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  Matthew sat up slowly, his head fuzzy. ‘‘Is there anything else I should do . . . for her?’’

  The young physician paused and once again gained an air that bespoke wisdom beyond his years. ‘‘Be gentle with her, and understanding. And even when you don’t understand, which will be most of the time, let her know you love her and that you’re proud she said ‘I do.’ ’’ Matthew sensed there was more coming.

  ‘‘At least I think I’m quoting my father correctly,’’ the doc added, a dry smile edging up the corners of his mouth.

  Still considering the young physician’s parting advice, Matthew took hold of Annabelle’s arm as they left the office and he escorted her across the street to the mercantile. She didn’t seem close to tears anymore. In fact, he never would have guessed she’d been upset earlier. But he knew better than to question her about anything now. Patience was a virtue he seemed destined to learn with this woman.

  ‘‘I made us each a list while you were seeing the doctor,’’ she said once they were inside the mercantile. She handed him a slip of paper, then leaned close, lightly touching the sling cradling his arm.

  ‘‘Are you feeling all right?’’

  ‘‘Fine,’’ he lied. ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘You look a little pale.’’

  ‘‘I’m just tired. And hungry.’’

  ‘‘I’m ready for dinner too. When we finish up here, I need to post a letter. Then I’ll be ready to go.’’

  ‘‘Telling Hannah and Kathryn we haven’t killed each other yet?’’

  Her brow rose. ‘‘So you were paying attention.’’

  He read her list. ‘‘Sure you don’t want your hired help to do all this?’’

  ‘‘I would if my hired help weren’t on his last leg.’’ A gleam deepened in her eyes before she turned and walked down the aisle.

  He read down through the items she had assigned him.

  ‘‘Honey’s not on my list, so I hope it’s on yours.’’

  She glanced back at him. ‘‘It is. Right after corn bread and biscuits.’’

  Matthew let her have the last word. He was busy mentally adding another item to his list. He gathered what he could find from the shelves, then approached a silver-haired woman behind the counter.

  ‘‘Can I help you with something, sir?’’ Her round face and deep dimples gave her a kindly appearance.

  ‘‘I’d appreciate that, ma’am. I’m having trouble finding a few things, and . . .’’ Checking over his shoulder, he spotted Annabelle on the far side of the store. ‘‘I need to ask a favor of you.’’ He spoke softly to the clerk.

  When he finished she whispered, ‘‘I think I can handle that,’’ and disappeared into the back.

  He noticed a calendar on the wall and scanned the rows of boxes marked with an X leading up to the twenty-seventh of June.

  Then he recalled the excitement in Annabelle’s voice when she had told him about the special Fourth of July celebration Jack Brennan arranged for his travelers. Brought all the fireworks and such along with him. By Matthew’s calculation, he and Annabelle were still pretty much on schedule to meet up with them in time, at least according to Brennan’s original timetable, though the day lost to his injury would make it tight. They still had a week.

  When the woman returned, she tossed him a wink and hastily wrapped one of the items in paper. As she boxed up the goods, she made a show of nestling it in the bottom.

  ‘‘Thank you, ma’am,’’ he whispered, then inquired after Brennan’s group.

  ‘‘Oh my, yes, I know exactly who you’re asking about. Mr. Brennan has been coming through Rutherford for years. When he has time, he and my husband enjoy a rousing game of chess there in the back room.’’ She gestured, smiling. ‘‘We so enjoy seeing that man.’’

  A picture rose in Matthew’s mind of a man whose stature and experience was akin to that of Bertram Colby’s. He looked forward to meeting Brennan.

  ‘‘In fact, it wasn’t that long ago that they passed this way. They were here last Sunday, a week ago. I remember because my husband opened the store up special, just for them. Seems they’d had some trouble along the way. Maybe some weather slowed them. . . . I don’t quite remember now.’’

  Matthew was already picturing Annabelle’s reaction. They would easily catch up to Brennan within a week. ‘‘Thank you, ma’am. For everything.’’

  Careful of his arm, he loaded the crates of food and supplies into the wagon. As they walked the short distance to the post office he shared the good news.

