Her name left him in a rough whisper. ‘‘I’m sorry . . . what I did back there, what I said . . .’’ He reached up as though to touch the side of her face, then hesitated. ‘‘I didn’t mean it. I—’’
‘‘I know, Matthew. I know.’’
In the dim light of the coal-burning streetlamp, all she could see was his tender regret. ‘‘Are you sure you’re all right?’’ He searched her face.
His earnestness made her smile. She had anticipated an apology, but nothing like this. She gave a quick laugh, attempting to lighten the moment. ‘‘Matthew, that was nothing. I’ve been through a lot worse, believe me.’’ She had meant for the words to ease his conscience. They had the opposite effect.
Sighing, he slowly leaned forward until his forehead rested against hers. His hands moved up her arms and came to rest on her shoulders. His breath was warm on her face. He closed his eyes, but Annabelle didn’t dare close hers. Nor did she move an inch. Their bodies weren’t touching, but they were too close. Nothing about this was inappropriate on his part. He meant nothing by it, she knew. Yet she’d never been so fully aware of another person’s nearness in her entire life.
Unnerved by her reaction, she gently pulled back.
A frown eased across his brow. ‘‘Wait here.’’ He disappeared around the corner and returned a minute later, a handkerchief dripping in his hand. He wrung out the cloth and tilted her chin.
Only then did she remember the blood the bartender had smeared on her face. As he worked to wipe away the stains, a picture flashed in her mind—of his reaction at having found her in the back room.
‘‘About what you saw tonight, I want to explain. When you walked in . . . it wasn’t what it—’’
‘ ‘I know,’’ he whispered.
‘‘But the look on your—’’
He held up a hand. ‘‘I said I know. The bartender explained what you were doing there . . . when he had me by the throat against the wall.’’ A sheepish smile crept over his face. ‘‘He was a very persuasive man.’’
Annabelle couldn’t help but giggle. ‘‘If I hadn’t known he was on our side, I might’ve been a bit more worried about you.’’
Matthew feigned an injured expression, then grew serious again. ‘‘I followed you into town tonight fully expecting to catch you in a compromising situation.’’ He briefly looked away. ‘‘Part of me even hoped I would so I could prove once and for all that you hadn’t changed. That the Carlsons, Kathryn . . . everyone had been wrong about you. And that I had been right.’’
It was obvious that this was one apology that, though sincerely offered this time, wasn’t coming easily. Doubt still lingered in the subtle lines of his face, telling her he wasn’t fully convinced about her in the long run. Not yet, anyway.
She nodded in response, not surprised by his honesty—he’d been painfully honest with her before—but completely taken aback by his humility. This was a side of Matthew Taylor she had not seen.
He went back to gently wiping her cheek. ‘‘I end up fighting my way out of there, assuring your safety—’’ he shook his head, a telling tip of his mouth drawing her attention—‘‘and this is the thanks I get.’’
She delicately fingered her jaw. ‘‘A most unconventional way of assuring a woman’s safety too, I might add.’’
His hand stilled, and she immediately regretted having brought it up again. Her face grew warm.
‘‘I’ve never hit a woman before, Annabelle.’’
‘‘I know, Matthew . . . I could tell.’’ She meant it in all seriousness, but when he grinned, she did too. Matthew had held back with her, much like the bartender had done with him. His arms and shoulders, muscled from years of hard work, were capable of dealing a far greater blow.
‘‘I promise,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I won’t do it again.’’ A gleam lit his eyes as he parroted back what she’d said to him moments ago in the saloon.
‘‘I’ll hold you to that.’’
He took a step back, and his gaze dropped to her bodice. It happened so fast. He blinked and averted his eyes. His jaw tensed.
Then, as though against his will, he looked back again.
Annabelle’s face burned. She clutched her shirtwaist and presented her back to him, already fumbling with the buttons. She had a chemise beneath that covered her, but she knew men well enough to know it didn’t take much to distract their thoughts. Her hands shook badly, and the exasperating buttons were so tiny, she couldn’t manage to—
‘‘I’ll just wait over here, until you’re . . . finished.’’
