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  He’d known her instantly. Her blue eyes appeared less pronounced without the smudged kohl, and her hair was much darker than he remembered. She’d traded a tawdry gown for simple homespun, but it couldn’t change what she was. Did Johnny really not know? Had the woman not told him?

  Wordless, Matthew stared at her until her brow, formally heightened in greeting, slowly disappeared behind a mask of carefully guarded emotion. She truly expected him to act as if he didn’t remember who she was?

  Something skittered in the cobwebbed corner of the nowabandoned shack, and Matthew shook his head to clear the memory. Surely by now Johnny had come to realize what a mistake he had made by marrying a woman like Annabelle Grayson and had put her aside. If not, Matthew planned on making sure he did, for Johnny’s sake as well as his own. Thankfully their mother, God rest her soul, wasn’t alive to know just how low her eldest had sunk.

  Decent women were scarce in the western territories. But even with all his faults, his older brother deserved better than a woman like her. Annabelle Grayson had tried to take advantage of Kathryn Jennings’ friendship a while back, no doubt seeking money or whatever else she could get. Concerned about Kathryn’s reputation, Matthew had done his best to discourage her befriending the fallen woman. People always tried to take advantage of Johnny’s kindness too, but Matthew wasn’t about to stand by and watch it happen to his brother with this conniving little whore. Not when it could end up costing him his own birthright. A birthright he ended up needing now, however paltry.

  Without a backward glance, Matthew closed the door to the shack. Considering what to do next, he gathered the reins and led the way to a place in the creek where the watercourse curved and the stream ran smoother and deeper. Letting the animal drink, he laid his hat aside and slaked his own thirst, then cupped handfuls and poured the icy water over his face and throat, freeing a layer of dust and dirt from the day’s ride. Maybe Johnny had thought to leave word for him in town. It was worth a try. After all, he’d come this far.

  A half hour later, Matthew witnessed for himself that the seamier side of trade in Willow Springs hadn’t wasted any time expanding its boundaries. He passed two new saloons and another two-story wood-planked building that resembled the brothel one street over. Iron bars guarded the bottom floor windows, and red curtains shaded the top. Three women lazed against the porch railing. They leaned over invitingly and called out to him as he rode past.

  Before Matthew could catch himself, his gaze lingered, which only emboldened their efforts. Immediately, he looked away. And as he did, words rose to his mind that helped drown out their impudent invitations.

  ‘‘Remove thy way far from her, and come not nigh the door of her house: Lest thou give thine honour unto others . . . lest strangers be filled with thy wealth.’’

  At the remembered warning in Scripture, Matthew thought again of Johnny. He prayed he could talk some sense into his brother this time. Before that woman saw to Johnny’s complete ruin.

  Two men working together outside the Willow Springs Hose Company No. 1 looked up as Matthew passed. They waved, then went back to polishing the red-painted wheels of the hose cart. Commercial buildings crafted of wood frame and stone false fronts flanked the street, and at the corner stood the Baird & Smith Hotel. The hub of Willow Springs’s business district had changed little in his absence.

  Matthew stopped at the livery to board his horse, guarding his side of the conversation with Jake Sampson, the livery owner. Sampson knew more about the people of Willow Springs than anyone had a right to, and he shared what he knew with little prompting. Which might just prove advantageous today.

  Sure enough, with casual mention of the couple’s last name, Matthew had all the information he needed, or wanted, about the husband and wife he’d worked for when he last lived there. The man, his former boss, had been a good friend. Or so Matthew had once thought.

  At midmorning the main thoroughfare in Willow Springs bustled with activity, and Matthew welcomed the anonymity of a crowd. The boardwalk swelled with people. Wagons lined the streets, workers loaded and unloaded freight. Women wrestled baskets in one hand and children in the other. Matthew opted to take the dirt-packed street instead and moved to descend the stairs. He knew where he needed to go next and headed in that direction, welcoming the chance to sort his thoughts.

