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  Then she noticed the silence in the room and slowly looked up.

  Hannah’s eyes brimmed with unshed tears. ‘‘Oh, Annabelle, we’re sorry.’’ Her voice wavered.

  Sick regret lined Patrick’s expression. He came to kneel beside her. ‘‘Please forgive us for joking like that. On my honor, I never intended to hurt you—neither of us did. Women are no more prone to sin than men are. I was only teasing Hannah because she wouldn’t listen to my—’’

  Annabelle raised her hand, realizing the misunderstanding. ‘‘No.’’ She shook her head. ‘‘That’s not it at all. Nothing either of you said hurt me.’’ She managed a smile at Patrick, then included Hannah. ‘‘It’s just that . . . what the two of you have . . .’’ She swallowed, hoping to loosen the knot in her throat. ‘‘I’ve never . . . I’ve never known that before.’’ Annabelle hesitated, not wishing to dishonor Jonathan’s memory in any way. ‘‘Jonathan and I . . . It simply wasn’t like that between us.’’ She took a quick breath. ‘‘I feel selfish even thinking these things much less speaking them aloud, but . . . I guess I’m wondering if I’ll ever . . .’’

  Hannah came and put an arm around her shoulders. ‘‘Annabelle, it’s not selfish at all to want to be loved. And of course you’ll experience this. You would have had this with Jonathan. I’m sure of it. The love between you two just didn’t have time to grow— that’s all.’’

  Patrick quickly agreed, but Annabelle couldn’t help but wonder. What she and Jonathan had lacked in their marriage went far deeper than the simple passage of time or a husband and wife becoming more familiar with each other.

  With deepening clarity the same truth that gripped her heart the night Jonathan passed away suddenly tightened into an awful fist. Physically tensing, she realized, without any doubt, that the fault of what had been lacking in their relationship—though Jonathan had never once cast blame—lay with her, rather than with them as a couple, as she’d once thought. Would the life she had once lived render her forever incapable of truly loving a man that way? Or of allowing herself to be loved?

  Or could what Jonathan had said be true. ‘‘A person can’t love someone else . . . until they’ve learned to love themselves first.’’ Fragile hope stirred inside her at that one key word. Jonathan had known she wasn’t capable of loving him like that even before she had. And still, he’d married her. But didn’t a pupil need a teacher in order to learn?

  A dull ache started in her stomach, constricting to a spasm that had become more familiar in recent days. She stood, a hand cradling her waistline. ‘‘Patrick, I’d be happy to listen to your sermon . . . later, if you want me to.’’ Her body flushed hot, then cold. An unsettling sensation quivered her stomach. She moved toward the back door, shooting Hannah a look. ‘‘But first I need to take a quick walk out back.’’

  Hannah nodded, understanding softening her gaze.

  A knock sounded from the front porch.

  Their collective attention flickered in that direction. Hannah gently pushed a dishcloth into Annabelle’s hand, motioning for her to go on. ‘‘I’ll get that, and one of us will be out to check on you in a bit.’’

  Annabelle let the screen door slam behind her, but above its clatter she heard the insistent, repeated knocking coming from the front door. Whoever was waiting on the other side . . . patience certainly wasn’t one of their virtues.

  A while later, aided by the fence post at the furthermost edge of the Carlsons’ garden, Annabelle stood slowly, thankful the nausea had passed. She held a hand to her forehead a moment longer until the dizziness lessened, then blew out a breath. Inspired by spring rains, wild flowers flourished in the field behind the Carlsons’ home, and Annabelle feasted her senses, turning her face into the warm breeze.

  If the past week was any indication, her pregnancy was going to be a rocky one. But she would never wish away this baby, this lasting thread tying her to Jonathan. If the baby was a boy, he would carry on Jonathan’s family name. Annabelle placed her hand over the smooth front of her skirt. Whether boy or girl, with God’s help, the child would be taught Jonathan’s faith. She would make certain of that.

  She couldn’t imagine adding to her present nausea the constant jostling and bumping of a wagon over the nearly one-thousandmile trip to Idaho. Yet she waited every day for an answer to the ad Patrick had penned for a hired guide to accompany her. If someone didn’t answer soon—

  ‘‘Mind if I join you, ma’am?’’

