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Johnny’s eyes flickered with warning.

  This time, Matthew heeded it. ‘‘That a woman like her can learn to love a man? After all she’s done? After what she’s been?’’

  ‘‘That’s exactly what I believe. People can’t give what they haven’t got, Matthew. But I think people can change, if given a chance. With the right strength in them.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Look at me. I’ve changed.’’

  Matthew fingered his jaw again, nodding. ‘‘I can see that.’’

  Johnny began a slow, methodical rocking, evidently choosing to ignore the sarcasm. ‘‘You remember the filly that found her way out to our farm when we were kids? She’d been all beat up. She had those scars crisscrossin’ her withers?’’

  Matthew fought the urge to roll his eyes, already seeing where 206 this was headed.

  ‘‘She wouldn’t come to anybody. She was scared and hurt and hungry. Everybody else said to put her down.’’ With his thumb and forefinger, Johnny made an imaginary gun and pulled the trigger. ‘‘They couldn’t see what I saw.’’ He shook his head and leaned forward, forearms resting on his thighs, long legs spread wide. ‘‘She would’ve eaten the entire bag of oats that first afternoon if I’d let her. Took me all winter just to calm her enough where I could get close . . . where she trusted me enough to let me touch her. Remember how she’d come when I whistled for her?’’ A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest. ‘‘And you used to try and whistle for her all the time, and she wouldn’t even look at you.’’

  Matthew remembered the horse. She was an ugly thing—even fleshed out and fully grown. All scarred up with that mangy coat growing back in uneven patches. Running his tongue along the edge of his bloody lip, he decided to keep those thoughts to himself.

  ‘‘Some people are like that, Matthew. They’ve been hurt.’’ Johnny’s whisper grew more hushed, the creak of the rocker competing with his voice. ‘‘They’re broken inside, thinkin’ they’re not worth much.’’ He took a cup from the table by his leg and slowly poured its contents on the dirt floor beside him. ‘‘They think their lives are like this water here—all spilled on the ground, it can’t be gathered up again.’’ A small puddle formed at first, then fanned out in tiny rivulets. In a sweeping motion, Johnny brushed his hand across the dirt floor until the thirsty ground had consumed all traces of moisture. ‘‘But I’ve come to believe that God doesn’t just sweep away the lives of people who feel that way about themselves. And I don’t think we should either. We need to give each other second chances, whether we deserve them or not.’’ He resumed his rocking, slow and steady.

  Matthew looked at the dark spot of dirt by Johnny’s chair and caught the sheen in his brother’s eyes. He was unmoved. Johnny had always possessed a soft spot for lost things, whether they were stray critters or wounded animals. But to think that Johnny had been duped, that somehow this woman had gotten him to think he was on some mission of mercy . . .

  That was more than Matthew could stomach.

  Even with their frequent disagreements, Matthew had always admired his brother. How could he not? Johnny’s shirt hid the scars, but Matthew knew the faint stripes from his father’s thick leather strap were still there, across Johnny’s broad back and shoulders.

  Johnny had always been weak when it came to women, and apparently Annabelle Grayson had found a way to use his weakness— and her expertise—to her own advantage. But he wouldn’t stand by and let Johnny take another beating, or pay the price for someone else’s mistakes. Not again.

  ‘‘You’re being duped, Johnny. Can’t you see that? She’ll leave you as soon as she gets what she’s after.’’

  ‘‘And just what do you think it is she’s after?’’ Johnny suddenly stopped rocking. ‘‘Or do you just figure that no woman could ever care for a big, clumsy oaf like me.’’

  Matthew refused to be sidetracked by this old wound, though he remembered it well. ‘‘She’s after whatever money you’ve got. And no doubt she knows how to get it too.’’

  Emotions had flashed across Johnny’s face so rapidly that Matthew hadn’t been able to settle on what his brother’s next reaction would be. But he’d readied himself for another one of Johnny’s punches, just in case.

  Matthew stared into his empty coffee mug and grimaced, remembering how that night had ended. He looked back at the eastern horizon now cloaked in darkness, and a high-pitched whinny jerked him fully back to the moment.

  Then a sixth sense brought him slowly to his feet.

