Revealed

by Tamera Alexander

  Matthew was already to the edge of the street when he caught himself and stopped short. What was he going to do? Walk over there and accuse her of something when he had no solid proof? He knew her well enough to know she’d lie. At the drop of a hat she’d be spinning another web of deceit. No, he would have to catch her in the act, where she would have no excuse. How could Johnny have ever cared for a woman like her?

  He strode to his horse, then rode the long way around town back to camp.

  Annabelle snuck a glimpse at Matthew beside her on the buckboard but didn’t attempt to draw him into conversation. Not after having failed twice already that morning. She’d been pleased to find him still awake last night when she’d arrived back at camp and had hoped for the chance to talk with him, maybe begin to smooth things over between them. But the cold, stony silence he had presented told her, yet again, that this was going to be a long journey to Idaho.

  Last night’s venture into Denver had turned up nothing. No one admitted to having seen Sadie or to having heard anything about a girl matching her description. Annabelle had, however, run into an old ‘‘friend’’ in the gaming hall. He’d followed her outside, interested in something more. When she told him she’d left that life, he’d laughed. As though she’d been joking. Remembering his response deepened her appreciation, yet again, for Jonathan McCutchens, as well as for the man sitting beside her now.

  If not for Matthew Taylor, she might never have met Jonathan. Smiling, she snuck another look beside her and toyed with the idea of sharing that tidbit of truth. Yet she very much doubted that Matthew would find that poignancy of fate very amusing at the moment.

  They stopped at midday to rest and to water and tend the animals. Matthew prepared to change out the lead horses while she went about preparing their lunch. Cold biscuits and salted pork. No time to build a fire; that would wait until evening. As she filled his plate and set it aside for him, she remembered the empty tin she’d seen by his cooled fire the morning after their first night on the trail. He had told her he’d already eaten and wasn’t hungry, but apparently he’d changed his mind during the night. Either that or thrown the food aside. Stubborn man.

  They each went about their duties in silence. Matthew finally grabbed his tin, snapped a hasty thank-you, and walked to where the animals were tethered. He had yet to ask her about where she’d gone last night in Denver. It would seem that the pledge he’d made to Pastor Carlson about seeing her safely to Idaho only covered their time on the trail itself. If she got harmed, maimed, or killed while in town on her ‘‘own’’ time, apparently that was her own misfortune. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought, knowing the comment would have coaxed a grin from Hannah as well.

  When the horses were hitched again and they were ready to move out, Annabelle walked on ahead, leaving Matthew to follow behind her in the wagon. She pulled her bonnet farther over her forehead to help shield her face from the noonday sun. It felt good to walk for a while and even better to put some distance between her and Matthew Taylor.

  That afternoon and into the next day, miles of vacuous plains accumulated behind them until Annabelle started to feel as though they were the last two people on earth. A frightening thought at best. She wanted to believe that some of the terrain seemed vaguely familiar from having passed this way before with Jonathan and Jack Brennan’s group, but she honestly couldn’t say she recognized it. The endless subtle rise and fall of barren land all looked the same, until late that afternoon. . . .

  Sitting beside Matthew on the buckboard, she saw something in the distance, standing alone and abandoned on the plains, like a forgotten memorial. Realization set in and a quick rush of air left her lungs.

  She leaned forward as the wagon drew closer. ‘‘Matthew! Stop the wagon, please.’’

  He made no indication of heeding her request. ‘‘It’s just a pile of stuff someone left behind. Nothing we need.’’

  ‘‘I asked you to stop the wagon, Mr. Taylor.’’ She looked over at him, impatience warring with her joy. ‘‘Please,’’ she added again, more firmly this time.

  Giving her a dark look, Matthew obliged and abruptly pulled back on the reins. His sudden obedience jolted her back on the bench seat, and she sensed his satisfaction.

