Revealed Page 35

  ‘‘No. I came looking for Laura. I woke up and she was gone again.’’

  Matthew stilled at hearing his mother’s name. ‘‘Laura is gone, sir.’’

  ‘‘Well, I know she’s gone!’’ Agitation sharpened Haymen Taylor’s voice. ‘‘That’s why I’m looking for her!’’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘‘No, sir, I don’t mean gone like that.

  What I mean is she’s deceased. Laura died over twenty-five years ago.’’

  ‘‘Why that’s the most fool thing I’ve ever—’’ Instantly, the frown on his father’s face fell away, only to have sadness follow on its heels. He lowered his head; his frail shoulders began to shudder as he wept. ‘‘Is that why I can’t find her?’’

  Afraid his father might crumple where he stood, Matthew helped him into a chair. He couldn’t remember what his parents had been like together, but this outpouring of emotion wasn’t at all consistent with the man he’d known before.

  Matthew reached out to comfort his father, then stopped himself. Images of earlier years spent with this man passed before him, and none of them were pleasant. As his father’s sobs shook his feeble body, they tore through those old memories, and Matthew bent down and put an arm around his father’s shoulders.

  His sobs gradually quieted. ‘‘I just wanted to tell her I’m sorry. I haven’t been a very good husband to her of late.’’

  Not knowing what else to do, Matthew nodded and listened.

  After a moment, his father wiped his nose on the sleeve of his nightshirt and stood. ‘‘Do you need help getting something to eat? I just came down here for a bite myself.’’

  Matthew was hardly able to keep up with the shift in conversations. ‘‘Yes, sir. I was thinking of making myself a sandwich from some of the roast left over from dinner. Interested?’’

  ‘‘Sounds mighty good to me.’’

  Matthew made a sandwich, cut it into two pieces, and sat down at the table with his father. He picked up his half and started to take a bite when his father cleared his throat. Matthew looked up.

  ‘‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’’

  Immediately, Matthew felt all of six years old again. He bowed his head and, with effort, reached across the table for his father’s hand. When his father didn’t pray, he did. ‘‘Thank you, Lord, for this food and for this company. Bless us and keep us safe through the night.’’ He paused. ‘‘And please let Laura know we miss her.’’

  He finished praying and lifted his head only to find his father staring straight at him. Noting the marked changes that time and illness had left there, it struck Matthew that a different man dwelled behind those eyes now.

  Haymen Taylor slowly nodded. ‘‘You did good.’’

  It took Matthew a moment to answer. ‘‘Thank you, sir,’’ he whispered, then sat and watched his father eat for a moment before starting himself.

  After they finished, Matthew walked him back down the hallway to his room and helped him into bed. Waiting to make sure his father didn’t decide to take another late-night jaunt, he stood outside the room, the door open, until he heard the man’s gentle snoring.

  ‘‘The mind is an amazing—and frightening—thing, isn’t it?’’

  He turned to see Shannon standing in the doorway to her bedroom a short distance down the hall.

  He nodded. ‘‘How do you know when he gets up during the night?’’

  She gestured toward the door beside him, where bells were affixed to the latch.

  ‘‘Once you put the rifle down, you did a fine job, Mr. Taylor.’’

  Shannon smiled. ‘‘I didn’t have the heart to interrupt.’’

  He laughed softly. ‘‘My nerves are a little jumpy tonight, I guess.’’

  Matthew felt a prick of guilt when remembering she’d been taking care of his father all this time. He imagined Johnny seeing to his father’s needs all those years too—caring for the man who had inflicted the welts on his back.

  ‘‘I’ve been fortunate to be able to take care of your father, Mr.

  Taylor.’’

  Her comment caught him off guard. ‘‘Fortunate? How’s that?’’

  ‘‘In caring for him, in watching his memory diminish, I’ve gotten a glimpse of what forgiveness must be like from God’s perspective.’’

  He didn’t answer, not quite following.

