Resting his forearms on his knees, he heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘‘Well, I didn’t want it to come to this, Mrs. McCutchens, but . . . we each have to pull our own weight on the trail, ma’am. I made that real clear with you before we started out. And I’m afraid your not being able to ride is hindering our progress.’’
Not looking up from the bowl, she began to knead the lump of dough. ‘‘Is that so, Mr. Taylor?’’
Annabelle was masterful at hiding her smile at times like these, much better than he was. But her voice had taken on that uppity tone, which was far more rewarding than a smile at this stage of the game.
‘‘It is, Mrs. McCutchens, and I’m afraid that if you don’t live up to your end of the bargain, I’m going to have to give you notice, effective immediately. You’ll have to find another trail guide. I’d hate to do it, of course, but—’’ ‘‘Oh, of course,’’ she said, then rewarded the dough with a swift punch, no doubt pretending it was his face.
‘‘But . . .’’ He feigned a sigh. ‘‘Sometimes a man has to make tough choices.’’
‘‘Yes, a man does. However, a woman does as well.’’ She pinched off an ample portion of dough, rolled it in her palms to form a ball, flattened it to about an inch thick, and placed it in the Dutch oven warming over the fire. The biscuit dough sizzled in the melted bacon fat drizzled over the bottom.
The aroma caused his stomach to growl, and Matthew cleared his throat in hopes of covering it.
Annabelle leaned over the pot and breathed in, closing her eyes.
‘‘Mmmm, doesn’t that smell good?’’ She finally looked at him then, her expression going forlorn. ‘‘Oh . . . but I’m sorry. Biscuits are only for the hired help.’’
The woman could be cruel. And he loved it. ‘‘Well, I might could be persuaded to stay. For a day or two longer at most.’’ He reached for a piece of dough from the bowl.
She yanked it away and held up a hand. ‘‘I fear I’ve not been satisfied with your work as of late, Mr. Taylor. And I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it. There’s too much dust and wind, and it’s far too dry here for my taste. I believe you promised me rain before we left Willow Springs. Sang me some sad tune about not being able to wait another day because of the threat of it.’’ She made a show of searching the canopy of cloudless dark blue skies overhead and over Laramie’s Peak to the west.
She sighed. ‘‘So . . . I’m afraid I’m going to have to dismiss you after all. And I feel just terrible about it.’’
Her serious expression, coupled with the close-to-genuine sincerity in her voice, almost made him chuckle. ‘‘How do you do that?’’
‘‘Beg your pardon?’’ The barest hint of humor warmed her voice.
‘‘How do you manage to act so sincere when I know you’re anything but?’’
She placed the last biscuit in the Dutch oven and covered it with the lid. ‘‘Simple. You have to enjoy the anticipation of making someone else laugh as much as you enjoy laughing yourself.’’ Her smile turned mischievous. ‘‘And it helps if you’re a really good liar.’’
He laughed, noting how her eyes sparkled the moment she allowed the pretense to fall away, like the vibrant blue of an unclouded sky. ‘‘Now that, Annabelle McCutchens, is one of the most honest things I’ve heard you say.’’ He ignored the smart look she gave him and leaned over the fire to inhale the aroma. ‘‘How long ’til the biscuits’ll be done?’’
‘‘The same as every other time you ask me. About fifteen minutes or so.’’ She held out her hand, and in it was a piece of biscuit dough she’d somehow managed to save back.
He popped it into his mouth and stood, then held out his hand for the bowl. ‘‘I’ll go wash it for you.’’
Surprise shone on her face. ‘‘Why, thank you, kind sir,’’ she said, her tone becoming playfully formal.
‘‘You’re most welcome, ma’am.’’ His fingers brushed against hers in the exchange, and he paused, keenly aware of how alone they were and of the blush deepening her cheeks. He told himself it was due to the fire’s warmth, but he wondered.
After a second, he cleared his throat. ‘‘I don’t mind doing it. Your biscuits are well worth it. And besides, this way we’ll have more time after dinner for your first lesson.’’
He walked away, imagining the daggers she was shooting at his back.
