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  Newly married. Matthew’s attention honed in on that. He’d naturally assumed from the term widow that it would be an elderly woman he’d be escorting. In light of this information, Carlson’s more personal questions took on new meaning. Especially if the woman was nearer to his own age.

  Carlson’s wife appeared at the screen door with a tray of drinks in her hands. Matthew stood immediately and went to open the door for her.

  ‘‘Why, thank you, Mr. Taylor.’’ She set the tray down on a table beneath the front window and handed them each a glass of tea, then held out a plate of cookies.

  Matthew’s mouth watered at the sight of them. Not wanting to appear greedy, he resisted the urge to take more than two. Biting into the first, he remembered how hungry he was.

  Both cookies were gone within a minute. ‘‘Those were the best oatmeal cookies I’ve ever had. Thank you, ma’am.’’

  She offered him more, playfully nudging the plate forward when he hesitated. He gladly took two more and thanked her again. Mrs. Carlson was a pretty woman, dark-haired and with eyes so kind they made you look twice just to be certain the kindness in them was real. It sure seemed to be.

  Matthew polished off another cookie and took a long drink of tea. Mrs. Carlson sat in the porch swing, her expression bright with curiosity. He hoped he wasn’t going to have to answer another passel of questions to win her over as well. But from the look on her face, that hope was slim.

  ‘‘So have the two of you been getting to know each other?’’ Realizing she’d directed the question at him, Matthew swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘‘Yes, ma’am, we have.’’ He quickly searched for something to comment on, hoping it might redirect the conversation. He spotted the pots of flowers set out along the steps leading up to the porch. ‘‘You’ve made a real nice home here, Mrs. Carlson. Something a man would appreciate coming home to.’’

  ‘‘Why, thank you again, Mr. Taylor. That’s very kind of you to say.’’

  ‘‘Mr. Taylor’s been telling me about his travels,’’ Carlson told his wife. ‘‘What groups he’s guided and where he’s been. He’s got a lot of experience.’’

  Taking the cue, Matthew washed down the last of his fourth cookie with a quick swallow of tea. Though he’d never exactly guided a group before and hadn’t told the pastor he had, he knew that the way he’d presented the information to Carlson moments before had left that point open for interpretation. He didn’t intend on lying to this couple, but he’d braved more mountain passes than he could count, along with crisscrossing the arid plains east of the Rockies, and he could do this job. He knew he could. And he needed it. He only had to convince Carlson—both Carlsons, it would seem—that he was qualified.

  He set his glass beside him on the floor and straightened in his chair, then turned his attention to Mrs. Carlson. ‘‘Like I was telling your husband, I’ve traveled a great deal. In the past several years, I’ve ridden trail from here up to Washington and Oregon, then back down through California. I’ve been from here to Wyoming and Texas and—’’

  ‘‘Wait . . . have you lived here in Willow Springs before?’’ Hannah Carlson’s eyes went round.

  Matthew made a conscious effort not to wince when Carlson’s wife leaned forward. Two thoughts ricocheted through his mind at that moment. One, that the pastor would ask why he hadn’t seen him in church more often once discovering how long he’d lived here. That could be answered easily. A second, and far more dangerous question, was that Carlson might inquire—no, definitely would inquire by the way he looked at that moment—as to where Matthew had worked while living here. Actually, it was surprising that he’d been able to evade the question so far.

  Matthew took another swig of tea, his mind working. ‘‘Yes, ma’am, I did live here briefly.’’ No, that was a lie. ‘‘Actually, I lived here for six years . . . before going to Texas, where I’ve been involved in—’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ Mrs. Carlson held out the plate of cookies to him again. ‘‘Then I’m sure we know some of the same people.’’

  His appetite soured, he shook his head at her offer . . . and at her question. ‘‘I doubt it, ma’am. I worked at a ranch a ways south of here. Remote place in the foothills.’’

  The look the couple exchanged was not comforting.

  Carlson’s gaze turned appraising. ‘‘You know a lot about ranching, then?’’

  Matthew nodded, forcing a smile. ‘‘Been ranching all my life. I grew up on a ranch and it just seems to keep following me.’’ Though the dream of owning his own spread had dimmed considerably in recent months.

  ‘‘Who did you work for while you were here? We’ve lived in Willow Springs for years and know a lot of the folks.’’

  Larson Jennings had never gone to church as far as he knew and had always been open in his disdain at the idea. Kathryn, on the other hand . . . The ranch had been too far from town for her to go, but she had probably visited once she’d moved into Willow Springs after her husband had disappeared.

  Answering the question, he felt the job slipping away. ‘‘I worked for a man by the name of Larson Jennings.’’

  Mrs. Carlson’s smile went slack. Her brow rose. ‘‘You worked at the Jennings’ ranch?’’

  Matthew’s stomach churned. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. I was Mr. Jennings’ foreman.’’

  The pastor’s surprised expression mirrored his wife’s.

  Matthew worked to keep defensiveness from his tone. ‘‘If you’d like to contact him for a reference, I can tell you where they live. But they typically don’t come into town but two, maybe three, times a year.’’

