Second Chance Bride

by Jane Myers Perrine

  She’d built her new life on a lie. She had to face that and accept the consequences. She had to tell John. Turning back to the bedroom, she picked up Matilda’s valise and packed it so she could collect it and leave after she told John. She had no idea what she’d do or where she’d go, but she knew she had to leave.

  On the bed, she left what didn’t fit inside the suitcase: the clothes she’d worn when she first became Matilda. She no longer was Matilda, but neither was she suddenly Annie MacAllister again. In fact, she had no idea who she was.

  But she knew who she wasn’t. She could no longer pretend to be Matilda. She sat down and wrote a letter to Miss Palfrey, to tell her what had happened to Matilda and beg forgiveness for her lies. Finished, she folded it, slipped it inside an envelope she’d addressed and left it on the desk.

  Now, she had to go tell John. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

  She pushed herself to her feet and stood, drawing herself as straight as possible. After a deep breath, she left the building and headed toward the ranch with steps as reluctant as a woman making her way to the guillotine during the French Revolution.

  John studied numbers on the balance sheet in front of him and made a few corrections. From the front hall, he heard Lucia’s voice, followed by a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  When Matilda entered, he stood. “What a nice surprise.”

  Then he saw that her beautiful eyes were red and swollen. Her hands clenched her purse so tightly that her knuckles were white.

  “What is it?” He started around the desk, but she held up a hand.

  “Please sit down.”

  He wanted to hold her as she swayed in front of the desk, but the clear determination on her face convinced him to obey her request. What was the matter? Why did she look so ill?

  “Lucia,” he shouted, “bring—”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Sit down, my love.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and continued to shake her head. “I need to stand.” She placed her purse on the desk and said what sounded like, “I’m not Matilda Susan Cunningham.”

  She couldn’t have said that.

  “I am not Matilda Susan Cunningham,” she repeated, each word clearly enunciated.

  He frowned. “What? Of course you are.”

  “No.” She fell onto a chair as if her legs would no longer hold her. “You have to listen to me. Be patient. This is hard to tell and hard to understand.” She took a deep breath. “My name is Annie MacAllister. Matilda Cunningham died in the accident. I assumed her identity.”

  “What?” John leaned back in his chair and shook his head, attempting to make sense of her words. “Why?”

  She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Because I’m not a person you’d want to know.”

  He shook his head. “Matilda—”

  “My name is Annie MacAllister. I’m not a schoolteacher. I’ve never even been to school.” She swallowed hard and closed her eyes before speaking. “I wasn’t a moral woman.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “John.” She looked at him, her face pale. “I used to be a prostitute in Weaver City. I got on the stagecoach that day in October to escape that life.”

  It took a few seconds for her words to sink in. When he finally understood what she’d said, he felt as if he were being squeezed by a giant fist. His head hurt and his stomach clenched. Before he realized what he was doing, he stood and asked in tones of shock and bewilderment, “You’re a prostitute?”

  She continued to look at him. “I was.”

  He walked around the desk and glared down at her. “I brought a prostitute here to teach the children?” Then he whispered, “I fell in love with a prostitute?”

  He crossed to the fireplace and leaned against the mantel, his head on his hand. He couldn’t think, couldn’t take in what she’d told him. After almost a minute, he heard her stand.

  He turned around and studied her, not sure if he was angry or wounded, or which hurt more, the deception or the facts. Her lovely face suddenly appeared mottled to him, and her lips curved down in what looked like a death mask. Pity stabbed at him, but he forced it away, thinking of her past and her lies. She stood.

  She put the ring on his desk, then turned and ran from the room. When he heard the front door slam after her, he lurched heavily into the desk chair. He put his face in his hands and felt tears, except that John Matthew Sullivan would never cry over a woman like…

  He didn’t even remember what she called herself—Annie something—but he knew he’d never cry over whoever she said she was. He couldn’t allow himself to grieve for a prostitute.

