Hannah tossed Kathryn a look. ‘‘Oh I don’t know about that, Mrs. Jennings. You could give her a run for her money.’’
Kathryn’s mouth fell open. ‘‘And just whose side do you think you’re on, Mrs. Carlson?’’
Annabelle enjoyed the way they playfully went after each other. Oh how she would miss these women. Struck with an idea, she cleared her throat. ‘‘I don’t claim to be knowin’ whose side anyone is on, my dears,’’ she said, surprising them with her best Miss Maudie imitation, ‘‘but I’m for sure knowin’ that God must’ve cut us three such fine women from the same cloth, don’tcha know.’’
She was certain their laughter could be heard halfway to town.
‘‘It’s the relationship between you that concerns me most, Matthew. That’s what I’m unsure about.’’
Matthew and Pastor Carlson strode from the wagon into the barn. Matthew tugged his gloves into place, then hefted two of the remaining boxes. A few more trips and they would have everything. He hadn’t slept well last night, unable to shake the feeling that something bad was about to happen.
Not wanting to leave things with Pastor Carlson on a bad note, Matthew worked to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘‘What do you mean, Pastor, when you say, ‘the relationship’?’’
‘‘I mean the two of you heading out together like this, barely able to talk to each other.’’ Carlson grabbed two boxes and fell in step behind him.
‘‘That’s not true, Pastor. We talk.’’ When she left him no choice. Carlson huffed. ‘‘Yes, when you have to, and then it’s with clipped answers. And there seems to be this . . . undercurrent running between you two, like the creek when it swells with the spring thaw. There’s always the potential for danger.’’
Stalling for a response to that last comment, Matthew set his load down by the wagon and went back to the barn. He wasn’t partial to conversation this early in the day—especially one that struck such a deep nerve. At least Jennings wasn’t present to hear this. He was helping the women inside.
Undercurrent . . . Matthew sighed. That was a good way to describe what he felt when he was with Annabelle. Something hidden passing between them that he couldn’t see, and didn’t care for. And even worse, couldn’t predict. They’d be talking about one thing when he’d suddenly get the feeling she meant another. He’d made a pledge to Kathryn Jennings to try and view her ‘‘dear friend’’ differently, but that was one promise he’d be hard-pressed to keep. As far as he was concerned, Annabelle Grayson was still the woman who had tricked his older brother and stolen his own birthright. Selfishness, plain and simple, was why he’d taken this job. He needed to leave Willow Springs, and she was his ticket out. Plus she had something that belonged to him, and he aimed to get it back.
He stacked one box atop another. ‘‘We’re civil to each other, Pastor.’’
‘‘That’s just it, Matthew. You’re civil—sometimes you’re even polite. But you don’t really mean it.’’ Carlson shook his head, his expression heavy with concern. ‘‘At least you don’t seem to from where I stand.’’
Matthew suppressed a sigh. A twofold band of pain stretched from the back of his neck around to both temples. Its steady drum kicked up a notch as he lifted two boxes and retraced his steps to the wagon, with Carlson behind him.
He hadn’t seen Annabelle yet that morning but had heard her laughter coming from the kitchen moments ago—him along with half the townsfolk she’d probably awakened. She tended to laugh a lot when she was with Hannah and Kathryn, and something about overhearing their laughter earlier had sparked a jealousy inside him, one he couldn’t explain and didn’t welcome.
He looked back at the house, almost hoping she wouldn’t be ready on time. He would enjoy seeing the look on her face when he reminded her that she’d wanted to leave right at sunrise. Just thinking about it lightened his mood.
Carlson dumped his load beside the wagon and let out a sigh. Matthew sincerely wished he could say whatever it was the man wanted to hear.
‘‘Pastor, I get what you’re trying to say—I think I do, anyway. And I understand your concern. I’ll admit there’re moments I even share it. I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, headin’ across the plains with that woman. But she hired me, I accepted the job, and we’re leaving within the hour.’’ He hesitated, bowing his head. None of that had come out right. ‘‘Sir, it’s like you’re asking me to change how I feel down deep, and I can’t. Not just like that. Every time I look at her, I see my brother, and I’m reminded that . . .’’ Emotion tightened his throat. Matthew looked away, gauging how much to share. Bringing up the issue of the land would only further muddy the waters, as would mentioning Annabelle’s partial admission of why she’d married Johnny in the first place. Best to stick to the more general truth. ‘‘I’m reminded that Johnny’s not coming back. And I can’t help but wonder if things might’ve been different if he’d never met her. If she was still in that brothel.’’