  ‘‘When God forgives, He wipes the slate clean, so to speak. Something you and I don’t have the power to do. I’m not sure whether He really doesn’t remember our sins anymore, or whether He just chooses not to hold them against us.’’ She shrugged. ‘‘Either way, I’ve learned to appreciate that more in recent years.’’ She paused, then nodded toward the door again. ‘‘If you’ll close the door, I’d appreciate it. That way I’ll hear him if it happens again.’’ She went back to her room, leaving her door ajar.

  Matthew retrieved the rifle on his way back to bed, but sleep didn’t come quickly. For a long time, he lay awake dwelling on the words his father had spoken to him. Words he’d waited over thirty-two years to hear.

  ‘‘You did good.’’

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - SEVEN

  MATTHEW AWAKENED THE NEXT MORNING, surprised when he saw sunlight edging through a crack in the curtains.

  He pushed from bed, his head fuzzy from too little sleep.

  He dressed quickly and packed his saddlebags, thinking about what the day held. He was doing the right thing in returning to San Antonio, in choosing to face up to what he’d done. He only hoped he could convince Seor Antonio Sedillos to listen before meting out punishment. Mercy wasn’t a trait the man was known for.

  Matthew opened the bedroom door and spotted a note on the floor. He bent to pick it up, already recognizing the handwriting.

  Dear Matthew,

  I’ve left something for you on the table in the hallway. I found it late last night and thought you should have it. I’ve gone into Sandy Creek and will be back as soon as I can. Please don’t leave before I return.

  Warmly,

  Annabelle

  P.S. I borrowed Manasseh.

  Don’t leave before I return? Borrowed Manasseh? That fool woman! He’d told her last night he’d go into town with her. Warning stole through him knowing that Sedillos’ man was somewhere close by and that Annabelle was alone in town. Sedillos was the type of man who would use whatever advantage was available.

  Saddlebags in hand, he strode across the hall, grabbed what she’d left for him, and raced downstairs and out the front door.

  ‘‘Good morning, Mr. Taylor,’’ a ranch hand greeted as he entered the stable.

  Matthew couldn’t remember meeting the man. Word sure traveled fast around here. ‘‘I need a horse,’’ he said, winded from the run.

  ‘‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir. Mrs. McCutchens took the tan geld—’’ Matthew raised a hand. ‘‘Yes, I’m aware of that. Do you know how long ago she left?’’

  The man pulled a saddle from the rack. ‘‘About an hour ago, I’d guess. Maybe a bit more.’’

  Matthew exhaled through clenched teeth. He watched the man expertly saddle a black mare, willing him to work faster, yet knowing he couldn’t have done it any faster himself. He glanced down at the worn leather book in his grip, then opened the front cover.

  His brother’s name was written on the inside, right below his mother’s. He gathered the pages in his right hand and fanned them with his thumb. As they flipped by, he saw scribbles in the margins, and places where the text had been underlined. Twice. Apparently Johnny and their mother had given this Bible a great deal of use.

  Matthew tucked it into his saddlebag, then slipped his left boot into the stirrup, vowing he would do the same. If he lived through this.

  ‘‘I appreciate your coming in so soon following your arrival, Mrs. McCutchens.’’ Mr. Hoxley waited by her chair until she was seated, then moved behind the massive pine desk that dominated the room.

  ‘‘It’s no trouble at all. I’m happy to make the time.’’
Annabelle glanced at the clock on his bookshelf. Surely Matthew had found her note by now. She could well imagine his reaction at finding her—and his horse—gone. But taking the gelding had been the only way she could make certain he didn’t leave before she completed her business in town.

  For a moment last night, she’d thought he was finally going to tell her about the gambling debts, but then he hadn’t. Stubborn, foolish man! Over the past weeks, Matthew had learned to extend grace, but he hadn’t learned how to accept it yet.

  ‘‘I brought the documents from the bank in Willow Springs with me.’’ She laid them on Mr. Hoxley’s desk.

  The leather chair creaked as he leaned forward to take them. He skimmed the pages. ‘‘Your journey from Colorado to Idaho was pleasant, I trust?’’

  Though pleasant hardly began to describe the experience, Annabelle mentally cataloged the events of past weeks and nodded.

  ‘‘Yes, it was. Thank you, sir.’’

