“The canoe tipped.” Charles waved his hand at the river that coursed and rolled over rocks. “We both fell out. Mr. Nessling tried to rescue the canoe, but somehow he got trapped between it and that boulder. He couldn’t get free.”
Abby squeezed her eyes shut. She could see the accident in her mind. The canoe had wrapped itself around a rock and her father had been trapped between them. While they weren’t the largest rapids in the region, they were still powerful, and the currents didn’t always run parallel to the shore. If the canoe tipped and met the rock, there was a fine chance the current would hold the canoe there, possibly even breaking it into pieces as it folded itself around the boulder. If Papa had been caught between … Abby opened her eyes. Papa could be busted into pieces inside.
“What did you do?” She whirled on Charles, the words spitting at him with venom.
Charles scowled, the intensity of the situation lending itself to his own furious reply. “Nothing!”
“You tipped the canoe, didn’t you!” Abby struggled to her feet.
“Abby!”
She ignored Jonathon’s warning. “You did this!” She pointed back at Papa.
Charles’s lip curled in a wounded snarl. His eyes narrowed and he shook his head. “You would blame me.”
“Tell me you didn’t do something reckless that made the canoe tip. Tell me.”
“Abby.” Jonathon’s sharp voice pierced the tension. “We need to get your father help. Now isn’t the time!”
He was right. Abby stopped, but didn’t release Charles’s gaze. She couldn’t. Not until he admitted this was his doing. Her father wouldn’t tip the canoe, and if some mishap really did happen, he wouldn’t have been foolish enough to get caught between the craft and the rock.
“I know you did this,” she hissed. It was obvious she was right. Charles had no color in his face and in that moment, Abby saw him for all that he was. A foolish, stupid man.
Chapter Eight
Papa’s dreams were over.
Abby wanted to save them. It was her responsibility, after all, to take care of him, but she’d failed. Miserably. Jonathon and Charles were packing their luggage in their cabin, preparing for an abrupt early departure. The guided excursion was ended with Papa’s incapacitation.
She gripped the windowsill and gave Harold an absentminded scratch. The squirrel’s tail waved and brushed her wrist. Abby watched Charles open the cabin door and her eyes narrowed. Papa would live, but his broken ribs and bruised torso were going to take weeks to heal. Not to mention the gash in his arm that the nearby logging camp doctor had closed with twelve stitches. There would be no income generated from entertaining the wealthy. It was over, all of it. Papa’s dream, their income, everything. Abby’s stomach turned at the thought. They would lose it all. The cabins, their future …
Charles lugged two suitcases to the back of the horse and wagon hitched to the rail between the cabins. Abby grimaced at the sight. The wagon had brought the doctor and now it would take him back, along with Jonathon and Charles. They would catch the train in town and return to Milwaukee. To their lives. Leaving her here to pick up the pieces alone. That knowledge put the final stamp on her assumptions that when it came to real life, the wealthy simply up and ran, buying their way out of hardship.
Abby’s breath shuddered as she inhaled. She glanced over her shoulder at the cot set up in front of the fireplace. Papa’s still form sent waves of anxiety through her. He could have died! He could have drowned, or bled internally, the doctor said. She should be thankful. Thankful? She looked back out the window at Charles, who hefted the luggage into the back of the wagon. There was no doubt in her mind that the uncoordinated rich boy had done something to make the canoe tip. Papa, in his urgency to save the canoe, had become its victim.
A frown creased her brow. Why was Charles shaking hands with Jonathon?
She hurried from the cabin, shutting the door softly behind her, sequestering Harold with Papa. The logging camp doctor sat beside a logger on the wagon seat. The two men ignored them as Jonathon hoisted himself into the back of the wagon.
“What’s going on?” Abby demanded. And why was Charles not getting into the wagon beside Jonathon?
Charles stepped back from the wagon, his hands jammed into his trouser pockets, suspenders stretched over his shoulders.
