Revealed

by Tamera Alexander

  By the question in his stance, he was awaiting an answer.

  Her stomach knotted. ‘‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear what you asked.’’

  ‘‘Do you want me to take the water bucket or not?’’ Irritation flattened his tone.

  It took her a second, but she nodded, feeling a bit foolish at being so moved by his simple offer. ‘‘Yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you.’’

  He retrieved it from the wagon, not looking at her as he passed, then headed toward the stream they’d spotted earlier over the slope.

  Filling the water bucket was something Jonathan would’ve done for her without prompting, and she wouldn’t have given it a second thought. But Matthew Taylor was not her husband, and she couldn’t expect the same courtesies from him that she’d received from Jonathan. He was a hired hand. She remembered the day on the porch when she’d reminded him of just that. The expression on his face . . . If a glare could kill a woman, she would’ve been dead a hundred times over by now.

  They had quickly fallen into a rhythm with each other during their first hours on the trail. Basically one of not speaking. She’d ridden in the back of the wagon, mainly because that’s where he’d led her and she hadn’t wanted to argue in front of the others before leaving. His forced apology from earlier that morning replayed again in her mind, and she shook her head. The way he’d looked at her . . .

  Regardless of how Matthew addressed her, his eyes told the truth about the kind of woman he thought she still was.

  She blew out a breath and forced her attention back on getting a fire started. With renewed fervor, she gripped the flint and steel over the dry stack of weeds and grass. She positioned the tools in her grip the way she remembered Jonathan doing it—the C-shaped piece of steel in her left hand, close to the kindling, and the flint in her right.

  She struck the flint downward on the face of the steel. Once, twice. Again.

  Nothing. Not the tiniest spark.

  She tried again, consoled in remembering that it sometimes took Jonathan seven or eight tries before he got a healthy spark. She decided to keep count. Four, five, six . . .

  On the trail, Jonathan had always built the fire first thing when they stopped. Then he went about his chores while she readied supper. Apparently Matthew considered building the fire women’s work, which was fine by her. She could do this.

  Ten, eleven, twelve . . .

  She was eager to prove her independence to him, and to herself. She’d even been cautious of him seeing her tears that morning as she had said her good-byes to the Carlsons and Jennings, along with their children. Matthew didn’t look at all comfortable with the scene, and she suspected good-byes weren’t his strong suit, especially since knowing how the parting with Jonathan had gone.

  Kathryn and Larson drew her into an embrace, but hearing Matthew’s tentative voice behind her, she’d strained to hear the exchange.

  ‘‘. . . and I appreciate your kindness to me, Pastor. You and your family’s. Who knows, I might even come to miss our talks.’’

  Patrick laughed. ‘‘I know I will, Matthew.’’

  Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three . . .

  Annabelle repeatedly struck the flint and steel, with no success. Her throat tightened as she remembered what else Matthew had said that morning, and done. It had endeared him to her in a way she wouldn’t have imagined possible.

  ‘‘Lilly, your birthday is coming up soon. Next month, I think. I picked up a little something for you while I was in town yesterday. It’s not much, but . . .’’ Matthew reached into his pocket and pulled out a length of lavender hair ribbon. He let it curl slowly into the girl’s upturned palm. ‘‘The color reminded me of your eyes. I thought it might look pretty in your hair.’’

  Lilly’s arms came around him in a hug.

  Matthew looked at Patrick as though seeking direction on what to do next. Patrick tilted his head in Lilly’s direction, and Matthew gently patted her back. After a moment, he stepped back and turned his attention to young Bobby. ‘‘Your turn, boy.’’ He dropped a piece of saltwater taffy into the boy’s palm.

  Bobby’s grin had been thanks enough.

  Annabelle couldn’t remember the exact words Patrick Carlson had prayed over them following that, but she did remember the peace that came with hearing them. Now if only she could somehow tuck that feeling away for coming days.

  Thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.

  She stopped and stretched, then brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead. Her stomach was empty, her body fatigued, and again, she felt a sense of unrest inside her. Crouching back over the kindling, her back aching, she struck the flint against the steel again and again.