  He’d said things in anger to Johnny the last time they’d seen each other, most of which hadn’t even been true. Matthew had simply been giving vent to his disappointment in his brother—and in himself. He had so much he wanted to say to Johnny now, and one thing stood out above the rest. He needed Johnny to know how much he appreciated all he’d done for him, especially when they were younger. Haymen Taylor’s harsh discipline would have broken Matthew physically, just as the man’s words had crippled his spirit. But Johnny had stood in the gap for him, time after time, and Matthew intended on making it up to him somehow.

  Being six years older, a good three inches taller, and with a barrel chest that made him look even more imposing, Johnny had always been a bit of a hero to Matthew, despite their differences. Matthew admired his brother in many ways, yet he’d never told him that outright. Their mother had remarried after Johnny’s father died, and according to Johnny, her second marriage had been a hasty one. Soon after, their mother became pregnant with a second child—with him. Laura McCutchens Taylor hoped this new man in their lives would offer the financial stability she couldn’t provide and that he would be a good father to her two sons.

  Both of her wishes had been met with disappointment.

  Spotting the post office ahead, Matthew stepped up to the edge of the boardwalk and waited for the foot traffic to pass. Then he entered and closed the door behind him, amazed at the sudden quietness without the outside noise. He took a place in line and spotted an announcement board on the wall a couple of feet away. One advertisement in particular caught his eye. Two words written in capital letters across the top immediately drew his attention.

  He stared, letting them sink in. He read the next few lines, then reached over and yanked the handwritten slip from the billboard.

  Stepping back into the queue, he read the notice again and weighed his options.

  The advertised job would pay well and offered guaranteed wages. A third on hire, the rest upon reaching the destination. The amount listed wasn’t enough to erase what he owed, but it would certainly bring him a good sight closer. And the job would keep him moving in the right direction—north, and as far away from Texas as he could get.

  A month had passed since he managed to disappear one moonless night from the town of San Antonio. Pushing north, he hadn’t lingered in any one place more than a night or two, skirting the larger towns and staying only long enough to chop firewood or repair fencing at an outlying homestead in exchange for a meal. But no matter how many miles he put behind himself or how many excuses he piled in his favor, he couldn’t outrun his guilt.

  He’d made poor choices since leaving Willow Springs, and he knew it. He simply needed more time to get together the money he owed. Time the men in San Antonio hadn’t been willing to give.

  Matthew heard the post office door open behind him, and a tingle of awareness prickled up the back of his neck. In a move that was becoming disturbingly familiar, he slowly turned toward the two women who had just entered, one of them holding a small girl in her arms, then to the man now filling the doorway.

  The stranger locked eyes with him, and Matthew’s mouth went dry.

  If the guy was wearing a badge, his black duster hid it from view. But his solemn stare was enough to prod Matthew’s guilt until Matthew felt certain his expression alone would give him away. He forced himself to hold the man’s gaze for a few seconds, then slowly faced forward again. He spied a second exit behind the mail counter, roughly twelve feet away. He’d have to clear the tall counter, but that was doable, given the alternative. Wishing he knew what was happening behind him, he listened for the man’s approach. Then the woman
directly in front of him turned and gave a sudden gasp.

  Matthew tensed, fisting his hands in readiness.

  ‘‘James . . .’’ The woman took a step toward the door. ‘‘I thought we were supposed to meet at Myrtle’s. I’m not quite done here yet.’’

  A long pause. ‘‘I got done early and thought I might catch you here,’’ the man finally answered.

  Slowly, Matthew let out the breath he’d been holding. His eyes closed briefly as tension ebbed from his body. Hundreds of miles stretched between him and San Antonio, but still he couldn’t shake his sense of being followed. Moving forward in the queue, he chided himself for being so jumpy. He suddenly noticed a cluttered board that ran half the length of the post office wall, and the voice of reprieve inside him fell silent.

  Pinned along the top and sides of the board, in no apparent order, were charcoal-drawn likenesses of men. They stared back at him, their hollow eyes silent in pronounced guilt of the crimes written beneath their names. Matthew slowly scanned each likeness, grateful when he didn’t see a single familiar face among them. Swallowing with effort, he suppressed an unmanly shudder.