  ‘‘A Pastor . . . um . . .’’ Mr. Hoxley traced his finger down a file that lay open on the side of his desk. ‘‘A Pastor Carlson confirmed your late husband’s passing with the bank in Willow Springs, and also provided them with a letter Mr. McCutchens had addressed to him. That letter, along with one we received here at the bank, served as your late husband’s last will and testament. Mr. McCutchens was thorough and straightforward in his wishes, ma’am.’’

  Annabelle sat a bit straighter at mention of the second letter. ‘‘Mr. Hoxley, do you still have that letter, by chance?’’

  ‘‘Why, of course. We added it to your file. Here it is.’’

  Jonathan’s instructions had been brief. The letter simply stated that upon his death, all of his worldly possessions were to pass to her. In her entire life, she’d never owned anything, never had security of any kind, and now to have all this. She lifted the letter to read the document affixed to it.

  Her focus immediately went to the second line on the page.

  Annabelle Grayson McCutchens.

  Then just as quickly, she noted the entry preceding it. A heavy line had been drawn through Jonathan’s name directly above hers. She followed the length of the row across the columns on the page, and something inside her gave way. She stared at his name and tears rose to her eyes. With one stroke of a pen, all that Jonathan had labored for, all that he and Matthew had dreamed about, became hers.

  She wiped her cheek and held the documents out to the banker.

  ‘‘Actually, I need you to sign right there by your name.’’ He handed her a quill and moved the bottle of ink closer. ‘‘Your signature will complete the transfer of ownership.’’

  After glancing again at the name above hers, Annabelle signed.

  Mr. Hoxley gathered the documents and eased his chair back from the desk. ‘‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mrs. McCutchens?’’

  She glanced at the clock again, her pulse gaining momentum. ‘‘Yes, sir. There’s one more item of business we need to discuss.’’

  Matthew reined in the black mare in front of the bank and dismounted. Inside, he scanned the room for her.

  A woman approached from a side office. ‘‘May I help you, sir?’’

  Matthew forced a calm he didn’t feel. ‘‘Yes, I’m looking for a woman . . . a Mrs. Jonathan McCutchens. She had business here this morning, and I’m hoping to catch her.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t meet with anyone by that name, but perhaps someone else did. I’ll check for you.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, ma’am, I’d appreciate that.’’

  She walked away, and Matthew turned to look out the front window. As people passed on the boardwalk outside, he searched their faces, praying to see Annabelle’s among them. Standing at the edge of the window afforded him a better view down the street.

  Someone at the far end of the boardwalk caught his eye. But just then a freight wagon rounded the corner, crowding the thoroughfare and making it impossible to see. He moved down a couple of feet and stepped closer to the window.

  He went cold inside.

  He strode outside to the mare and unsheathed his rifle. Opting for the road instead of the congested boardwalk, Matthew made his way past the freight wagon and other wagons caught behind it, past carts and livestock, to the corner.

  He only thought he’d spotted Annabelle. But he was positive he’d seen the bounty hunter.

  He peered through windows of businesses as he passed. A barbershop, a land and title company. His steps slowed outside Haddock’s General Store, and he scanned the crowded aisles. Nothing. Standing on the corner, he searched down the street to his left, then to his right. On impulse, he headed west.

  He passed a newspaper office, dress shop, and haberdashery. If anything happened to Annabelle because of this, he didn’t know what he would do. God, don’t let her pay for my mistakes. Let me stand accountable. But please . . . not her.

  He started to head in the other direction, then stilled.

  There she was, entering a hotel a ways down the street. Heart pounding, he crossed the avenue and peered through the side of the front window. The lobby was clear. He stepped inside. Her voice carried to him from a side hallway.

  Another patron approached the front desk, and Matthew seized the opportunity to scoot across the lobby and around the corner. A door was closing at the far end of the hall. He slowly started toward it, checking behind him as he went. Reaching the room, he leaned close, listening. Then he gently tried the knob.

  It turned without complaint.

  Nerves taut, he drew a last prayerful breath and flung open the door.

  CHAPTER | THIRTY - EIGHT

  ANNABELLE STOOD TO MATTHEW’S RIGHT, facing him.

