Yet the man wore a smile, and with so little in his possession.
Matthew shook his head, sensing a smile of his own coming on. In a parting gesture, he touched the rim of his hat and watched the man’s face light up. Somehow knowing that the old codger wouldn’t want to be the first to look away, Matthew continued on down the street, feeling oddly beholden to the man.
When the pastor’s house came into view, Matthew’s determination to regain his lost opportunity deepened. This job was his only means of getting north to claim the land, and he felt certain that with some explaining to Carlson, it could be his. Even if he had to swallow a chunk of his pride in the process.
Climbing the front porch stairs in twos, he removed his hat and rapped lightly on the screen door. He stepped back, wiping his sweaty palm on his jeans.
It felt good to have his hunger satisfied. He’d earned yesterday’s dinner and that morning’s breakfast by mucking out stalls. It had taken him well past dark last night to finish, and then he’d bedded down in the bunkhouse with the other ranch hands for a short night of little rest. When the rancher asked him earlier that morning if he could stay on for a while longer, Matthew declined. He had something better waiting for him.
When no one answered, he knocked again, harder this time.
A moment later the door opened.
‘‘Why . . . Mr. Taylor, good morning.’’ Unmistakable surprise registered in Mrs. Carlson’s expression. She smiled, her brow wrinkling slightly.
‘‘Good morning, ma’am. Is your husband in? I’ve come back to see him about the job.’’
She opened her mouth as if to say something, then nodded and indicated for him to come inside. ‘‘Yes, of course. Patrick’s in the kitchen. He’s . . . speaking with someone.’’
Just then Matthew heard Carlson’s voice. A man’s response followed, then a woman’s soft laughter. They must be entertaining another couple for breakfast. He hesitated. ‘‘I’m interrupting something. I can come back later if this isn’t a good—’’
‘‘Not at all.’’ Mrs. Carlson’s smile came more easily this time, and she waved him inside. ‘‘Now is fine. Please, make yourself comfortable here in the parlor. I’ll tell Patrick you’re here.’’
‘‘Thank you, ma’am.’’
Preferring to stand, Matthew scanned the small front room. When he’d spoken with Patrick Carlson on Monday, he’d not been inside the house. A sofa and chair took up most of the space, the bare plank floor was neatly swept, the furnishings were simple but tasteful. He’d eaten earlier, but still the aroma of what he guessed to be pancakes and sausage made his mouth water.
He fingered the rim of his hat as he waited. At the sound of footsteps, he turned.
‘‘Matthew, this is a surprise.’’
He accepted Carlson’s outstretched hand, at the same time reading caution in his eyes. The pastor’s grip seemed firmer than he remembered.
‘‘I wasn’t expecting to see you again. How are you?’’ Carlson sat on the sofa and motioned for Matthew to take the chair opposite him.
‘‘I’m fine, and no, sir, I guess you weren’t expecting me again, under the circumstances.’’ Since leaving here two days ago, Matthew had wondered what Annabelle Grayson had told the pastor and his wife about him. Certainly they knew that he and Jonathan were brothers. But what else had she told them?
‘‘I want you to know how sorry I am about your brother, Matthew.’’ Carlson leaned forward. He laid a hand to Matthew’s forearm, a gesture Matthew would’ve considered awkward coming from any other man, but it seemed second nature coming from Patrick Carlson. ‘‘Jonathan was a fine man and a good friend to both me and my family. Obviously I had no idea when we were talking earlier this week that he was your brother or I would have handled things differently, I assure you.’’
Matthew nodded, swallowing against the sudden tightening in his throat. ‘‘I appreciate that, sir. I’ll admit, it was hard finding out that way . . . to take it in all at once. We hadn’t seen each other much in recent years, and we didn’t part on the best of terms either.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I figured I’d get another chance to make things right between us before—’’
Matthew caught himself. He’d shared far more than he’d intended. Carlson had an openness about him that put a man at ease. For the first time, he imagined Johnny and Carlson being friends. Johnny would’ve liked him, just as he was growing to do.
