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  Matthew knew some folks had assumed that, but for Jennings to have actually believed it? ‘‘How could you think that of Kathryn? Don’t you even know your own wife?’’

  His pained expression eased. ‘‘I do now,’’ he answered slowly. ‘‘Thank God, I do now.’’

  The fire had altered Jennings’ appearance, but the look in his eyes seemed to have changed too—in a way Matthew couldn’t quite describe or account for. Jennings closed the distance between them, and though Matthew outweighed him, Matthew braced himself.

  Jennings held up a hand. ‘‘I’m not here to fight you, Taylor. Though God knows I wanted to at one time.’’ A crooked smile turned the edges of his mouth. ‘‘You must admit, it could tend to rile a man to discover he’s not hardly cold in the grave yet and a friend he’s trusted for years is setting sights on his wife.’’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘‘But that’s not what I’m here for, Taylor. That’s all behind us now.

  ‘‘What I’m trying to do is apologize to you. What I did was wrong. I had my reasons at the time, but they still don’t make it right. I’m sorry my actions caused you pain, and I’m here to ask for your forgiveness.’’ Jennings shifted his weight, glancing away, then back again. ‘‘Kathryn told me about your kindness to her, how you helped her after I didn’t return, what you did to try and save our ranch, our land.’’ His gaze grew intent. ‘‘I thank you for that. I was wrong not to reveal myself after I returned but . . . well, let’s just say I had some learning to do. About myself and about my wife. And a lot about my Lord.’’

  Matthew stood numb in the face of Jennings’ admission.

  Over the years of working for Jennings, he’d grown to admire the man. Jennings could be hard at times and had a trigger temper, but he’d always been fair with him. Jennings possessed a natural business sense that Matthew respected, even envied. Yet Matthew would never have described the man standing before him as benevolent and could never recall Larson Jennings ever having admitted he was wrong, much less sorry.

  That was something he would’ve remembered.

  Unsure of what to say or how to act, and not wanting to lessen Jennings’ responsibility in the matter, he simply accepted the confession. ‘‘I appreciate your apology, Jennings. Kathryn is a fine woman. You’re lucky to have her.’’

  ‘‘That I am, friend.’’ Jennings stared at him for a moment longer, then looked past him to the grave. ‘‘I’m sorry about your brother. I only met Jonathan a couple of times, so I didn’t know him well, but Pastor Carlson sure spoke highly of him. Said he was a good man.’’

  The compassion in Jennings’ voice, in his manner, caused Matthew’s chest to tighten. ‘‘Yes, he was.’’ Then it hit them that he’d never told Jennings he had a brother. Neither had he told Carlson. That left only one explanation—Annabelle Grayson. Of course she’d told them, and no telling what else she’d said about him. Turning them against him, making up all sorts of lies, as she did to trap his brother.

  ‘‘I was by the pastor’s house earlier, and he asked me some questions about you having worked for me.’’ Jennings’ expression grew somber. ‘‘I want you to know I answered his questions honestly.’’

  The back of Matthew’s neck heated as he imagined how that conversation must have gone and what Pastor and Mrs. Carlson must think of him now. Eager to end this conversation, he silently acknowledged Jennings’ candor with a tilt of his head and turned to go.

  ‘‘I told Carlson you were one of the finest ranch hands I’ve worked with and the best foreman I’ve ever had.’’

  Matthew slowly turned back, not sure he’d heard right. But Jennings’ expression confirmed that he had. ‘‘You told him that. About me?’’ It didn’t make sense. Why would he do such a thing? Especially when he could have had his revenge and paid Matthew back tenfold. ‘‘Why?’’

  ‘‘Because it’s the truth. You’re a good man, Taylor. Not perfect, mind you,’’ he added, wit underlying his tone, ‘‘but good.’’

  In view of Jennings’ unexpected charity, Matthew’s jaw went rigid with emotion. It still didn’t make sense to him. ‘‘But the other stuff with Kathryn, that was true too.’’

  Jennings held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. ‘‘Fair enough. But the way I figure it, a man sometimes gets to choose what path he takes and sometimes he doesn’t. Then other times, God sends someone along who gets to help him make that choice. He’s done that through certain people in my life, and I’m a better man for it.’’ Again, that wry smile. ‘‘Once I choked down enough pride to be able to accept their help, that is. Which has never been an easy thing for me.’’