  ‘‘This calls for a celebration!’’ Annabelle pulled a tin from her reticule, removed the lid, and held it out. ‘‘For your sweet tooth.’’

  He peered inside, grinned, and took a stick of the striped candy.

  He swirled it between his lips, feeling like a kid again. ‘‘Peppermint was always one of Johnny’s favorites.’’

  Annabelle paused on the steps leading up to the boardwalk. ‘‘I know,’’ she said quietly. ‘‘He said it was one of yours too.’’

  Matthew opened the door to the post office and let her precede him. As she went through the entrance, he spotted a man striding toward them. An unsettling sense of familiarity struck Matthew first. He looked again, connected with the man’s gaze, and went stone cold inside.

  CHAPTER | TWENTY - EIGHT

  HIS EYES WERE THE first thing Annabelle noticed.

  Then as the man got closer, she realized it wasn’t his eyes that made her wary so much as it was the manner in which he looked at her. She got the impression he was absorbing every detail about her, storing away the information for quick recall.

  He touched the brim of his hat, slowing. ‘‘Good day, ma’am.’’

  ‘‘Good afternoon.’’ She heard the post office door close behind her and glanced back to see Matthew standing outside on the boardwalk, his back to her. She’d assumed he would accompany her inside the post office, but . . . apparently not.

  ‘‘Excuse me, ma’am. I think you dropped something.’’

  Annabelle was only now aware that the letter she’d brought in to mail wasn’t in her hand.

  The man bent to retrieve it, and as he straightened, he scanned the front of the envelope. She frowned at his choice of action, then quickly smoothed her expression.

  Taking the letter from him, she forced a smile. ‘‘Thank you.’’

  ‘‘You’re most welcome.’’ He removed his hat and combed a hand through jet black hair.

  From the road dust that layered it and the dirt coating his trousers and long jacket, she figured he’d been riding for days. And with that drawl, she easily guessed where he hailed from.

  ‘‘Seems you’re a long way from home, ma’am.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I am.’’ She tilted her head. ‘‘But how did you know that?’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Lucky guess, I suppose.’’ His dimples slowly deepened his stubbled cheeks. ‘‘And it helped that I read the address on your envelope. But then’’—a dark brow rose over hazel eyes— ‘‘you already knew that, didn’t you, Mrs. . . .’’

  Surprised by his truthful admission but not by his attention to detail, Annabelle fingered her wedding band. ‘‘McCutchens . . . Mrs. Jonathan McCutchens. And yes, I did see you read it.’’ She matched his raised brow. ‘‘I thought it was in poor taste.’’

  His smile became sheepish. The transformation was unexpected and softened Annabelle’s first impression of the man. ‘‘My apologies, Mrs. McCutchens. It’s a bad habit I’ve picked up through the years.’’

  She sensed genuineness in the response, and in him. ‘‘What? Of reading others’ mail?’’

  He actually laughed. ‘‘Of being overly curious. Comes with the territory, I’m afraid.’’

  ‘‘And what territory might that be?’’

  He looked at her more closely. ‘‘Do we know each other, ma’am?

  I’ve been through the town of Willow Springs several times in recent years, and again not too long ago. For some reason, I get t
he feeling we’ve talked before.’’

  Annabelle’s mouth went dry considering that possibility. If she’d met this man in Willow Springs, chances were good it hadn’t been to talk. She snuck a glance back through the window and caught Matthew watching her. His strained expression told her his arm must be hurting, and she already knew he wasn’t feeling well. She needed to cut this short.

  ‘‘I’m sorry, sir, but I don’t recall ever having met you. You must be confusing me with someone else.’’

  His slow nod told her he considered that last part doubtful.

  Her attention was drawn to an employee hanging posters on a bulletin board on the far wall. When the woman stepped to one side, Annabelle honed in on one in particular. A weight dropped into the pit of her stomach.

  She heard the man laugh softly.

  ‘‘Don’t tell me one of those faces looks familiar to you, ma’am?’’