  Night blanketed the prairie outside the circle of firelight, and he found himself blind to what lay beyond the soft glow. He searched the direction where he’d tethered the horses, roughly twenty feet from where he stood, then focused in the opposite direction, where Annabelle had gone.

  ‘‘Annabelle, are you all right?’’

  He waited, listening, then called her name again. From the short distance the moon had traveled, he estimated no more than half an hour had passed since she’d left.

  Another high-pitched whinny. The horses snorted.

  Matthew felt down beside him for his rifle, and his hand closed around it. He stepped into the shadows, impatient for his vision to adjust. The prairie, indiscernible to him seconds before, slowly became a shaded world of varying grays.

  To his right, the horses suddenly reared back, fighting the restraints. A low growl sounded off to his left, and an icy finger of dread trailed up his spine. The horses pawed the ground, their frantic neighs splitting the night.

  Matthew whirled and cocked his rifle, ready to take aim.

  Snarling. The scurry of paws. Then a pair of reddish eyes emerged through the gray. Head slung low, the animal loped toward him on spindly legs. In his peripheral vision, Matthew sensed movement to his right, near the horses, but kept his finger on the trigger, taking dead aim on the wolf’s skull.

  He squeezed tight, and the animal dropped. Heart pounding, he spun in time to see two more wolves lunge at one of the grays. The horse reared up, kicking, and let loose a frenzied scream. Matthew squeezed off another round. The larger wolf yelped, veered to one side, and retreated into the night. The other followed on his heels.

  Matthew quickly reloaded. He circled, searching the darkness and the livestock, fighting to hear above the pounding in his ears. Then he ran toward the creek, slowing only once he neared the ridge.

  ‘‘Annabelle?’’ His breath came hard. When she didn’t answer, he feared the worst.

  A splash sounded downstream. He raised his rifle, cocking it and taking aim in one fluid motion.

  ‘‘Matthew . . .’’

  He exhaled, then saw a shadow peek up over the hill. He lowered the gun and stepped forward. ‘‘Are you all right?’’

  ‘‘Yes, but stop! And turn around . . . please.’’

  He did. He couldn’t see much in the dark, but still he looked away.

  ‘‘Are they gone?’’ The quaver in her voice gave away her fear.

  He uncocked the rifle. ‘‘Yes . . . for now. I killed one, wounded another, and then they ran. Not sure how many there were.’’

  ‘‘Are the horses safe?’’

  He shook his head at that, smiling. ‘‘Yes, I think so. And I’m fine too. Thanks for asking.’’

  He heard a soft chuckle.

  ‘‘You’re the one standing there with the gun, so I figured you were fine. Now . . .’’

  He heard a rustling of grasses on the bank where her voice was coming from.

  ‘‘Would you mind heading back to camp so I can get dressed?’’

  ‘‘Yes, ma’am, I do mind. I’m not leaving you out here alone.’’

  He took a few steps away from the ridge, keeping his back to her.

  ‘‘I promise you, I won’t look.’’

  No movement sounded behind him, then he heard her mumble something indistinguishable, which made him smile all the more. A few minutes later, she climbed up over the embankment, a bundle in her arms. Her wet hair hung in dark strands over her shoulders and down her back, and as
she walked—wordless but watchful— beside him back to camp, he caught the scent of lilacs.

  Matthew gave the livestock a thorough check. He cooed in low tones to the horse the wolves had tried to get at, calming her until she would let him run a hand over her legs. She wasn’t favoring any of them, so that was a good sign. He made a sweep around the camp perimeter before returning.

  Annabelle was sitting by the fire, her back to him. Her hair was freshly combed, and she held something up to her face. As Matthew came closer, he realized it was a mirror. She held it at different angles, turning it this way and that, then stopped and brought it closer to one side of her face. She lifted a hand to her right temple and seemed to trace a path there.

  Feeling as though he were intruding, Matthew purposefully scuffed his boot in the dirt.

  She instantly lowered the mirror and tucked it down beside her.

  ‘‘Are they gone?’’

  ‘‘All’s clear. None of the horses were hurt, and the cow’s fine.’’

  ‘‘That’s good.’’ She looked up at him, then back down again. ‘‘Matthew . . . would you mind if we were to share the same fire tonight? Under the circumstances.’’

