Ruth raised luminous blue eyes. She looked like a china doll with pale, porcelain skin and wide, round eyes. “This is for you, Brother Matthew.” She held out a flat rectangular object to him.
Matthew frowned, accepting the gift. “It’s beautiful.”
“I made it. A marker for your Bible.”
“Yes, lovely stitchery. Thank you.”
Triumph flashed in the young woman’s eyes and was gone. “I’m glad you like it.” Her voice was low and sweet.
Angel felt for all the world as if she’d been one-upped in a competition she didn’t understand.
“I’ll show you to your room.” Eleanor bustled by them.
Matthew took Angel’s arm and they followed the woman down a short hallway and up a flight of stairs. There were several doors on either side. Eleanor opened the last door on the right.
“You have a private bathroom. If you need additional towels or blankets, please call me.”
Angel sucked in a breath as she entered the small, old-fashioned room. Her gaze was drawn to the double bed. She fingered the exquisite handmade wedding-ring quilt. “It’s beautiful.”
“Some of the women made it as a wedding gift for you and Matthew. Many of them were friends of Abigail’s.”
But Eleanor hadn’t contributed, that much was clear. There was a bitter edge to her voice when she mentioned Matthew’s mother. Angel wondered whether Eleanor had opposed Jonathon’s marriage to his brother’s wife.
It didn’t matter, Angel supposed, because even Jonathon’s first wife would have had very little say when he chose another bride. She was expected to suffer in silence.
“I imagine you two are tired from traveling and would like to settle into your room. I will lead the Bible reading tonight in Jonathon’s absence. However, it would be understandable if you would like to have your own reading in your room.”
Holy cow. How was she supposed to handle Bible readings when her memory of the book was so sketchy? She’d avoided religion of any kind since her marriage to Kent. Because she had a hard time believing in a God who’d left her to fend for herself.
“I’ll lead Angel in prayer and our reading tonight, Aunt Eleanor. Thank you.”
“Good night.”
Ruth stood in the hallway outside their door, her eyes bright with curiosity. Angel got the distinct impression she was gauging the marital temperature.
“Good night, Eleanor, Ruth.” Angel tucked her hand in Matt’s, smiling up at him. “My husband and I would like to be alone. We’re very…tired.” There, let the little Stepford wannabe process that.
Ruth let out a small squeak of surprise and fled.
Matthew cupped her chin with his hand, rubbing his thumb along her jaw. “Yes, very tired.”
She thought his gesture was for the benefit of their audience, but then she realized the hallway was empty. Eleanor had retreated after Ruth.
He closed the door and hefted their suitcases onto the bed. “Watch yourself around Eleanor,” he murmured. “She’s Uncle Jonathon’s eyes and ears. And sometimes his cojones, though she’d never be foolish enough to let him realize it.”
Angel watched Matthew closely, wondering if his swift change in demeanor was intended to throw her off balance. The tenderness of a few moments ago was gone, replaced with determined movement.
“Jonathon didn’t seem to need any help in the cojones area. The term brass came to mind.”
Matthew smirked. “Probably apt. You’re smart not to allow the veneer of civility fool you. He’s a dangerous man.”
“Duly noted. I’d like to unpack and hit the hay early. I want to keep on top of my game. How do you propose we work out sleeping arrangements?” Angel eyed the full-size bed. She was accustomed to having a queen all to herself.
“I’ll take the floor, of course.”
Playing the part of the subservient wife would be hard enough when people were around. Angel had no intention of being the helpless little woman in private. “We’ll alternate. Flip a coin to see who takes the floor tonight?”
Matthew shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“I will.” She removed a quarter from her purse. Flicking it with her thumb, she said, “Call it,” as the coin spun in the air.
“Heads.”
“You win. You get the bed tonight.”
“No.” His voice was low, firm. “I get to choose. I choose the floor.”
“You’re a stubborn man.”
“Yes, I am. After you unpack, I’ll lead us in Bible study and prayer.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “You’re not serious, are you?”
“Of course. There are some practices I still observe. Not all their precepts are bad.”
“Well, where I come from, we believe in separation of church and state. This is a job and I, for one, don’t want to be subjected to your beliefs in private.”
“Keep your voice down,” Matthew warned. “We don’t know who’s next door. If we’re overheard, it’s best I’m fulfilling my role as the spiritual leader of our family.”
She eyed the adobe, tempted to tap it with her knuckles to check the density of the walls. Until proven otherwise, it was best to assume anything above a whisper could be heard in the next room. “You’re right. I’ll be unpacked in a few minutes. Then I guess I can suffer through a few moments of religious instruction.”
“I promise to keep it short and sweet.”
“Okay.” She lowered her voice. “But one hint of fire and brimstone and we’re done. Comprende?”
Matthew was intrigued by the bits Angel revealed about herself. “No vengeful, merciless God for you?”
“Uh-uh. I’ve found people can be vengeful and merciless enough. Who needs a deity like that?” Though her tone was teasing, there was an underlying edge.
“Who, indeed. We may be more alike than you realize, Angelina. My God is just and loving.”