  On her forty-seventh try, her hold slipped and the flint’s edge bit into her thumb. Heat flooded her, and she clamped her mouth tight against the word burning the tip of her tongue. She closed her eyes as the wound began to throb. She brought the place to her mouth and tasted blood.

  ‘‘Don’t you know how to start a fire?’’

  Matthew was standing a few feet behind her. Hearing the disbelief in his voice, seeing the attitude in his stance, she found that the air of unspoken confidence she’d been admiring about him only moments earlier suddenly became a lightning rod for her frustration.

  ‘‘Don’t you know how to start a fire?’’

  His innocent question sparked a less-than-appropriate response, and Annabelle clenched her jaw in order to keep it contained. Oh, she knew all about starting fires. . . .

  She chanced a closer look at him. For all of his self-importance and know-how, Matthew Taylor appeared completely oblivious to the subtle undertone of his question. How easy it would be to take him down a notch or two, especially when remembering what she’d overheard during his conversation with Jonathan in the shack last fall. While Matthew’s innocence was refreshing, the smug look on his face wasn’t.

  He shifted his weight and stared down. ‘‘So, can you do it?’’

  Her jaw aching with restraint, Annabelle felt the unspoken ‘‘or not’’ of his statement hanging in the air, poised above her head like an ax ready to fall. She would light this confounded campfire if it took her all night. ‘‘Yes, I can do it.’’

  He bent down beside her. ‘‘Because if you need help, Mrs. McCutchens’’—condescension thickened his tone—‘‘all you have to do is ask.’’

  If he thought she was going to ask him for anything. . . . ‘‘No thank you, Mr. Taylor.’’ Her cheeks hurt, her smile was so wide. ‘‘We each have to pull our own weight, remember?’’

  A twinkle lit his eyes, and not a friendly one. ‘‘I think I do recall saying something along those lines.’’

  She turned back to her task.

  The sound of his muffled departure brought a sense of relief, and loneliness.

  It had been dusk when he’d finally stopped to make camp. Though Annabelle had wanted to stop at least an hour earlier, she hadn’t said a word. Nausea had accompanied her most of the morning from the steady jolt of the wagon, so she’d gotten out and walked often during the day. But she’d told Matthew she could match whatever pace he set, and she was determined to do just that, no matter the soreness, and without complaint. As long as it didn’t endanger her child. Doc Hadley’s instructions were never far from her mind, and she hadn’t overexerted today. She was only tired and hungry, and needed to rest.

  She gripped the flint and steel again. On her sixty-fifth try, a spark glinted off the flint. And quickly died. On her seventy-fourth try, she managed to direct a stubborn spark toward the dry tinder and gently breathed life into the fledging flame. Adding bits of dry grass, she watched the fire grow and was so pleased with herself she actually chuckled. She’d have their dinner of biscuits left over from breakfast and salted pork warmed and ready in no time.

  Turning to glance behind her, her joy faded.

  Another campfire, already burning, stronger than hers, flamed on the other side of the wagon, a good fifteen yards from
where she knelt. Matthew lay stretched out before it on his bedroll, saddle beneath his head, hat over his face.

  Annabelle couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh or cry. He’d no doubt watched her struggle to build her fire, then had accomplished the task with such ease. She hadn’t thought much about where each of them would sleep, but for some reason she hadn’t envisioned separate fires, and so far apart.

  For too long she’d been untouchable, like the leper she’d read about the other night, the one Jesus so willingly placed His hands on when all others shunned him and ran the other way. Then one morning, Kathryn Jennings had appeared in her life and that sense of isolation had begun to ebb. Kathryn had touched her life first. Followed by Larson, and more recently, Hannah and Patrick, and then Jonathan. Her Jonathan, as Patrick had described him.

  These people had all accepted her, loved her. So why did she feel such emptiness inside?

  She retrieved the items she needed from the wagon, placed the biscuits and ham in the castiron Dutch oven, and hung the pot from an iron tripod she had straddled over the flame. Then she searched the dark, empty miles of prairie around her. Her gaze finally settled on the fading orange glow backlighting the highest snowcapped peaks to the west. It was then that the answer came to her silent question from moments before. . . .