Matthew sat up a bit straighter. ‘‘Sir, I guess your wife told you I’m here to talk to you about the job.’’ At Carlson’s nod, he forged ahead. ‘‘I told you about my work experience a couple of days ago, and I understand that Larson Jennings provided a favorable recommendation for me.’’ He waited for a reaction. The silence, coupled with Carlson’s steady stare, told him he had plenty of ground to regain. ‘‘My behavior on Monday must’ve seemed abrupt to you, and I’d appreciate a chance to explain that.’’
Again, that patient stare.
Needlessly, Matthew cleared his throat. ‘‘Well, when I saw Miss Grayson standing there, when I realized the gravity of the situation and what it meant, I was completely—’’
‘‘Mrs. McCutchens, you mean,’’ Carlson said softly.
‘‘I’m sorry?’’
‘‘You mistakenly referred to her as Miss Grayson. Her name is now Mrs. McCutchens.’’ Patrick Carlson’s tone remained friendly, but his demeanor stiffened ever so slightly.
Matthew sensed a tension in the room that hadn’t been there a moment before. Heat shot up the back of his neck. Whatever Annabelle Grayson had done to entangle Johnny’s affections, apparently she’d spun the same web that now held her in the Carlsons’ good favor.
‘‘Yes, of course.’’ He forced a smile, everything within him rebelling at having to refer to her as Johnny’s wife, even if it was true in the legal sense. In that same instant, a vision of the ranchland in Idaho sprang to mind.
Wide meadows lush with spring grasses bordered by a stream like Fountain Creek, birthed from the heart of the mountains towering over it. Envisioning what it would be like to have a place of permanence again helped Matthew to set aside his frustration. For the moment, anyway. Permanence was something he hadn’t had in far too long. Constantly being on the move had grown wearisome, as had looking over his shoulder in every new town.
Concentrating on that thought, his response came more naturally the second time. ‘‘When I saw . . . Mrs. McCutchens standing there and I realized she was the widow you’d been telling me about, well, naturally I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say, how to react, so I just left.’’ He glanced away as the half-truth hung in the air.
‘‘Understandable,’’ Carlson said.
The man’s tone held no malice, and yet Matthew felt a warning land silently at his feet. He stared at the plank floor, wondering what to say next.
A pause, not altogether uncomfortable, passed between them.
‘‘I take it you weren’t pleased with Jonathan’s choice in a wife.’’
Matthew looked up at the question, feeling exposed and judged at the same time. Yet Carlson’s expression suggested neither. While part of Matthew admired the pastor’s directness, this wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d first thought. He held Carlson’s gaze as he answered. ‘‘Sir, I don’t know what Miss Gray—what Mrs. McCutchens has shared with you about me, but I promise you I can do this job. I can get her safely to Idaho.’’
‘‘Your credentials are not in question, Matthew. That’s not what this is about. And as I said when we first met, your ranching experience is actually an advantage in this situation, if you decided to stay in Idaho, of course.’’ Carlson hesitated, then glanced toward the hallway. ‘‘Another man has indicated interest in the job. He came by first thing this morning. I’ll be honest with you, he has more experience in guiding and comes with several recommendations. And, frankly, I’m wondering if he and Mrs. McCutchens might not be better suited in this situation than the two of you would be, under the
circumstances.’’
Matthew felt like he’d had the wind kicked out of him. ‘‘So you’ve already made your decision, then?’’
‘‘No . . . no. Nothing’s final yet. We’ve all been discussing it in the kitchen. Why don’t you join us?’’ He stood and indicated for Matthew to follow him.
Before Matthew could think of a polite way to decline the offer, Carlson had ushered him into the next room. If he’d felt judged moments before, now he felt as though he’d been summoned before a jury.
CHAPTER | TEN
CONVERSATION FELL SILENT as Carlson led him into the kitchen. All eyes shifted to him.
Matthew’s fingers tightened around his Stetson, and he had to make a conscious effort not to crush the rim.
‘‘I’d like to introduce Mr. Matthew Taylor.’’ Patrick motioned toward Hannah. ‘‘Mr. Taylor, you already know my wife.’’ Hannah Carlson was seated at the far end of the oblong kitchen table. To her left sat an impressive-looking older man—silvered dark hair, full-bearded, and rugged. ‘‘And this is Mr. Bertram Colby.’’ The deep lines of the man’s tanned face, weathered by years in the sun, bore silent testimony to countless miles on the trail. He could’ve been fifty years old, or sixty. Matthew had no way of telling.
