Revealed Read online

  Praise for Rekindled,

  the first book of the

  FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES

  Alexander has written a charming historical romance that features well-drawn characters and smooth, compelling storytelling that will have readers anxiously awaiting the second installment of the FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES. Highly recommended. . . .

  —Tamara Butler, Library Journal

  (Starred Review)

  It’s a pleasure to read this debut book. Rich prose, a realistic setting and characters, and a compassionate story of love will keep you turning the pages long into the night. . . .

  —Romantic Times

  TOP PICK (4½ stars)

  [A] tenderhearted story of redemption. . . . Rarely does a debut novel combine such a masterful blend of captivating story and technical excellence. Alexander has introduced a delightful cast of winsome characters, and there’s a promise of more stories yet to be told.

  —Kristine Wilson,

  Aspiring Retail

  Tamera Alexander has penned an outstanding debut lyrically rich in life’s lessons and faith in God’s love, featuring two very likeable protagonists. It is generously peopled with memorable secondary characters this reader will be anxious to see in the future books of this series. This is a novel that should easily find its way into your hearts and onto your keeper shelves!

  —Inspirational Romance Writers.com

  A beautifully written and anything-but-old-school inspirational romance. Rekindled . . . is an examination of faith. Not only leaps of spiritual fidelity, but also the faith in self individuals choose when challenged to live their love, as well as their beliefs.

  —Michelle Buonfiglio, Romance:

  B(u)y the Book, WNBC.com/romance

  Books by

  Tamera Alexander

  FROM BETHANY HOUSE PUBLISHERS

  FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES

  Rekindled

  Revealed

  Remembered

  Fountain Creek Chronicles (3 in 1)

  TIMBER RIDGE REFLECTIONS

  From a Distance

  Beyond This Moment

  Within My Heart

  TAMERA

  ALEXANDER

  FOUNTAIN CREEK CHRONICLES | BOOK TWO

  REVEALED

  Revealed

  Copyright © 2006

  Tamera Alexander

  Cover design by Studio Gearbox

  Cover photograph by Steve Gardner, Pixel Works Studio

  Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  Scripture quotations identified NLT are from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception in brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

  Printed in the United States of America

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Alexander, Tamera.

  Revealed / Tamera Alexander.

  p. cm. — (Fountain Creek chronicles ; 2)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7642-0109-7 (pbk.)

  ISBN-10: 0-7642-0109-3 (pbk.)

  1. Ex-prostitutes—Fiction. 2. Widows—Fiction. 3. Fugitives from justice—Fiction. 4. Voyages and travels—Fiction. 5. Frontier and pioneer life—West (U.S.)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601.L3563R48 2006

  813'.6—dc22

  2006019415

  * * *

  DEDICATION

  To Deborah Ackey,

  my 7th grade teacher at Idlewood Elementary School

  in Tucker, Georgia.

  Like a proverbial message in a bottle, this dedication is being cast

  on the waters in hopes that it one day finds you. Years ago you

  read a young girl’s poems and stories, and you gave her hope and

  encouragement, though her work was far from deserving.

  I’ve thought of you often through the years and pray that God has

  blessed you for all you gave to me, and to so many others.

  CONTENT

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER | ONE

  CHAPTER | TWO

  CHAPTER | THREE

  CHAPTER | FOUR

  CHAPTER | FIVE

  CHAPTER | SIX

  CHAPTER | SEVEN

  CHAPTER | EIGHT

  CHAPTER | NINE

  CHAPTER | TEN

  CHAPTER | ELEVEN

  CHAPTER | TWELVE

  CHAPTER | THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER | FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER | FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER | SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER | SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER | EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER | NINETEEN

  CHAPTER | TWENTY

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - ONE

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - TWO

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - THREE

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - FOUR

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - FIVE

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - SIX

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - SEVEN

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - EIGHT

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - NINE

  CHAPTER | THIRTY

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - ONE

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - TWO

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - THREE

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - FOUR

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - FIVE

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - SIX

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - SEVEN

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - EIGHT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Then Jesus told this story to some who had great selfconfidence and scorned everyone else: ‘‘Two men went to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, and the other was a dishonest tax collector. The proud Pharisee stood by himself and prayed this prayer: ‘I thank you, God, that I am not a sinner like everyone else, especially like that tax collector over there! For I never cheat, I don’t sin, I don’t commit adultery, I fast twice a week, and I give you a tenth of my income.’

  ‘‘But the tax collector stood at a distance and dared not even lift his eyes to heaven as he prayed. Instead, he beat his chest in sorrow, saying, ‘O God, be merciful to me, for I am a sinner.’ I tell you, this sinner, not the Pharisee, returned home justified before God. For the proud will be humbled, but the humble will be honored.’’

  LUKE 18:9–14 NLT

  PROLOGUE

  Colorado Territory, May 14, 1870

  In the shadow of the Rockies

  ANNABELLE GRAYSON MCCUTCHENS stared at the dying man beside her and wished, as she had the day she married him, that she loved her husband more. Loved him with the same desire he felt for her. Given all the men she’d known in her past, how was it that now, after meeting a truly good man who loved her despite what she had done and been, her whole heart wouldn’t open fully to him? No matter how she tried.