  Behind him, a woman softly cleared her throat. Matthew looked up and realized the queue had advanced in front of him yet again. He moved forward.

  He shifted his weight, weary from weeks of riding and bothered by the reminder of why he’d originally left Willow Springs a year and a half ago. At the livery that morning, casual inquiry to Jake Sampson had provided the answer to some of his lingering questions.

  Apparently Larson Jennings’ once-failed ranch was going to succeed, and Larson and Kathryn were expecting their second child come fall. Hearing the news stirred mixed emotions inside him. He once considered Jennings to be his friend, but the bitterness of betrayal tinged any thought of his former boss now. Matthew bowed his head.

  ‘‘Can I help you, sir?’’

  A feminine voice drew him back. Matthew stepped to the vacant window. With any luck, the woman behind the counter would provide him with the information he sought. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. Would you please check and see if you’re holding any letters for a Mr. Matthew Taylor?’’

  The clerk held his gaze briefly, repeating his name, before leafing through the drawer of mail beneath her counter. ‘‘I’m sorry, but we have nothing under that name, sir. Were you expecting something important?’’

  Matthew nodded and pushed up the brim of his hat in order to see her better. ‘‘It might’ve been sent a few months ago. I’ve been away for a while. Or it could’ve been mailed from here to San Antonio and then returned. Is there anywhere else you could check . . . in case it was put aside?’’

  A slow smile curved the corners of her mouth, and gradually Matthew became aware of her interest. She gave a slow nod in answer to his question. A dark wayward curl brushed against her cheek, and he responded to the twinkle in her eyes. She was attractive, and he’d wager from her manner that she was a lady on every count.

  As though she could read the thread of his thoughts, a rosy blush deepened her cheeks. ‘‘I’d be happy to look in the back for you, Mr. Taylor. If . . . you have a minute.’’

  ‘‘I do,’’ he answered, smiling. ‘‘And thank you. I’d appreciate that.’’ He watched her go, absently fingering the advertisement in his hand. He glanced at it again, and as if the slip of paper could offer an opinion on the subject, it seemed to confirm the fact that he’d be moving on again, soon. And though tempted to pursue this lady’s wordless invitation, Matthew knew better. He stuffed the paper into his shirt pocket for safekeeping.

  She returned minutes later, empty-handed, offering an apologetic shrug. ‘‘I’m sorry, but there’s nothing there either.’’

  He hesitated. Maybe there was a different way to go about this. ‘‘Could you tell me if you have a forwarding address for a Mr. Jonathan McCutchens? He had a place here up ’til a few months ago.’’ Although Matthew would hardly call the two-room shack where his brother and that . . . woman . . . had lived a real dwelling.

  The clerk was already reaching for a long slender box. ‘‘Let me see . . .’’

  Matthew waited as she thumbed through the pieces of paper. Johnny had always been the more impulsive one. Some people might have labeled him foolhardy, but Matthew actually admired Johnny’s sense of fearlessness and had come to believe that sometimes his brother, though good-intentioned, simply didn’t think things through well enough before acting. Most of the time it ended up working for him somehow.

  Growing up in the wake of Johnny’s missteps, Matthew had determined to live more cautiously, not to make the same mistakes, and he’d managed to carefully maneuver the pitfalls that Johnny had fallen prey to. Namely, with women. Even as a young man, Matthew realized that God had given him an extra measure of restraint. And for that, he was grateful. Not that he didn’t struggle with natural desires. He did.

  There were many times when the thought of taking a wife, of sharing that union with her, would consume nearly every waking thought. The desire within him was strong, yet he knew God intended for that desire to be met in marriage. And he’d determined long ago to wait—despite the struggle and despite Johnny’s merciless ridicule about it when they were younger.

  Besides, it wasn’t like he had anything to offer a woman right now. Especially one who appeared as good and kind and deserving as the young lady staring back at him from behind the counter.

  She shrugged her slender shoulders. Her smile dimmed, but not her sparkle. ‘‘I’m sorry, but if you’ll check back with me tomorrow . . . maybe something will have come. . . .’’