  Lost in another world, Annabelle startled at the deep voice behind her. She turned and couldn’t keep from smiling at the comical expression masking Patrick’s face.

  ‘‘I’d be much obliged, ma’am, if you’d let me keep company awhile with you. Seein’ as my horse done died on me and I walked the last twenty miles barefoot.’’

  Her smile widened to a grin. Patrick’s imitation of a languid cowboy, made complete by the tipping of his invisible hat, coaxed a laugh from her—and a confused squint.

  He grinned and shrugged his shoulders as if to say he didn’t know why he was doing it either, then glanced back to the house. His look turned sheepish. ‘‘Mrs. Cranchet just stopped by for a visit.’’

  ‘‘Ah . . .’’ Annabelle nodded, remembering the elderly widow who often dropped by unannounced with ‘‘divine inspiration’’ for Patrick’s sermons. She’d overheard the woman on two occasions while in the Carlsons’ home, and from what Annabelle gathered, the topics were never things that Mrs. Cranchet struggled with herself. Mainly they came in the form of veiled gossip. ‘‘Fred Grandby was seen going into the saloon last Friday, so you might want to teach on the evils of liquor,’’ or ‘‘Martha Triddle has been sporting too many new dresses of late, highly fashionable ones at that, so a lesson on vanity would be most timely, Pastor Carlson.’’

  Annabelle worked to lend sincerity to her tone, while trying to hide her smile. ‘‘But Patrick, I thought Mrs. Cranchet normally came to see you.’’

  A faint blush accompanied his wince, and Patrick shrugged again. ‘‘The honest truth?’’ He arched a single brow.

  ‘‘That’s the best kind.’’

  ‘‘I’m just not up to listening to her sermon suggestions today.

  Not with tomorrow’s sermon still at loose ends.’’

  Annabelle noted the papers in his hand. ‘‘I see. So Hannah bailed you out again, huh?’’

  He nodded. ‘‘I’m married to a saint. The most wonderful woman a man could have.’’

  ‘‘That she is, my friend. And she did pretty well for herself too.’’

  Patrick smiled a wordless thanks. ‘‘You feeling better?’’

  ‘‘Much. For now, at least.’’ They chatted for a moment, and then Annabelle took the opportunity to ask him about the advertisement.

  ‘‘Still haven’t heard anything, but I’m sure we’ll get a response soon.’’

  If only she shared his certainty. ‘‘It’s the end of May. If I can’t hire a guide in the next few days and leave soon, it’ll be nearly impossible to catch up with Brennan’s group. Besides, I hear we need to allow enough time to get there and get settled before the first snowfall.’’ The option of traveling alone with a man she didn’t even know for the entire trip to Idaho Territory was out of the question in her mind. She knew, better than most women, the basic nature of a man. What was more, she knew Jonathan would have been against it.

  ‘‘I checked around town yesterday.’’ Patrick ran a hand along the rough pine fence railing. ‘‘There’s not another group scheduled to leave from Denver for the Idaho Territory ’til next spring.’’

  Upon hearing that, Annabelle’s determination to make this journey took deeper root. After all, she had promised Jonathan, and this had been his last wish for her and their child.

  A stinging reminder of the reason she needed to leave Willow Springs rose in her memory, further deepening her resolve. The cool looks she’d drawn from people in town the other day, followed by their not-so-hidden whispers, hurt far more w
ithout the invisible protective wall she’d spent years building. For an instant, she’d been tempted to tell the people what hypocrites they were, especially two of the men she remembered entertaining at the brothel. But in the end, she couldn’t do it.

  She wouldn’t reconstruct that wall of isolation, not when hands of love and friendship had worked so hard to tear it down, brick by stubborn brick. Not when she remembered Jonathan and the grace he’d introduced into her life. Still, it baffled her how folks could read the same book and come to such different conclusions. Funny how the Bible seemed to soften some while toughening others.

  ‘‘I understand what you’re saying, Patrick, but Willow Springs can never be my home again. I can’t stay here—not even if it’s only until next spring.’’

  Looking as though he wished he could change her mind, or perhaps the circumstances, he finally nodded. ‘‘But if we don’t get a response soon, you might have no choice. Traveling alone with a guide until you catch up with Brennan’s group is one thing, but traveling alone with a man you don’t know for three months or more is another. I don’t think that would be wise, Annabelle.’’ He paused. ‘‘If I might be so bold, you’re an attractive woman, and though it’s not plain to see yet, you’re carrying your husband’s child. I feel honor bound to Jonathan to make sure you’re both safe.’’