  Jonathan tried to pull in a deep breath. Sitting beside him, Annabelle cringed as she heard the air thread its way down his throat, barely lifting his barrel chest. The shallow movement of air rattled dull against the fluid in his lungs.

  An ache started deep inside her. How could this solid mountain of a man have been brought low so swiftly? The chest pains had started without warning. But the fatigue and coughing fits Jonathan had experienced in recent weeks had taken on a deeper, more ominous meaning in past days. How
could the heart of a man beat so strong and steady in one sense and yet be fading so quickly in another?

  A breeze whipped the wagon canopy and drew Annabelle’s focus upward toward a languid summer sun, hanging half masked behind the highest Rocky Mountain peaks. A burnt-orange glow bathed the vast eastern plains in promise of the coming twilight. The group they’d set out with from Denver nearly a week ago had waited with them a day, as was the agreement from the outset in such circumstances, in order to see if Jonathan would gain strength. But when Jonathan’s pain worsened and the prospect of recovery dimmed of all hope, Jack Brennan reluctantly explained the group had to push on. They needed to make up for a late departure due to unaccustomed spring rains in order to reach the Idaho Territory before the first snowfall.

  After several minutes Jonathan’s breathing evened. His eyes were closed, and Annabelle wondered if he’d slipped back into sleep.

  ‘‘You’re as pretty as I’ve ever imagined a woman could be, Annabelle.’’ His voice came gentle. He lifted a hand and brushed his fingers across her brow and down her cheek.

  She gave a bleak laugh and shook her head at his foolishness.

  ‘‘Yes, I’m quite the catch. I’m glad you got me when you did, ’cause I had others waiting in line, you know.’’ Seeing his mouth tip on one side, Annabelle smiled.

  She’d been pretty when younger, but beauty was a trait that time—and choices she’d made—had erased from her features, and she knew it. A thin, puckered scar marred the top of her right cheekbone, etching its jagged flesh-colored path up her temple and into her hairline. She’d lived with it for the past fifteen years, and it served as a tangible memory of her first lesson in what some men who had visited the brothel termed pleasure.

  ‘‘What do you think you’re doin’, Annie girl?’’

  Only then did Annabelle become aware of how she was tugging her hair down on that side of her face. Quickly dropping her hand, she laughed in hopes of covering her self-consciousness. The sound came out flat and unconvincing. ‘‘I’m just thinking about how you must find scars attractive, Jonathan McCutchens.’’

  With accustomed gentleness, he caressed her cheek. ‘‘I find you attractive, Mrs. McCutchens. Only you.’’

  His tenderness silenced the ready quip on her tongue, and the ache inside her rose to a steady thrum. She cared more for this man than she had any person in her life, so why couldn’t she coerce her feelings to mirror his? For as far back as she could remember, she’d known that feelings in themselves couldn’t be trusted. Emotions lived for a moment, then faded, and they even turned traitorous, given time. So she’d learned not to give them much heed. She’d simply expected things to be different between them as husband and wife.

  She’d asked God many times to increase her desire for Jonathan.

  But apparently God didn’t listen to prayers of that sort. Or maybe He just didn’t listen to hers.

  ‘‘Thank you for havin’ me as your husband, Annie. I had such plans for us . . . for our child.’’ He moved his hand, and she guided it to rest over the place where their son or daughter was nestled deep inside. Jonathan softly caressed her flat belly as though trying to comfort the tiny babe within.

  His hand moved in slow circles over their child, and she shut her eyes tight as an unwelcome memory fought its way to the surface. She sat there, defenseless and mute, as years-old guilt and shame crept over her again. Pregnancies in brothels were common, but so were aloes and cathartic powders to terminate them, often leaving the girls who took them damaged beyond repair.

  That she was carrying Jonathan’s child was a blessing. That she was pregnant again . . . was a miracle.

  ‘‘I’m so sorry to be leavin’ you like this, Annie. It’s not—’’ His deep voice broke with emotion. ‘‘It’s not turning out like I planned. I’m sorry. . . .’’

  She shook her head and leaned close, bringing her face to within inches of his. ‘‘Don’t you dare say that to me, Jonathan McCutchens,’’ she whispered, laying a cool hand to his forehead. A sigh left him at her touch. ‘‘It’s me who needs to be saying it to you. I . . .’’ Her mouth moved but the words wouldn’t come. Knowing the path her life had taken, most people wouldn’t understand, but intimacy of this nature still felt so foreign. ‘‘I’m sorry for not being the kind of woman you deserved. You’re the—’’ She pushed the words past the uncomfortable knot in her throat. ‘‘You’re the finest man I’ve ever known, Jonathan. And I thank you for . . . for taking me as your wife.’’

  He sighed again, his gaze moving over her face slowly, as though seeing her for the first time. Or maybe the last. Then with a shaky hand, he motioned behind his head, toward the front of the wagon.