‘‘How will Manasseh know what I want him to do?’’
‘‘Same as any other male. You tell him.’’
Her anxious expression disappeared for a split second.
Seeing her death grip on the reins, Matthew took hold of her hand and pried open her fingers. ‘‘Loosen up a bit. Here . . . face your hand palm down with your fingers pointing toward his neck. Good, now put your little finger under the rein and your other fingers over it.’’ She was good at following instructions, when she wanted to. ‘‘Now turn your hand a mite so your thumb is on top and your knuckles are facing forward.’’
‘‘This isn’t as comfortable. I’d rather hold it like I was.’’
‘‘It’ll become second nature—don’t worry. Manasseh’s as gentle as they come, Annabelle. He won’t hurt you.’’
‘‘I’ve seen the way he runs. You two fly across the prairie.’’
‘‘That’s only because I give him the lead.’’
She shot a glance at Matthew and then back to the horse. ‘‘What if he thinks I’m giving him the lead?’’
Ducking his head to hide his grin, Matthew busied himself with checking the girth he’d already adjusted. ‘‘He won’t take off with you, I promise.’’
Manasseh chose that moment to snort and toss his head, and Annabelle tensed up again.
‘‘He’s just sensing your nervousness. You’ll both be fine.’’
‘‘I still don’t see why I have to do this.’’
Matthew stroked the horse’s flank. ‘‘You don’t have to. But I’m proud of you for giving it a try.’’
She sat up a bit straighter. ‘‘Why can’t I ride like all the other women I’ve seen?’’
‘‘First off, not all women ride sidesaddle. Not in these parts, anyway. You’ll have more control riding this way, and you’ll feel safer. Besides, no one’s out here to see you, and you can always learn to ride sidesaddle later, if you want.’’
‘‘I suppose you’ll teach me that too?’’
He detected the snip in her voice but chose to let it pass. ‘‘Remember, keep your weight balanced in the saddle. Don’t lean too far to the left or right. Move forward a bit.’’ Without touching her leg, he gestured for her to scoot forward. ‘‘You always want to sit in the lowest part of the saddle. Let your legs lie gentle around the horse. Don’t squeeze too tight.’’ He took hold of her foot. ‘‘The heel of your boot should line up with the stirrups, and the balls of your feet should rest right over the stirrup iron. Keep your toes pointing forward and your heels pointing down.’’
Her stoic expression said she doubted she could remember to do all that at once. But having seen how well she handled the grays, Matthew figured she would be a natural at this—once she got past her fear.
‘‘Keep your upper body straight but not stiff. And face forward.’’
She took a deep breath and did as he asked.
‘‘Relax.’’
‘‘I am relaxed.’’
‘‘Just let your arms rest by your sides.’’
‘‘They are resting!’’
He nodded slowly. ‘‘I can see that.’’ He softened his voice. ‘‘Just imagine that your forearms are an extension of the reins.’’
She gave a quick laugh. ‘‘I’d rather imagine the reins wrapped around your neck.’’
He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. ‘‘If that helps you.’’
‘‘It does.’’ After a second, she looked down and he caught that spark in her eyes.
He hesitated, wanting to ask but not wanting to pry. ‘‘You said you hadn’t ridden since you were a little girl. You
didn’t say, but I’m guessing something happened . . . that scared you.’’
Her jaw tensed. She looked down on her hand holding the rein.
‘‘I’ve only told this to one other person.’’ She gave a harsh laugh that held a trace of embarrassment. ‘‘I was thrown. Stupid horse just took off for no reason. Jumped the corral and bucked me at the same time.’’
‘‘Were you hurt?’’
‘‘I broke my arm. My father made me get back on later that afternoon. He led the horse around to make sure I was safe, but I promised myself then that I’d never ride again.’’
A fleeting frown crossed her face, and it occurred to him that she’d never mentioned anything about her childhood or her parents before. Judging from her shadowed expression, she was wishing she still hadn’t.
‘‘The stupid horse . . . did he have a name?’’ Matthew asked, changing the subject.
She frowned in his direction, a bit of humor in the gesture.
‘‘Cocoa!’’