  The intensity in Patrick’s eyes caused Annabelle’s own to sting. ‘‘Thank you,’’ she whispered. ‘‘That’s one of the kindest things anyone’s ever said to me.’’

  ‘‘Jonathan loved you very much. He was right to put conditions on who he wanted to escort you there.’’

  She frowned. ‘‘What do you mean?’’

  ‘‘In his letter.’’ Patrick’s brow wrinkled. ‘‘You haven’t read it yet?’’

  At the shake of her head, he motioned for her to stay there. He returned minutes later and held out the letter. ‘‘I apologize for not sharing this with you earlier. Forgive me.’’

  Patrick’s expression was pure kindness and seemed to see straight into her heart. She wondered if this was how Jesus might’ve looked at people.

  ‘‘Jonathan McCutchens was right to have loved you as he did, Annabelle. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you read this.’’

  She took the letter.

  ‘‘Patrick! Annabelle!’’

  They both turned to see Hannah hurrying toward them from the house, a spark of urgency speeding her step. ‘‘There’s someone here to see you, Patrick. And no, it’s not Mrs. Cranchet.’’ She took a second to catch her breath, then grabbed Annabelle’s hands in hers. ‘‘It’s a man. And he says he’s answering your ad!’’

  CHAPTER | FIVE

  HE’S WAITING ON THE front porch.’’ Hannah’s tone conveyed her hopefulness about the prospect, but Annabelle’s stomach somersaulted at the news.

  A mixture of excitement and alarm raced through her. She hadn’t considered what she would ask about a man’s experiences or references, or how she would gauge whether he was qualified.

  Patrick pressed his sermon notes into Hannah’s hand, then turned to Annabelle. ‘‘With your permission, I’ll interview him first, just to get a feel for how he might work out.’’ He waited, his expression holding a question.

  Relieved, Annabelle nodded.

  Patrick glanced at Jonathan’s letter still in her grip and that expression of kindness moved into his eyes again. ‘‘I’ll see if he meets Jonathan’s criteria.’’

  Eager to read the letter, she agreed. ‘‘I’d appreciate that. Then, if you think he does, I’d like to speak with him before we hire him.’’

  As Annabelle watched Patrick and Hannah walk back to the house, she couldn’t help marveling at how she had reacted to Patrick’s suggestion that he interview the man first. She once would have balked at such an offer. Annabelle Grayson had spent the majority of her life shunning men’s help, doing everything within her power to avoid being dependent on anyone— especially a man.

  Yet in the past year, Annabelle McCutchens had learned to open her heart. Granted, those old defenses oftentimes rose up without warning, but the past months of knowing Jonathan, of learning— in gradual increments—to trust, and finding that trust confirmed, had softened her. She liked the change.

  As soon as Matthew spotted him through the screen door, he realized why the name on the slip of paper had sounded so familiar. He took a step back as the pastor pushed open the screen door. ‘‘Pastor Carlson, I appreciate you meeting with me, sir.’’ He extended his hand and introduced himself.

  ‘‘Mr. Taylor, good to meet you.’’ Carlson had a solid grip and a smile that encouraged trust. ‘‘My wife tells me you’re answering the advertisement. I appreciate your interest in the job.’’ He motioned toward one end of the porch.

  Matthew opted for a chair by the porch swing, preferring something stationary. His nerves were jumpy enough from thinking about the interview on the way over. This job was an answer to prayer—he could feel it. He had the necessary experience, and if he could just make it past this initial interview with Pastor Carlson, he felt certain he could win the widow’s favor and the job would be his.

  He perched his hat on the porch railing and leaned back in the chair, not wanting to appear overeager. ‘‘I’m definitely interested in hearing more about it, seeing if it’ll be a good fit for me. I think the timing could be right, and I’ve had experience on the trail—that’s for sure.’’

  ‘‘You look familiar to me, Mr. Taylor. Have we met before?’’

  ‘‘Call me Matthew, please. And both yes and no to that question. I visited your church before, a while back, but we’ve not formally met.’’

  ‘‘Ah . . . thought so. I rarely forget a face, especially those of people who’ve fallen asleep during my sermons.’’

