Revealed Page 11

  Patrick sat forward. ‘‘Taylor, I’m sure those are all things that—’’ Annabelle shot the pastor a brief smile, then swung her attention back. ‘‘I assume, Mr. Taylor, that the grays are all still in good health. They were when they were purchased a month ago. I don’t know when they were last shod, and to be honest, I’m not sure about the wagon. As I recall, the right rear wheel has a fissure along the outer rim.’’ Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘‘But I’ll leave all that to either you or Mr. Colby to determine.’’ She paused, a slow smile punctuating the authority underlying her words. ‘‘Depending on what I decide this morning.’’

  Matthew caught her meaning and gave a curt nod, silently reevaluating her. The woman could obviously hold her own, and she had a bent for communicating what she truly thought, regardless of what she said. Both traits he greatly admired . . . in a man. ‘‘Your current supplies will need to be inventoried. I realize you were already stocked to be on the trail a good long time, but I’d want to double check your provisions. Whatever’s lacking will need to be ordered and picked up at the mercantile, feed store, and livery. I’d think most of what we need should be in stock this time of year. ’Course all of this will have to be paid for up front, Mrs. McCutchens.’’ He tilted his head. ‘‘And I’m afraid your personal credit won’t be any good to the vendors in this town.’’

  Something flickered across her face, and Matthew knew she’d gotten his meaning.

  She smiled pleasantly. ‘‘No need for credit, Mr. Taylor. I’ll be paying for everything in cash.’’

  Matthew stiffened at the thought, knowing she’d be using Johnny’s money. And his. Annoyed at her confidence, he couldn’t say that her answer had surprised him. With the generous wage she advertised to pay a trail guide, he figured she had money. Johnny had told him last fall that the ranch in Idaho was doing well. Remembering how Johnny used to exaggerate when younger, Matthew hadn’t really believed him. Now he wondered.

  ‘‘I’ll provide the trail guide with the necessary cash so he can purchase the items we need,’’ Annabelle continued. ‘‘Now . . . are there other more pressing issues you can think of, Mr. Taylor, that we need to discuss along these lines?’’

  Feeling dismissed and resenting it, Matthew nodded. ‘‘There’s cooking that needs to be done before we can leave. But I’m afraid that’ll have to be your responsibility.’’ He kept his tone light and tipped one side of his mouth up. ‘‘I won’t be much help in that area.’’

  Bertram Colby let out a guffaw. ‘‘I’m not much of a cook either, Taylor, so she’s outta luck on that with both of us.’’

  Guessing his aim on this would be accurate, Matthew raised a brow and tried for an innocent look. ‘‘So let’s just hope domesticity happens to be among your list of many talents, Mrs. McCutchens.’’ A twinge of satisfaction registered with him at seeing the subtle wrinkle of her brow. ‘‘You’ll need to salt down some pork. Dry some fruit, too, if you’re of a mind to have that while on the trail. You might also consider—’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Taylor, for those suggestions.’’ This time, her smile did not warm the blue of her eyes. ‘‘You’re right in assuming that I’m not too familiar with this type of planning, but Mrs. Carlson has been kind enough to help me. And I think . . . if you were to be given the opportunity,’’ she added, sounding as if he most likely would not, ‘‘you might be surprised to discover that I’m a pretty quick learner when it comes to some things.’’

  Matthew hesitated only a second, his desire to put her in her place temporarily overshadowing his logic. ‘‘Actually that wouldn’t surprise me a bit, ma’am. I was pretty much certain of that fact the moment we met.’’

  He had expected a coolness to frost her expression, but instead it looked as though a candle had been snuffed out behind Annabelle Grayson’s eyes. Immediately, Matthew wished he could take back his last remark, regardless of how good it had felt. Not because he was afraid of hurting the woman—though at the moment, her pained look wasn’t giving him the pleasure he’d anticipated—but because he knew without a doubt that his careless remark had just cost him this job.

  CHAPTER | ELEVEN

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, they sat around the kitchen table. More questions were asked and answered, though Matthew saw little point in it. Annabelle Grayson had already made her decision, and he’d made it easy for her. The subtle looks exchanged between Patrick and Hannah had been impossible to miss. No doubt they would encourage her to hire Colby.