  Jennings looked away briefly, then slowly extended his hand.

  Taking a deep breath, Matthew considered the man before him, wondering why he would give him this second chance, especially when Matthew knew it was unlikely he would have done the same had the roles been reversed.

  Still not understanding, but wishing he somehow could, Matthew accepted Jennings’ outstretched hand.

  When they parted ways, Matthew headed back to town and toward the livery. Best to get his horse and move on. But to where? And with what? With pockets empty and a stomach to match, he didn’t even have money for a meal, much less the few coins he needed to pay Jake Sampson at the livery. A sense of loss and the longing for justice wrestled inside him, vying for control. If granted one wish in that moment, hands down it would be to have Johnny back. Over all else.

  But if granted a second, it would be to make Annabelle Grayson pay.

  CHAPTER | SEVEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, Annabelle stared at the sheaf of bills stuffing the envelope that Patrick handed her. It wasn’t that she’d never seen that much money before—she had. It had simply never belonged to her. After the madam at the brothel took her cut, in addition to room and board, clothes, cosmetics, and perfume, it left scarce little for the girls in the end—the madam’s intent, no doubt.

  Annabelle counted the bills again as Patrick climbed into the wagon beside her. ‘‘Jonathan never said anything to me about money while he was alive, and I never questioned him. But I never dreamed he’d put this much aside. So is everything settled? Does this close his account at the bank in Idaho?’’

  Patrick remained quiet for a moment, then gave her a sideways glance. ‘‘Everything’s settled. That’s the amount Jonathan wrote in his letter to withdraw for you, remember?’’ He gave a little smile, flicked the reins, and worked his way around the wagons parked at the mercantile and feed store. ‘‘Money enough to get you safely to Idaho, along with plenty to pay an experienced trail guide.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I know, but . . .’’ Annabelle barely noticed the crowded boardwalk bustling with people, feeling in her gut that there was something Patrick wasn’t telling her. She allowed the silence to swell between them, giving him opportunity, while watching him from the corner of her eye.

  His attention remained on the road.

  Perhaps he was trying to think of a way to bring up the subject of Matthew Taylor again. She’d known last night that all of Patrick’s and Hannah’s questions about her relationship with Matthew—if one could call it that—hadn’t been answered. Certainly Matthew had already left Willow Springs, or soon would, if his reaction to seeing her the previous afternoon was any indication. She couldn’t deny the fact that part of her, after the initial shock of seeing him standing there yesterday, had welcomed the sight of him. After all, to her knowledge, he was Jonathan’s only living kin, and Matthew had probably known her husband better than anyone. Matthew represented a last tie to Jonathan, however threadbare.

  It seemed odd to her now when she thought back on the times Jonathan had spoken of his ‘‘little brother,’’ recalling tales of their childhood days. The picture her imagination had formed of that ‘‘little boy grown up’’ bore little resemblance to the man she knew as Matthew Taylor.

  With a last glance at Patrick, she decided to let whatever was on his mind simmer for the time being. ‘‘I just t
hink it’s odd that Jonathan never mentioned the money before is all.’’

  ‘‘Your Jonathan was a humble man, Annabelle.’’

  Her Jonathan. Now that was a phrase she hadn’t heard anyone use before. How did a woman like her merit that distinction with a man like Jonathan McCutchens? She missed him, and already their conversations were becoming fuzzy in her memory. So much of him was slipping away from her, and so soon. Being the last day of May, seventeen days had passed since Jonathan had died. Yet it seemed like much longer.

  ‘‘I went ahead and signed all the necessary papers since Jonathan named me executor in his letter. All the documents have been finalized here and will be mailed to the Bank of Idaho. You’ll need to visit there once you arrive and they’ll help you with the rest.’’ He pulled a stack of papers from his pocket and handed them to her, along with Jonathan’s letter, which he’d taken with him as proof of Jonathan’s last testament. ‘‘Keep this somewhere safe, and then show it all to the bank there. They know to expect you either sometime this fall or next, depending on how things work out.’’

  Annabelle skimmed the document pages, not comprehending all the legal jargon but vowing to read through it later. She put it, along with Jonathan’s letter, into her reticule. ‘‘I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Patrick. So would Jonathan.’’