  Too overjoyed to let his mood tarnish the moment, Annabelle climbed down from the wagon and went to stand before the familiar pinewood dresser. How had it slipped her mind to watch for it along the way? She ran a hand across the top, hardly believing it was still there. The trail of her hand left a smear of dirt in its path, caking her fingers with it. She smiled and brushed the dirt away.

  ‘‘We don’t have room for anything else. We’re full enough as it is.’’

  Ignoring his voice behind her, she took in the condition of the dresser. The second drawer was missing, but other than being in need of a good scrubbing—and the same could be said for her—it was in good shape. She glanced at the few crates she’d been forced to leave behind and discovered them empty. Remnants of a campfire nearby provided answer as to the whereabouts of the missing drawer, and a smattering of paw prints dotted the area.

  Already anticipating Matthew’s reaction, Annabelle began removing the empty drawers. ‘‘Would you climb down and help me with this please?’’

  ‘‘You’re not serious. . . .’’

  ‘‘Do I sound like I’m joking, Mr. Taylor?’’ She hefted one of the solidly built drawers and deposited it near the back of the wagon, mindful not to overdo it with the child growing inside her. Walking back, she noticed Matthew hadn’t budged. ‘‘You’re wasting time, Mr. Taylor.’’ She tried for a lighter tone. ‘‘And like they say, time is a valuable commodity.’’

  ‘‘You’d definitely know about that, wouldn’t you, ma’am?’’

  Annabelle stopped in her tracks, her back to him. So that’s what this stony silence from him was still about—what she used to do in her former life. She turned. Matthew’s eyes, the set of his jaw . . . everything about him said he was itching for a fight. But she knew just what to say to take it right out of him, and she would manage it without uttering a single hateful word.

  ‘‘My husband . . . your brother, Jonathan . . .’’ She paused as a sudden hush fell around her at the mention of Jonathan’s name. Even the wind seemed to linger for a moment, waiting to hear what she would say. Her heart beat faster, yet her voice held steady. ‘‘He fashioned this dresser for me as a wedding gift, and I’m not leaving it behind. Not for a second time.’’

  Matthew opened his mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it. His gaze moved to the piece of furniture behind her, and gradually all anger drained from his expression. She could almost read his thoughts by the varying shadows playing across his face—this was the place where his older brother had finally grown so ill and weak that he had taken to bed in the wagon and died. That’s why these items had been left behind.

  Moments passed. Neither of them spoke.

  Matthew lifted his eyes to the western horizon, where the mountains were bathed in purple gray and the sun was slowly wedging itself behind their highest snowy peaks. Perhaps he too was sensing whatever it was that she’d felt moments before.

  He set the brake and climbed down. ‘‘We’ll camp here for the night.’’ His voice had grown quiet. He set about unhitching the team. ‘‘Leave it,’’ he said softly when she started to lift another drawer. ‘‘You get dinner on. I’ll see to that.’’

  Nothing in his voice hinted at command. Quite the contrary, so Annabelle did as he requested.

  Throughout the evening, she watched as he went about his tasks with the efficiency she’d quickly grown accustomed to seeing from him. He worked with a thoroughness that bespoke pride in seeing a job well done. But there was a certain solitude about him now that kept drawing her attention back, especially when he took such care in wiping down the dresser before loading it into the back of the wagon. She had planned on cleaning it herself but held back when she saw him.


  By the time she laid her head on the pallet that night, Annabelle thought she’d figured out what he had been doing. Across the camp, Matthew lay by his own fire, facing away from her. She rolled onto her back and stared up into the night sky, letting her eyes wander from star to star, and finding that there were so many she could scarcely focus on one without another sneaking into her view.

  Perhaps in some odd way, in Matthew’s wiping away the dust and dirt from that dresser, in having his hands follow the same smooth lines that his older brother had cut and planed, he had been laying Jonathan to rest. And perhaps the common love they both still held for one man—this tenuous tender thread that had so far caused them such discord—would prove to be the very thing that might one day bring them both peace.

  CHAPTER | TWENTY

  GATHERING HER WITS ABOUT HER, Annabelle walked through the open doors of the saloon, breathing a silent prayer. God, please guide my steps tonight. If Sadie is here, let me find her.