  ‘‘There’s something in my pack there. Something I wrote this mornin’.’’

  Annabelle glanced over her shoulder, then back at him. Without asking, she guessed what it was. She gave him a knowing smile, attempting to draw out the truth.

  Jonathan’s focus remained steady.

  His desire to provide for her was noble, but the loathing in his younger brother’s eyes the last time they’d seen him in Willow Springs remained vivid in her memory. Eight long years had passed since the two brothers had last seen one another before that ill-fated reunion last fall. And Matthew Taylor’s reaction that October night seven months ago made her certain that what Jonathan’s letter likely proposed would prove impossible.

  Remembering how the two men had argued, and having been the cause, Annabelle still felt the sting of it. Born of the same woman but to different fathers, the brothers bore little resemblance in stature or mannerisms. Or, it would seem, in disposition.

  Matthew didn’t know she carried his older brother’s child, but that wouldn’t change his feelings about her, or what she had been— what she would always be in his eyes.

  With a small sigh, she shifted in the cramped quarters to retrieve the letter from Jonathan’s pack. She didn’t open the letter but laid it on her lap, then took Jonathan’s hand and leaned close to whisper, ‘‘You know I can’t do this, Jonathan. Even if we knew where he was, I couldn’t ask Matthew for—’’

  His feeble grip tightened. ‘‘It’s not for Matthew. The letter’s . . . for the pastor.’’ A fit of coughing ripped through his body, and he fought for breath, clutching his chest until it passed. ‘‘I wrote it all down—everything. The pastor will know what to do . . . how to help you.’’

  Annabelle smoothed her hand over his, wondering how much time they had left together. One of the women in their group familiar with heart ailments had told her he would only live a day or two at the most.

  Annabelle looked into her husband’s face and glimpsed again what she’d seen that afternoon last summer when they first met in the front parlor of the pastor’s home. Jonathan McCutchens was the most honest man she’d ever known. Not that she’d known many honest men in her life. Kind, with a gentleness that belied his solid six-foot-two-inch frame, and loyal no matter the cost, he’d made his own share of mistakes and was wise to the ways of the world, and to what she had been. He claimed to have loved her from the moment he saw her, and though she didn’t understand how that could be, she cherished the notion that it might be true.

  Studying him in the gathering shadows of the wagon, Annabelle wished she could see herself, just once, as Jonathan saw her. But she knew herself too well to ever imagine seeing anything other than a sullied and tainted woman when she looked in the mirror.

  Something flickered behind Jonathan’s eyes, and she coaxed her tone to resemble more of a statement than the question lingering in her mind. ‘‘So the letter’s for Pastor Carlson, then.’’

  He gave a slow nod. ‘‘I listed out everything. The ranch land waiting for you in Idaho, the bank where our money is.’’

  Annabelle smiled. She’d brought nothing of material value into this marriage, yet he always referred to it as our money.

  ‘‘There should be enough left for you to live on, after the pastor hires a gu
ide to get you there. The ranch is still young, Annie, but it should do well. Carlson can—’’ His breath caught, and he choked.

  Annabelle could hear the sickness filling his lungs as he coughed. She rolled another blanket and stuffed it beneath his head and shoulders in hopes of helping him breathe. ‘‘Shhh . . . I’ll be okay, Jonathan. Don’t you worry about me. I’ll find my way,’’ she assured him, wanting to believe it herself.

  Jonathan’s breathing came raspy and labored. His look grew determined. ‘‘Carlson can hire a trustworthy man to help you meet up with another group headin’ north. The pastor’ll take care of you. I’m sure of it.’’

  His tongue flicked over chapped lips, and Annabelle moistened them again with a damp cloth. Though Jonathan harbored no ill feelings toward his brother—forgiving others seemed the same as drawing breath to him—she knew the wound from the broken relationship had left a scar. She wondered if Matthew realized how deeply Jonathan loved him, and therefore how deeply the rift had hurt him.

  ‘‘I want you to have all that’s mine, Annie. All that I wanted to share with you. Just take Pastor Carlson the letter . . . please.’’

  Dabbing his fevered brow, she finally nodded.

  She could tell he wasn’t convinced. She’d never tried to deceive him—except for that once. But when he’d looked into her eyes that night, he’d known.

  With effort, Jonathan raised his head. ‘‘Annabelle, give me your word you’ll go back to Willow Springs and do as I’ve asked.’’

  After all you’ve done for me, Jonathan. After all you’ve sacrificed . . . She managed a smile. ‘‘I give you my word, Jonathan.’’

  He eased back onto the pallet, the strain in his features lessening.

  ‘‘Would you like more broth? Or more toddy for your cough? I left it warming on the fire.’’

  He nodded without indicating a choice. She knew which would help more and rose to get it. Climbing back into the wagon, Annabelle settled herself beside him and lifted spoonfuls of the warm honey-and-whiskey mixture to his lips. He raised a hand after several swallows, and she put the toddy aside.