‘‘Matthew, are you all right?’’
Her eyes, a deeper blue in the firelight, searched his, and the awareness in them unnerved him.
‘‘I’m fine.’’ He sat up. ‘‘Why are you awake?’’
‘‘I thought I heard something a minute ago.’’ She lifted a shoulder and let it fall.
He ran a hand over his face and reached for his rifle. ‘‘I’ll check things out. Go back to sleep.’’
He made a loop around the camp twice, finding everything quiet. Stopping by the wagon, he stared up into the dark night sky, swallowing hard as the stars began to blur. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t block out the words that kept replaying, over and over, in his mind. Words he regretted more now than when he’d said them in anger last autumn. ‘‘I’m ashamed of you, Johnny. I wish I’d never had a brother.’’
CHAPTER | TWENTY - FIVE
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, Matthew paused just outside a gaming hall in western Wyoming. Rowdy noise from the crowd within carried through the open doors, and a buggy passed behind him on the street. He was thankful Annabelle wasn’t with him, but that didn’t lessen his concern for her since they had parted ways in town moments ago. It had been his idea to handle it this way. At first, she’d put up an argument, but after their experience in Parkston nearly two weeks ago, he’d insisted that he visit the saloons and gaming halls in the towns they passed—despite the risk to him—and that she visit the brothels. He honestly believed she’d be safer since she knew that side of things far better than he did. But more importantly, he didn’t want to risk her discovering the truth about him and what he was running from.
Back in Willow Springs it had bothered him that she might find out and use the knowledge of his gambling debts against him. Now he was concerned she would learn the truth and discover he wasn’t the man she thought he was. Somehow that possibility hurt even more.
That morning, as the sun roused itself from slumber, he had gone to the creek, bathed and washed his clothes, and returned to camp before Annabelle awoke. He’d paused and watched her as she slept, remembering what she’d said about him having equal time to bathe. He’d never met a woman who handed out opinions so freely while still managing to hold other things so close to her vest.
Taking a deep breath, he walked through the open doors of the gaming hall. His goal tonight was simple. He’d order a drink that he would barely touch, ask a few questions, then leave.
‘‘What’ll ya have?’’ A wiry little man with a head too large for his body awaited his response opposite the bar.
‘‘Whiskey, straight up.’’
The bartender poured him a drink, and Matthew couldn’t help but contrast this man’s slight stature to that bear of a bartender back in Parkston. Just his luck . . .
He cleared his throat. ‘‘Where can a man get some entertainment around here?’’
‘‘One street over. Gray clapboard building on the south side. Tell ’em I sent you.’’ The barkeep leaned forward. His eyes grew larger— if that were possible. ‘‘They’re good about keepin’ tally of the clients I send their way, if you know what I mean.’’
Matthew nodded, circling the top of the glass with a forefinger.
‘‘They got all kinds?’’ He took a slow sip.
The man smiled and reached beneath the counter. With the same ease he might use when dealing a hand of draw poker, he laid out five photographs on the bar.
Matthew nearly choked.
The man chuckled. ‘‘They’re somethin’ aren’t they? ’Specially this one.’’ He tapped the corner of a picture with a tobacco-stained forefinger.
Matthew had heard ranch hands talking about photographs like this, but he’d never seen one himself. He scanned the women’s faces, though the pictures had clearly not been taken to showcase those specific features. None of the women appeared to be Chinese, but Annabelle had told him there were ways of making a girl look altogether different, like a woman before her time. Still, he didn’t think any of them could be Sadie, as Annabelle had described her.
With effort, he focused on his drink and cleared his throat.
‘‘How young do they go?’’
The bartender grunted. ‘‘I’m followin’ ya, friend, but you’re about a month late on that one. Had a young one through here around then. Didn’t ever get upstairs to see her, but I heard about her. Far away lookin’ gal, from what I was told. Black hair clear past her waist.’’
Matthew’s heart pounded against his ribs. He could already imagine Annabelle’s reaction at hearing the news. He forced a disappointed sigh. ‘‘But that girl’s not here anymore.’’