‘‘Yes, thank you. I’ll only be a minute.’’
She shut her eyes and took several deep breaths, seeing only the look on his face. She had spent her entire adult life enticing men. Wearing what would attract their attention. Using words in such a way that they too became part of the game. Touching men in seemingly innocent ways, when innocence was the furthest thing from either of their minds. She cringed inside at the possibility that Matthew might think she had tried to use those tactics on him.
After a moment, she calmed enough to coerce the buttons through the narrow holes, then joined him where he stood waiting on the street.
She fell into step beside him, and they walked back to camp, unexpected ease embracing their silence. Thankful to be leaving the tiny town of Parkston, she used the moments to sift her thoughts. Repeatedly, they returned to this difference between men and women—how drawn a man was to look at a woman’s body. And how a woman was drawn by such very different things. Knowing the Creator must have had a purpose in it—and not questioning His wisdom—she still didn’t understand why God had created men and women so differently in that respect. The design seemed hopelessly fraught with confusion and strife.
She considered the man beside her and all that she knew about him—unaware though he may be. And she vowed to be more careful around him, purposing in her heart not to dress or act in a way that would knowingly bring about that struggle she’d seen on his face moments before.
The moon’s pale pewter light rippled off something in the distance, and she realized it was the white tarp of the wagon. A most welcome sight. Uncertain how and when it had happened exactly, she acknowledged with some reservation the unexpected affection she had for him. Like his brother, Matthew Taylor was good and decent—even if he was stubborn as the day was long and overly critical at times. Remembering the shy, boyish look that had swept his face when he referred to the bartender having him by the throat, encouraged a chuckle.
‘‘What’s so funny?’’
She shook her head. ‘‘I was just thinking of you back there, with the bartender.’’
Matthew drew in a quick breath. ‘‘Given more time, I think I could’ve taken him.’’
She laughed. ‘‘I have no doubt in my mind.’’ A cool breeze billowed the wagon canopy, and she rubbed her arms, just now realizing how tired and hungry she was. Dinner hadn’t appealed to her much before, but now she could think of nothing else. She had banked her fire before going into town, and she noticed that Matthew had done the same. ‘‘Well, I best get my fire going.’’
‘‘Mind if I do it for you?’’ He looked up as though gauging the position of the moon. ‘‘Sunrise isn’t that far off, and I’m afraid it might take you that long to get it started again.’’
‘‘I’ll have you know it only took me thirty-nine tries tonight.
However, I’ll gladly accept your help.’’
He had her fire built and blazing in no time, then stood and made as if to leave.
‘‘I didn’t eat much before and was going to warm up something.’’ She glanced away briefly. ‘‘I didn’t know if you might be hungry?’’
Minutes later they sat, on opposite sides, enjoying the fire’s warmth and the quiet prairie, eating warmed salt pork and beans and washing it down with water. Despite the meal’s simplicity, Annabelle relished it, and the company.
‘‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were doing? Goin
g into town like that.’’
She looked up to find him staring at her. His tanned face appeared almost bronze in the yellow-orange glow. She laid her tin plate aside. ‘‘Because I didn’t think you would approve and thought you might even try to stop me.’’
He shook his head slowly. ‘‘Heaven help the man who tries to stop you from doing anything, Annabelle.’’
She smiled, knowing how true that once was, but also knowing how Jonathan McCutchens had changed all that. If only Jonathan had known how much he’d done for her, how much he’d taught her in such a short time. But maybe he did.
‘‘Who is she? This woman the bartender said you’re looking for.’’
Matthew’s question drew her back, and she prayed for the right words to come. ‘‘She’s someone who used to work at the brothel in Willow Springs.’’ She could feel the tension rise in him from where she sat. ‘‘She was taken this past January, in the middle of the night. They found blood on her pillow.’’ Staring into the fire, she told him everything the bartender had said. ‘‘I’m determined to find her,’’ she added, intentionally softening her tone.