But one thing he intuitively knew—this man by the name of Bertram Colby not only knew every pebble of every trail and rut between here and Idaho, he’d probably helped blaze most of them. The vivid image of the Idaho ranchland began to grow hazy in Matthew’s mind.
On Colby’s left sat Miss Annabelle Grayson—that’s who she still was to him, regardless of what name he might use in deference to the Carlsons—with her hands folded primly on the table before her. Staring directly at Matthew, she gave an almost imperceptible nod and weak smile. Matthew could muster neither and was the first to look away.
He took the vacant chair beside Patrick and nodded when Hannah offered him coffee. ‘‘Thank you, Mrs. Carlson.’’ As she filled his cup, he caught something in her expression. Not exactly what he would term judgmental—more along the lines of apprehensive. But he felt certain that Mrs. Carlson knew a great deal about Annabelle’s side of the story, and that whatever she knew . . . it wouldn’t end up working in his favor.
‘‘Mr. Colby, you were telling us about a group you once led from Missouri?’’
‘‘That I was, Mrs. McCutchens. I remember a run we made back in ’59 from Independence up to Oregon.’’ Bertram Colby’s deep rumble of a laugh reverberated in the small kitchen. ‘‘There were nigh onto sixty wagons in that group. We only managed about ten miles per day, and I tell ya, there was this one fella from Boston . . . He was the greenest thing I’ve ever seen.’’
Bertram Colby regaled them with stories from his past, and laughter filled the kitchen. As Matthew listened, it occurred to him that this man was not sharing his experiences in an effort to gain the job. These experiences were the whole of his life. He could no more cease telling them than he could cease breathing.
‘‘Mr. Taylor,’’ Annabelle said, laughter still lilting her voice. ‘‘I would imagine you have a story or two of your own to share.’’
Not looking at her, Matthew smiled, hoping the discomfort brewing inside him wasn’t written plainly on his face. ‘‘But none as entertaining as what Mr. Colby has shared, I guarantee you.’’
Patrick shifted in his chair. ‘‘I’m certain both of you gentlemen know the territories well enough to guide Mrs. McCutchens there, and while it’s not imperative that she meets up with Jack Brennan’s group to accomplish that goal, I would personally feel more comfortable knowing she was traveling with a larger number of wagons, and people.’’ He paused. ‘‘I think we’d all agree on the wisdom of there being safety in numbers.’’
Matthew didn’t know if Colby got the pastor’s drift, but he sure did. And he could assure Patrick Carlson that this woman’s honor—however tarnished—was completely safe with him. Alone on the prairie or not.
‘‘Matthew, in your estimation,’’ Patrick said, ‘‘how long do you think it’ll take to catch up with Jack Brennan’s group?’’
Matthew did some quick calculating, factoring in when Patrick had told him the wagon train originally left Denver. ‘‘With the size of Brennan’s group, they’re probably averaging eleven, maybe twelve miles a day. A single wagon, traveling light and with no herd to prod, can move faster than that, for sure. We could probably make upwards of eighteen, twenty miles on flat, open trail.’’ He scanned the faces around the table, strangely heartened when he saw Colby’s affirming nod. He sat up a bit straighter. ‘‘It being the first day of June, if we were to set a good pace, rising early and pushing into the night, I think Mrs. McCutchens could expect to join the group sometime around the first week of July—middle of the month at the latest—if fair weather holds.’’
Bertram Colby leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table. ‘‘I agree with young Taylor here.’’ He turned to his left and looked at Annabelle. ‘‘Do you still have the set of papers Jack Brennan gave your husband before you set out from Denver?’’
‘‘I haven’t seen them, but I know what you’re talking about. I’m sure they’re in our trunk.’’
