Secrets In Texas

“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.’”

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….