  Her heart leapt to her throat at the question. What were the odds. . . ?

  All at once, details flashed through her mind. Matthew’s expression, his reluctance to come inside with her just now. This man’s attention to detail and recent trip to Willow Springs. In that instant, all the disjointed pieces of the picture jarred painfully into place.

  It wasn’t pain she had seen in Matthew’s seconds ago. It was fear.

  Detecting humor in the man’s question from seconds before, she decided to play along with it. ‘‘Actually, a few do look familiar. I was thinking I saw them at church this past Sunday.’’

  He laughed, but it seemed to lack the convincing quality it had before.

  She cleared the tickle in her throat. ‘‘I’m sorry, but I need to ask you to excuse me. I’m in a bit of a hurry.’’

  The man glanced out the window Annabelle had checked minutes ago. Thankfully Matthew’s back was to them.

  ‘‘I’m sorry for having kept you, Mrs. McCutchens.’’ He put his hat back on. ‘‘I hope you and your husband have a safe journey on to Idaho.’’

  She paused, staring.

  He shrugged again, dimples framing his mouth. ‘‘The return address.’’

  Her world was growing smaller by the minute. ‘‘You really need to work on those bad habits, Mr. . . .’’

  ‘‘Caldwell. Rigdon Caldwell.’’ He touched the rim of his hat. ‘‘Can’t promise anything there, ma’am. Some habits are hard to break, but I’ll try.’’ His hand was on the door latch when he turned back to the mail clerk. ‘‘Polly, if you get anything for me tonight, I’ll be at the hotel.’’ He opened the door. ‘‘I’m pushing north myself, Mrs. McCutchens, so maybe I’ll see you and your husband along the way.’’ He paused. ‘‘It’s a small world, isn’t it, ma’am?’’

  More than you know. ‘‘Good afternoon, Mr. Caldwell.’’

  Annabelle waited, watching him close the door and nod to Matthew as he passed on the boardwalk. She went to the counter, where the clerk stamped the letter and counted back her change.

  As she was leaving, Annabelle took another peek at the poster in the second row, third from the left, and wished she could snatch it off the wall like she’d done with the one in the saloon. But she knew better. Then another charcoal-sketched face caught her eye. She slowed and huffed a soft laugh, not feeling the least bit humored.

  The sizeable reward amount at the top of the page drew her attention, and she studied the rendering of the man’s face. The artist had done a very good job at capturing his likeness. Thankfully, the person who had drawn Matthew’s had failed to do the same.

  Matthew said nothing when she came out, but his unease was palpable. Knowing that anything she said would be revealing, for them both, she decided to keep quiet unless he asked.

  They passed a diner on their way back to the wagon, and through the front window she spotted Rigdon Caldwell seated inside. As though following a beacon, he lifted his head at the precise moment they passed. Annabelle caught his almost imperceptible nod and was certain they hadn’t seen the last of him.

  On their way out of town to make camp for the night, Annabelle and Matthew made a few more stops —visiting the brothel and two saloons—but they found no evidence of Sadie having been there. Near the outskirts of Rutherford, they passed a church, and Annabelle wished tomorrow were Sunday so she could visit. The building reminded her of the church back in Willow Springs. She imagined what it would be like to walk through those white double doors and have people smile and greet her, maybe even have the minister take her hand like Patrick often did when he spoke with people before and after the service.

  She felt Matthew watching her and realized she had been staring. He looked from her to the church, then back again, and she perceived a silent question in the gesture.

  When he chose not to voice it, she decided to ask one of her own. ‘‘Did you ever go to church in Willow Springs?’’

  The plod of hooves filled the interim void.

  ‘‘Yes . . . a couple of times.’’

  She massaged her lower back, overweary of this wagon seat. ‘‘What did you think?’’

  ‘‘What do you mean?’’ Matthew secured the reins in his left hand and held his right arm close to his side. The set of his shoulders communicated a weariness that went far deeper than needing food and rest. She would have offered to guide the team but had sensed that he needed to have control over something at the moment.

  ‘‘I mean . . . what did you think about the service? The hymns? About Patrick’s sermon?’’