‘‘ ’Fraid not.’’
Matthew hesitated, not wanting to appear overeager, but needing to know. ‘‘Any idea where she might be now?’’
The man shook his head, then tapped the picture again. ‘‘But hear me out—this one right here, she’ll for sure . . .’’
Matthew left his drink on the counter with the man prattling on. When he reached the corner where he and Annabelle were supposed to meet and she wasn’t there, he continued in the direction of the brothel and spotted her walking toward him.
‘‘Nothing,’’ she whispered when she got closer, her head bowed.
‘‘I could only talk to the madam, and she wouldn’t tell me a thing.’’
He gently tilted her chin upward. ‘‘Sadie was through here— about a month ago. We’re getting closer, Annabelle. We’re going to find her.’’
Her breath left in a rush. Her eyes misted. She stepped forward like she might hug him, then stopped and clasped his hand between hers instead. ‘‘Thank you, Matthew,’’ she whispered, and gave his hand a brief squeeze before letting go.
Silently, they walked on down the street to where they’d left Manasseh tethered. Matthew snuck a few glances at Annabelle along the way, at a loss to explain the unexpected disappointment dogging his steps.
He yanked the reins free from the post and led the horse around. ‘‘You ride forward this time.’’
‘‘I don’t mind riding in back again.’’ She gestured for him to mount first, as though the matter were settled.
Annoyance quickly replaced Matthew’s disappointment. ‘‘I nearly lost you on the way into town tonight. Twice. And as I recall’’—he tipped one side of his mouth to show it wasn’t that big of a deal, while wondering why he was making it into one—‘‘I told you to hold on.’’
She lifted her chin. ‘‘I did hold on.’’
‘‘To the back of the saddle, yes! But not to me.’’ The response came out gruffer than he intended.
She held his stare for a moment, then shrugged and looked away.
From the way she was acting, a person might get the notion she was shy of touching him, which seemed highly unlikely given her experience. He quickly reviewed the time they’d been on the trail together so far and tried to recall the last time he could remember her purposefully touching him. And couldn’t. Even more frustrating, he didn’t know why that would bother him so much—but it did.
Aware of how harsh his voice had sounded moments before, he intentionally softened it. ‘‘I just don’t want to get back to camp and find you’re not with me, that’s all.’’
She peeked up at him, then smiled and slid a boot into the stirrup. She swung her leg over, quickly situating her skirt. ‘‘Uh-oh . . .’’
Her foot was dangling, still several inches from reaching the stirrup irons. ‘‘I’ll fix it,’’ he said, brushing aside the folds of fabric from her skirt. He searched for the stirrup leather in order to shorten the strap.
She leaned forward and cooed to the horse, whispering in a soft, low voice. The folds of her skirt shifted again and lifted to reveal a shapely calf.
Matthew averted his eyes, trying to focus on his task, but suddenly all he could see were those photographs. It was as if the images were burned into his mind. Without warning, a question jumped to the forefront of his thoughts. ‘‘Did you ever let anyone take pic
tures of you?’’
She stilled at the query, then turned. For a moment all she did was stare. ‘‘No,’’ she finally whispered, ‘‘I did not.’’
Matthew was partly ashamed for having asked, but mostly relieved at her response. She moved her leg as he reached again to shorten the strap, pressing her skirt to her ankle with one hand this time. She did the same when he came around to the other side.
He slid his boot into the stirrup iron, gripped the cantle, and swung up behind her.
She turned her head slightly. ‘‘You saw some photographs. . . .’’
Heat flooded his face. Her statement came out soft, not accusing, yet he felt an accusation anyway. ‘‘I didn’t ask to see them. The bartender just . . . showed them to me.’’
Saying nothing, she faced forward and gave Manasseh a firm prod.
As they rode back to camp, Matthew found himself studying her—the resolute set of her shoulders, slender though they were, and the way her nearly black hair fell across them to hang down her back. He realized then that she wore it done up most of the time. Either that or twisted tight in one long braid that trailed down the center of her back. Still, how had he been with her all this time and missed how long it was? Or how it curled that way at the bottom?