  He didn’t answer immediately, letting his silence coax her attention back. He still detected traces of fear, though he knew she’d be hard-pressed to admit to it. ‘‘I think that’d be fine.’’

  Smiling her thanks, she spread her bedroll out on the opposite side of the fire from his and lay down, staring into the flames.

  He stretched out, rifle close at hand, and searched the night sky.

  ‘‘Thank you, Matthew.’’

  In the softness of her voice, he sensed something deeper than a simple expression of gratitude, and it touched a place inside him.

  ‘‘Just doin’ my job, ma’am. After all, I am the hired help,’’ he whispered back.

  His body was tired but his mind raced with unspent energy. After a few minutes, he heard Annabelle’s even breathing and rose up on one elbow. One of her arms was cradled beneath her head and a hand was tucked beneath her chin. She had a peaceful look about her. He stared at her for a long moment, then lay back down, knowing sleep was far off for him.

  What on earth was he doing out here with her? He sighed, knowing what his original reason had been—the land waiting in Idaho.

  ‘‘Come with us, Matthew,’’ Johnny had said to him that night in the shack. His brother’s voice was so clear in his memory. ‘‘Come with us to Idaho. I’ve got some property there, like we used to talk about having when we were kids. There’s enough for the both of us.’’ Johnny leaned forward in the rocker as he described the meadows and streams clustered in the foothills of the mountains. His face nearly glowed as he talked about it.

  Matthew managed to hide his surprise at the offer, while his gut told him that Johnny was exaggerating. Wouldn’t be the first time. ‘‘Where’d you get money for land like that?’’

  ‘‘I sold the homestead in Missouri. So half of that land’s rightfully yours.’’

  Matthew laughed. ‘‘Our old farm wouldn’t bring the kind of money you’d need for acreage like that.’’

  Johnny shrugged. ‘‘I managed to get things turned around in the last few years, plus picked up some extra jobs here and there and made enough to lay some aside. The homestead sold for more than you might—’’ ‘‘No thanks, big brother.’’ Matthew held up a hand, shaking his head. ‘‘I’ve got a chance for a real ranch of my own down near San Antonio. Got a man down there who says he’s willing to back me.’’

  He surveyed the shack with its sagging roof and slumped walls, and slowly crooked one side of his mouth. ‘‘Besides, if this is any proof of how well things have worked out for you, I think I’ll stick with Texas.’’

  Hurt showed in Johnny’s expression, and though Matthew wasn’t glad about it, he saw an opportunity. He never could beat his brother physically, but he’d always been able to best him in an argument. Johnny had muscles, Matthew had words. They had always been his advantage with his older brother, and he would use them again if it would get Johnny to see what a mistake he’d made.

  Even if it meant hurting him in the process.

  Johnny clasped his hands between his knees. ‘‘Why don’t you come home, Matthew? I think it’s time.’’

  His brother’s question caught Matthew off guard. ‘‘Home.’’ He scoffed. ‘‘Do you think Idaho would be home to me?’’

  ‘‘It could be,’’ Johnny said, his voice soft. ‘‘I think you’d find what you’ve been searching for out there for all these years.’’

  ‘‘And just what do you think it is I’ve been searching for? Both of us are talkin’ about the same thing—starting up a ranch. ’Cept I’ll start mine down in Texas. On my own.’’

  ‘‘On my own . . .’’ Johnny laughed softly. ‘‘Those can be dangerous words for a man to pin his hopes on.’’

  ‘‘Since when did you get to be such a philosopher, Johnny?’’

  A slow smile came. ‘‘I’ve done some changing in the past few years.’’ Just as quickly, the smile disappeared. ‘‘You won’t find what you’re searchin’ for down in Texas. It’s not there, Matthew. And running from the memory of Haymen Taylor—what he did to you, to me—won’t lead you any closer to where you want to be. Believe me on that.’’

  Matthew’s frustration mounted. ‘‘And you won’t find what you’re searching for between the sheets with that woman in there either. I’ve known women like her, and I can tell you exactly what they’re aft—’’

  ‘‘You’ve known women like her?’’ Johnny’s eyes narrowed.