  Because she was alone again—that’s why this emptiness. She’d left all of those people who loved her—and who she loved—behind.

  Minutes passed. Using a cloth, she lifted the lid from the Dutch oven and took out two of the three biscuits and a good portion of the ham. Matthew didn’t look up when she approached his fire, but she knew by the tensing of his jaw that he was aware of her.

  ‘‘I thought you might be hungry.’’ She spotted a slice of halfeaten jerky beside him on his bedroll.

  ‘‘Thank you, but I’ve already eaten.’’ He didn’t move. His hat hid most of his face.

  Unwilling to be put off so easily, she stooped to lay the tin beside him. As she did, a spasm of pain shot through her lower back and abdomen. Her breath caught. She put a hand out to steady herself and accidentally brushed against his leg.

  Matthew pushed himself up, backing away in the process.

  As swiftly as it came, the pain subsided. Annabelle took a steadying breath.

  Matthew’s eyes were wide, his expression wary.

  It slowly dawned on her. . . . He thought her move had been intentional. And from the alarm in his expression, that thought scared the living daylights out of the man. Either that or it disgusted him beyond words.

  Carefully, she rose and took a step back, trying for a pleasant smile. ‘‘I’m sorry, I just . . . lost my balance there for a second. Too much riding today, I guess.’’

  He looked at the tin plate, then gave her a cursory glance. ‘‘I said I’ve already eaten. I’m not hungry.’’ He nodded toward her fire. ‘‘You best turn in. We leave with sunup in the morning and have a long two days of travel ahead of us if we want to reach Denver by nightfall on Monday.’’

  At the mention of Denver, she realized she hadn’t told him yet.

  ‘‘I’ve got some business there that night, so I’ll head into town right after we make camp.’’

  ‘‘Business?’’ he asked, his suspicion evident.

  ‘‘Yes, that’s right. It shouldn’t take me long.’’ Despite Hannah’s and Kathryn’s concern, this was something she needed to do on her own. She also knew that where she was going was no place for a man like Matthew Taylor. Besides, no matter how honorable her intentions, the last thing she wanted was for him to see her in a brothel or in a saloon. ‘‘Good night, Mr. Taylor,’’ she said quietly.

  ‘‘What sort of business takes a woman into town after nightfall?’’

  She paused and looked back, giving him a dry smile. ‘‘Why . . . I’m touched. Are you worried about my safety?’’

  ‘‘I’ve given Carlson my word to get you safely to Idaho. And that’s what I aim to do.’’

  She laughed softly, raising a brow. ‘‘What do you know . . . Chivalry’s alive and well on the western plains.’’

  He apparently did not share her humor.

  She finally managed to subdue hers. ‘‘I promise you, Mr. Taylor, I won’t delay our progress.’’ She thought of her task in Denver two nights hence and prayed that, if Sadie was there, somewhere, God would see fit to guide her steps so she could find the girl. ‘‘On the contrary, if my trip is successful, we’ll need to leave as soon as we’re able.’’

  CHAPTER | NINETEEN

  AS ANNABELLE APPROACHED THE gaming hall, she wondered again how this town had ever gotten its nickname. The city of Denver resembled anything but a sparkling jewel on the bosom of the desert—this part of it anyway. Thankfully, for her, the businesses she needed to visit were located within close distance of each other, and were on the east edge of town, near where they’d made camp.

  She’d covered the short distance into Denver in about ten minutes’ time. Matthew hadn’t plied her with questions on the intent of her visit before she’d left earlier that evening—not like she thought he might. His lack of inquiry spoke volumes about his lack of interest. She was a job to him, a means to an end, and nothing more. And yet she realized that wasn’t quite true. Not completely anyway. Matthew’s intense dislike of her, whether he realized it or not, actually gave her hope, however slight, that he might one day change his mind about her. After all, she’d learned long ago that wherever strong emotions existed, change was still possible. It was apathy, not hatred, that rendered hope impotent.