  She stared, unflinching, and the disturbing sense that she’d been expecting him skittered across his nerves. The click of a chamber loading registered a fraction before he felt the barrel against his left temple.

  ‘‘Put down the gun, Mr. Taylor.’’

  Annabelle winced, then nodded, as though telling him to do as he’d been asked. The lack of surprise in her expression confirmed his former suspicion. He turned slightly to see behind him, but a firm nudge from the steel shaft encouraged him to face forward again.

  Rifle in his left hand, he raised his right. ‘‘Okay, I’m putting it down.’’

  He bent forward slowly, scanning his surroundings as he laid the rifle on the floor. A bed, a table, a desk and chair in the corner. He stood up, watching Annabelle for a sign. A slight nod or a telling look—anything that would help him figure out what was going on.

  Her eyes connected with his but revealed nothing.

  If he had been alone, he might have tried something. But not with her here. His thoughts went to the child inside her. He heard the door latch behind him.

  ‘‘Cross the room and stand beside Mrs. McCutchens.’’

  He hesitated.

  ‘‘Now!’’

  The blunt barrel pressing against his back was persuasive enough. Once beside her, Matthew slowly turned, and discovered he’d guessed correctly. ‘‘Please, let Mrs. McCutchens go. Your business is with me, not with her.’’

  ‘‘Actually, my business used to be with you, Taylor.’’ A slow smile pulled at the man’s mouth. ‘‘Now it is with her.’’

  Matthew’s gut twisted remembering the story Annabelle had told him last night. Imagining the sick fear she must be experiencing at this moment, he reached over for her hand, then angled his body in front of hers. He would die before he let this man touch her.

  His hand found hers. She took his gently, not gripping in fear. He turned and looked at her. She seemed more remorseful than frightened.

  ‘‘Annabelle?’’ he whispered.

  Tears rose to her eyes. ‘‘Matthew, this is Mr. Rigdon Caldwell.’’

  She indicated the man holding the gun. ‘‘He’s been tracking you since you left Texas.’’

  ‘‘I know,’’ Matthew admitted, feeling the weight of guilt on his shoulders. ‘‘I never
could bring myself to tell you before, Annabelle.’’ The shame he felt at her knowing about him was nothing compared to his need to see her safe. He should have told her a long time ago. If anything happened to her . . .

  ‘‘This is all real nice, you two, but I’ve got to be in Boise City by nightfall.’’

  Matthew took a step toward Caldwell. ‘‘I’ll go with you, and I’ll go without a fight. Just as long as Mrs. McCutchens can go free, and unharmed.’’

  Caldwell’s attention shifted between the two of them, finally settling on Annabelle. ‘‘Ma’am? I’m runnin’ out of time. Not to mention patience.’’

  Matthew trailed Caldwell’s gaze back to Annabelle.

  Her hand tightened around his. ‘‘Matthew, I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’ll just say it straight out. The night that you went into that gaming hall for Sadie . . . as soon as you went inside, Mr. Caldwell approached me on the street. He didn’t hurt me,’’ she said quickly, as though aware of the rush of protectiveness filling him at that moment. ‘‘He just talked to me and—’’

  ‘‘And told you about what I’d done.’’ Matthew tried to put a word to the emotion he saw moving into her eyes.

  She winced slightly. ‘‘Actually . . . I’ve known about that since that night in Parkston. I saw your picture hanging on the wall in the back room with the bartender.’’

  Unable to respond, Matthew stared as her meaning sank in. She’d known all along. . . .

  ‘‘Mrs. McCutchens, Mr. Taylor.’’

  In unison, they both looked back across the room, and let go of each other’s hands.

  ‘‘Ma’am, you strike a hard bargain, but it’s been a pleasure to do business with you. Mr. Taylor, no need to keep checking over your shoulder anymore. Not for me, anyway. Consider your account with Seor Sedillos settled, and he sends his gratitude for turning in Mason Boyd.’’ Caldwell moved toward the door, stopping to bend down and pick up Matthew’s rifle. He released the hammer, unloaded and pocketed the cartridges, and put the gun on the bed. ‘‘Just in case you’re the kind of man who carries a grudge.’’ He closed the door behind him when he left.