  Appreciating Carlson’s matter-of-fact delivery, Matthew also caught the subtle gleam in his eyes. ‘‘I only slept through the boring parts that morning, Pastor. I promise.’’ Then he smiled. ‘‘Had me a right good nap though.’’

  Carlson feigned being stabbed in the heart, then sat up straight again. ‘‘You’ve been talking to my wife, Matthew. Sounds like something she would say.’’

  They both laughed, then exchanged pleasantries before finally turning to the business at hand.

  The pastor leaned forward in his chair. ‘‘Let me take a few minutes to tell you about the situation. I’m meeting with you first, Matthew, as a courtesy to the widow on whose behalf I placed the ad. She’s been through a very difficult time, and I offered to help her by speaking with all interested parties first, asking them some general questions, making sure they had the experience the job requires.’’

  Matthew nodded, attentive to the phrase all interested parties. How many other men was he up against?

  ‘‘So why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself? Where you’re from, what jobs you’ve had . . .’’

  ‘‘I’m originally from Missouri,’’ Matthew started. ‘‘Left there back in ’52 and have lived out West ever since. I’ve traveled throughout the western territories, been to California and Washington too.’’ He summarized his travels, skimming over his time in Colorado, knowing that if Carlson asked where he’d worked in Willow Springs, Larson Jennings would likely not give him a favorable recommendation. Not after what had happened with his wife, however innocent the circumstances had been. ‘‘I know the Colorado Territory like the back of my hand, and the land up north through the Wyoming and Montana Territories.’’

  ‘‘I hear that’s pretty country up there.’’

  ‘‘Mighty pretty, with lots of space for a man to breathe.’’ Matthew raised a brow, remembering the bitterest December he’d ever experienced while he was in Montana. ‘‘But it gets cold in the winter, with some powerful north winds . . . snowdrifts that’ll cover a cabin in no time.’’ He glanced past the porch to some horses grazing in the side field.

  ‘‘Do you get home often?’’

  Matthew turned back at the question
. ‘‘Home?’’

  ‘‘Back to Missouri?’’

  ‘‘Ah . . . no, I don’t. Not nearly as often as I’d like,’’ he added, knowing the answer was a far stretch. ‘‘Most recently I’ve been down in Texas, but I’d like to make my way up north again.’’

  ‘‘Well, this job would certainly take you in the right direction. I’m assuming you’re not married, Matthew?’’

  ‘‘No, sir. Haven’t had that pleasure yet.’’

  ‘‘But you hope to one day?’’

  Hesitating at the unexpected question, Matthew finally gave a shrug. ‘‘One day, I guess. Sure. When I meet the right woman.’’

  Carlson’s gaze grew intent, and Matthew got the impression that the pastor was watching his reactions just as closely as he was listening to his answers. Matthew didn’t shy away from the scrutiny.

  ‘‘Do you hold the Bible and Jesus’s teachings in high regard?’’

  It suddenly sounded like Patrick Carlson was interviewing him more for would-be suitor rather than trail guide. But Matthew chalked it up to the man being a minister. Men of the cloth were a breed unto themselves. He’d learned that at an early age.

  ‘‘Yes, sir, I do. Have since I was young.’’

  Carlson leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees. ‘‘I appreciate that, Matthew.’’ He paused, obviously choosing his next words with care. ‘‘The advertisement stated that the woman you would be accompanying is a widow. What it didn’t say is that she’s very recently widowed. Barely two weeks ago, in fact. She and her husband were on their way north when he took sick. He died on the trail, from a failing heart is what the coroner in Denver said after she described her husband’s symptoms to him. She brought his body back here for burial.’’

  ‘‘So they were originally from here, then?’’

  ‘‘They met and courted here. Willow Springs is as close to a home as either of them had since they married. I think that’s what made coming back here the right thing for her to do in this situation, at least for the time being.’’ Carlson looked away momentarily. ‘‘Her husband was a fine man. He loved his wife very much and cared for her with a great deal of gentleness and thought. In a final letter penned to me, he was very specific about the kind of man he wanted assisting his wife on this journey. First in joining their wagon train, then in escorting her on to Idaho. It’s going to take time for her to work through her grief at his passing—it being so unexpected and them being newly married.’’