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  He felt warmth seeping through his damp shirt as he rubbed his right arm. It hadn’t hurt much until now.

  ‘‘You’re bleeding!’’ Annabelle came and knelt beside him.

  ‘‘Only a little.’’ Her hair was still damp and hung in a tangled mass down her back. Mud streaked her face. ‘‘You did good back there. Real good.’’

  She huffed. ‘‘I could’ve gotten us killed.’’ Remorse shadowed her eyes. ‘‘Now take your shirt off.’’

  He caught her hand. ‘‘You couldn’t see, Annabelle. I couldn’t either. You thought I’d told you to stop. You did nothing wrong.’’

  She frowned and gave him a begrudging nod, then lifted her chin. ‘‘If you want those biscuits tonight, Mr. Taylor, you’d best be taking off that shirt.’’

  Obeying, he smiled at the smartness in her tone, still hearing lingering traces of guilt. ‘‘Have you checked the supplies yet?’’

  ‘‘We lost most of the cornmeal, and half the flour and salt. But I figure those are things that can be replaced.’’

  ‘‘And we didn’t lose any of the horses.’’ Pulling his right arm through the shirtsleeve, he grimaced.

  ‘‘Oh, Matthew . . .’’

  Worry furrowed her brow, and he craned his neck to see the back of his arm, unable to make out much more than blood and bruising. But he sure felt it. ‘‘What’s it like?’’

  ‘‘Did the horse do this?’’

  ‘‘Um-hmm. I’m just lucky he didn’t get the bone.’’

  ‘‘I thought you were hurt, but then when you kept going . . .’’

  He shrugged. ‘‘Didn’t have much choice at the time.’’

  ‘‘I’m going to need to clean it, and it’s going to hurt like blazes.’’

  ‘‘Thanks for putting it so delicately. That helps.’’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘‘Wait here. I’ll be back.’’ She returned minutes later, her arms full. She spread a blanket down on the ground and gestured for him to lie down.

  He shook his head. ‘‘I’ll be fine.’’

  She gave him a look that said otherwise. ‘‘All right, turn your arm toward the fire so I can see it better.’’ She rubbed a damp cloth over the injury.

  Her touch was light, but Matthew’s head swam at the mixture of pain and having eaten nothing since lunch. He clenched his jaw and turned to watch her, trying to gauge from her expression how serious the wound was. When she grimaced and swallowed, he decided to focus elsewhere.

  Her clothes were still wet, and he knew she had to be chilled.

  His thoughts went to the child she carried, and he wondered at what point along the way he’d become convinced of that reality. He couldn’t say exactly. He only knew that the more he got to know her, the less he believed she’d make up something like that. ‘‘You need to get those clothes off and get warm.’’

  ‘‘Soon,’’ she whispered, intent on her task. After several minutes, she paused. ‘‘I’m going to have to stitch this up, Matthew. The gash is deep.’’

  He’d already figured as much. ‘‘Have you done this before?’’

  She sighed, nodding reluctantly. ‘‘But I can’t promise it’s going to be pretty when I’m done.’’

  He wished now that he had some of that whiskey he hadn’t drunk in the gaming hall.

  She reached for something behind her. ‘‘Here.’’ She held a bottle to his lips. ‘‘Take a few swigs of this. It’ll help with the pain.’’

  He caught a whiff and wanted to hug her all over again.

  ‘‘Okay . . .’’ she said, finally pulling the bottle away. ‘‘I think that’s enough.’’

  The back of his throat burned as warmth slid down his chest and cratered in his belly. He closed his eyes. He’d had his fair share of injuries but had never been stitched. He hoped she knew what she was doing. From the way she threaded the needle, he guessed she did.

  ‘‘This will hold it until we can get you to a doctor. How far are we from making the next town?’’

  He winced, feeling the needle going in and out of his flesh.

  ‘‘About a day or so.’’

  ‘‘When we get there we’ll find a doctor and go to the mercantile for supplies. We’ll get some more cornmeal and salt, and I’ll also look for some honey. You’ve all but finished that off.’’

  ‘‘It’s good with your corn bread and biscuits.’’ His voice echoed in his head, sounding farther away than it had before, and he wished now that he was lying down.

