Carrie Weaver - Secrets In Texas

Ruth let out a small squeak of surprise and fled.

Matthew cupped her chin with his hand, rubbing his thumb along her jaw. “Yes, very tired.”

She thought his gesture was for the benefit of their audience, but then she realized the hallway was empty. Eleanor had retreated after Ruth.

He closed the door and hefted their suitcases onto the bed. “Watch yourself around Eleanor,” he murmured. “She’s Uncle Jonathon’s eyes and ears. And sometimes his cojones, though she’d never be foolish enough to let him realize it.”

Angel watched Matthew closely, wondering if his swift change in demeanor was intended to throw her off balance. The tenderness of a few moments ago was gone, replaced with determined movement.

“Jonathon didn’t seem to need any help in the cojones area. The term brass came to mind.”

Matthew smirked. “Probably apt. You’re smart not to allow the veneer of civility fool you. He’s a dangerous man.”

“Duly noted. I’d like to unpack and hit the hay early. I want to keep on top of my game. How do you propose we work out sleeping arrangements?” Angel eyed the full-size bed. She was accustomed to having a queen all to herself.

“I’ll take the floor, of course.”

Playing the part of the subservient wife would be hard enough when people were around. Angel had no intention of being the helpless little woman in private. “We’ll alternate. Flip a coin to see who takes the floor tonight?”

Matthew shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

“I will.” She removed a quarter from her purse. Flicking it with her thumb, she said, “Call it,” as the coin spun in the air.

“Heads.”

“You win. You get the bed tonight.”

“No.” His voice was low, firm. “I get to choose. I choose the floor.”

“You’re a stubborn man.”

“Yes, I am. After you unpack, I’ll lead us in Bible study and prayer.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“Of course. There are some practices I still observe. Not all their precepts are bad.”

“Well, where I come from, we believe in separation of church and state. This is a job and I, for one, don’t want to be subjected to your beliefs in private.”

“Keep your voice down,” Matthew warned. “We don’t know who’s next door. If we’re overheard, it’s best I’m fulfilling my role as the spiritual leader of our family.”

She eyed the adobe, tempted to tap it with her knuckles to check the density of the walls. Until proven otherwise, it was best to assume anything above a whisper could be heard in the next room. “You’re right. I’ll be unpacked in a few minutes. Then I guess I can suffer through a few moments of religious instruction.”

“I promise to keep it short and sweet.”

“Okay.” She lowered her voice. “But one hint of fire and brimstone and we’re done. Comprende?”

Matthew was intrigued by the bits Angel revealed about herself. “No vengeful, merciless God for you?”

“Uh-uh. I’ve found people can be vengeful and merciless enough. Who needs a deity like that?” Though her tone was teasing, there was an underlying edge.

“Who, indeed. We may be more alike than you realize, Angelina. My God is just and loving.”

“If you think you know me, think again. I’m nothing like the women here who meekly follow orders.”

“Wifely submission isn’t on your list of approved reading topics, I take it?”

“Not if you want to live to see tomorrow.”

“Ah, Angelina, when will you learn I won’t be swayed by idle threats?”

“Who said it was idle?”

Matthew smothered a chuckle. Why was he so sure she wouldn’t hurt him?

He was anything but a trusting man. Yet he found himself trusting a woman he barely knew. A woman trained to kill a man if she had to.

But there was an integrity in Angel that drew him. Along with well-hidden vulnerability. He’d felt an instant connection with her, as one survivor recognizing another. It was the only way he could explain his hunch that Angel had overcome something horrific. Because his background investigation hadn’t turned up anything about her life before she’d entered the University of Houston in 1998. It was as if she hadn’t existed before that. Her transcripts had shown transferred community-college credits from Fort Worth, but the college there had no record of her attending.

It was a mystery he was determined to unravel at a later date. But he had more pressing challenges to deal with first.

Angel snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Matt, you gonna stare off into space all night?”

“No, I was just thinking of the perfect reading for our first night as husband and wife under my uncle’s roof.”

He went to his suitcase and unzipped the side compartment. Withdrawing his Bible, he fingered the hand-tooled leather cover. The cowhide had been made supple with the oil from his hands these many years. Made by Matthew’s mother, it had been one of his father’s most prized possessions. One Uncle Jonathon had tried to appropriate along with his brother’s wife. But Abigail had stood firm in her desire that Matthew would inherit his father’s personal things. He only wished she’d stood as firm in her refusal to marry Jonathon.

Angel stepped close. “It’s still so important to you after all you’ve been through?”

“What’s important?”

She reached out and tentatively touched the intricately rendered scene on the cover. “Religion.”

“No. Religion has no place in my life. God, however, is another story.”

“That’s a fine distinction.”

“No, it’s a huge distinction. One that helped me hold on to something precious.”

Angel opened her mouth, then clamped it shut.

He could tell she was withdrawing. He longed to grasp her shoulders and convince her. But he knew she had to come to him of her own free will. He kept his voice low and nonthreatening, as if discussing a mundane topic like the weather. “What troubles you about my separating God from religion?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Shaking her head, she stepped away. “You’re entitled to your beliefs, Matt. Just as I’m entitled to mine. Who am I to say you believe in a fairy tale?”

His heart ached for her. How alone she must feel facing the world every day and thinking there was no one to catch her if she fell. He’d been more fortunate. His mother had never allowed him to doubt God’s love. Even in those early days when they’d left the brethren and the world had seemed like a scary, confusing place.

And now, being back among the people with whom he’d once shared meals, a home and practically everything else, the thought of the outside world seemed very far away. God was the only constant.

He touched Angel’s shoulder. “Someday you may want to know why I believe. When you’re ready, we’ll discuss it.”

“Don’t hold your breath.” Her tone was bitter. “I quit believing a long time ago.”

No, you didn’t.

But he knew better than to voice his thoughts. “Like you said to me, you’re entitled to your opinion. Now it’ll only take a minute to find the passage I’m looking for.”

Matthew watched her peripherally while he thumbed through the tissue-thin pages of his Bible. Her movements were jerky as she pulled her things from the suitcase and placed them in the dresser drawer.

“Here it is. First Corinthians, chapter thirteen. ‘Love is patient, love is kind,’” he paused, seeing Angel’s shoulders stiffen. He read more quickly, sensing she might rebel at any moment. The last few verses came out in a rush, “‘Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.’”