Free Revealed by Tamera Alexander

Jonathan had hesitated, considering what to write next. Annabelle’s chest tightened further as she read his last words. She heard his voice clear in her mind, as though he were right beside her.
    All of us die eventually, and only what we do for God will last—I know that now. Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground. It can’t be gathered up again. I think that’s why God tries to bring us back when we’ve been separated from Him. He doesn’t sweep away the lives of those He cares about, and neither should we.
    I’m grateful for your trust in this and am asking God to repay your kindness one hundred fold.
    Jonathan Wesley McCutchens
    The words on the page blurred in Annabelle’s vision until they were a jumble of dark, muted streaks. She wiped her tears before they blotted the paper, smudging the ink. Jonathan made no mention of Matthew, and secretly she was relieved. The last wishes of her husband were undeniably clear, and besides, Matthew didn’t deserve even the smallest portion of Jonathan’s benevolence or his land—not after the hurtful things Matthew had said to him and the way he’d treated him.
    Unexpected heat spiraled from her chest up into her neck at that last thought, and her conscience gave swift censure to the attitude behind it. Jonathan had forgiven Matthew so fully, without ever being asked. So how could she do any less if ever forced to make that choice. A tiny smile lifted one side of her mouth. The chances of their ever meeting again made that a pretty safe bet on her part.
    Annabelle stared at the letter in her hands, then at the folds that Jonathan had creased in the pages. She trailed a fingertip along those edges. He had been a plainspoken man, not given to flowery speech or long-winded conversation, but he’d had a way with the pen, with stringing words together on paper.
    She didn’t think Jonathan had ever seen her there, hidden in the shadows watching him, long after she should have been asleep, but she’d watched night after night as he’d filled pages with words, writing until the oil lamp gave off a purple plume. At first it struck her as odd that he spent so much time writing when he never made mention of it.
    Then one morning not long after they were married and situated in Denver, she discovered the charred remnants of a letter half hidden in the cool embers. She carefully slid the quarter sheet of paper from the curled ashes. It was burned around the edges, crackly to the touch yet still legible in parts. A letter written to Matthew . . . asking forgiveness for Jonathan’s part in their argument that night while offering it without measure, and inviting Matthew to come and share Jonathan’s land in Idaho.
    In all Jonathan’s midnight scripting, how many letters had he written to his younger brother in hopes of reconciliation, only to have them end up in the fire? Had he ever mailed any of them? Wouldn’t Jonathan have told her if he had?
    Annabelle sighed and lifted her face to the sunshine and breeze. If it had fallen to her alone to pay the price for Jonathan marrying her, she could have borne that and done so gladly. But the price that Jonathan paid in losing his only brother in the process had been too high. Being six years older, Jonathan had considered himself more of a father to Matthew than a brother.
    Turning back to the letter, her attention returned to a phrase: only what we do for God will last .
    That one thought summed up the Jonathan Wesley McCutchens she’d known.
    Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground. It can’t be gathered up again. . . .
    He hadn’t swept away her discarded life as so many had done, but he’d chosen to bring life to her by purchasing her—literally— from the brothel. Annabelle focused on the hard-packed dirt beneath her feet. So much of her life had been spilled on the ground like water. Wasted and irretrievable.
    But not anymore.
    She exhaled a breath and drew another in, taking it deep and full into