  He caught Annabelle staring at him twice and couldn’t help wondering what she was thinking. Every time he looked at her he thought of Johnny. And every time he thought of Johnny, his dislike for her deepened.

  ‘‘Your wagon tarp could probably stand another oiling too, ma’am,’’ Bertram Colby continued. ‘‘In case of rain. You’ll need to identify everything you plan on takin’ with you, then we’ll work to see if it’ll all fit in.’’ Colby shot a fast grin at Matthew and Patrick. ‘‘Sometimes womenfolk tend to think a farm wagon is as big as a house.’’

  That drew some laughs, and as Mrs. Carlson refilled each of their cups with hot coffee, Bertram Colby told them of furniture and crates of fancy dishes being strewn all the way across Kansas and the Wyoming Territory. ‘‘It’s like a regular mercantile in some parts. ’Ceptin’ it’s all free. Problem is, you can’t pick the stuff up ’cause there’s nowhere to put it. You just have to ponder it, shake your head, and move on. Either that or use it for firewood, which I’ve done many a time. I remember this fancy table and chairs we came across once . . .’’

  Matthew stole a glance across the table. As Colby prattled on about the items he’d seen people dump along the way, Annabelle stared into her coffee. A look of melancholy settled over her features. She moved the spoon methodically from side to side, as though lost in thought.

  He recalled exactly how she’d been dressed, what she’d looked like, the first time he’d met her. Her dark hair had been coerced to an unnatural shade of red, and the features of her face had seemed harsher with all that color. And her dress, what little there had been of it, bespoke a woman who could be bought, and clearly had been, at a price. What had his brother ever seen in her? What had she offered him—other than the obvious—that would have possibly persuaded Johnny to take her as his wife?

  As Matthew sat trying not to stare at her, he realized what gnawed at him most. If someone were to meet Annabelle Grayson for the first time today, or if they were to see her walking down the street dressed as she was now, wearing that blue print dress buttoned clear up to her chin, with white lace circling her wrists and neck, they would assume her to be a lady of character. They wouldn’t see beneath the surface—to the prostitute who had enticed and manipulated her way into a good man’s life in order to take what didn’t belong to her. Though outwardly she might appear to be virtuous, with her misdeeds all carefully tucked away and hidden, beneath it all she was really just a cheap imitation of—

  Annabelle stopped stirring her coffee and looked directly at him.

  The dialogue in Matthew’s head jerked to a halt.

  Her expression gave nothing away as she openly searched his face. For some reason, he couldn’t turn away. It would have felt too much like hoisting a white flag. As the seconds crept by, he grew steadily uncomfortable under her scrutiny, certain that Annabelle Grayson was privy to the turn his thoughts had taken just a moment before. He shifted in his chair, willing his expression to be as blank as hers.

  He’d made his share of mistakes in life. That was undeniable. And he was working to right them. But it was nothing compared to what she had done. He hadn’t made a conscious choice to live as she had lived, to do the vile things she’d chosen to do.

  Phrases came to mind, bits and pieces of well-ingrained warnings from a voice now silenced but still remembered. ‘‘The lips of an immoral woman are as sweet as honey, and her mouth is smoother than oil. She’ll seduce you with pretty speech. But the man who follows her is like an ox going
to the slaughter or like a bird flying into a snare, little knowing it will cost him his life.’’

  How many times had he heard that from the pulpit? Then again at home. Those thoughts rooted in Scripture were just and true and to be heeded. No matter that the father who had restated them was not.

  Matthew blinked and turned away from her.

  Patrick leaned forward in his chair. ‘‘So gentlemen, is there anything else you’d like to say in closing before Mrs. McCutchens makes her decision?’’

  No surprise to Matthew, Bertram Colby nodded and answered in customary detail.