  He shrugged off her thanks. ‘‘I’m glad to do it. I handle details like this all the time for people. Have I mentioned my fee yet?’’

  His teasing smirk coaxed one from her. ‘‘No, but if your fee involves enough to build a new church, I’m going to get suspicious.’’ She huffed a laugh as the mental image took shape in her mind. ‘‘Can you imagine, a church building paid for by a lady of the evening?’’ The irony struck her as funny.

  ‘‘Former lady of the evening. Now a lady in the truest sense,’’ Patrick corrected, lightness in his tone. He squinted. ‘‘Hmm . . . a church building paid for by a sinner who was offered a second chance and decided to take it. I think it’d work.’’ He tossed her a smile.

  ‘‘And I don’t think many of the good people of Willow Springs would darken its doors if they knew.’’

  ‘‘The good people . . .’’ He shook his head, sighing. ‘‘Sadly, Annabelle, I’m afraid you might be right on that count. There are an awful lot of good people walking around this town who need healing. But, unfortunately, they don’t even know they’re sick. A person can’t come to grips with God’s forgiveness until they realize they’re not worthy of it in the first place.’’

  Warmth spread through her at hearing those words—and remembering back to that last night in the wagon. ‘‘Jonathan said very much the same thing to me the night he died. He said that he and I had an advantage over Ma—’’ She caught herself before saying Matthew’s name. No need to give Patrick an open door to bring up the subject of him again. ‘‘Over . . . many people because we’d seen who we really are without Jesus. And until someone does that, they can’t be near as grateful as they should be. Or as kind to others.’’ Her laugh came out clipped. ‘‘I guess that should make me one of the most grateful people around, huh? And one of the kindest, to boot?’’

  ‘‘And that’s exactly what you are,’’ he said gently.

  Surprised at his response, she savored it.

  He guided their wagon down a side street, and her focus was drawn to a hunched-over figure not too far up ahead. ‘‘Patrick, would you mind stopping for a second. Please?’’ When he brought the wagon to a standstill, she climbed down using the wheel hub for a foothold.

  The old peddler Kathryn Jennings had introduced her to pulled his rickety cart behind him on the side of the street, speaking to those he passed, whether they acknowledged him or not. When Annabelle caught his attention, a smile creased the sun-furrowed lines of Callum Roberts’ bearded face.

  He plunked down his old cart. ‘‘Miss Grayson, why I’ll be. Don’t you look mighty pretty today.’’

  Annabelle didn’t bother correcting him, on either point, and gently touched the tarnished brooch she’d pinned on her shawl that morning as an afterthought, so glad now that she’d worn it. Callum Roberts’ eyes lit when he saw it. The brooch was a purchase she’d made from Mr. Roberts when she and Kathryn Jennings had been in town together one day last spring. The jewelry served to remind her not only of the ancient hawker but of a lesson in kindness she’d learned from Kathryn.

  She and Kathryn had been talking at the time, and Annabelle would’ve passed by the old peddler without notice. But not Kathryn.

  Kathryn stopped and talked to him, looking him in the eye, fawning over his wares, and purchasing two items Annabelle knew she had no need of. Then Kathryn had hugged the man—actually hugged him! Despite his smell. A tear had trickled down the old man’s cheek, making Annabelle wonder how long it had been since someone had touched him, much less shown him such affection.

  She leaned over and peered into the man’s cart. ‘‘What sorts of things do you have today, Mr. Roberts?’’ She assumed that this collection of odds and ends contained many of the same items Kathryn had sorted through a year ago.

  ‘‘Well, what are you hopin’ to find?’’

  ‘‘Oh, no telling what might strike my fancy. How has business been?’’ He looked as though he might not have eaten a good meal in several days. Or weeks.

  Knowing the temptation might be there for him, she studied his face for signs of being into the bottle. But his eyes were clear and bright, no tremors in his hands. No smell on his breath either, other than staleness and rotten teeth.

  ‘‘Not too bad. Seems like more and more people are wantin’ to go to that fancy store down the way there. Don’t know why they would though, when I got what they need right here. For a bargain,’’ he added, leaning down to rub his right leg.

