Rekindled (18 page)

She indicated where she wanted him to stand and pulled her pincushion from her apron. Donlyn MacGregor seemingly feigned a look of concern as he eyed the pins in her hand. Normally Kathryn might have smiled, but not under the circumstances.

“I’ve sold everything pertaining to the ranch, Mr. MacGregor, but I plan on keeping the land, and the homestead. Now, please turn to the side.” Looking at the waistcoat, she clearly saw where the tailor had made his mistake, and it was one easily made. He simply hadn’t allowed enough taper for MacGregor’s lean waist. The side seams of the coat and the waist of the trousers were both too generous.

Being this close to him, Kathryn could smell the spicy scent of his cologne. “Please button the coat for me.”

“As you wish, my lady.” His brogue thickened in faint mockery.

“Extend your arms, please,” she continued, ignoring him. She pulled pins from the cushion and held them between her teeth. Standing in front of him, Kathryn gathered the extra material from both side seams of the coat. “There, how does that feel?”

“That feels . . . perfect.”

Hearing the tease in his tone, Kathryn also felt his eyes on her. Matthew Taylor hadn’t mentioned anything, but she suddenly wondered if MacGregor had a wife waiting at home, though she highly doubted that even marriage would be deterrent enough for a man like him.

On a whim, she decided to test the waters.

“Now lower your arms slightly,” she said around pins clenched between her teeth. She knew from seeing him before that he wore his suits fitted. “Perhaps you’d like your wife to see this before we make the final adjustments?” Thankfully, the question came off sounding more normal than it felt.

When he didn’t answer immediately, Kathryn secured the alteration with one last pin and stood. His expression stopped her cold. She took a half step back.

His eyes held hers for a moment and then cut away, focusing anywhere but on her, and she got the distinct impression that she’d wandered into forbidden territory. If Kathryn didn’t know better, she might have thought he was uncomfortable by the way he fidgeted with the coat sleeve and wouldn’t look at her. But surely not— this man was a silver-tongued devil if she’d ever seen one.

He turned back to the mirror and appraised the suit, giving each sleeve a gentle tug. “This will do nicely, I’m sure. Thank you, Mrs. Jennings.” An undercurrent played beneath the surface of his voice when he spoke her name, and Kathryn couldn’t shake the feeling of being somehow put in her place.

She hurriedly marked the lines for the tapered seams with a row of pins, doing the same for the trousers. “The suit will be ready next week.” She closed the door for him to change.

She put her supplies away and was halfway to Myrtle’s when she felt a touch on her arm.

“Mrs. Jennings.”

She turned and, seeing him, quickened her pace.

MacGregor fell into step beside her. “Mrs. Jennings, please . . . a moment of your time.”

“I’m late for work, Mr. MacGregor.”

“But you just left work.”

“Is there something else you need?”

This time he smiled, a sparkle lighting his eyes. Obviously he’d recovered from whatever he’d felt moments before. She walked faster, hearing his soft chuckle behind her.

“No, Mrs. Jennings, please. I just have a question for you. A proposition of sorts. Not the kind you’re thinking,” he added quickly. “It’s about helping you keep your ranch.”

Her steps slowed even as her defenses rose. “You want to help me keep my ranch.”

“Yes, and no. I’m a businessman, Mrs. Jennings. Not a philanthropist. I’d want something in exchange for my investment.”

She stopped and gave him a withering look. She should have seen this coming.

He smiled and shook his head. “That’s not what I had in mind, lass. Although I’m always willin’ to negotiate.”

She had to concede—this man had charm. But not nearly enough to entice her. Nor earn her trust. “Good day, Mr. MacGregor.”

“Will you not at least listen to my proposal?” he called after her.

Kathryn kept walking, feeling his stare. The jangle of the bell as she entered Myrtle’s sounded like the sweet ring of victory. She hung up her coat and walked back to the edge of the front window. MacGregor still stood where she’d left him. Absently, her hand covered the child nestled not far from her heart.

Everything she knew about this man screamed at her not to trust him. But God help her, she was so desperate to keep the ranch—the last remnant of Larson and the life they’d shared together, the legacy for their precious child—that for a moment, she’d actually contemplated asking him about his offer.