“I hate to leave you here, Abby.” Jonathon appeared genuinely distressed. He adjusted his seat in the wagon. “But I need to get back to Milwaukee. I want to see if I can make arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” The day’s events kept coming so fast and unexpected that it left Abby bewildered.
Jonathon gave her an understanding smile. “For you and your father.” He waved toward the cabin. “You can’t stay here. There will be no income. And the winter? Your father might not even be recuperated by then, let alone prepared for the snow.”
Abby swallowed the lump of shame in her throat. What could she say? The writing was on the wall. It had been even before her father’s accident.
“I want to see if my father can make arrangements to assist you and your father to relocate to Milwaukee. At least until he’s fully recuperated. Then, you both can make whatever decisions are necessary.”
Abby gave him a short nod, but the realization of his words seeped into her wounded soul. Friendship. Kindness. She blinked her eyes against sudden emotion, and turned her face away so Jonathon couldn’t read her expression or discover how sheepish she felt. She’d been so sure they were escaping; but instead, Jonathon was hurrying home to find help. To take care of them. And what about Charles?
Shaken, Abby shifted her attention to him. Regardless of Jonathon, Charles was still low on her list of favorite people. His dark eyes slammed into hers.
“And what are you doing?” She glanced at the cabin behind him with its open door and the obvious absence of his luggage in the wagon.
“Staying.”
The one word made Abby’s heart spiral up in an uncontrollable sense of hope and then crash almost as fast. What help would he be? And why would he choose to stay when he was so underqualified to cast a fly rod, let alone help her survive in the forest while tending her father?
“Abby.” Jonathon’s voice of reason penetrated through her cloud of shock and consternation. “Let Charles help. I can’t leave you and your father here alone without some sort of assistance. Charles has offered, and I know how you feel, but—”
“No, you don’t know how I feel.” Abby interrupted her friend and sealed his mouth with a firm line.
“You’re right. I don’t.” Jonathon’s searching gaze made Abby shift her feet uncomfortably. “But we’re not villains, Abby. We care. No one cares more than Charles. Please stop blaming him for things he cannot help. If anyone understands your pain … well, it’s him.”
The wagon lurched forward as the logger flicked the reins. “Talk to each other,” Jonathon directed as the wagon rolled away. He lifted his hand in a wave and Charles and Abby stood in the wagon’s dust.
“I’ve no intention of talking,” she stated bluntly, eyes fixed on Jonathon’s disappearing form.
“I didn’t think so.”
So. That was that. Abby marched back to her cabin, to Papa, and as far away from Charles Farrington III as she could get.
Maybe she wasn’t going to talk to him, maybe she was going to continue to blame him, but blast it all if he wasn’t going to at least try to find some atonement. Once was awful, but twice? The horror of seeing Mr. Nessling pinned between the canoe and the boulder, white water swirling around him and his face twisted in agony … It was just too much.
Charles hefted the axe over his head and brought it down onto a log with force. The blade bounced off the wood and hit the stump the log was balanced on. So maybe he couldn’t chop wood to save his soul, but wasn’t that what all hearty American pioneering males did when angry? Chop wood? What an absolute mockery to humanity he’d turned out to be.
Lifting the axe again, he dr
opped it with enough force to elicit a grunt. This time it stuck in the wood, but barely, and didn’t make a crack.
“What are you doing?”
The contemptuous voice behind him was of course none other than the only person in the vicinity besides himself capable of walking. He dropped the axe by his foot and swiped his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Chopping wood.”
“It’s August.” Abby’s statement of the obvious was no help.
“You’ll need wood for the winter.”
She eyed his rolled-up shirt sleeves and his sweaty neckline, and her expression remained impassive. “According to Jonathon, we won’t be here during the winter.”
Blasted woman. In the matter of a few days, Charles had gone from seeing her as conquerable, to wanting to draw her out of her grief, to now wishing he’d hightailed it back to Milwaukee with Jonathon. Penance. It’s what made him stay. Some way to repay Mr. Nessling, prove that the wealthy weren’t unkind and self-centered, and maybe even make up a little for David’s death years ago. God had to count that all for something, right? But the censure in Abby’s eyes was almost enough to convince Charles that no amount of works could beg forgiveness from anyone.