  Annabelle thought she’d noticed him favoring that same leg when she first spotted him walking down the street. ‘‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr. Roberts.’’ She finally settled on a worn, thinning volume no larger than the palm of her hand. The tiny book appeared to still contain all of its pages, but from the stains browning the edges, she wondered if the verses within would even be legible. The author’s name on the cover wasn’t familiar to her, but the title was captivating enough —The Tell-Tale Heart.

  She also picked up a handheld mirror that must have been painted gold several lifetimes ago. The mirror’s face was cracked in two places, and the ornate handle was marred by three hollow indentions that might once have boasted pieces of colored cut glass. Annabelle held it up to see her reflection, and she immediately noticed its obvious imperfections.

  Her own, not the mirror’s.

  At the angle in which she held the mirror, one of the jagged cracks in the glass matched almost perfectly the scar edging down her right temple. She slowly lowered the mirror and managed to find her smile again.

  ‘‘I can’t thank you enough for these items, Mr. Roberts. I’ve been looking for a book to read and will put this mirror to good use. These will do nicely, thank you.’’ She pressed some bills into his hand.

  ‘‘Well, I hope you enjoy ’em. I shined that mirror myself just yesterday. Can’t read much though, so don’t know if that book is worth its weight or not. It’s one of them stagecoach books, they tell me. It’ll fit right in your pocket while you travel.’’ Callum Roberts glanced down at the money in his palm, then back at Annabelle, who managed some quick backward steps toward the wagon. ‘‘Oh no, ma’am. This is too much. Way too much.’’

  She climbed back up to the buckboard, a funny sensation flitting through her—like the sun was rising for a second time that morning, only this time . . . inside of her. She couldn’t keep from smiling. ‘‘Nonsense, Mr. Roberts. These items are well worth it to me. Now you take some of that and go see Doc Hadley about that leg. Get yourself a new coat for winter, and some gloves too. Then head on over to Myrtle’s and treat yourself to some of her fried chicken and bread pudding.’’

  Through the thick gr
owth of his unkempt beard, his lips quivered. ‘‘Thank you, ma’am. You’re a good woman, you are.’’

  Before emotion got the best of her, Annabelle indicated to Patrick with a nod that she was ready to pull away. When they’d gone some distance down the road, she chanced a look back.

  Callum Roberts stood exactly where she’d left him, one hand resting on his cart, the other raised in a half wave. She offered the same in return.

  When they reached the corner, Patrick glanced down at the items in her lap. ‘‘You just never know the value of some things, do you?’’

  Annabelle didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. As Patrick maneuvered their rig around a buggy in the street, she just kept thanking God for this marvelous, undeserved grace she’d somehow stumbled into.

  Patrick pulled the wagon behind the house minutes later, hopped down, and came around to her side. Annabelle accepted his assistance as he helped her down. Then their eyes met. Something flickered behind his expression. That same something she thought she’d glimpsed in town earlier.

  She smiled. ‘‘Okay, whatever it is . . . go ahead and say it.’’

  ‘‘Go ahead and say what?’’ He turned away, but not before she saw a sheepish grin inching his mouth upward.

  ‘‘You’re not a good liar, Patrick. But it’s a shortcoming that serves you well.’’

  He turned back. ‘‘I was just wondering if there’s any way I could still reach Matthew Taylor if he’s in town, maybe talk to him about taking the job. You need to leave Willow Springs, Annabelle. Have a chance to start over again.’’ As though sensing her disapproval, he continued without a pause. ‘‘When Larson and I spoke yesterday, he said that Matthew would make an excellent guide. I’m pretty good at reasoning with people, and I think I could—’’

  She held up a hand. ‘‘We discussed this last night, Patrick. Matthew is long gone by now.’’ She started toward the house and Patrick followed. ‘‘He wants nothing to do with me, I assure you. And for you and Hannah to hope otherwise . . .’’ She turned when she reached the back stairs, intentionally softening her tone. ‘‘Or for me to hope otherwise, is plain foolish. I’ll leave for Denver this week. I’ll get a room at a boardinghouse I know of there, wait until next spring, and then join up with the first wagon train that’s heading north. I’ll be fine, Patrick. I’ll get a job—a respectable one, I promise.’’ She winked. ‘‘And the months will pass in no time.’’