Carlson took a minute to answer. ‘‘So you blame Annabelle for Jonathan’s death?’’
Matthew thought of his mother. Was it possible that Johnny had died the same way? From the same thing? He couldn’t be sure and knew he’d never be able to prove it one way or the other. With effort, he finally managed to shake his head in answer to Carlson’s question, but mainly because it was the response the pastor wanted. He still held Annabelle Grayson partially responsible.
Carlson stared for a moment, gray twilight masking his expression. From the set of his shoulders as he walked back into the barn, Matthew could tell he hadn’t believed him.
Matthew slid a few of the boxes into the wagon and started to climb in. He paused and looked west, wishing he could tuck the view before him inside his pocket. The mountains he loved rose to their lofty height, their jagged peaks etched purple-black and barely discernable against a dark mantle of sky. The meadows beside the Carlsons’ house were still and quiet. So peaceful. If only he had that same peace inside him.
Estimating a half hour at best before the sun crested the horizon, he climbed into the tarp-covered wagon. Shadows steeped the interior. He secured a rope around a group of crates and pulled it taut.
‘‘Where do you want this?’’
Matthew looked up to see Carlson balancing a fifty-pound sack of flour on his shoulder. ‘‘Over here.’’ He hoisted the sack, wedged it between a trunk and another crate in the center of the wagon, and draped it with an oiled cloth to guard against moisture.
‘‘You’ll be on the trail for a long time, Matthew. Alone. Just the two of you. At night.’’
Matthew’s head came up. Up to that point, he’d admired Carlson’s straightforwardness. Now he found it grating. ‘‘If you’re worried about something happening between us, Pastor, don’t be. I give you my word, sir.’’ He gave a quick laugh. ‘‘I won’t touch her.’’
‘‘It’s not so much her virtue that concerns me with you, Matthew. It’s her well-being.’’
Thinking it was a mite late to be worrying about the woman’s virtue, Matthew stood as tall as he could in the cramped quarters and looked down. He tried to gauge where Carlson was heading. That patient look of his revealed nothing. The pastor would’ve made quite the gambler had he ever been inclined. Matthew’s pockets felt lighter just thinking about it. Clamping a tight lid on that thought before it went any further, he jumped down from the wagon bed.
The pounding in his temples rose to a steady thrum. He needed coffee.
‘‘I’ve agreed to get Mrs. McCutchens safely to the Idaho Territory, and that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ve got experience on the trail. I know what to expect and what to watch for. . . .’’ When Carlson didn’t respond, Matthew rubbed the muscles cording the left side of his neck and blew out a weary breath. ‘‘I already gave you my word, sir. What else do you want?’’
‘‘I want the tone of your voice to match the seriousness of the pledge you’ve made, Mr. Taylor. That’s what I want.’’
Wordless
in the face of such harsh honesty, Matthew could only stare. He liked Patrick Carlson, had quickly grown to respect him, and it stung to think that if the pastor had made the decision of which man to hire, Bertram Colby would probably be standing by the wagon this morning. His guess was that Carlson had counseled Annabelle against hiring him too. That realization was sobering. Once again he had failed to live up to someone’s expectations.
They shouldered the last load from the barn in silence.
Carlson set his boxes on the ground beside Matthew’s. ‘‘Before you leave this morning, Matthew’’—his tone softened—‘‘I’d like one assurance.’’
Matthew nodded.
‘‘Promise me you’ll take proper care of Jonathan McCutchens’ wife. Regardless of what you think of her, Jonathan chose Annabelle. He loved her. And I feel a keen sense of obligation to Jonathan in that regard, and a responsibility to see that Jonathan’s last wishes are seen to.’’
When Matthew heard the word obligation coupled with his brother’s name, every thought was swept from his mind, save one. The appreciation that he’d returned to show Johnny didn’t have to go altogether undone, no matter his feelings. He’d get Annabelle Grayson safely to Idaho. Not for her sake, but for Johnny’s.