He grinned. ‘‘And I’m betting you haven’t had any of that to drink since then either.’’
‘‘As a matter of fact . . . no, I haven’t. I used to love it but somehow lost my taste for it after that.’’ Manasseh shifted beneath her, and Annabelle let out a gasp. All humor vanished. ‘‘Can we please get this lesson over with?’’
Matthew quickly reviewed the instructions they’d already gone over, then took a step back.
Annabelle barely touched her heels to the horse’s flank, then sat, waiting. Manasseh tossed his head, snorted, and turned his head to look at her, as though wondering what to do.
‘‘Do it again, Annabelle. Firmer this time, and make a kissing noise.’’ He demonstrated.
She parroted the sound, and Manasseh responded. Holding the reins with one hand, she gripped the pommel with the other, jouncing up and down in the saddle.
Matthew walked alongside them. ‘‘Relax your legs. Let them hug his sides. And don’t be scared of him. That’s it.’’ He was impressed with her efforts and told her so. ‘‘Now, tell him where you want him to go.’’
‘‘Don’t tempt me,’’ she said beneath her breath.
He grinned and shook his head, then watched as she laid the reins against the left side of Manasseh’s neck. The horse turned right and headed for the wagon, slowing when he came to it.
She huffed. ‘‘Why did he go this way?’’
‘‘Because you told him to.’’
‘‘I thought I said to go left.’’
‘‘If you want him to go left, lay the reins against the right side of his neck.’’
She did as he said, then sighed. ‘‘He’s not listening. I told you this was a bad idea.’’
Hearing the irritation in her voice, Matthew got a glimpse of the impatient young girl in the woman before him. ‘‘Remember how I told you to get him to back up?’’
She pulled back on the reins. Manasseh edged backward.
Matthew watched for the next few minutes, saying nothing, and witnessing her confidence level build as she gave commands and Manasseh did as she bade. ‘‘Take him a bit farther out now. Down to that clump of sagebrush and back.’’ Halfway back, she surprised him by nudging the horse into a canter and maintaining her seating perfectly.
When she returned, she was short of breath, her face flush with pleasure.
He took hold of the horse’s bridle and rubbed the white tuft between Manasseh’s eyes. ‘‘How was it?’’ As if he had to ask.
‘‘Can I take him around again?’’
‘‘Be my guest. From the look of things, he likes you.’’
She grinned and reached down to stroke his neck. ‘‘Really? How can you tell?’’
He shrugged and, remembering her advice from earlier, managed to completely mask his humor this time. ‘‘Because he hasn’t thrown you yet—which is what he usually does when he doesn’t like somebody.’’
Her eyes widened, then gradually narrowed as Matthew showed his hand. ‘‘Matthew Taylor, there’s going to come a day when you’ll need me to teach you something, and I can hardly wait for that opportunity.’’
‘‘That makes two of us, ma’am.’’
She smiled and took off at a canter.
CHAPTER | TWENTY - FOUR
YOU CAN GO FIRST.’’ Matthew tilted his head toward the creek, knowing she could hardly wait.
She squinted as though hesitant. ‘‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’’ At his nod, her face lit. ‘‘I won’t be long, I promise.’’
‘‘Take your time.’’
‘‘But it’ll be dark soon, and I want you to have time.’’
He reached for two more biscuits from the Dutch oven and leaned back in front of the fire. ‘‘It’s not like I’ve never bathed in a creek at night before, Annabelle. Besides, I want another cup of coffee . . . and these.’’ Holding up the biscuits, he wriggled his brow.
‘‘All right, then, if you insist.’’ She walked to the wagon and rummaged in the back for a few minutes, then started for the creek, her arms laden.
He stopped chewing. ‘‘What do you plan on doing down there? Settin’ up house?’’
‘‘I haven’t had a real bath since we left Willow Springs a week and a half ago, and I’m wearing a layer of dust and dirt for every mile of prairie we’ve crossed. My hair, my clothes, my skin all feel like—’’
He held up a hand and glanced down at his own clothes. ‘‘Believe me, I understand. I just think I’m more accustomed to this life than you are.’’