  ‘‘I didn’t realize you had such a sweet tooth or I would’ve brought more along with us.’’ Her voice was low and soft. ‘‘It’ll be good to get to a town again. I might even see if I can post a letter to Kathryn and Hannah, just to tell them how we are—and to let them know we haven’t killed each other yet. They’ll be happy to hear that.’’

  Annabelle wasn’t a woman who prattled on and on, and he was aware that she was trying to distract him. He liked the sound of her voice.

  ‘‘I’ve thought of sweet Lilly several times too. I bet she’s wearing that hair ribbon you gave her and thinking about you every day.

  Though for the life of me, I don’t know why.’’

  He detected the humor in her tone. ‘‘I think I want to lie down now, Annabelle.’’

  As though she’d already anticipated his request, her arm came around his back. Her touch felt good.

  She helped him down to the blanket and eased him onto his left side. ‘‘Now lean your weight against me.’’ She scooted close against his back. ‘‘There . . . just like that. Good.’’

  He felt a slight tug on his arm again, then heard her humming. He couldn’t remember having heard her hum before. ‘‘Do you always do that when you’re sewing?’’

  A soft chuckle. ‘‘Hush, and get some rest. I’ll be through here in a minute.’’

  He closed his eyes, vaguely aware that he was drifting. ‘‘Remind me to hug you again. Later . . .’’ His last moment of awareness was of a feather-soft kiss to his brow and then wondering if she was still going to make her biscuits.

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - SEVEN

  MATTHEW BLINKED REPEATEDLY. It took him a minute to realize where he was. The dusky purple sky dotted with fading stars told him sunup wasn’t far off. The cool morning air, unusually moist, carried traces of the former rains, along with bacon frying and freshly brewed coffee. He breathed in the smells of comfort and felt the emptiness in his stomach expand.

  He moved to stretch, then inhaled sharply and fell back on the blanket. Pain shot up his right arm and across his shoulder, dispelling his hunger. He squeezed his eyes tight and breathed through clenched teeth until the rhythmic march of pain finally eased back to a steady thrum.

  Blessed cool touched his brow. He peered up to see Annabelle kneeling over him, her hand on his forehead.

  ‘‘Don’t try to move. You’ve had a rough night.’’

  Wanting to moan, he tried to mask it with a laugh and failed miserably. ‘‘What did you do to me last night, woman?’’

  She smiled and cradled his face. He closed his eyes again at the coolness of her hands and gentleness of her touch, feeling as though he’d lived this moment before, yet knowing it was impossible. Still, something about the way she touched him evoked a memory, a sense of well-being and trust.

  ‘‘You’re warm,’’ she whispered.

  He heard the splash of water and felt a damp cloth moving over his face. Looking up at her, he knew with a certainty that, whatever Annabelle had been, she was someone else now. He studied her features, trying to read who she was, as though he were seeing her for the first time in his life.

  She reached over him for a blanket and her hair fell across his chest.

  He couldn’t help but breathe in her scent and found momentary distraction from the pain. ‘‘Mmmm . . . you smell good. Like . . .’’

  She paused, her face close to his.

  His attention went to her mouth, to the way her lips slowly parted, and he suddenly
forgot what he’d been saying. He swallowed involuntarily as another hunger awakened within him.

  ‘‘Like . . . biscuits,’’ he finally whispered.

  She stared at him for a second, then sat back. ‘‘I smell like biscuits?’’ Laughing softly, she rolled up the blanket and propped it beneath his head. ‘‘You mumbled something about biscuits last night in your sleep. Is that all you ever think about?’’

  Right now, food was the furthest thing from his mind, and if he’d been able, he would have moved away from her in hopes of redirecting his thoughts. As it was, Matthew did what came second nature to him, working to keep his expression serious. ‘‘No, ma’am. On occasion I think about other things.’’ Watching the silent question move into her eyes and discovering that it answered one of his own about her, he gave her a slow smile. ‘‘Sometimes I think about your corn bread.’’

  She briefly tucked her bottom lip behind her teeth. ‘‘Well, thank you, Mr. Taylor. A woman likes to know she’s appreciated. Now, here, drink this.’’