“If you think you know me, think again. I’m nothing like the women here who meekly follow orders.”
“Wifely submission isn’t on your list of approved reading topics, I take it?”
“Not if you want to live to see tomorrow.”
“Ah, Angelina, when will you learn I won’t be swayed by idle threats?”
“Who said it was idle?”
Matthew smothered a chuckle. Why was he so sure she wouldn’t hurt him?
He was anything but a trusting man. Yet he found himself trusting a woman he barely knew. A woman trained to kill a man if she had to.
But there was an integrity in Angel that drew him. Along with well-hidden vulnerability. He’d felt an instant connection with her, as one survivor recognizing another. It was the only way he could explain his hunch that Angel had overcome something horrific. Because his background investigation hadn’t turned up anything about her life before she’d entered the University of Houston in 1998. It was as if she hadn’t existed before that. Her transcripts had shown transferred community-college credits from Fort Worth, but the college there had no record of her attending.
It was a mystery he was determined to unravel at a later date. But he had more pressing challenges to deal with first.
Angel snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Matt, you gonna stare off into space all night?”
“No, I was just thinking of the perfect reading for our first night as husband and wife under my uncle’s roof.”
He went to his suitcase and unzipped the side compartment. Withdrawing his Bible, he fingered the hand-tooled leather cover. The cowhide had been made supple with the oil from his hands these many years. Made by Matthew’s mother, it had been one of his father’s most prized possessions. One Uncle Jonathon had tried to appropriate along with his brother’s wife. But Abigail had stood firm in her desire that Matthew would inherit his father’s personal things. He only wished she’d stood as firm in her refusal to marry Jonathon.
Angel stepped close. “It’s still so important to you after all you’ve been through?”
; “What’s important?”
She reached out and tentatively touched the intricately rendered scene on the cover. “Religion.”
“No. Religion has no place in my life. God, however, is another story.”
“That’s a fine distinction.”
“No, it’s a huge distinction. One that helped me hold on to something precious.”
Angel opened her mouth, then clamped it shut.
He could tell she was withdrawing. He longed to grasp her shoulders and convince her. But he knew she had to come to him of her own free will. He kept his voice low and nonthreatening, as if discussing a mundane topic like the weather. “What troubles you about my separating God from religion?”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what is it?”
Shaking her head, she stepped away. “You’re entitled to your beliefs, Matt. Just as I’m entitled to mine. Who am I to say you believe in a fairy tale?”
His heart ached for her. How alone she must feel facing the world every day and thinking there was no one to catch her if she fell. He’d been more fortunate. His mother had never allowed him to doubt God’s love. Even in those early days when they’d left the brethren and the world had seemed like a scary, confusing place.
And now, being back among the people with whom he’d once shared meals, a home and practically everything else, the thought of the outside world seemed very far away. God was the only constant.
He touched Angel’s shoulder. “Someday you may want to know why I believe. When you’re ready, we’ll discuss it.”
“Don’t hold your breath.” Her tone was bitter. “I quit believing a long time ago.”
No, you didn’t.
But he knew better than to voice his thoughts. “Like you said to me, you’re entitled to your opinion. Now it’ll only take a minute to find the passage I’m looking for.”
Matthew watched her peripherally while he thumbed through the tissue-thin pages of his Bible. Her movements were jerky as she pulled her things from the suitcase and placed them in the dresser drawer.
“Here it is. First Corinthians, chapter thirteen. ‘Love is patient, love is kind,’” he paused, seeing Angel’s shoulders stiffen. He read more quickly, sensing she might rebel at any moment. The last few verses came out in a rush, “‘Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.’”
Angel turned her back to him.
He’d gone too far. Silently he closed the book.
“Angel?”
“That was some fairy tale, Matt.” Her voice radiated resentment.
“It’s what I believe.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Suddenly the room seemed too small. Matthew needed time alone to regroup. Because Angel’s barbs were starting to get to him. And if he doubted his faith, he had nothing. No defense against the evil his uncle represented. And no hope of overcoming the broken legacy he’d received.
Matthew tucked his Bible in the nightstand drawer. Retrieving his shaving kit from his suitcase, he said, “I think I’ll go shower before bed.”
“Whatever.”
“Yes, whatever,” he said.
Angel released her pent-up breath when the bathroom door clicked shut behind Matthew. She glanced at her shaking hands, trying to summon another dose of anger. Anything to distract her from feeling as if she might jump out of her skin.
Why did she let him get to her like that? He wasn’t the first person to try to convince her healing could be found in the arms of a loving God. He probably wouldn’t be the last. It was the Bible passage he’d chosen, recited in his rich baritone, the conviction in his voice telling her how much he treasured the words.
But all she could think about was how Kent had twisted love. There had been nothing patient or kind about him, at least not after they’d married. He’d isolated her in a matter of months, and then the abuse had started. Toward the end, she’d turned herself inside out to avoid his wrath, to discover what set him off. But there was rarely any rhyme or reason to it. His coiled tension always returned and could only be released through reducing her to a whimpering mess.