With care, and certain she’d be none the wiser, given the plodding rhythm of the horse, he lifted a strand and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. Silky to the touch, a single curl wound itself around his forefinger with no prompting. He liked her hair better this way. He liked her better this way.
As that thought took firmer hold inside him, he didn’t resist when the gentle curve of her waistline begged for his attention. Unbidden, the pictures he’d seen earlier that night crept back into his vision. Annabelle told him she’d never posed for pictures like that, and he believed her. But countless men had seen her that way. Had been with her . . . that way.
He had gotten a glimpse of what her life had been like, and he wanted to do everything in his power to help her distance herself from it. To give her a fresh start. She wasn’t that woman anymore. Somewhere along the way he’d become convinced of that and had grown to like her in the process. But would he ever be able to truly see her as different? He recognized the good in her, her kindness and compassion. But would he ever be able to look at her, as a man looks at a woman, and not remember what she had been? What she had done?
Matthew stared at the dark curl still encircling his finger, then slowly inched his hand away until the curl’s spiral thinned, could no longer hold, and finally slipped free.
Even if he wanted to care more deeply for Annabelle, her past— and his—would never allow it.
Her hand trembling, Annabelle stared at the spots of blood darkening the white cloth. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Matthew wasn’t back from his scouting ride with Manasseh, then checked a second time. And a third. Each time, the cloth came away with fresh stains.
Moving a hand over her abdomen, she leaned against the wagon for support. It didn’t make sense. She hadn’t experienced any cramping in recent days, she hadn’t been working too hard, and she’d gotten plenty of rest, just like Doc Hadley instructed. He had said bleeding wasn’t wholly uncommon during pregnancy, so her baby was probably still fine. And it wasn’t much blood. Only spotting. She tried to deny the next thought entrance, but it bullied its way past her defenses. And her stomach went cold at its dark whisper. What if she was losing Jonathan’s child? She closed her eyes as a fragile moan rose in her throat.
She took a quick breath and felt wetness on her cheeks. When she heard the distant sound of horse hooves pounding the dry, hard prairie, she repositioned her skirts and hid the cloth. After pouring water over her hands and drying them on her apron, she walked out from behind the wagon.
Matthew was still some distance away, and she watched him ride into camp from the northwest. He and the gelding moved like one as they sailed across the Wyoming prairie, leaving clouds of dust in their wake. Seems the horse liked these early morning rides as much as Matthew did.
They were making good time on their journey and had passed Independence Rock and Devil’s Gate in the past three days. The landmarks were breathtaking in their beauty and encouraged a sense of community within her for the thousands of sojourners who had passed this way before them, some of whom had carved their names into the granite face of Independence Rock.
Annabelle bent to check the coffee, then lifted the lid on the cast-iron skillet. The corn bread was golden brown and crusty, the way she liked it. But her earlier craving for it was gone.
She handed Matthew a cup of coffee when he strode up. ‘‘Be careful—it’s hot.’’
He shook his head, a grin ghosting his features. ‘‘Every morning you tell me that. Like I haven’t just seen you take the pot directly from the coals.’’ He took a cautious sip. ‘‘Mmmm . . . you make good coffee. Thank you.’’
She managed a smile. ‘‘You’re welcome.’’
He quickly glanced at her and away again, then confined his attention to his cup. Clearly, he had something on his mind.
She recalled the night the wolves had attacked and the anguish she’d seen on his face when she roused him. She’d known then that he was wrestling with something—bad dreams, haunting memories, regrets—something that had sunk its talons in and wouldn’t let go.
She was familiar with stories from Matthew’s childhood and knew there was plenty of each to choose from.
The look on his face when he’d shared the news about Sadie earlier in the week had also been telling. She had started to hug him—which honestly surprised her as much as it seemed to have him—but then she’d held back . . . and had sensed his annoyance over it.
She poured herself a mug of coffee and sat on an upturned crate. ‘‘Find anything on your ride this morning?’’
