Secrets In Texas. Carrie Weaver
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….
CHAPTER FIVE
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.
“Yes, we did. Is there anything I can do to help with breakfast?”
“Not now. An extra pair of hands would have been welcome an hour ago, though. Perhaps tomorrow you can get up earlier and help prepare.”
Angel bit back a retort at the implied criticism. Calling Eleanor a sanctimonious bitch wouldn’t help matters. It would make Angel feel much better, though. Sighing, she exercised self-control and let her annoyance go. “Perhaps. If my husband doesn’t have other plans for me.”
“I’m sure he could spare you for an hour.”
“I’ll talk to Matthew. He should be here in just a minute.” Angel had fled the bedroom, flustered by the intimacy of sharing the small space with him. Or maybe it had been the intimacy of his stories the night before and how easily she’d fallen asleep. She felt safe with Matt, and that fact in itself terrified her.
Afraid to feel safe. How messed up was that?
“Ruth, help me with the food,” Eleanor said, nodding toward the young girl, who had slipped into the room.
“Yes, Sister.” Ruth scurried to help, her voice breathy when she asked, “Where is Brother Matthew?”
Angel ignored the quick stab of possessiveness. She was merely feeling territorial because of her tenuous position here at the ranch. She was an outsider and she doubted Eleanor would let her forget it.
“He, um, wanted to have time alone for Bible study.”
Eleanor nodded. “We’ll wait breakfast for him.”
“Thank you.”
“What lovely lace.” Angel fingered the crocheted runner gracing the center of the table.
“I made it myself.”
“Wow. This is really fine work.”
“It’ll do.” Eleanor’s words were spare, but her cheeks were pink. Angel wondered if she’d received much praise in her life.
“Aunt Eleanor is a whiz with any kind of needlework.” Matthew entered the room.
“Thank you.” The older woman pulled out a chair at the foot of the table. “You may sit here, Matthew.”
Angel