  Helping him lift his head, she held a tin cup to his lips. Water washed down his throat and chest, sloshing into his empty stomach and renewing his hunger.

  But this time, it was a hunger Matthew could welcome.

  ‘‘I don’t care. This just doesn’t seem right.’’ He frowned up at her, then at the reins in her hands.

  She situated herself on the left side of the wagon seat and peered down. ‘‘Why doesn’t it seem right? Because you’re a man?’’ She motioned to his arm. ‘‘You already ripped some of your stitches this morning when you harnessed the grays. Do you want me to have to sew that wound a second time?’’

  Matthew enjoyed the way her eyes flashed when she was riled, like lightning in a cloudless sky of blue. They’d lost a day of travel due to his injury, and though he wouldn’t admit it, he felt weak as a newborn pup and sore to the bone. But their tarrying hadn’t been in vain. Most of the wet patches of earth that were mud yesterday had dried to hard cake by this morning.

  ‘‘Give me a minute to think about that.’’ He tilted his head. ‘‘Any chance you might do some more of that humming?’’

  She tucked her chin and glared.

  Matthew hid his grin and walked around to the other side of the wagon, knowing she was right. He climbed up beside her, feeling the slow throb beneath the makeshift bandage. He leaned back, showing evidence of his surrender. ‘‘No, ma’am, I don’t guess I’d welcome that experience again.’’

  A smile played at the corners of her mouth. ‘‘Well, I’m glad to hear it. Because I nearly fainted that night right after you did.’’

  He saw color rising to her cheeks. ‘‘Don’t tell me that was the first time you’d ever sewn up a person?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘There’s always a first time. . . .’’ She slapped the reins and the team responded. The wagon lurched forward.

  Holding his right arm close as the wagon bumped along, Matthew watched her as often as he thought he could get away with it. Pieces of hair curled around her face. She’d worn it loose again, and he was glad for it. He noticed again the scar edging her right temple, and a fierce protectiveness rose within him imagining how she might’ve gotten it. He’d wanted to ask her about it before but somehow didn’t feel he’d earned the right to.

  They stopped briefly at midday to water and rest the animals. Before starting out again, he insisted that she curl up in the back of the wagon. She looked overtired, and he hoped she could get some rest, despite the constant jostling.

  By late afternoon, they reached the town of Rutherford, Wyoming. Whether from his wound or from the heat, or perhaps both, his head ached and he felt as though he could sleep two days straight through.

  He helped Annabelle down from the back of the wagon. ‘‘Do you want to head on to the mercantile or go with me to make sure the doc sews me up right?’’

  At first she smiled, then her expression grew somber. ‘‘I think I’ll go to the doctor with you. I’d . . . like to see him too, actually.’’

  He thought she’d been acting weary, but she didn’t appear to be ill. ‘‘Is something wrong?’’

  ‘‘I’m fine. I just want to make sure that . . . everything is okay.’’

  He thought of the child. ‘‘Have you been feeling poorly?’’

  ‘‘No, not exactly. I’d just . . . I just want to talk with him, that’s all.’’

  She started walking toward town and he followed, not having to guess this time. He knew for sure something was wrong.

  When the doctor opened the door, Matthew wondered if the man was really old enough to be hanging a shingle outside his door. With rust-colored hair and metal-rimmed spectacles, he looked more like some grade-school boy who had borrowed his father’s coat and trousers.

  ‘‘I’ll see whoever would like to go first.’’ The doctor pushed his spectacles farther up his nose and waited.

  Matthew encouraged Annabelle to go, and surprisingly, she didn’t put up a fuss.

  Half an hour later, she emerged from the examination room, leaving the door ajar. From her strained expression, Matthew could tell she was on the verge of tears. He rose. ‘‘What’s wrong? What did he say?’’

  She shook her head and looked down. ‘‘He said I’m fine. I was worrying for nothing.’’

  ‘‘Then why are you—’’

  She shook her head again, and Matthew followed her glance to a man seated on a neighboring bench.

  ‘‘Not here, Matthew. I’ll tell you, but later . . . please.’’ She wiped her eyes.