  ‘‘I don’t remember much about the hymns, but I remember what Patrick preached about. Or more rightly, how he preached.’’

  He stared out across the prairie, and Annabelle got the sense he was recalling something farther back than Patrick’s sermons.

  ‘‘I remember he talked about forgiveness. But he did it in a way that made you think that forgiving people was part of God’s plan all along, not an afterthought once we’d messed things up.’’

  Annabelle didn’t miss how he’d phrased his response. ‘‘Once we’d messed things up.’’ Not after people messed things up, but we. He had included himself in that.

  She nodded. ‘‘A lot of Patrick’s sermons were about forgiveness.’’ His head whipped around. ‘‘You went to church there?’’

  The shock in his voice drew a laugh. ‘‘No. I haven’t been to church like that since I was a girl. But Patrick used to practice his sermons on me when Hannah was busy or just got tired of listening.’’ She giggled. ‘‘I bet that woman’s missing me about now.’’

  They drove on in silence for another couple of miles. Matthew was choosing to make camp farther from town than he normally did, she noted.

  Finally, he tugged on the reins with his good arm. ‘‘This should be a good place to stop for the night.’’ He set the brake and maneuvered his way off the buckboard, favoring his right arm. ‘‘Hannah will be glad to get that letter you mailed today.’’

  Annabelle climbed down on her side, wondering if he was laying the groundwork to question her about the man in the post office. ‘‘Yes, she will. I’m glad the town had a post office.’’

  He began unharnessing the grays. ‘‘That man . . . did you know him?’’

  ‘‘No, I didn’t.’’

  ‘‘You’ve never seen him before?’’

  Disbelief weighted his tone. Maybe it would be best to get it over with right now, just admit to knowing about Matthew’s past.

  Then she imagined his reaction at discovering she knew. He already carried enough guilt for them both.

  ‘‘No, I haven’t.’’

  ‘‘Just thought you might’ve . . . by the way you were talking to him.’’

  She came around to his side and bent to help him. ‘‘I dropped my letter and he handed it back to me. We exchanged pleasantries, that’s all.’’ She stole a glance at him.

  He unbuckled a strap and pulled it through. Even at this simple task, his breath came heavy. Perspiration glistened on his brow.

  ‘‘Matthew, let me do this.�
�’ She reached to help. ‘‘With your arm, you’re in no shape to—’’ He yanked the strap from her. ‘‘I can do it. You go start dinner.’’

  She moved to the next horse, ignoring his stubbornness. Maybe if they worked together for a while they could finally talk things through. ‘‘At least let me help you—then I’ll start dinner.’’

  ‘‘I don’t need any help.’’ He reached over her and took hold of the buckle in her grip.

  Trying to lighten the mood, she held on tight and smiled over her shoulder. ‘‘Stop being so stubborn, for goodness’ sake, and let me—’’ ‘‘I said I don’t need your help, Annabelle!’’

  She stilled at the sharpness in his voice—then took a step back.

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘‘I prefer to do this on my own.’’

  On my own. A familiar phrase coming from him. And dangerous words for a man to pin his hopes on, she’d overheard Jonathan say.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Matthew that he could go ahead and unharness the grays by himself, and rip out every stitch in the process. But his thinly veiled anger stayed her tongue.

  Because she saw through his anger, to what lurked beneath.

  Through the years she’d learned that, like women, men wore masks too. Except theirs were all the same. Men weren’t supposed to cry—so they became angry instead of showing sadness. Men weren’t allowed to be scared—so they became angry instead of showing fear. She knew what Matthew was going through because she’d lived in that grip of fear for as long as she could remember. But no more. She’d been freed.

  And she wanted him to experience that same freedom as well.

  Clouds on the distant horizon lit up for a split second before going dark again, as though the sun had risen and set behind them in the blink of an eye. No thunder. No rain. Only voiceless lightning embracing the vast night sky. Matthew studied Annabelle’s profile as she watched the display, envious of the wonderment in her expression, while trying to stave off the hopelessness inside himself.