  When it came his time to respond, Matthew worked to regroup his thoughts, still unable to account for the discomfort inside him. He pushed away his empty cup and tried to sound authoritative, knowing full well it would make little difference. ‘‘I agree with Mr. Colby. The journey to meet up with Brennan’s group will be harder with just two people, but it can be done. If given the opportunity to partner with another wagon along the way, I’d do that for safety.’’ He considered something that Colby had said. ‘‘I’ve had some dealings with Indians before too. While I know there’ve been skirmishes with the Arapaho and Kiowa in this area lately, the Cheyenne and Utes seem peaceable enough, and I don’t foresee that being an issue where Mrs. McCutchens is headed.’’

  Patrick stood and thanked both him and Colby for their interest in the job. ‘‘No doubt you’re both qualified, and we appreciate your time this morning.’’ His attention shifted to Annabelle.

  She rose slowly. ‘‘I too appreciate your time, gentlemen, and your willingness to help me see this journey through.’’ She looked Bertram Colby full in the face, then at Matthew only briefly. ‘‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with Pastor Carlson privately for a moment.’’

  Colby stepped forward. ‘‘My condolences again on the loss of your husband, ma’am. I admire you for seeing this through to the end. Most women might stay put right here, where it’s safe and familiar. I think your man would be real proud of what you’re doing.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, Mr. Colby. The thought that my husband would be proud of me pleases me more than you know.’’

  The unexpected sincerity softening her voice drew Matthew’s attention. He noted the sadness around her eyes and, had he not known better, might have believed it to be sincere.

  Hannah Carlson led Bertram Colby to the front porch while Matthew hesitated, standing there, knowing he needed to say something. Yet unable to. The tension in the kitchen swelled. He’d never known silence could be so pressing.

  He glanced across the table at Annabelle. Chin down, her hands were clasped over her midsection. She was going to make this as hard on him as she could. She’d already made her decision. That much was clear an hour ago. So why not just tell him now and get it over with?

  He steeled himself, unsure which bothered him more—purposefully placing himself in the position of asking for anything of this woman, or facing the certainty that she would reject him just as surely as he’d once done her.

  Annabelle watched Matthew as he shook Patrick’s hand. His dislike for her was unmistakable. Gradually, he turned toward her. From his strained expression, it appeared as though the pride he’d swallowed in coming back here today wasn’t going down too well. And she felt partly responsible.

  She had intentionally baited him earlier by asking him to go into more detail about the tasks that needed to be done for the journey, and he’d walked right into it. But he’d almost forced her hand on it because he wouldn’t look at her. He would start out talking to her, then quickly shift his focus to someone else, speaking to them instead. Then when he had asked how she planned on paying for the supplies, she had also anticipated his reaction at her response.

  She suspected Matthew assumed she was after Jonathan’s money, and knew he’d never believe how surprised she was to learn how much there had been. From his dark expression at hearing that she’d pay for everything in cash, Annabelle knew she’d guessed correctly. Hopefully Matthew Taylor wouldn’t ever be fool enough to try his hand at gambling. It wouldn’t serve him well.

  As he had the first time she’d met him two years ago, he acted cordial enough today, but she sensed the truth of his dislike brewing just beneath the surface. And it hadn’t escaped Patrick and Hannah’s notice either.

  She glanced at Matthew’s hand resting on the back of the kitchen chair. His hands were nothing like Jonathan’s. Nothing about Matthew Taylor reminded her physically of Jonathan at all. So why was it that every time she looked at him all she could see was her deceased husband?

  Matthew Taylor was playing a part to get this job. Nothing more. Annabelle knew it, and from the coolness in his expression at the moment, he didn’t seem to mind her knowing. Realizing that, she reminded herself that this man had just lost his brother, and that they hadn’t parted on good terms last fall. She remembered the stories Jonathan had shared with her. They all led her to believe that these two men were—or at least had been at one time—very close, and trusting of one another. Until she’d come on the scene. . . .

  ‘‘Thank you for your consideration for the job, Mrs. McCutchens.’’

  Matthew ground out the words, and Annabelle was surprised he didn’t choke on them.

  ‘‘You’re welcome, Mr. Taylor.’’ She tried the tiniest smile again, a peace offering of sorts. He returned it, with all the feeling of a man sentenced to the gallows. What would it be like to travel with him all the way to Idaho? Many of those weeks unaccompanied?