Later that night, Kathryn slid her key into the back door lock of the haberdashery when someone touched her from behind. She nearly jumped out of her skin.

In the instant it took her to turn, she imagined that it was Larson and a flurry of thoughts filled that hopeful moment. Why hadn’t she thought to leave him a note at the cabin? He’d probably been searching for her for days, and why had he thought to look for her here of all places? Then she imagined telling him that they were finally going to have a . . .

In the faint glow of the half moon Kathryn recognized the silhouette, and the fragile hope died in her chest.

“Betsy sent me out for more whiskey, so I thought I’d run over and see if you were home yet. Got somethin’ for me?” Annabelle cocked a brow, eying the cloth bag in Kathryn’s grip. Kathryn handed it to her, and she lifted the opening of the bag to her face and inhaled. “Mmm, bread pudding?” She followed Kathryn inside and leaned against a crate as she pinched off a bite with her fingers.

“A man was here when I came a while before, knocked on the door a few times. He didn’t see me though. Didn’t want him gettin’ the wrong idea about us being
acquaintances
and all.”

Annabelle smiled and Kathryn caught the sincerity in it.

“But I don’t mind tellin’ ya, that fella was
mighty
easy on the eyes.” Annabelle drew out the last part and licked her lips.

Kathryn glanced back at the door, her beleaguered hope wary of another false start. Could it have been Larson? “You didn’t recognize him?”

Annabelle shook her head. “No, and I’d remember him for sure. Tall, dark hair about to his shoulders, and had a certain—” she took another bite of the bread pudding and paused, as though trying to choose just the right word—“I don’t know . . . confidence about him. Not meanlike, mind you, just sure of himself. You know, like he knows somethin’ the rest of the world doesn’t.”

A knock on the door caused them both to jump. Kathryn forced a laugh at the comical wide-eyed look Annabelle was giving her, clearly saying she hoped it was that man. Kathryn’s hands were shaking so badly she could hardly manage the latch.

Matthew Taylor filled the doorway, hat in hand. He had a wounded look about him, his expression somber. “Mrs. Jennings.” The smile he managed looked forced. “I came by a bit ago but guess you weren’t home yet.”

The flatness of his voice drew Kathryn’s curiosity. “I just arrived a few minutes ago. Mr. Taylor, are you all right?”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m fine. But . . .” He looked past her. “Would you mind if I came in for a minute?”

She nodded and pulled the door open. “Yes, certainly.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Annabelle move to leave. “Annabelle, please stay. Mr. Taylor,” she offered, extending a hand in Annabelle’s direction, thankful Annabelle was there but already wondering how Matthew would react. Matthew was a decent, God-fearing man and Annabelle was . . . well, Annabelle was Annabelle. And she was dressed for work, as she often called it, and her clothing, her rougetinted cheeks, and her painted lips bespoke a woman of easy virtue. “This is Miss Annabelle Grayson, a
friend
of mine,” Kathryn added with purposeful inflection, hoping Matthew might take her lead and extend Annabelle undue social courtesy. “Annabelle, this is Mr. Matthew Taylor. Mr. Taylor was the foreman on my husband’s ranch. On
our
ranch.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Taylor.”

When no reply came, Kathryn looked back at Matthew. She watched his gaze quickly travel the length of Annabelle’s body—not in a licentious way but as though struggling to make sense of her presence here. The somber edge of his expression gave way to surprise, then unmistakable shock. Little by little, another emotion emerged through the fog of Matthew’s responses. He glanced back at Kathryn and she recognized the look in his eyes. She’d experienced the same affront to her sense of dignity the first time she’d realized what Annabelle was, what she did for a living. Kathryn turned her attention to Annabelle and watched, silently hurting for her friend, as the smile on Annabelle’s face gradually slid away.

Kathryn tried to think of something to say, still absorbing Matthew’s reaction and the thick layer of silence that weighed the room.

Matthew finally managed the briefest of nods. “Miss Grayson . . . it’s nice to—” He hesitated, lips in a thin line, as though unable to force the words out. “It’s nice that you have such a good friend in Mrs. Jennings.”