‘‘I’ve traveled with Brennan before,’’ Colby continued. ‘‘It was a few years back now, but he usually gives his people a good idea of what towns they’ll hit along the way, and when. Those papers should tell us what their scheduled supply stops are, depending on how the weather has affected their travels, of course. We can check as we pass through those places and see how long it’s been since Brennan was there. That’ll give us an idea of their progress.’’
Matthew watched Annabelle nod attentively, and he wished he’d thought to include all that. It definitely gave Colby an edge in the way of experience.
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Colby, for addressing that issue and for being so thorough in your answer.’’
Whether intended or not, Matthew felt a subtle backhand in her compliment and smarted at the insult. Miss Grayson used her hands when she spoke, and it struck him as he watched her just how small they were. Delicate.
Then he noticed it for the first time. The thin band of gold encircling her left ring finger.
He stared at the wedding ring, only half listening.
A swift stab of pain knifed through him when he pictured Johnny’s body buried not far from there, and along with it, any opportunity to tell his brother he was sorry for what he’d said, what he’d done. And that he’d do things differently if he could. A vast hollowness rose within, and Matthew fought it back down, clenching his jaw. He should’ve come back here sooner. Should’ve tried harder to talk some sense into Johnny when he had the chance.
A sudden rush of anger filled the void inside him. If Johnny had never met this woman, maybe he would still be alive. Matthew recalled Carlson telling him how Johnny had died—a similar circumstance to their mother’s death, it would seem. Though it didn’t sound as though Annabelle Grayson could have done anything to change that outcome, how could he be certain she had even told them the truth about Johnny’s death to begin with? The mounting doubt inside him only nurtured his dislike for the woman sitting across from him.
‘‘Mr. Taylor?’’
Matthew refocused, just now noticing that her left hand had disappeared from sight beneath the table.
‘‘Mr. Taylor?’’ she asked again.
He blinked to clear his vision and forced himself to look at her.
Annabelle Grayson’s question suddenly processed with him, and he cleared his throat to answer, reminding himself again that no matter how he felt about her, he needed to win her favor. He needed this job to get to Idaho and to reclaim Johnny’s land. His land.
‘‘We could be ready to leave Willow Springs three days from now, ma’am. Bright and early Saturday morning.’’ Her eyes were a lighter shade of blue than he’d put to memory, and far more discerning. While she wasn’t wholly unattractive, looking at her wasn’t pleasant for him.
All he saw was Johnny. He redirected his answer and attention to Carlson instead. ‘‘There’re a lot of tasks to be done, sir, as I’m sure you’re aware. You and I talked about those things the other day, so I won’t go back over those details now. But I’m confident that either Mr. Colby or I could get the job done and be ready to leave by the weekend.’’
‘‘What exactly are some of those tasks that need to be done . . . Mr. Taylor?’’ Subtle challenge wrapped itself around Annabelle Grayson’s soft voice, and Matthew dragged his focus back to her. ‘‘I’d appreciate your going into some detail, for my sake. If you don’t mind.’’
The muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed. He tried to decipher the intent behind her question but saw only a smooth mask of indifference, as if she hadn’t anything better to do than to wait on him. Didn’t take him long to figure out where she’d perfected that trait.
What he wasn’t sure of was whether she’d asked him the question out of sincere interest or if she was testing him. Considering her former profession, he assumed the latter. He leaned forward, rested an arm on the table’s edge, and aimed his comments at her, trying for a halfway sincere tone. ‘‘The first thing to be checked is your wagon and team . . . Mrs. McCutchens. Do you have horses or oxen?’’
She stared a few seconds before answering. ‘‘Horses.’’
Matthew nodded once. He would’ve preferred oxen, but since they wanted to make good time—and the less time spent with this woman, the better—horses would do.
‘‘Is that a problem, Mr. Taylor?’’
‘‘No, ma’am, no problem. How many?’’
‘‘Six. They’re the grays out back.’’
‘‘As I’m sure you’re aware,’’ he said, knowing she probably wasn’t, ‘‘a wagon can travel faster with horses, but horses aren’t as sturdy as oxen across the plains. They succumb to the heat faster. We’ll need to make sure the grays are all in good health, that they’re fit to travel. When’s the last time you had them shod? And your wagon? Is it trail worthy to your knowledge?’’
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