  Lonely was the first thought that came to mind. Challenging was the second. Neither of which were strangers to her.

  ‘‘How are you?’’ she asked. The simple question came without forethought, surprising her.

  Similar surprise registered in Matthew’s expression. ‘‘I’m fine.’’

  He looked down and away when he said it, which told her that he wasn’t. Was the frown on his face due to pain at the loss of Jonathan or because of her presence again in his life? Or was it, perhaps, both?

  She glanced toward the hallway where Hannah had disappeared with Mr. Colby, then back at Matthew. ‘‘If you’ll excuse us for a moment, Mr. Taylor, I’d like to speak with Pastor Carlson alone, please.’’

  She figured Matthew wouldn’t like her dismissing him like that, and sure enough, before he left the room, his features darkened.

  ‘‘What was that look for?’’ Patrick asked once they were alone.

  Annabelle shook her head. ‘‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so thoroughly unacceptable to anyone in my life.’’ She attempted a laugh to ease the concern lining Patrick’s face. ‘‘And that’s saying a lot, believe me.’’

  ‘‘I think God has made your decision much easier than I thought it would be, Annabelle. Much easier.’’

  Silently considering the letter Jonathan had written in the last hours of his life—Only what we do for God will last—Annabelle felt a stirring inside her, and she slowly nodded. ‘‘I couldn’t agree more.’’

  ‘‘Bertram Colby is clearly the more experienced man as far as tracking goes, and he’s been guiding wagons since before you were born.’’

  ‘‘He may be a bit too quiet for me though,’’ she said in mock seriousness. ‘‘I like a man who enjoys a little conversation.’’ She arched a brow.

  ‘‘He does like to talk—that’s for sure. But I feel good about him, Annabelle, about his ability to get you there safely. He seems respectful too, someone Jonathan would’ve approved of. I sense Colby’s a man who’ll uphold your honor. After all, you’ll be traveling together, alone, for at least a month, if not more.’’

  Nodding again, Annabelle walked to the open kitchen window and looked out over the meadow. ‘‘I think I’d be safe on that count with both men.’’ But undoubtedly safer with Matthew Taylor. He’d remain celibate for the rest of his life before touching the likes of her.

  A warm June breeze stirred Hannah’s lace curtains and filled the kitchen with the sweet blend of ho
neysuckle and lavender.

  Only what we do for God will last.

  Annabelle breathed in the mingled scents and sighed, letting the remembered phrase settle deeper within. She wanted to live the rest of her life with that thought as a sieve, a threshing floor of sorts in making decisions, in knowing what to do. How did she know if what her heart was telling her to do was right or not? She’d spent the last hour pondering that very question. Did a certain prayer exist that, once prayed, would bring immediate confirmation?

  Jonathan had prayed about his decisions, sometimes aloud, sometimes to himself. She only wished she’d paid more attention to them now. He’d often prayed after they’d gone to bed, and she would fall asleep to the sound of his gravelly voice resonating in the darkness in the bed beside her. What she wouldn’t trade to sleep beneath that blanket of prayer once more.

  ‘‘Would you like for me to tell them?’’

  She turned at the sound of Patrick’s voice and shook her head. ‘‘No. I think I should do it.’’

  She detected a glimmer of respect as he waited for her to precede him to the front porch.

  She pushed open the screen door and spotted Hannah and Mr. Colby sitting together talking. Or rather, Mr. Colby was doing the talking, regaling Hannah with another story from his many travels. Annabelle caught Hannah’s eye and winked. Hannah’s gaze flicked back to Mr. Colby and she nodded, focusing on her guest. Annabelle watched as Hannah’s mouth slowly curved, and though her friend’s stare remained fixed on Mr. Colby, somehow Annabelle knew the smile was meant for her.

  Matthew Taylor stood beside them, but in every way besides his physical presence, he had separated himself. Hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, shoulders set, attention fixed on the mountain peaks to the west. He seemed to have erected an invisible wall around him. He hadn’t even moved at the creaking of the door hinge.