Matthew’s response had been honest, yet painfully devoid of warmth. But could Kathryn really blame him? After all, Annabelle wasn’t someone Matthew would normally associate with. And if she had been, Kathryn thought again, looking between the two of them, she wouldn’t have thought as much of Matthew as she did. Unable to fault him for his reaction, Kathryn waited for the frost to move into Annabelle’s eyes, as she’d witnessed yesterday with Mrs. Hochstetler at the mercantile. Or for Annabelle to have a quick comeback, something she’d say to put Matthew squarely in his place. Kathryn’s ears burned just thinking about it.

But Annabelle didn’t say a word. The silence in the room became oppressive as she openly searched Matthew’s face for a moment before slowly lowering her eyes to the floor.

Sharing her friend’s hurt, Kathryn tried again to think of a way to ease the moment.

Matthew glanced down briefly, then turned back to face her. “Mrs. Jennings, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this . . .”

The seriousness in his tone caused the thoughts forming in Kathryn’s head to evaporate.

“I’ve just come from the sheriff ’s office.” He blew out a breath. “A body was discovered late this afternoon.”

Kathryn felt something anchored deep inside her give way. She clutched her waist and felt Annabelle’s hand on her shoulder.

Taylor’s eyes filled with emotion. “They think it’s your husband.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, a crowd gathered outside the paintpeeled clapboard building of the Willow Springs undertaker’s office. The buzz of speculation hummed beneath the overcast skies, and a late May drizzle dampened the air. Kathryn shivered and searched the unfamiliar faces around her. Most of them stared back, watchful, waiting. She supposed it was nothing more than morbid curiosity that drew them.

“A man’s body was found in a ravine a few miles from town,”
Matthew Taylor had told her the previous night.

That’s all he’d said, but Kathryn had the feeling he knew more. She stared at the door that Taylor had disappeared through a half hour ago, fear of the unknown knotting her stomach. If the body beyond that threshold was Larson’s, then she had indeed lost everything. She wished Annabelle had come with her, but Matthew Taylor had insisted against it. Kathryn had glimpsed the sting of rebuff in Annabelle’s eyes when Matthew had voiced his strong opposition to her accompanying them. Annabelle had hugged Kathryn tight and hadn’t looked in his direction again.

Kathryn pulled her coat tighter and wrapped her arms around herself.
Lord, please let them be wrong. Don’t let it be him
.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted Gabe standing at the edge of the crowd. Their eyes met, and he smiled gently. He worked his way through the clusters of people, careful not to jostle anyone in his path. Then he came and stood close beside her.

Kathryn looked up into his face. After not having seen him for days, she wanted to speak with him but was completely bereft of words. In his eyes she sensed a depth of compassion she would have guessed him incapable of with his childlike purity. Without a word, he slipped an arm around her shoulders in a brotherly fashion, and she found herself leaning into his strength. What pain had this gentle man endured that he could so thoroughly, with a simple touch, render such peace?

“Mrs. Jennings?”

Kathryn lifted her head to see Matthew Taylor walking toward her. People drew back as he approached. Her gaze fell to the object in his hands, and she heard a guttural cry leave her throat.

Larson’s coat. The one she’d bought for him in Boston for their first Christmas. Dark stains marred the tanned leather.

She saw her own hand reaching to touch it while another part of her tried to hold it back. Maybe if she didn’t touch it, it wouldn’t be real. And he wouldn’t be dead. The leather felt cold and stiff and damp. Kathryn sank to her knees.

Taylor knelt in the mud beside her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She took the coat from him and in one last frantic hope, opened to the inner lining. The images blurred as she ran her fingers over the initials LRJ, then over their unique cattle brand she’d embroidered inside.

“I want to see him.”

He shook his head. “No you don’t. You don’t understand. The body is . . . Your husband’s been dead for several months now.”

With his help, she rose. She started in the direction of the undertaker’s office.

Matthew touched her arm. “Kathryn, please. Don’t do this. He’s not like you remember.”

She stilled at his use of her name and looked up, her resolve holding fast.

As though sensing it would take more than pleading to change her mind, he grimaced. “His body’s been ravaged. First by the cold, then by the spring thaw.” His voice lowered. “And by . . . animals.”

She closed her eyes as she imagined Larson’s body—the body she’d drawn next to hers and had clung to so tightly—being so horribly defiled. “Even so, Mr. Taylor,” she said quietly, so only he could hear, “it is my husband’s body and I will see him one last time before I bury him.”