That got his attention. ‘‘At what cost?’’
Knowing he wouldn’t like her answer, and anticipating the conclusion he would draw, she couched it as gently as possible. ‘‘My plan is to buy her out of whatever contract or . . . situation she’s in.’’
It took him a minute, but he finally nodded, his expression a clear denial that the gesture indicated agreement. ‘‘Using whose money?’’
Unwilling to play this game with him, she kept her tone subdued. ‘‘You and I both know whose money I’ll use, Matthew.’’
‘‘Do you think that’s what Johnny would have wanted?’’
His question struck her as needless because within it was the very answer he sought. She watched him for a moment, waiting, and gradually saw understanding move into his expression.
He looked away. ‘‘What if you don’t find her?’’
‘‘I believe I will.’’
‘‘But what if you don’t?’’
She lifted her shoulders, then let them fall. Tears rose in her throat as she imagined where Sadie might be at that moment. ‘‘Then I think . . . for every day of the rest of my life—’’ Her voice cracked. She couldn’t stem the emotion tightening her chest. She breathed in and out, her head down. ‘‘I’ll regret not being able to do for Sadie what Jonathan did for me.’’ Feeling a tear trail down her cheek, she forced her gaze up. ‘‘And what you did for me . . . tonight.’’
From the swift stab of comprehension knitting his brow, she knew he got her meaning. This time he didn’t look away, and she admired him for it. ‘‘How long have you known this woman?’’
‘‘I met Sadie when she first came to the brothel in Willow Springs four years ago.’’ She hesitated, knowing this would be especially hard for him. ‘‘She was eleven years old.’’
His frown deepened, his expression saying he thought he’d misunderstood. He shook his head. ‘‘Eleven? But . . . that’s the same age as . . .’’
‘‘Lilly.’’ She finished the sentence he could not.
Disbelief. Revulsion. Pity. Anger. All flashed across his face, one after the other.
‘‘Sadie’s parents came here from China in order to give their children a better life.’’ She sighed. ‘‘I don’t know what happened exactly. Sadie never has talked much about it. She doesn’t talk much about anything, really. But I do know her parents died and she was left alone out here.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘Not a good thing to happen to a young girl in this territory.’’
Matthew lowered his head to his hands, and Annabelle could almost hear the inaudible groan coming from deep inside him. She drew up her knees and rested her forehead against them, praying for Sadie, praying to find her, praying for Matthew as he got yet another glimpse into the kind of life she’d led.
The crackle of the fire ate up the silence.
After a few moments, he rose. The sound drew her head up. Emotion shone in his eyes.
‘‘We’ll be crossing into Wyoming Territory tomorrow. There’re a handful of places along the Union Pacific line running between Cheyenne and Laramie.’’ He paused. ‘‘Do you know of any town in particular where they might’ve taken her? That might be known for . . . having a place like that?’’
Annabelle shook her head. ‘‘They could’ve taken her anywhere. Pretty much every town, no matter how small, has places like that.’’
He didn’t answer for a moment. ‘‘We’ll find her,’’ he whispered, and he turned and walked past the wagon into the darkness.
Annabelle waited until she couldn’t see him anymore, then reached for her blanket and curled onto her side—weary, thankful, and strangely hopeful. She waited several moments—hearing Matthew’s movements across the camp, the whinny of the horses, followed by the low murmur of his voice as he spoke to them—until the noises ceased. Then she pulled the parchment she’d taken from the back room of the saloon from the pantalets beneath her skirt.
She studied the likeness of Matthew Taylor, seeing only vague similarities mirrored in the crudely drawn features. The connection might’ve been lost on her altogether if not for the name. She read the charges laid against him. She wouldn’t have figured Matthew for a gambler. But then again, judging from the wanted poster in her hand, he apparently wasn’t one. Or at least hadn’t been a very good one.