  He caught the doctor watching him from inside the room, and the expression on the man’s face suddenly made him appear much older than moments before.

  Annabelle wiped her cheeks. ‘‘He said for you to go on in. I think I’ll run across to the mercantile and—’’

  ‘‘No. You sit here and rest, and wait for me. I won’t be long.’’ He lowered his voice. ‘‘The woman who sewed me did a fine job, so I don’t think it’ll take this fella long.’’

  That drew a weak smile from her, and she agreed.

  Matthew walked into the patient room and closed the door behind him.

  ‘‘She did a pretty fair job, considering,’’ the doctor commented minutes later, examining Annabelle’s handiwork up close. He adjusted his glasses. ‘‘And probably saved your arm in the process. I’m going to clean the wound first. You have a lot of bruising around the tissue, but that will heal with time. How did this happen?’’

  Matthew told him, giving him only the essentials.

  ‘‘I’ll need to suture it again, so why don’t you go ahead and lie down on the table.’’

  His mind occupied with Annabelle, Matthew did as the young doctor requested and laid back. It took him a minute to gather his nerve. Then he cleared his throat. ‘‘I was wondering if I might ask you a question, Doc.’’ He glanced at the door. ‘‘It’s about . . . ah . . .’’

  The doctor followed his line of vision. ‘‘I understand,’’ he said before returning to his task. ‘‘Wives are sometimes quite shy about discussing such topics, even with their husbands.’’

  Matthew started to correct the man, then caught himself. Realizing his opportunity, he was also aware that he’d have to apologize to Annabelle later, but at the moment his concern for her outweighed his guilty conscience.

  He nodded, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt. ‘‘She’s always been real shy that way with me.’’

  Compassion shone in the doctor’s expression. ‘‘She told me everything that’s happened. . . .’’ He paused, needle in hand. ‘‘This will be uncomfortable. I can give you something that will make you drowsy if you’d like. You won’t remember a thing.’’

  Not missing the irony of the situation, Matthew shook his head. ‘‘No thanks. I think I can handle it,’’ he said, absently wondering if the doctor hummed while he sewed. Feeling the needle slide in, he gritted his teeth.

  ‘‘She told me about the bleeding she’s been experi
encing. . . .’’

  It was all Matthew could do not to react.

  ‘‘But she said it has stopped now.’’ The doctor paused as he stitched, leaning close to check his work. ‘‘And she hasn’t had any more pain in recent days either—which is a good sign. She still fears she might lose this baby, and while I understand her concern, I assured her that I saw no indications of that happening at this stage.’’

  Matthew thought of Annabelle sitting on the other side of the door. ‘‘Then why did she look like she was about to cry?’’

  ‘‘A woman’s emotions can be very fragile when she’s with child.

  Your wife is worried, especially considering what happened with her first pregnancy.’’

  Matthew’s stomach knotted tight, a fresh wave of guilt layering his concern.

  ‘‘I assured your wife that how she lost your first child has no bearing on this pregnancy. Those were extreme circumstances, and after all this time, her internal injuries should be completely mended. Of course, there’s no sure way of knowing’’—the doctor’s voice grew softer, more tentative—‘‘if the inside of her body is as healed as we’d like to think.’’

  Matthew wanted to ask what those injuries were but knew he couldn’t. ‘‘But you think she’ll be able to carry this baby . . . until it’s time.’’

  ‘‘Again, from all current indications, I’d say yes. She needs to get plenty of rest, eat nourishing foods. . . . Fresh air will do her good as well.’’

  ‘‘Rest, nourishing food . . . fresh air.’’ Matthew’s mind raced in a thousand different directions, all paths leading back to questions he had no right to be asking—and couldn’t—seeing as how he was ‘‘her husband’’ and should already know the answers. ‘‘Did she tell you that we’re traveling?’’

  ‘‘Yes, she did. And I’ll tell you the same thing I told her—she’s a strong, healthy woman, and women have been giving birth since creation. As long as you’re careful and she doesn’t overdo, I honestly see no reason for concern. Besides, you’ll be settled in Idaho long before your little one arrives.’’ He stood. ‘‘Now, let me bandage this up again. Then I’ll get you a sling and you two can be on your way.’’