  Patrick Carlson gave a laugh. ‘‘As you probably guessed by now, Matthew, Hannah and I know the Jennings. Know them very well, in fact.’’ His look sobered. ‘‘But if you’ve been gone for a while, you may not be aware of what’s happened to Larson and Kathryn.’’

  Matthew knew the story all too well, but he listened anyway, nodding at the right times and still failing to understand the reasoning behind what Jennings had done.

  Despite the months of separation, Matthew still held a grudge against Larson Jennings. Jennings had allowed him to make a fool of himself with his wife, watching it all from a distance. Matthew had pursued Kathryn’s affections after Jennings had disappeared— had even offered to marry her after her husband had ‘‘died,’’ and he would’ve too. If she’d said yes. Matthew was thankful now that she hadn’t.

  Though his feelings for Kathryn had been genuine and honorable at the time, his hurt over the situation had healed quickly. Too quickly for the kind of love a man should hold for his wife.

  He could honestly say he wished Larson and Kathryn Jennings well in their life together, but it still bothered him how Jennings had deceived them. Especially Kathryn being with child. And part of him, a part buried inside him that Matthew preferred not to explore in depth, still had trouble accepting that Kathryn had chosen such a broken shell of a man over him.

  Something Mrs. Carlson said jolted him back to the moment. And about caused his heart to stop. Matthew fought to remain seated. ‘‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’’

  ‘‘I said the Jennings should be dropping by here shortly. They’re coming into town today. At least that was their plan about a month ago.’’

  When Carlson rose, Matthew followed his lead, fighting the urge to bolt from the front porch and never look back.

  Annabelle stared at the folded letter in her hand. A quiver wove its way through her. Not one of fear or even dread but of knowing that she was about to turn the final page in a brief, cherished chapter of her life. These were the last words she would ever hear from her husband. Once she read this letter, everything about Jonathan McCutchens would become a memory. There would be nothing left to discover about the man he’d been.

  For that reason part of her wanted to stash the letter away and save it for a later time. But the greater part of her was curious, hungry for any last morsel that might mention her or their child. Regret riffled throug
h her again. Jonathan had deserved a better woman, a woman who could’ve been not only his companion but his closest partner in every way.

  Then another thought struck her—one that had first occurred to her when Jonathan had told her about the letter that afternoon in the wagon. The question had been lurking just beneath the surface of her mind, masked by layers of grief. Now it rose with defensiveness.

  What if Jonathan had included something about Matthew in this final missive? A last message for his brother, perhaps?

  Annabelle turned the letter in her hands and slowly lifted one creased flap. How would she react if Jonathan asked her to give Matthew a message? She doubted whether she could locate Matthew even if she wanted to, but that wasn’t what really bothered her. What wore on her most was the surprising resentment rising inside her against him for the hurt he’d caused his brother. And that she had been the underlying cause didn’t help any.

  She seated herself on a wooden bench in the garden and took a deep breath. Spreading the letter in her lap, she skimmed the page for a second, taking in the uniform flow of Jonathan’s handwriting. That was another thing that had first surprised her about him. Jonathan’s hands—thick-fingered, scarred, and callused from years of ranching—didn’t fit with his smooth flowing script.

  Dear Pastor,

  If you’re reading this it means that I’m gone and my Annie is going to need your help. I’m writing you during what I think will be the last sunrise I see on this side of eternity. You live what you preach, and that accounts for why I’m penning this letter to you. That and I know you’ll go to God for what to do next. Annabelle trusts you and your wife. She’ll accept your help where she might not from someone else.

  That land in Idaho is waiting for us, like you and I talked about. It’s paid for free and clear, and I want Annabelle to live there. Her and our child. I’m sending them back to you, but we both know she can’t stay in Willow Springs. She’ll never have the chance at the new life she deserves while living in the shadow of her old one.

  Let this letter serve as authority for you to draw funds on an account in my name from the Bank of Idaho. Get enough to hire a guide to take Annabelle to meet up with Brennan’s group and then see her safe to our land in Idaho.

  Annabelle’s eyes widened at the amount Jonathan had noted in the margin. She’d never known anything about his financial standing. She’d never asked. But surely this amount would empty his account completely.

  As she read the next paragraph, an ache started somewhere near the center of her chest.

  The guide you hire must be an honorable man, Pastor. A man who won’t try to take advantage of my wife in any way and who will be mindful of her condition. The trip will be hard enough, but Annie being with child will make it even harder, and I don’t want anyone adding to her burden. I don’t reckon to understand how you’ll settle on the right man for the job, but I trust you will. And that you’ll have a knowing inside you when you do.

  I’m watching Annie sleep right now, and she’s so pretty it hurts to have to look away. How is it that when she takes a breath, I feel my own chest rise and fall? I confess that anger wells inside me at God taking me so soon. I know the Almighty doesn’t need me to keep Annabelle and our child safe, but I sure had looked forward to lending Him my help for a few years. I imagine Annie will take my body back there with her. Wherever she decides to bury me will do, but I’m awful partial to being beside Fountain Creek. She and I spent many an afternoon there as we courted. Again, I’m obliged to you for your help with that.