“You’re not doing it right.” She pointed to the axe.
Of course. There was a right way to chop wood, same as there was a right way to fling a fly line, or row a canoe, or duck under a branch. If he were honest, Charles missed the smell of the streets of Milwaukee. The breweries, the smoke from the chimneys, the fumes from the motor cars, and the pungent smell of sauerkraut over sausages. There was too much fresh air here, too much … Abigail Nessling.
She hiked over to him and lifted the axe from where it rested by his foot. “You’re going to cut off an appendage.”
Charles narrowed his eyes. She was insulting now. All gloves were off. It was war. She wanted to live in her bitter grief? Well, he wanted free of his, and he’d be flipped if he let Abby stand in the way of it.
“Give it back to me.” He sounded like a petulant boy.
Abby held the axe away. She pointed at the log. “You’re trying to chop against the grain. Turn the log so the grain runs vertically away from you.”
Charles bit his tongue but did as she said. Once the log was positioned, she handed him the axe. “Now, when you bring the axe down, don’t rely on your arm strength. Use your whole body. Like you’re going to drive it straight through.”
He eyed her for a moment. She didn’t sound pompous, but he saw the tiny shake of her head. He exasperated her. She felt he was above living in the woods, above eking out a life here like her father had so aptly done since she was a babe. Fine. He’d show her.
Charles brought the axe down with fervor, his entire torso following through with the motion. The axe head embedded in the log and it split partway. He couldn’t help but smile. Ha! Take that, Abigail Nessling!
He turned to see her astounded expression, but she was gone. The cabin door closing echoed through the trees. Charles blew a puff of frustrated air from his mouth. Was any amount of forgiveness worth this exasperation, this sense of being completely out of one’s element? He looked down at the half-split log. His efforts would never bring back David, and they would never make Mr. Nessling heal quickly enough to stay here in his forest home. In a swift motion, Charles brought the axe around and split the log the rest of the way. It fell in two halves.
He could only hope God would see his efforts, because Abby certainly did not.
Chapter Nine
Abby positioned pillows behind her father’s back. Propping him without inflicting unnecessary pain took effort. The grimace etched in the lines on his face told her all she needed to know. Pain was something he would be fighting for days to come.
“You need nourishment.” She stirred the stew in the bowl as she sat next to the bed.
“I can feed myself, teacup.” Papa’s voice hinted of a smile, but she ignored it. She had to. Her insides were twisted in a thousand different emotions, and she couldn’t decipher any of them at the moment. She couldn’t add humor to the mix, or it might be her undoing.
“Here.” She ignored her father and lifted the spoon to his mouth. He obeyed, but his eyes never left her face. Abby avoided his searching gaze.
“Did I hear Charles’s voice outside today? And an axe?” Papa missed nothing, even stuck in his bed.
Abby nodded. For sure, Papa was seeing through Charles’s foolhardy idea that he could provide any support for them at all.
“Hmm.” Papa mouthed a spoonful of stew then raised his eyebrows. If he could have shrugged without affecting his broken ribs, he probably would have. “Perhaps I read the boy wrong.”
The spoon stilled in midair. Abby held it aloft over Papa’s chest. Read Charles wrong? The man was a sorry excuse for a man, unless one counted his kissing skills, in which case he graded off the scale. Abby felt a blush creep up her neck. Papa noticed.
“I see.” He eyed the spoon. “I would recommend feeding me that before it drips. Or let me feed myself.”
“Oh.” Abby pushed the food into her father’s waiting mouth and didn’t refuse when he carefully reached for the bowl of stew. His breath caught with pain, and she stretched out her hand to reclaim the bowl.
“I’m fine.” Papa was stubborn. He gave himself another bite, chewed, swallowed, and then nodded. “You like him, don’t you?”
Abby was sure her eyebrows almost flew off her face. “Charles? No! Not at all. Not in the slightest. The man is a—well, he thinks he can help us by staying? It just gives me someone else I need to take care of!”
