Carrie Weaver - Secrets In Texas

Angel turned her back to him.

He’d gone too far. Silently he closed the book.

“Angel?”

“That was some fairy tale, Matt.” Her voice radiated resentment.

“It’s what I believe.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

Suddenly the room seemed too small. Matthew needed time alone to regroup. Because Angel’s barbs were starting to get to him. And if he doubted his faith, he had nothing. No defense against the evil his uncle represented. And no hope of overcoming the broken legacy he’d received.

Matthew tucked his Bible in the nightstand drawer. Retrieving his shaving kit from his suitcase, he said, “I think I’ll go shower before bed.”

“Whatever.”

“Yes, whatever,” he said.

Angel released her pent-up breath when the bathroom door clicked shut behind Matthew. She glanced at her shaking hands, trying to summon another dose of anger. Anything to distract her from feeling as if she might jump out of her skin.

Why did she let him get to her like that? He wasn’t the first person to try to convince her healing could be found in the arms of a loving God. He probably wouldn’t be the last. It was the Bible passage he’d chosen, recited in his rich baritone, the conviction in his voice telling her how much he treasured the words.

But all she could think about was how Kent had twisted love. There had been nothing patient or kind about him, at least not after they’d married. He’d isolated her in a matter of months, and then the abuse had started. Toward the end, she’d turned herself inside out to avoid his wrath, to discover what set him off. But there was rarely any rhyme or reason to it. His coiled tension always returned and could only be released through reducing her to a whimpering mess.

Angel shook her head to rid herself of the memories. The past had to stay firmly in the past. She pulled the cotton nightgown from her suitcase. Quickly she changed, folding her clothes and placing them in the dresser.

Her hand hovered over her toiletry bag. She disliked the thought of going to bed without brushing her teeth or washing her face. But she hated the thought of how awkward it would be when Matthew got out of the shower.

After arranging blankets and a pillow on the floor for Matthew, she slid into bed, turning off the bedside lamp. The light from the bathroom would be enough to show him the way to his makeshift bed.

Angel wanted to be sound asleep by the time he finished his shower. Or at the very least appear sound asleep. She slid her hand beneath the pillow and frowned. No weapon. She’d forgotten about shipping her nine-millimeter home on the way to the airport.

Closing her hand over the butt of the weapon was the only part of her nighttime ritual that never changed, even when she was undercover. As a supposed member of whatever gang she was infiltrating, sleeping with a gun under her pillow had never been a problem. At Zion’s Gate, however, it couldn’t be risked.

Damn.

Angel tried counting sheep. She tried the relaxation techniques she’d learned at the hospital. She even tried humming an old Colombian lullaby under her breath. But her eyes refused to close.

The sound of running water ceased. The room was excruciatingly quiet except for the rustle of movement coming through the bathroom door. It wasn’t hard to imagine Matthew toweling dry, the soft terry cloth absorbing droplets of moisture from his body….

Uh-uh. Don’t go there.

Angel rolled onto her side, facing away from the bathroom door. She squeezed her eyes shut even though they felt spring-loaded. The last thing she wanted was to share intimate conversation in the dark with Matthew. Habit prodded her to once again tuck her hand under the pillow, where she felt only the cool cotton sheet.

Panic made her pulse pound in the darkness. For a split second, she was back in the home she’d shared with her husband, waiting helplessly for him to come to bed, wondering if tonight would be the night he’d kill her.

Angel heard the bathroom doorknob turn. Opening her eyes, she reassured herself she wasn’t back in Fort Worth, waiting for Kent. She rolled to the other side.

“Can’t sleep?” Matthew’s voice was husky. He was silhouetted in the light from the bathroom.

“Keyed up, I guess.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. I’m tired but wired.”

“That’s it exactly. Would you mind leaving the bathroom light on and cracking the door?”

“Sure.” He complied with her request, making his way to his pallet. “Better get some sleep if you can—you’ll need it tomorrow. You’ll probably meet the rest of Uncle Jonathon’s wives and children. I imagine it can be quite overwhelming to someone not raised in a communal atmosphere. I have to admit, even I’m a little uneasy.”

Angel propped her arm under her head so she could see Matt’s outline on the floor next to the bed. “Is it weird being back with your uncle Jonathon? Or have you had a chance to process it yet?”

“It’s…difficult. I have to keep a rein on my emotions. Distance myself from the past.”

Angel was surprised by his admission. Not many men would be that aware. Or if they were, they certainly wouldn’t admit it.

“What was it like living with the brethren?”

He hesitated for a moment. “I couldn’t have asked for a better childhood. It was a wonderful way to grow up. My father loved all of us. We had plenty of room to roam, but plenty of guidance, too. It gave me a sense of belonging, community, shared ideals. Everyone was happy.”

Angel thought it sounded a little too good to be true. “And after your father died?”

“It was very different. Now go to sleep.”

Angel bristled at his authoritarian tone. “I can’t. I’m wide-awake.”

“Strange place?”

“Yes,” she lied.

“What do you do when you work undercover? Go home every night?”

“When I work undercover, I have my weapon.”

“And you don’t here.”

“No, I don’t.”

“I think I understand.”

“You don’t understand squat, Matt.”

He chuckled in the dark. “I stand corrected. How about if I told you a few stories of my youth?”

“That’d be enough to send me off to sleep, I’m sure. All that bucolic stuff.”

“I’ll tell you about the calf I raised one year. He followed me around like a dog. I wasn’t supposed to name him because I’d get attached and he was raised for food.”

“But you named him anyway.” Angel could almost imagine him as a tow-headed boy leading around a calf. And maybe getting into mischief once in a while.

“His name was Spot. Very original.”

“Probably better than Cheeseburger,” she murmured, her eyelids fluttering.

Matthew chuckled. He told her stories of Spot and the numerous barnyard cats. Of catching frogs and fireflies. And of making apple cider.

Contentment stole through Angel. It was surprisingly nice, here in the dark, talking to Matt. She snuggled deeper under the covers. Her eyes closed, her breathing deepened….

ELEANOR GESTURED toward an empty space at the oblong dining room table. “You may sit there.”

“Thank you,” Angel murmured. The wooden chair was hard and unyielding against her rear.

Angel glanced at the two empty picnic-style tables. “When do the children eat?”

“My children are grown. Their bedrooms upstairs were converted to classrooms. The younger children come here every morning for classes. I used to do all the teaching, but Ruth is fulfilling many of the duties.”

“I see.”

Eleanor pursed her lips. “I hope you slept well.”

Angel got the impression she hoped the opposite was true. Sarcasm didn’t suit the older woman.