  Dusk had descended by the time she and Matthew made camp on the outskirts of Parkston, a tiny trail town tucked along the northern border of the Colorado Territory. For some reason she couldn’t explain, she hadn’t wanted to tell him where she was going that evening, or even that she was going into town. So this time, unlike Denver, she purposefully waited until he was asleep before slipping away. The passing of the last two days had birthed an increasingly comfortable truce between them. Though she wouldn’t go so far as to label Matthew chatty, they had begun to talk some, and she hated to do anything to upset that delicate balance. Besides, she very much doubted that Matthew would approve of or lend his support to what she was doing.

  Dissonant chords from an out-of-tune piano compounded the noise in the smoke-filled saloon. A barkeep pounded the assemblage of ivories mercilessly, mangling the bawdy tune Annabelle knew only too well. She counted about twenty tables, every one of them full. Patrons not playing cards either watched from afar or stood hunched over their drinks at the bar.

  She scanned the room for women. Five worked the tables and a sixth was headed up the side staircase, a man in tow. Annabelle’s gaze connected with the bartender. He was already watching her.

  She smiled. He didn’t.

  Burly and baldheaded, he went back to his work, but she knew full well that his attention was focused on her as she wove her way through the tables toward him. If Sadie was here, or had been in the past, this man would know.

  She’d brought her money with her, all of it, secured in a pouch and tied around her upper thigh, where it couldn’t be easily taken, and certainly not without her knowledge. She wished now that she’d left some coins out for a drink. Not that she drank. That vice had lost its appeal years ago, after she had seen time and time again the price it extracted. Like she’d read in one of Patrick’s sermons . . . alcohol gave with one hand while thieving with two.

  She edged her way between two men at the bar, creating a space close to where the bartender stood. The men moved but gave her the once-over—that scrutiny men gave women when they were imagining what they looked like uncovered. At least that’s how Sadie said it. Annabelle remembered the night Sadie first used the phrase, soft and low with that accent of hers, and how all the other girls had laughed. The memory deepened her determination to find the child.

  The man to Annabelle’s right wore a confident expression she recognized. He smiled and opened his mouth to say something, but when met with her glare, his hope withered. He moved away.

  ‘‘Who’re you lookin’ for?’’ The bartender’s muscular arms were spread wide on the counter before her.

  Annabelle resisted the urge to back up, knowing any sign of weakness would cost her. This man wasn’t just burly, he was massive. His right hand dwarfed the bottle of whiskey he cradled, his thick fingers overlapping the lower half. She could only imagine what those hands would look like fisted. He wouldn’t appreciate being toyed with, and she had no intention of trying.

  ‘‘A young girl. She might’ve come through here within the last five or six months, give or take.’’

  ‘‘A lot of young girls come through here.’’ He reached for a glass, poured a shot, and set it in front of her.

  She shook her head. ‘‘You’d remember this one. Long dark hair, olive skin, almond-shaped eyes. Exotic looking.’’

  ‘‘When you say young . . .’’

  ‘‘Fifteen. But she looks older.’’

  His focus shifted to somewhere behind her, then back. ‘‘You came here alone.’’

  Her pulse missed a beat at the look in his eyes. She didn’t need to respond; he hadn’t asked a question. She mentally retraced her steps to the door, knowing full well she would not leave the saloon without this man’s consent. She thought of Matthew back at the camp and wished she had confided in him about where she was going. Not that he would’ve agreed once he’d discovered her purpose. He wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.

  ‘‘Who sent you?’’

  He knows something. She answered quickly. ‘‘I came alone.’’ Hesitating would give the wrong impression. ‘‘The girl’s name is Sadie. She’s just a child. And she’s also my friend,’’ she added, hoping honesty might entice his openness.

  His gaze wandered over her face, her neck, her bodice. Annabelle stiffened.