Her hand flew to cover her mouth and her eyes burned with remorse. “Papa, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant—I mean—what I was going to say was—”
“It’s all right,” Papa’s soothing voice brought her stammering to halt. “You’ve carried more responsibility on your shoulders than I’d ever intended you to. And now”—he waved the empty spoon toward his bruised and broken torso—“now I’ve added myself to the list.”
“I don’t mind caring for you, Papa. It’s Mr. Farrington I can’t abide.”
Papa’s mouth stretched in a sad smile. He read her like Mama used to read one of her books. Clear and precise, without error, and grasping all the meanings hidden beneath the words. “Abby, Charles isn’t to blame for what happened to me.”
“No?” Her voice was bitter. Even she heard it. “Then what happened, Papa? Explain it to me.”
Papa struggled to take a deep breath, and he closed his eyes against the pain before letting it out. “I tipped the canoe.”
“You?” Absolutely not. Papa was too river-smart to tip the canoe.
Papa gave her a patronizing look of patience. “Abby, canoes tip. It happens. I miscalculated and we sideswiped a small rock. It put the canoe off balance, and while I tried to right it, Charles wasn’t prepared for the lurch. We tipped. Plain and simple.”
“Charles wasn’t prepared. Exactly. If he had been prepared, he could have counterbalanced and the canoe wouldn’t have tipped.” Abby’s argument filled the room and was followed by silence.
Papa looked into his bowl then handed it back to Abby, apparently having satisfied his appetite. “I still got between the canoe and that boulder. That was my error in judgment. The current pulled me, and I was too enthusiastic to save the boat.”
Since they were being honest… “And I suppose when Mama was dying, Jonathon’s father also offered to pay for her to receive medical care and you refused their generosity.” Abby pressed her lips together after she blurted out her statement, delivered with a tone of disbelief.
Papa closed his eyes in resignation. His breath caught, and he winced. When he opened his eyes, Abby knew all she needed to know. Charles had been right, and now, her one escape to avoid grief was being taken from her. If she could blame someone—anyone—for Mama’s death, it was easier than facing that it was simply her time. It was easy to transfer her sorrow into bitterness and hold acco
untable the wealthy who tossed away income like paper confetti, ignorant of those who suffered pain and poverty. But to know that the wealthy had actually sought to provide, to give them the assistance Abby blamed them for withholding?
“Why?” It was all Abby could ask. Her choked whisper mirrored the soreness of her throat where it constricted with emotion.
Papa leaned his head back on his pillows. “Your mama wanted to die peacefully, here at home. She knew all the money in the world wouldn’t save her in the end, and to live her final days in an institution?” He shook his head, a lone tear escaping and trailing down his strong cheek. “No one is to blame for your mama’s death. There are no mistakes, only God’s perfect timing. You cannot hold anyone accountable for my accident either—least of all, Charles Farrington, rapscallion though he may be. Perhaps he has money, but, it appears he has heart as well. He and Jonathon are going to care for us, and as much as my pride wishes to refuse, I know we need their assistance.”
Abby bit her bottom lip in an effort to still its trembling.
Papa closed his eyes, obviously exhausted and worn from fighting the pain of broken bones. “He may prove to be a help in greater ways than I imagined.”
“How?” Abby whispered.
Her father took a few shallow breaths, avoiding the deep intake in exchange for avoiding the stabbing pain of his ribs. “Maybe you’re not the only one who is pushing through sorrow. Some, like you, turn to bitterness—”
The sound of an axe colliding with wood outside the bedroom window stilled Papa’s words. His mouth turned upward in a slight smile. “And some make their penance by blaming themselves.”
Dusk had settled over the forest. The two cabins, parallel to each other with the clearing in between, were haloed by the orange tint of a sunset that streamed through tree branches. Charles slouched in a chair outside the guest cabin. It was quiet without Jonathon, and Abby certainly wasn’t giving him the time of day. She’d come in and out of the cabin numerous times, but each time it was as if he didn’t exist.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 47