew kept moving forward. Besides, anyone who knew what Annabelle Grayson was
and understood the truth about why she had married his brother to begin with would agree.
‘‘Good day to you, sir.’’
Matthew slowed on hearing the voice.
‘‘Care to look at my wares? I’ve got some nice things. You might find a little somethin’ for your wife . . . or maybe a sweetheart.’’
Matthew turned and eyed the old codger approaching him. The man’s clothing, dirty and stained, hung loose on his thin frame, and when he smiled, a scruffy beard parted to expose yellowed teeth. It was about that time the smell reached him. Matthew took a step back. The man was pulling a wooden handcart behind him, and Matthew peered inside, glancing at the contents, highly doubtful they were anything he would want, or anything of worth for that matter.
‘‘I have some nice combs here.’’ The peddler held out something. ‘‘Or maybe a perfume bottle she could put to good use.’’
Matthew thought of a good use for the perfume right now, if there’d been any left. ‘‘Sorry. Not interested.’’ Even if he had a few coins to spare, which he didn’t, Matthew feared that whatever he might give this man would end up in the saloon’s cash drawer sooner or later. And, from the looks of things, he would guess sooner rather than later.
‘‘Sorry, sir. I can’t help you.’’ Not waiting for a response, Matthew crossed the street, fully expecting the man to call after him, badgering him to buy something.
‘‘That’s okay, son. Maybe next time. Thanks for lookin’, and God bless you today.’’
Hearing the voice behind him, Matthew slowed his steps and turned. The sight created a lasting picture in his mind. The aged hawker’s feeble hand raised in a parting wave, baggy clothes hanging from his frail body, both reeking from having gone too long unwashed.
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