‘‘While that may be . . .’’ She cleared her throat, a gleam in her eyes. ‘‘Let’s just say I want you to have equal time to bathe.’’
Ignoring her droll expression, he motioned again toward the creek. ‘‘There’s a deep enough pool a ways upstream. Not much privacy on the other side of that ridge, but unless you’re shy of an occasional prairie dog or salamander, you should be fine.’’
Unable to miss the perk in her step as she walked away, he watched her until she crested the shallow ridge, about a stone’s throw from where he sat. He scanned the horizon from west to east. The sun had claimed recent safe refuge behind the snow-capped peaks, leaving behind a wide swath of burnished blue. And back to the east, a slivered half moon was just beginning its nightly journey across the sky.
Movement caught his eye.
He spotted the top of Annabelle’s head. Her left arm came up, then her right, then a piece of clothing appeared. Realizing what she was doing—and what he was doing—he looked away. But he could still see the image in his mind. Deciding he needed more of a deterrent, he got up and moved to the opposite side of the fire, where his back would be to her. The view this way wasn’t nearly as nice, but it was far less tempting.
He finished another biscuit, downed the last of his coffee, and poured another cup. Then slowly, begrudgingly, a truth began to unfold inside him. One that, until that moment, had only loitered at the edge of his thoughts. He understood now how Johnny could have grown to care for this woman.
He lowered his head. Johnny . . .
Not a day went by that he didn’t miss his brother and wonder what things would be like if he were still here. Matthew winced, remembering the last time he’d seen him. That night in the shack. The heat—and regret—of their argument crept back into his chest.
‘‘She doesn’t love you, Johnny. She’s only using you. You know that, right?’’ He had glanced at the closed door of the back room where Annabelle had disappeared, unconcerned about her overhearing.
Johnny, normally swift to retaliate, smiled instead. ‘‘I know that, Matthew.’’
Matthew raised his hands in disbelief. ‘‘So, are you just having some fun here? Is that what this is about? Not having to pay for it this time?’’ Johnny’s expression darkened, and Matthew knew he’d touched an old nerve.
‘‘Be careful, Matthew.’’ He spoke the words quietly. ‘‘I love Annabelle. She’s my wife, and I won’t tolerate anyone disgracing her. Even
you.’’
‘‘Disgracing her!’’ He barely managed to stifle a curse. ‘‘She’s a whore, for—’’
The next thing Matthew knew he was flat on his back, sprawled on the dirt floor. Johnny towered over him. The left side of Matthew’s face throbbed. He tasted blood. Johnny held out a hand, but Matthew shoved it aside and struggled to his feet, still unsteady.
‘‘I won’t stand for you talkin’ that way about my wife.’’ Johnny shook his head and rubbed his fist. ‘‘I’m sorry, Matthew. My temper still gets the best of me from time to time.’’
Unable to ignore the sincerity in his brother’s voice, Matthew worked his jaw. ‘‘Nice to know some things haven’t changed in the past eight years.’’ Blinking to clear the fog from his head, he retrieved his hat from where it had landed and knocked it against his thigh.
He could try and take his best shot right now, and he figured Johnny might even let him. He’d grown up being thankful for his brother’s size—the same brute strength that had just laid him out flat had also saved his life, more than once.
Matthew shifted his weight. ‘‘If you knew the only reason she married you was to get out of the brothel, why’d you do it?’’
Johnny lifted a brow. ‘‘I never said that was the only reason she married me. I was agreein’ to the part about her not loving me.’’
Johnny’s gaze trailed to the closed door as he crossed the small space in four long strides. He added another log to the flames and watched the sparks shoot up the crumbling chimney as he eased his tall frame into the rocking chair. The wooden joints creaked in complaint, as though at any moment they might admit defeat and surrender. ‘‘I know Annabelle doesn’t love me, Matthew.’’ His voice grew soft. ‘‘Not yet, anyway—not like that. But she will, given time. I’m trustin’ she’ll learn to love me.’’
‘‘Trusting she’ll learn to—’’ Matthew gave a sharp exhale. ‘‘Do you really think a—’’
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