  When she ran out of the house, Duffy waited for her outside the front door. “Miss Cunningham,” he said as he took off his hat. “Let me take you home.”

  “I don’t have a home,” she whispered, stunned to realize that truth.

  He took a step toward her and reached to support her but she pulled away.

  “I’ll have the wagon hitched up in a few minutes. Come down to the stable and wait. I’ll give you a ride back to the schoolhouse.”

  “Did you hear what happened? What he said?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I was workin’ next to the window. I’m real sorry. You’ve had a rough time. Now you come down here and sit down while I get the wagon ready,” he said, attempting to take her arm again. “Mr. Sullivan doesn’t mean those things. He’s upset now.”

  She pushed his hand away. “Thank you, Duffy, but you know he does. And you’ll get in trouble if you help me.”

  “You think I care about that?”

  “But I do, Duffy. I don’t want anyone to get in trouble because of me.” She attempted to smile at him but couldn’t. “I have to…” She stopped. She really had no idea what she had to do because a tiny part of her had hoped John would forgive her, accept her. What now?

  “Thank you,” she said, and started to walk back toward the schoolhouse.

  Halfway there, Annie heard a vehicle coming up the road. She looked around, ready to run toward the trees and hide. She didn’t want to see anyone. But before she could move, Amanda called out to her. Oh, she didn’t want to see Amanda. Annie could only guess how she would recoil when she heard the story.

  “Matilda, where are you going? Do you want to go to town with me?” The phaeton stopped. After a pause, Amanda said, “What’s wrong?” She jumped from the carriage and took her friend’s shoulders. “What happened? Are you hurt?” Amanda took out her handkerchief and wiped Annie’s face.

  “No.” Annie shook her head. “Go away. Leave me alone. You don’t want to be near me,” she croaked. “You don’t want to know me.”

  “Of course I do.” Amanda embraced Annie. “You’re my dear friend.”

  “No.” Annie took a deep breath and pushed her away. Telling Amanda would be nearly as difficult as telling John. “I’m not Matilda Cunningham.”

  “Of course you are, dear.” Amanda took Annie’s hand and helped her into the phaeton. “Let’s get you home.” Before Annie could protest, Amanda had cracked the reins and the horse took off.

  “Matilda Cunningham died in the stagecoach accident. Annie MacAllister survived.”

  Amanda frowned as if trying to understand.

  “I’m not Matilda. I’m Annie MacAllister.” She looked at Amanda and could tell her friend still didn’t understand. Gently, she put her hand on Amanda’s. “Please listen to me.” When her friend pulled the phaeton to a stop in front of the schoolhouse, Annie said, “Before I came here, when I lived in Weaver City, I was a prostitute.”

  Her eyes round, Amanda titled her head to study her friend. Annie had known she’d be upset. Blinking tears back, she turned in her seat to get down from the carriage.

  “You poor dear.” Amanda hugged her again. “That must have been terrible.”

  Annie sat back and gazed at her friend. Tears ran down Amanda’s face. Where was the condemnation s
he’d expected? “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes. Life must have been very difficult for you. You must have suffered and hated every minute of it. Let’s go inside and you can tell me about it, if you want to.”

  “I can’t go back to the schoolhouse.”

  “Did you tell John?” At Annie’s nod, she said, “He didn’t take it at all well, did he?” She sighed. “John is a proud man, too proud of his family and reputation. I’d hoped you’d soften that.” She shook her head. “This would be hard for him to accept.”

  Annie didn’t know how to respond. “I need to pick up my valise and Minnie, and I have a letter to mail.” She looked down at her clenched hands. “I don’t know where I’ll go after that. Probably to the hotel so I can wait for the stage.”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll come live with Cole and me until you decide what to do.”

  “The sheriff won’t want me there.”

  “Of course he will. Matilda, you’re our friend.”