  The boardwalk outside the gaming hall was littered with empty bottles and crumpled trash. Tinny piano music drifted through the open doors and a telltale waft of alcohol floated toward her from the saloon next door. Annabelle looked back down the street in the direction from which she’d just come.

  Sadie hadn’t been at that brothel, but a girl Annabelle had known years ago was. After Patrice got over her initial surprise, she’d been guardedly friendly toward Annabelle, especially considering how the two of them had fought at one time.

  ‘‘I haven’t seen any girl that fits that description, and I’d remember her for sure. Men would go crazy for that around here, which wouldn’t do me any good, now would it?’’ Patrice’s eyes swept the length of Annabelle. ‘‘You’ve held up well . . . considering how long it’s been.’’

  ‘‘You look good too.’’ Annabelle smiled, sorry for the lie.

  In truth, Patrice Bellington was still one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen. Her long blond hair and creamy complexion had always enticed the men, and the fancy nightgown she wore hugged her body, accentuating the merchandise. But there was a hardness to the woman’s face, in the set of her mouth, that made Annabelle ache for her.

  ‘‘You got out.’’

  Annabelle nodded. ‘‘About a year ago.’’

  ‘‘Did you buy your own way?’’

  ‘‘A man I met. He paid Betsy’s asking price.’’

  Patrice’s brow arched and she whistled low. ‘‘You must’ve impressed him.’’

  She gave a quick laugh. ‘‘Actually, he bought me sight unseen, so to speak.’’

  Disbelief shone in Patrice’s painted eyes. Then she frowned, and Annabelle saw another emotion surface, crowding out the doubt. Longing. She recognized it only because she’d felt that same keen hunger in her own life, for so many years. And still did.

  Patrice nodded slowly, as though just now understanding what Annabelle had said. ‘‘So he takes his pleasure in other ways.’’ It wasn’t a question, and Annabelle knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘‘No, he didn’t beat me. Jonathan never laid a harsh hand to me.’’

  ‘‘Didn’t?’’ Patrice huffed. ‘‘He’s already left you?’’

  Annabelle told her about Jonathan and watched tenderness soften the woman’s features. Until tonight, Patrice Bellington hadn’t crossed her mind in years, and Annabelle couldn’t help but wonder how many other people
she’d known, some of them well, yet had forgotten along the way.

  Sounds coming from the gaming hall snapped Annabelle back to the moment. The place was crowded this time of night. Business was good. Visiting the local brothels had turned up nothing, so this place was her last hope until the next town. She climbed the stairs to the boardwalk. Working to keep her hope alive, she walked inside.

  From a darkened alleyway, Matthew watched her enter the building and then slowly bowed his head. This was exactly what he had suspected would happen. Though a small part of him—a part he’d not even realized existed until that moment—had hoped she’d prove him wrong. Pastor Carlson, Kathryn Jennings, everyone . . . had done their best to convince him that Annabelle Grayson was a changed woman.

  Seems he was the only one who hadn’t been played the fool.

  Manasseh whinnied behind him. Matthew walked over to where he’d tethered the tan gelding. Stroking the tuft of white between the horse’s eyes, he looked back at the gaming hall. Still thinking about the brothels Annabelle had visited over the past couple of hours, he debated whether to wait for her. But for what purpose? If she was thinking of entering that life again, there was nothing he could do to stop her.

  At the same time, his brother had paid a high price for that woman’s freedom—and not just in money. It angered him to think she would so hastily cast aside the sacrifices Johnny had made for her.

  He waited, irritation building inside him as an imaginary clock ticked off the minutes in his head. Just when he’d decided to ride on back to camp, she walked out. And she wasn’t alone. The man with her leaned closer and said something. Annabelle shook her head. The fella’s laughter drifted toward him. Matthew could hear them speaking but couldn’t make out their conversation.

  His stomach twisted tight watching her, thinking about what she’d most likely been doing for the past few minutes. More than a hand of friendly poker went on in a place like that. Johnny’s face came to mind, and the tightening in Matthew’s gut hardened to an ache. How could a woman be so devoid of feeling and morals? And supposedly when she was with child? Which he still wasn’t convinced of, especially seeing this.