  ‘‘Meet me in the back room. Five minutes.’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘You misun—’’

  ‘‘I said five minutes.’’ In one fluid motion he drained the shot glass in front of her and thunked it down hard beside her hand. ‘‘That part’s not open for discussion.’’

  With a quick jerk of his head, he motioned to the door off to the side behind him, and Annabelle felt a lead weight drop into the pit of her stomach. He made a show of looking down at the bar. She traced his focus to her hand resting on the rail. She was trembling.

  ‘‘Wait for me inside.’’ A dark gleam lit his eyes. As he reached for the shot glass, his hand brushed across hers, gave it the slightest squeeze. He then turned away, but not before she caught a subtle change in his features. At least she thought she saw something. It happened so fast she couldn’t be certain.

  Heart racing, she scanned the crowded room. The din of noise pressed in around her, mingling with the cigar smoke, making it difficult to breathe. Was she reading the man right? If so, she was one step closer to finding Sadie. If not . . . Oh, God, if not . . .

  She glanced back at the bar. From the same bottle, he poured himself another drink. He tossed it back and looked straight at her. She couldn’t do this. Her love for Sadie went deep, but what this man was asking for was impossible now. And once she went through that door, there would be no going back.

  Anger suddenly welled up inside her. God had given her so much in these past months, but she’d also done some giving of her own. Making changes in her life, in herself, that would be more to His liking. And this is what He did for her in return? Purposefully, she’d been careful not to ask Him for too much. Because she knew what it was like for someone to take and take and take—and never give anything in return.

  Still, she had expected more from God than this. Tears burned her eyes.

  Clenching her jaw, she turned to leave. She took two steps, then felt herself being lifted from the floor.

  ‘‘I said five minutes. But I’m startin’ to think I won’t need that long.’’

  Raucous laughter rang out from the crowd.

  The room turned upside down as the bartender threw her over his shoulder. The blood rushed to her head. The air left her lungs. He strode toward the door.

  Unable to scream, Annabelle did what came naturally from years of living with the goal of survival. She sank her teeth into the tender flesh of his back. His shirt tasted of sweat and smoke. Gagging, she bit down harder.

  The bartender let out a low growl and grabbed her hair. Searing pain spread across her scalp. The muscles in her jaw went slack, and her head pounded like it might split open. Her upside-down world spun.

>   More laughter from the crowd. ‘‘She’s a spunky one!’’ ‘‘Teach that woman a lesson!’’ ‘‘You might need more than five minutes, after all!’’

  He carried her through the door and down a dark corridor. Annabelle screamed and dug her nails into his upper arm until his flesh gave. He kicked open a door at the end, and tall as he was, she braced herself for the doorframe to catch her backside on the way through. But he ducked just in time.

  He slammed the door behind them. ‘‘You shouldn’t have come here alone, asking questions like that.’’

  Hanging over his back, Annabelle frantically reached above and behind her for his face. Found it and went for his eyes.

  Swearing loudly, he upended her and set her down hard on her feet. ‘‘You’re a spirited little thing—I’ll say that for you.’’

  She dragged in air, trying to right the room’s spin, then lunged for the door.

  He easily blocked her and warded off her blows. ‘‘Calm down and listen to me for a minute.’’

  She scanned the room for a weapon. A straw mattress lay on the floor in the corner, obviously well used. A desk strewn with paper was pushed against the wall. Above the desk, a board cluttered with charcoal portraits of men’s faces stared back. She bolted for the desk and jerked open a drawer.

  The man came from behind, pulled her hand free, and slammed the drawer shut. He pressed her against the desk, trapping her. ‘‘I won’t hurt you. I promise.’’

  His breath was warm against her hair. A tremor started deep inside her. She thought of her child and of the damage this man could inflict with a single blow. Annabelle bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood. To cry or beg would only make it worse.

  After a moment, as though giving her time to calm, he moved away, placing himself again between her and the door.

  ‘‘You will not touch me.’’ She spoke the words slowly, already knowing it was futile. She was no match for him.