  “And there’s no room.” Annie knew the small house well from her many visits. “The other bedroom is filled with your—” she paused to try to remember what the sheriff had called them “—with your gewgaws.”

  “My friend, you are much more important to me than all the gewgaws in the world. Don’t you know that?”

  Once they had picked up her belongings, Amanda drove Annie to the tiny white cottage with dark blue trim. In front was a trellis, which Amanda planned to fill with roses in a few weeks, whenever it finally rained.

  Amanda helped Annie from the phaeton and supported her up the steps as if she were an invalid. Once inside, Amanda settled her in the sheriff’s comfortable chair. “I have to take the horse to the stable boy,” she said. “I’ll be right back. We’ll talk when Cole gets home,” Amanda said. Before she left, she fixed Annie a cup of tea.

  Annie didn’t know how long it would be before Amanda came back and the sheriff arrived home. While the tea cooled on the table, she sat quietly with Minnie curled on her lap and looked out the window. A few clouds drifted in the sky, more than she’d seen for months. As she watched, the sun sank lower and lower. She reminded herself about the message of Easter. It didn’t help with the pain much now, but it would eventually.

  When the sheriff walked into the house, Amanda took him aside for a few minutes. Then she served dinner, but Annie only pushed the food around on her plate and nibbled on a biscuit. After dinner, they settled around the cleared table.

  “Annie, if you can, will you please tell us what happened?” Amanda put her hand on Annie’s.

  She looked at her friends. Concern showed on both faces. She swallowed and began her story. “My father was a weak man. He married my mother and changed because he loved her.” Annie looked down at her hands. “She died when I was five, and he couldn’t handle her death. He started drinking and gambling. In the end, he lost everything. I started working when I was seven, cleaning houses to support us.”

  “Did he ever hurt you?” Amanda asked gently.

  Annie nodded. “When I didn’t bring enough money home, he’d beat me. Finally I started sleeping outside, when the weather was good enough.” She stopped to calm herself. She’d wished for years she could forget the terror of those days but never had. “The drinking and the fighting got worse. When I was fourteen, he killed a man in the bar and was strung up right there.”

  “Hung?” the sheriff asked.

  Annie nodded. “After that, the good women of the community didn’t want the daughter of a killer in their houses.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t read or write. No one would hire me. I didn’t have any money. I couldn’t even leave town. So I became a prostitute.” She shivered and couldn’t look at her friends. “I hated every minute of it. I saved my money for five years and finally bought a ticket to Trail’s End. You know everything else except that my real name is Annie MacAllister. The woman who died on the stagecoach was the real teacher, Matilda Susan Cunningham. I took her place because…because I knew that was the only way to escape my past.” She gave a forced laugh. “All that effort, and it didn’t work. Didn’t make a bit of difference.”

  “You couldn’t read or write?” the sheriff asked.

  She shook her head. “I taught myself to. I studied every night and taught myself what I needed to know to teach the students the next day.”

  “You are an amazing woman.” Amanda shook her head. “You are courageous and remarkable. I can’t believe you taught yourself all that.”

  She shrugged. “I had to.”

  “Why did you decide to tell John?” the sheriff asked. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I did. I always knew I had to, but I couldn’t find the courage to do it until yesterday. A man from Weaver City saw me and threatened to tell John if I didn’t pay him five hundred dollars.”

  “What’s his name?” The sheriff leaned forward.

  “Willie Preston.”

  “Preston knew you from Weaver City?”

  “Yes, he works for one of the ranchers there, Roy Martin.”

  The sheriff nodded. “I know Roy Martin. Mean as a snake and greedy.”

  Suddenly she began to shiver. She’d stayed calm for hours, but the hopelessness of her future and the loss of John hit her again, hard. And what would people think when they found out who she was? She had to leave town before that happened. She couldn’t face the Johnsons or her students once they found out what she’d been.

  Where would she go?

  Amanda held her. “Matilda or Annie, I don’t care who you are. We’re your friends.”