He looked Carlson straight in the eye. ‘‘These past few days haven’t been easy ones for me, sir. Or for her, I realize. I’ve been abrupt and short with you at times, and I apologize. I’ll gladly tell the same to Mrs. McCutchens when I see her this morning.’’ If that would help matters any. ‘‘I’ve had a lot thrown at me since comin’ back here, but I’ve got a job to do and I aim to do it well. So, in answer to your question . . . yes, sir. I give you my word. I’ll take proper care of Annabelle McCutchens, and I’ll see her safely to Idaho.’’
Carlson stared through the dark, then finally laid a hand on Matthew’s shoulder and nodded once.
‘‘Here you are, gentlemen.’’ Hannah appeared from around the corner of the wagon holding two cups brimming with steaming coffee. ‘‘We’re almost done inside—just finishing up.’’ She handed each of them a mug and walked back to the house.
Carlson leaned against the back of the wagon and took a long, slow sip. Matthew joined him. The coffee washed down the back of his throat, and he savored the rich smoothness. ‘‘Your wife sure makes a good cup of coffee. I’ll miss that on the trail.’’
‘‘You shouldn’t have to miss it much. Annabelle made the coffee this morning.’’ As though anticipating Matthew’s disbelief, Carlson nodded. ‘‘Hannah taught her how to cook before she and Jonathan moved to Denver. It took a while, but Annabelle finally caught on. She makes the lightest baking powder biscuits you’ve ever tasted. They were Jonathan’s favorites.’’ He winked. ‘‘They’re every bit as good as Hannah’s, but don’t tell Hannah I said that.’’
Thankful for the lighter turn in conversation, Matthew remained quiet and let Carlson set the pace, never doubting that he would.
‘‘Jonathan and Annabelle first met here, in our home. Did you know that?’’
‘‘You’re jokin’ me, right?’’
Carlson chuckled. ‘‘I’m not, and frankly I’m surprised you never asked me about it. Guess I thought you already knew. They met right here . . . in the preacher’s house,’’ he said with emphasis.
‘‘Hmph. I figured he’d met her at . . . work.’’ Matthew immediately regretted the voiced thought. Johnny had visited brothels in his younger days, and though Matthew didn’t condone it, somehow it seemed different for a man to go there once or twice, or even a few times, than for a woman to choose to make a living at it. ‘‘What I meant to say is that I thought maybe Johnny had—’’
‘‘You don’t have to make excuses for your brother, Matthew. I know Jonathan was a good man. I also know he wasn’t perfect, by a long shot. I’m not a man who normally blushes . . .’’ He gave his head a slight tilt. ‘‘But your brother’s past, well, it had some color to it.’’
Thinking of the antics Johnny had pulled in their younger days, Matthew felt a smile crook one corner of his mouth. ‘‘That’s for sure,’’ he said quietly, his feelings at the moment running bittersweet.
Carlson set his mug on the wagon bed. ‘‘Part of what made being around Jonathan so enjoyable was that he didn’t try to cover up the mistakes he’d made. Don’t get me wrong—he wasn’t proud of them. He just never tried to be someone he wasn’t. Jonathan had this way of making others feel at ease around him . . . no matter who they were.’’
In a way, it felt good to talk about his brother, but it also threatened to open a rush of emotions that he preferred to keep bridled.
‘‘I joined your brother and Annabelle in marriage not far from here.’’ Carlson nodded toward the banks of Fountain Creek. ‘‘Their marriage was legally binding in every sense. As far as the law is concerned . . . and in the eyes of God.’’
It dawned on him what Carlson was saying. ‘‘Pastor, I never doubted they were legally married. My only question to Johnny was why.’’
‘‘Did he tell you?’’
‘‘Not an answer that satisfied.’’
‘‘Are you sure you just weren’t listening closely enough?’’
‘‘I was listening. I just don’t understand why any man would ever choose a woman like that.’’
Carlson surprised him by smiling. ‘‘A woman like that . . .’’ His expression took on that patient look again, as though waiting for Matthew to say more.