A rueful smile accompanied that thought—not at his quandary, but at their discovered similarities. They were both running from a past. This would explain his air of desperation when applying for this job, and possibly his eagerness to leave Willow Springs . . . if someone had discovered him. Or was close to it.
She curled the parchment and shoved it into the heart of the flames. As the edges charred and the paper withered to ash, a bittersweet realization moved over her. She’d misjudged him, in many ways. But in one opinion specifically she was especially thankful to have been proven wrong.
Matthew Taylor did, indeed, bear a striking resemblance to his older brother after all.
CHAPTER | TWENTY - THREE
SHIFTING HIS WEIGHT, Matthew peered down at her from across the fire. ‘‘What do you mean you don’t know how to ride?’’
When she didn’t answer, he tilted his head in hopes of getting her attention. But she continued to add ingredients to the bowl cradled in her lap, apparently unwilling to look up, which was odd given the ease that had developed between them during the past week.
He never would have guessed it could happen based on the sparks that flew during their first few conversations in Willow Springs, but they were actually getting along pretty well now. He was glimpsing a side of her he hadn’t seen before, and though he wasn’t ready to hand over complete trust, he’d begun to look forward to the evenings when they ate dinner and talked.
‘‘Annabelle?’’ he prompted softly.
She pushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand, continuing to focus on her task. ‘‘I said I just don’t know how, that’s all.’’ Her tone was light, but she shrugged in a way that said she didn’t want to talk about it further.
Which made it all the more inviting to him. She’d already driven the wagon twice in the last few days as they’d begun following the Platte River, shadowing Jack Brennan’s scheduled route.
She’d handled the team of horses over the bumpy and often deeply rutted Wyoming plains better than he’d anticipated. Still, that wasn’t the same as riding. ‘‘Have you ever tried before?’’
‘‘I rode when I was a girl.’’ She sighed, shaking her head. ‘‘But that’s been a few years ago.’’
‘‘I could teach you. I bet you’d pick it back up real quick.’’
She pursed her lips, her focus still pinned to the mixing bowl.
‘‘I appreciate that, Matthew, really. But I’m fine with driving the team or walking when I need a respite from the wagon.’’
He watched he
r add a bit more flour to the dough. Patrick Carlson had been right about her biscuits, and Matthew had come to look forward to them. Especially when they were hot and fresh, like tonight. His gaze went involuntarily to her left cheek. Not once had she mentioned again what he’d done to her in the saloon that night, but the memory was never far from his thoughts.
He studied her for a moment, unable to account for the certainty inside him but somehow knowing that she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. There was something else behind her reasons for not knowing how to ride a horse. He just didn’t know what it was. Was she afraid? Not likely. Not with everything she’d been through in her life.
Ever since Annabelle had told him about the girl, Sadie, one question kept resurfacing in his mind—how young had Annabelle been when she started working at the brothel? He prayed her story wasn’t similar to Sadie’s, and whenever he considered that possibility, an ache rose up inside him.
He studied the delicate features of her face. One thing he was sure of now—if given a choice, Annabelle would never have chosen such a life. And it shamed him to think he once thought she had. He’d seen the proof in her eyes that night in the saloon, and again when she’d spoken of Sadie, and also in the sparkle she gained with every mile that distanced them from Willow Springs.
‘‘You’d love riding, I’m sure of it. If you’d just give it another try.’’ With her fierce independence, she would savor the sense of freedom. He could already picture her astride the powerful gelding, giving him the lead. ‘‘Let me teach you, please.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘Thank you for offering, Matthew, but I’m simply not interested.’’
Determined to discover the reason behind her pat refusal, an idea came to him. He crouched down where he could see her expression more easily. When she suddenly took a deeper interest in the biscuit dough, her forehead crinkling in concentration, he could tell she knew what he was up to. And he enjoyed the anticipation.
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