‘‘It’s clear until about two miles out, then there’s a dried-up creek bed that might give us a headache or two.’’ He claimed a seat opposite her. ‘‘I rode up and down a ways each direction, trying to find a better path to cross on but had no luck.’’ He hesitated. ‘‘A couple of days ago, on a fella’s advice in that last town, I chose a route a few miles farther north than the one Brennan indicated on the map you gave me. I was thinking we could meet up with them faster this way, and there weren’t any towns in between where they might have stopped. But seeing that creek bed, I have a better idea now of why Brennan swung to the south.’’
Regret lined his expression. Hearing the same in his tone, she offered a conciliatory nod. ‘‘But if it’s dried up, what does it matter?’’
‘‘It’s rutted with some deep gullies in spots, and there’re plenty of rocks and boulders, and a steep grade on the north slope. We’ll need to clear a path before we can cross, but I can do that easy. It’ll just take me a while. I’ll probably have you ride buckboard when we cross, holding the reins just in case, while I go in front and lead the team. I can watch the wheels better that way too. Together, we can get the wagon across, no problem.’’
She nodded in agreement, her mind drifting back to her earlier discovery that morning. Part of her wanted to confide in him about her fears for the child inside her, while a greater part of her remembered how he’d reacted when he’d first learned about it. He’d not mentioned the baby since leaving Willow Springs, and she wondered if he ever thought about it or if he even believed there was a baby. Knowing there was nothing he could do, she decided to keep it to herself. Besides, God already knew, and maybe His knowing would be enough.
Matthew sliced a piece of corn bread, slathered it with butter, and took a bite. ‘‘Mmmm . . .’’ He held up the remainder, acknowledging his approval.
Annabelle smiled her thanks, her thoughts turning to what awaited them. ‘‘Any idea of how far we are from Idaho? Or when we might meet up with Jack Brennan’s group?’’
He drained his mug. ‘‘We’ve made good progress so far. If we can keep up this pace and fair weather holds, we should meet up
with them in about two weeks’ time. By the fourth of July for sure.’’
‘‘Brennan told Jonathan when we set out from Denver that if he’s on schedule, he doesn’t have the wagons travel that day. They have a celebration that evening with fiddle playing, dancing, games, and lots of food. Even fireworks, from what I remember Jonathan saying.’’ With her being so recently widowed, she knew no one would ask her to dance, but she looked forward to the festivities just the same.
Despite the topic, a somber shadow darkened Matthew’s expression. He refilled his cup and took a slow drink. ‘‘There’s something on my mind. Something I’ve been wanting to say to you.’’
Annabelle thought she knew what was coming, but this man had surprised her before. She kept silent, giving him room to arrange his thoughts.
‘‘That night . . . in the shack.’’ He cleared his throat. ‘‘The one last fall . . .’’ His voice held a gentle inflection, almost like he was asking a question.
As if there could be another night in question. ‘‘Yes, I know what night you’re talking about,’’ she answered softly.
He chewed the inside of his lower lip, hesitating again. ‘‘I said some things to Johnny that I wish I could have taken back before he . . .’’ His jaw clenched briefly. ‘‘Before it was too late. I don’t know why I said them.’’ He sighed. ‘‘No . . . that’s not true. I know exactly why I said them. I was angry and hurt, and saying those things was my way of getting back at him. It always was.’’ He shook his head. ‘‘Since I couldn’t ever hit him hard enough to take him down—’’
‘‘You used words to injure him instead. You’re good at it too.’’ She tempered the truth with a smile. ‘‘But then again . . . so am I.’’
He watched her for a moment, understanding in his gaze. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. That’s something we definitely have in common.’’ He rubbed a hand along his bristled jaw. ‘‘It’s too late for me to tell Johnny I’m sorry, no matter how many times I’ve wished I could, but . . . I can still tell you.’’ It seemed to take all of his concentration to get the next words out. ‘‘I’m sorry, Annabelle. I said some hurtful things about you to my brother that night, knowing you could probably hear every one of them.’’ He paused. ‘‘Am I right to assume that you heard everything Johnny and I said to each other that night?’’
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