Matthew didn’t and felt relief when Carlson finally got up and walked back into the house.
Drinking the last of his coffee—no grounds in the bottom of his cup, he noticed—he set his mug aside and walked to the front of the wagon, where four grays stood hitched and ready. The other two were tethered to the back, alongside the milk cow. He would switch two horses out at a time as they traveled, to give the animals a break from pulling. The team should fare the thousand-mile distance just fine in his estimation—Johnny had chosen well.
The tan gelding also tied to the back pranced and whinnied as though vying for Matthew’s attention. Matthew walked over and gently rubbed the white tuft between Manasseh’s eyes. ‘‘We’re almost ready, boy,’’ he whispered softly. The horse seemed as eager as he was to be on the move again.
‘‘So, Mr. Taylor, are you ready?’’
Annabelle stood waiting by the buckboard, carpetbag in hand. Steeling himself, he walked over to her. ‘‘Yes, I am, Mrs. McCutchens. But first, I . . .’’ His throat constricted. Thinking back to what he’d said to the pastor helped loosen it, but not much. ‘‘I need to offer you an apology, ma’am.’’ Ignoring the rise of her brow, he looked down and briefly focused on the hard-packed dirt beneath his boots. This was more difficult than he’d thought it would be. ‘‘I’ve been abrupt with you in the past few days, and . . .’’ He forced his gaze up. ‘‘And I apologize.’’
She studied him, her expression guarded. Then she looked past his shoulder. Matthew turned to see Patrick Carlson standing with his family by the house, waiting, along with the Jennings family.
‘‘Need,’’ she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear, ‘‘or want, Mr. Taylor?’’
‘‘Beg your pardon, ma’am?’’
‘‘Do you need to offer me an apology, Mr. Taylor? Or do you want to?’’
He slowly gained her meaning. Did the woman never take anything at face value? ‘‘An apology’s been laid on the table, ma’am. Regardless of its motivation.’’ No way was he giving her anything further. She could take it or leave it.
‘‘Oh, but it’s the motivation behind an apology that makes it honest . . . or not.’’
His jaw went rigid. She was a fine one to be talking about honesty. He detected the faintest smile starting, not on her mouth but in those blue eyes of hers. This was the kind of charm that would’ve worked on Johnny, that would’ve attracted him. But it had the exact opposite effect on Matthew. ‘‘My apology stands, Mrs. McCutchens. Do with it as you see fit.’�
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She pursed her lips for a moment as though considering a deal. ‘‘I guess I’ll just have to trust that your motivation is sincere.’’ She threw a believable smile over his shoulder, presumably to their audience. ‘‘I accept your apology, Mr. Taylor,’’ she said more loudly, ‘‘and I appreciate your kind words.’’
He huffed softly, watching the mirth deepen in her eyes. It wasn’t lost on him what she was doing. She’d guessed right about his insincerity, and they both knew it. But she apparently wanted things to appear as if they’d patched up their differences before heading out on the trail. The hypocritical little—
But hadn’t he done the very same thing just moments ago with Carlson? And wasn’t that why he agreed to offer an apology in the first place?
Irritated by the discovery, Matthew reached for his hat on the buckboard, ready to be gone from this town. He only wished he were leaving Annabelle Grayson behind with it.
CHAPTER | EIGHTEEN
ANNABELLE WORKED QUICKLY IN the encroaching darkness.
She gathered clumps of dried prairie grass for tinder and arranged a sparse stack of kindling from the supply they’d brought with them in the wagon. The distance she and Matthew had covered since leaving Willow Springs early that morning left her feeling drained, and strangely at odds with herself.
She scooted close to the pile of kindling and reached for the flint and steel, then spotted him from the corner of her eye. As he untied the horses, she couldn’t help but watch him.
Where Jonathan had been burly and powerfully built, Matthew’s leaner physique enabled him to move with a fluid grace she felt certain he wasn’t aware of. She’d known plenty of men overly assured in their own charm and looks, and while no doubt Matthew Taylor had to be aware of his effect on women, his confidence—the quiet sense of confidence that he wore as comfortably as his weathered leather vest—didn’t strike her as being rooted in self-conceit.
She blinked, realizing he’d caught her staring.
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