  The sheriff took her hand. “Stay here until you know what’s ahead for you and where you want to go.”

  Overwhelmed by their kindness and unable to speak, Annie nodded and allowed Amanda to take her to the spare bedroom. All of Amanda’s gewgaws had been shoved in a corner and a small bed had been made up for her. Annie knew she’d never fit.

  Not that it mattered. She doubted if she would sleep anyway. She sat next to Minnie on the side of the bed and clasped her hands. From the parlor, she heard voices, then the sound of the sheriff walking across the room and out the door. From outside on the prairie came the howling of a coyote who sounded as lonely as she felt.

  She tried to sleep but couldn’t stop thinking about how happy she’d been here, and how much she’d loved her students. And then John’s angry face appeared, his furious shouts ringing in her ears over and over.

  “Dear Lord….” She didn’t know what more to say. He knew her sorrow. He shared her grief.

  And He had forgiven her. When she turned her life over to Him, He’d given her a second chance. She clung to that as sleep finally claimed her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Father?” Elizabeth knocked on the door. “May I come in?”

  John turned to look out the window of his study. Dark already. How much time had he spent pacing from one side of the room to the other? Rubbing his hand across his eyes, he moved slowly to the door, feeling as if he’d been very sick, as stiff as if he’d grown old. “What is it?”

  Elizabeth stood before him, her hair braided neatly and wearing her long cotton nightgown. “My prayers. It’s bedtime but you haven’t heard my prayers.”

  “Not tonight.” He didn’t think he could bear to listen to prayers tonight, not when God had deserted him. “Go on to bed. I’ll be up later.” He started to close the door but Elizabeth put her hand up to stop it.

  “Lucia told me Miss Cunningham was here earlier.” She paused. “I didn’t get to see her.”

  What should he tell his daughter? Probably at least part of the truth. “Miss Cunningham had to leave. She came to say goodbye.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me in person? Why is she leaving?”

  “An emergency.” Not a complete lie. “Of course, she wanted to see you, but she didn’t have time.”

  Elizabeth came into the study and sat in one of the chairs. As he watched, he realized how tiny she was, so little she took up less than
half of the chair. How could he tell his daughter exactly what had happened? Of course he couldn’t. She’d never understand. He barely did.

  “When will she be back?”

  “She won’t come back.”

  She looked at him in surprise before her chin trembled. “She won’t come back? She won’t be my mother?”

  He shook his head.

  Elizabeth leaned forward and pointed at the desk. “It’s the ring. She left the ring. She won’t be back.” Her body trembled and tears began. “Doesn’t she love me?”

  “Of course she does.” He kneeled before her. “Sometimes things happen. She didn’t want to leave, but she had to.”

  “Why? If she loved us, she wouldn’t leave us.” She gazed at him, her eyes filled with grief. “Did I do something to make her leave?”

  “No, no. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He took her hand but didn’t know how to comfort her. “She…she just had to go away.”

  “Where did she go? Can I visit her?” she sobbed.

  John stood. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t talk about this anymore. Selfish, he knew, but it hurt too much to respond to the child’s questions. He picked Elizabeth up and cradled her in his arms, holding and rocking her until she fell asleep, worn out from crying.

  “Lucia,” he called. When the woman appeared at the door, he said, “Please take Elizabeth to her room and put her to bed.” He handed his tiny, sleeping daughter to Lucia, then fell back into his chair. If he were a drinking man, he’d probably attempt to lose himself in a bottle, but he wasn’t and knew that indulgence wouldn’t solve the problem or alleviate the pain.

  “How could she have lied to me?” he whispered.

  He would have been happier never knowing, to live with Matilda—or whatever her name was—in happiness and ignorance. He wished she hadn’t told him. But she had. If only he hadn’t been brought up in a family that expected so much from him. Perhaps then he could’ve married a former prostitute without feeling as if he’d betrayed his name.