  I always thought I was a real forgiving man, and I guess I was in recent years, but as I look back over my life now, I wish I’d done more of it faster and with less begrudging. Why do we learn some things so late in life, Pastor? I wish I was asking you this face to face because I know you’d have an answer. And it’d be a good one for sure.

  The smooth flow of script halted.

  A dark blotch of ink circled and bled through the paper as though Jonathan had hesitated, considering what to write next. Annabelle’s chest tightened further as she read his last words. She heard his voice clear in her mind, as though he were right beside her.

  All of us die eventually, and only what we do for God will last—I know that now. Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground. It can’t be gathered up again. I think that’s why God tries to bring us back when we’ve been separated from Him. He doesn’t sweep away the lives of those He cares about, and neither should we.

  I’m grateful for your trust in this and am asking God to repay your kindness one hundred fold.

  Jonathan Wesley McCutchens

  The words on the page blurred in Annabelle’s vision until they were a jumble of dark, muted streaks. She wiped her tears before they blotted the paper, smudging the ink. Jonathan made no mention of Matthew, and secretly she was relieved. The last wishes of her husband were undeniably clear, and besides, Matthew didn’t deserve even the smallest portion of Jonathan’s benevolence or his land—not after the hurtful things Matthew had said to him and the way he’d treated him.

  Unexpected heat spiraled from her chest up into her neck at that last thought, and her conscience gave swift censure to the attitude behind it. Jonathan had forgiven Matthew so fully, without ever being asked. So how could she do any less if ever forced to make that choice. A tiny smile lifted one side of her mouth. The chances of their ever meeting again made that a pretty safe bet on her part.

  Annabelle stared at the letter in her hands, then at the folds that Jonathan had creased in the pages. She trailed a fingertip along those edges. He had been a plainspoken man, not given to flowery speech or long-winded conversation, but he’d had a way with the pen, with stringing words together on paper.

  She didn’t think Jonathan had ever seen her there, hidden in the shadows watching him, long after she should have been asleep, but she’d watched night after night as he’d filled pages with words, writing until the oil lamp gave off a purple plume. At first it struck her as odd that he spent so much time writing when he never made mention of it.

  Then one morning not long after they were married and situated in Denver, she discovered the charred remnants of a letter half hidden in the cool embers. She carefully slid the quarter sheet of paper from the curled ashes. It was burned around the edges, crackly to the touch yet still legible in parts. A letter written to Matthew . . . asking forgiveness for Jonathan’s part in their argument that night while offering it without measure, and inviting Matthew to come and share Jonathan’s land in Idaho.

  In all Jonathan’s midnight scripting, how many letters had he written to his younger brother in hopes of reconciliation, only to have them end up in the fire? Had he ever mailed any of them? Wouldn’t Jonathan have told her if he had?

  Annabelle sighed and lifted her face to the sunshine and breeze. If it had fallen to her alone to pay the price for Jonathan marrying her, she could have borne that and done so gladly. But the price that Jonathan paid in losing his only brother in the process had been too high. Being six years older, Jonathan had considered himself more of a father to Matthew than a brother.

  Turning back to the letter, her attention returned to a phrase: only what we do for God will last.

  That one thought summed up the Jonathan Wesley McCutchens she’d known.

  Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground. It can’t be gathered up again. . . .

  He hadn’t swept away her discarded life as so many had done, but he’d chosen to bring life to her by purchasing her—literally— from the brothel. Annabelle focused on the hard-packed dirt beneath her feet. So much of her life had been spilled on the ground like water. Wasted and irretrievable.

  But not anymore.

  She exhaled a breath and drew another in, taking it deep and full into her lungs until she could hold no more, and then she blew it out again. Before Jonathan died, she’d lain beside him in the wagon wishing for the same flame of faith to flicker within her as it had glowed within him. She k
new the Source of the flame. What she hadn’t known then—what she couldn’t imagine even now—was what the cost of having that same flame burn within her would be.

  Would the faith she longed for, a faith like Jonathan’s, end up costing her more than she’d bargained for?

  In the hush of the moment a breeze stirred the leaves of the cottonwood tree overhead. Within its gentle swooshing rhythm Annabelle heard the faintest susurration, the reminiscence of a voice.

  Only what we do for God will last.

  Her breath caught and slowly, silently, she acknowledged it.

  Mostly fearful of the pledge she made in her heart, Annabelle couldn’t ignore the strange sense of release, of freedom, that accompanied it. No matter where she went from this moment on, one thing was certain—she determined to live her life in a way that would last.

  Sheer will, and desperation at having nowhere else to turn, kept Matthew’s feet planted on the porch. His mind raced. Facing Kathryn Jennings again would be hard enough, but seeing Jennings himself . . . The last time he’d seen his former boss had been at a distance, and Jennings’ loathing had been palpable from where he’d stood.

  ‘‘You must stay and see them, Matthew, if you have time.’’ Carlson’s expression brightened with anticipation. ‘‘And join us for dinner as well. I’m sure they’d love to see you again after all this time.’’

  He nodded, imagining how that scene might unfold. Getting caught naked in a Montana snowstorm held more appeal at the moment.