  ‘‘Thanks just the same, ma’am,’’ Matthew said, suddenly eager to leave. ‘‘I appreciate your help.’’ He tipped his hat and didn’t look her in the eye again.

  He stepped outside to the boardwalk only to see Hudson’s Haberdashery across the street—the shop where Kathryn Jennings had once worked. He turned and strode in the opposite direction. As he rounded the corner, the scent of baking bread and roasting meat taunted his appetite, and hunger gnawed his belly—just as the failure of recent months gnawed his bruised pride.

  Pulling the piece of paper from his pocket, he moved off to a side alley to read it again. The name on the advertisement seemed familiar to him for some reason, but he couldn’t quite place it. He’d always believed in signs, and though it had been a while since he’d felt that inner prompting, surely this was God paving a new path for him, giving him a second chance.

  Matthew removed his hat, frowning at the road dust now coating it. He tunneled callused fingers through his hair. It was too long for his own taste, and a month’s growth of beard gave him an untamed look he doubted would be of much assurance to the person who had placed this ad. Counting the last few coins in his pocket, he watched his list of options narrow with a pang of clarity.

  Two hours later, in his last change of clean clothes, he stepped from the barbershop. He ran a hand over his smooth jawline and inhaled the scent of bay rum. Shaven, shorn, and bathed, Matthew made his way back across town to the address listed on the advertisement. With no money left to satisfy his hunger, he stopped by Fountain Creek and drank deeply of the cool waters until the pangs in his belly eased.

  His luck was about to change. He could feel it. After all, how difficult could it be to escort one widow woman to the Idaho Territory?

  CHAPTER | FOUR

  THE PLAYFUL INTIMACY OF the scene made Annabelle feel as though she should get up from the breakfast table and leave, yet she couldn’t. It was like a compelling story she couldn’t put down. She watched Patrick, then Hannah, to see what would happen next.

  ‘‘But it’ll only take a few minutes, Hannah, and I’d really like your thoughts.’’ Bracing his long arms on either side of his wife from behind, Patrick tossed Annabelle a smile as he cornered Hannah against the washtub in the kitchen. He leaned close. ‘‘Please, it’s a difficult subject to broach and it’ll only take a few minutes.’’

  Hannah swished her fingers i
n the soapy water and flicked it over her shoulder into his face. ‘‘I’m busy with the dishes, Patrick. I can’t listen to it right now. Maybe later.’’

  He nuzzled her neck. ‘‘Come on . . . my sermons are so much better with your input. As a woman, you have insights I don’t have.’’

  Annabelle watched, mesmerized. Hannah didn’t stiffen at Patrick’s touch, nor was there the least sense of her having to endure his hands on her body. Quite the opposite was true. Even Hannah’s protests seemed like an invitation.

  Hannah’s mild objections finally dissolved into giggles as she turned to face him. Her arms encircled his waist as he pulled her close. ‘‘And what’s the difficult topic for this week, Pastor Carlson? How to live with a pesky preacher?’’

  Apparently thinking he’d won the standoff, Patrick reached for the stack of papers on the kitchen table. But when he did, Hannah scooted out of reach.

  With the table as a safe barrier between them, she winked at Annabelle. ‘‘I pose my question again, Pastor Carlson.’’ Her voice turned playfully formal. ‘‘What’s the topic that I, being of the female persuasion, have such incredible insight into?’’

  Patrick gave her a wicked grin. ‘‘The deceptive nature of sin.’’

  Hannah’s jaw dropped open in teasing shock just before her laughter erupted.

  Annabelle couldn’t help but join them both, giggling. She marveled at their ease with each other and the way Hannah looked at Patrick. The love between them was almost tangible, and the intensity of it caught Annabelle off guard.

  Her throat tightened in response, her smile faded. Would she ever look on a man the way that Hannah looked at Patrick, or so strongly desire a man to touch her like that? To caress her like Patrick surely did Hannah when they were alone? And why hadn’t she felt that with Jonathan? Just pondering the thought felt traitorous to his memory, and Annabelle bowed her head in response.