  In that instant, reading his brother’s expression and realizing what he was implying, Matthew steeled himself. Not for another punch. No, Johnny saved that for when he was good and angry and couldn’t think of a quick enough reply. This particular topic was well trod between them, and wearisome to Matthew. But Johnny wouldn’t dare let it pass. Not when another chance at poking fun at his little brother had just been handed to him.

  ‘‘You know what I meant.’’

  ‘‘No, I’m not sure I do. You said you’ve known women. Is that true?’’

  Heat poured into Matthew’s face. ‘‘I didn’t mean it like that.

  What I meant was that I know something about this woman. I know she’s worked in a brothel in town for years. I know things about her that will change your mind. I’ve heard stories from other ranch hands, Johnny. Things she’s done with them.’’

  Johnny stood and took a step toward him. ‘‘How old are you now, Matthew?’’

  Matthew held his ground. His brother had never been quickwitted, but he could be demeaning. And seeing Johnny’s expression— watchful, sober—Matthew realized he was going to drag this out by pretending to be none the wiser.

  ‘‘You must be what . . . thirty-two now?’’

  Matthew’s fists curled tight around the rim of his hat as the implication of the question resonated in the silence. Blood surged through his veins, bringing instant heat. He had nothing to be ashamed of. Johnny was the one who should be ashamed—him and that whore in the next room. So why was his face burning?

  ‘‘Thirty-two . . . and you’ve never been with a woman.’’ Slowly, Johnny shook his head, surprise in his expression.

  It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and every muscle within Matthew tensed. Once, just once, he’d like to punch his brother hard enough to take him down.

  Johnny shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘‘That’s okay, Matthew. It’s good, really. Our mama would be real proud of you for—’’

  That was all the patronizing Matthew could take. He hauled back and put his full weight into a right punch. Straight to Johnny’s jaw.

  Johnny staggered back a step but maintained his footing. His eyes went wide with shock.

  Pain exploded through Matthew’s fist, only fueling his anger. He wanted to take his brother down. And he knew how to do it. ‘‘You know what, Johnny? Mama wouldn’t be prou
d of you. She wouldn’t be proud of what you’ve done or who you’re with right now.’’ Matthew threw a scathing glance at the bedroom door. ‘‘She’d be ashamed of you and what you’ve done with your life. For what you’re doing in there with that whore.’’

  ‘‘Matthew, you got me wrong. I was tryin’ to—’’

  ‘‘I got you just fine. I always looked up to you, and now I don’t know why I ever did.’’ He gave a humorless laugh. ‘‘You’re weak, Johnny. You’re weak and you’re foolish, and I’m glad our mother isn’t here to see just how much like Haymen Taylor you turned out to be.’’

  Johnny’s face contorted, and Matthew braced himself, knowing this time the blow would knock him out cold. But nothing happened. As the haze of his anger thinned, Johnny’s face came into clearer view again, and a sick sensation knotted the pit of Matthew’s stomach.

  ‘‘You’re right, Matthew. Most of my life I’ve lived in a way I’m not proud of.’’ Johnny’s deep voice sounded small. ‘‘I’ve made a lot of mistakes, and I’m sorry for those. Growing up . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I could’ve done better by you in a lot of ways. I know that now. But I’ve changed, Matthew. I’m tryin’ to be a better man, and . . . I’m not as foolish as I used to be.’’ He held out his hand. ‘‘If you’re willin’, I’d like another chance at being brothers again.’’

  Matthew’s emotions warred inside him. He was ashamed for having said those things. None of them were true. He’d said them from injured pride and from wanting Johnny to see what a mistake he was making with Annabelle Grayson.

  Then something caught his eye. The bedroom door opened slightly. Had that woman heard their argument? Heat poured through him at that possibility and at imagining the mocking a harlot like Annabelle Grayson would no doubt give him upon learning about his inexperience. Especially at his age.

  ‘‘Matthew?’’

  Something moved beside him and yanked him back to the present. Matthew jumped, half rising from his pallet.

  Annabelle knelt beside him, firelight accentuating the shadowed concern on her face. Matthew knew it was her, but still . . . the injured look on Johnny’s face was all he could see. Shame and regret poured through him remembering the last thing he’d ever said to his brother, and especially in knowing that Annabelle had no doubt overheard every word.