Angel shook her head to rid herself of the memories. The past had to stay firmly in the past. She pulled the cotton nightgown from her suitcase. Quickly she changed, folding her clothes and placing them in the dresser.
Her hand hovered over her toiletry bag. She disliked the thought of going to bed without brushing her teeth or washing her face. But she hated the thought of how awkward it would be when Matthew got out of the shower.
After arranging blankets and a pillow on the floor for Matthew, she slid into bed, turning off the bedside lamp. The light from the bathroom would be enough to show him the way to his makeshift bed.
Angel wanted to be sound asleep by the time he finished his shower. Or at the very least appear sound asleep. She slid her hand beneath the pillow and frowned. No weapon. She’d forgotten about shipping her nine-millimeter home on the way to the airport.
Closing her hand over the butt of the weapon was the only part of her nighttime ritual that never changed, even when she was undercover. As a supposed member of whatever gang she was infiltrating, sleeping with a gun under her pillow had never been a problem. At Zion’s Gate, however, it couldn’t be risked.
Damn.
Angel tried counting sheep. She tried the relaxation techniques she’d learned at the hospital. She even tried humming an old Colombian lullaby under her breath. But her eyes refused to close.
The sound of running water ceased. The room was excruciatingly quiet except for the rustle of movement coming through the bathroom door. It wasn’t hard to imagine Matthew toweling dry, the soft terry cloth absorbing droplets of moisture from his body….
Uh-uh. Don’t go there.
Angel rolled onto her side, facing away from the bathroom door. She squeezed her eyes shut even though they felt spring-loaded. The last thing she wanted was to share intimate conversation in the dark with Matthew. Habit prodded her to once again tuck her hand under the pillow, where she felt only the cool cotton sheet.
Panic made her pulse pound in the darkness. For a split second, she was back in the home she’d shared with her husband, waiting helplessly for him to come to bed, wondering if tonight would be the night he’d kill her.
Angel heard the bathroom doorknob turn. Opening her eyes, she reassured herself she wasn’t back in Fort Worth, waiting for Kent. She rolled to the other side.
“Can’t sleep?” Matthew’s voice was husky. He was silhouetted in the light from the bathroom.
“Keyed up, I guess.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m tired but wired.”
“That’s it exactly. Would you mind leaving the bathroom light on and cracking the door?”
“Sure.” He complied with her request, making his way to his pallet. “Better get some sleep if you can—you’ll need it tomorrow. You’ll probably meet the rest of Uncle Jonathon’s wives and children. I imagine it can be quite overwhelming to someone not raised in a communal atmosphere. I have to admit, even I’m a little uneasy.”
Angel propped her arm under her head so she could see Matt’s outline on the floor next to the bed. “Is it weird being back with your uncle Jonathon? Or have you had a chance to process it yet?”
“It’s…difficult. I have to keep a rein on my emotions. Distance myself from the past.”
Angel was surprised by his admission. Not many men would be that aware. Or if they were, they certainly wouldn’t admit it.
“What was it like living with the brethren?”
He hesitated for a moment. “I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood. It was a wonderful way to grow up. My father loved all of us. We had plenty of room to roam, but plenty of guidance, too. It gave me a sense of belonging, community, shared ideals. Everyone was happy.”
Angel thought it sounded a little too good to be true. “And after your father died?”
/> “It was very different. Now go to sleep.”
Angel bristled at his authoritarian tone. “I can’t. I’m wide-awake.”
“Strange place?”
“Yes,” she lied.
“What do you do when you work undercover? Go home every night?”
“When I work undercover, I have my weapon.”
“And you don’t here.”
“No, I don’t.”
“I think I understand.”
“You don’t understand squat, Matt.”
He chuckled in the dark. “I stand corrected. How about if I told you a few stories of my youth?”
“That’d be enough to send me off to sleep, I’m sure. All that bucolic stuff.”
“I’ll tell you about the calf I raised one year. He followed me around like a dog. I wasn’t supposed to name him because I’d get attached and he was raised for food.”
“But you named him anyway.” Angel could almost imagine him as a tow-headed boy leading around a calf. And maybe getting into mischief once in a while.
“His name was Spot. Very original.”
“Probably better than Cheeseburger,” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering.
Matthew chuckled. He told her stories of Spot and the numerous barnyard cats. Of catching frogs and fireflies. And of making apple cider.
Contentment stole through Angel. It was surprisingly nice, here in the dark, talking to Matt. She snuggled deeper under the covers. Her eyes closed, her breathing deepened….
CHAPTER FIVE
ELEANOR GESTURED toward an empty space at the oblong dining room table. “You may sit there.”
“Thank you,” Angel murmured. The wooden chair was hard and unyielding against her rear.
Angel glanced at the two empty picnic-style tables. “When do the children eat?”
“My children are grown. Their bedrooms upstairs were converted to classrooms. The younger children come here every morning for classes. I used to do all the teaching, but Ruth is fulfilling many of the duties.”
“I see.”
Eleanor pursed her lips. “I hope you slept well.”
Angel got the impression she hoped the opposite was true. Sarcasm didn’t suit the older woman.
Carrie Weaver - Count on a Cop Page 4