No matter. He wasn’t here for her. Not really. He was here for Mr. Nessling. For David. For himself, if he were honest. Had he returned home with Jonathon, he’d most likely be striding down the walkways of Milwaukee to one of the many beer gardens for some good German music. Instead, he was alone with his thoughts, a glass of water, and an ache in every muscle he’d applied to an afternoon of chopping wood. His father would sneer at him if he could see him now. Sweaty, dirty, exhausted. Not the son of a beer baron, or the future heir to the Farrington fortune. Only a week ago, Charles had attempted to escape that pressure, free himself from the memories that dogged him, and find respite near the Flambeau River. Instead, he’d almost repeated his offense and watched Mr. Nessling drown, and he’d allowed Abigail to wheedle her way into his subconscious and fuel his memories of David.
Charles flung the remaining water from his glass and leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He was tired. His soul was tired.
“When Papa chops wood, he usually has a stack clear up to the roof after an afternoon.”
Abby’s voice startled him and he lifted his head. Eyeing the miniscule woodpile he’d stacked by the side of their cabin, he was reminded again of his failures. He was beyond charming his way out of his darkness. This is where he sat, and if Abby continued to point out every place he fell short, he may as well return home and live with his father. There was no grace for someone who didn’t deserve it. That much was very apparent.
“But—” Abby paused, picking nervously at her thumbnail. “You did well. For a first time.”
Charles glowered at her, searching her face for a hint of cynicism, waiting for the backhanded comment that would put him in his place. His gaze fell on her mouth and he sniffed. One week in and he’d already stolen a kiss. So bent on shocking her out of her own misguided grief, he’d awakened his own instead.
Abby rocked back on her heels as Harold skittered in front of her, across the clearing, and into the woods.
“Aren’t you afraid he won’t come back one of these days?” Charles ventured, watching the bushy tail of the squirrel disappear beneath undergrowth.
Abby’s gaze followed the squirrel as well. Sadness touched her eyes. She nodded. “I am. But he deserves to live his life again.”
The injured squirrel. Healed. Loved. Being given the grace and freedom to walk away from what held him back.
“Do we?” Charles muttered.
Their eyes locked.
Abby didn’t respond and neither did Charles. What could they say, after all? Sometimes words fell horribly, pathetically short.
Chapter Ten
Word was slow in coming from Jonathon. It would take time for him to return home, and then, even though it was almost a new century, it wasn’t as if telephone lines had made their way to northern Wisconsin and the remote logging camps. They would need to rely on a telegraph delivered to the railway station in town five miles away. And that was assuming Jonathon’s father was as hospitable as his son.
Abby rotated a hook and wrapped thread around the shank. Creating her nymph patterns and painting her redundant landscapes was about all she could do to calm herself. With Papa still convalescing after only a week since the accident, there wasn’t much for her to do outside of sit and watch him rest. That, and muster the willpower to make the trip to town and send telegraphs to the three other excursionists who had booked stays with them to round out the summer.
Abby tightened the thread on the hook. To cancel the excursions would be detrimental to their future. It would be difficult to arrange bookings for other wealthy thrill-seekers without word-of-mouth recommendations. Jonathon would pull through for them, she knew, but it was still questionable whether Charles would.
Charles. His lurking form unnerved her in so many ways. She had to admit, he’d done a fine job of stacking wood—although they probably wouldn’t need it if they weren’t going to be here for the winter. But he’d also spent time reading to Papa, which she had to admit gave her a much-needed break. He’d even suggested taking a spinning rod, forgoing the more technically inclined sport of fly-fishing, and catching some fish from the river for dinner. She let him, and not surprisingly, he came back with an empty basket.
Abby smiled as she finished tying her nymph design. She had to give the man credit. He was at least trying. The last few days had worn down some of her harsh edges against him. With Papa taking the blame for the accident, she had less to hold against Charles. Well, nothing to hold against him, really, outside his brazen stolen kiss that she couldn’t forget no matter how she tried.
The man of her thoughts rounded the corner. His black curls hung around his face—he’d obviously given up on the citified pomade and bay rum in exchange for one of Papa’s old cotton shirts and floppy hair. She ducked her head and paid more attention to the nymph than she needed to. Was it horrid that she found him far more attractive with his four days’ growth of whiskers and rugged appearance than the flirtatious charmer of barely two weeks ago?
He sidled up behind her, his breath brushing her neck. So maybe the charmer hadn’t totally disappeared. “Making more of your magical nymphs?”
“Mmm, hmm.” Just because she had softened toward him didn’t mean she needed to let him in on her change of heart. It was better to hold him at arm’s length.
“Good. If we tell other potential guests that you have a special fly to lure trout, you might have a unique angle to attract more enthusiasts.”
Well, that was something she hadn’t thought of before. Her nymph had always been her secret. But perhaps … Then the truth sank in once more. “We won’t be here, so it doesn’t matter.”
Charles reached around her and picked up one of her completed nymphs, twisting it between thumb and index finger and studying the craftsmanship. “What do you mean by that?”
Abby turned. “Papa won’t be able to lead any more excursions this summer. There will be no word of mouth to carry back to the wealthy, and so no future for us next summer.”
“The wealthy.” Charles set the nymph back on the fly-tying table and his chest rose in a resigned sigh. “Yes, well, we all know how you feel about the wealthy anyway. You should be relieved.”
He moved to take his leave but Abby reached out and gripped his shirt sleeve. He didn’t deserve her scorn. Not anymore.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Charles looked down at her fingers that brushed his skin just below his rolled-up sleeve. “How did you mean it?” His brown eyes widened and swallowed her whole.
Abby blinked. “I—I …”
They were a sad pair, the two of them. A wealthy city boy who obviously bore some burden he’d yet to reveal and she, the tired, sorrow-filled daughter of a dead woman. Somehow life seemed to have paused for both of them. But in this moment, Abby realized, it really wasn’t anyone’s fault. Nor was it God’s.
“I’m sorry.” Her whisper swirled around them like a caressing embrace.
Charles blinked.
“I’m sorry I ever blamed anyone for Mama.” Tears crowded her throat. “I just—you would have to lose someone close to understand why I have struggled so. Needing a reason, needing an outlet, having someone to blame for something that made no sense to me.”
Charles’s jaw twitched and she could tell he was clenching his teeth. “Yeah.”
“So I blamed the people I was jealous of. People with money, people who had the luxury to get medical care for those they loved. People like you.” Now that she spoke it out loud, Abby realized how horrid and shallow she had been. She tried to justify herself. “When you’re in our shoes, struggling to make ends meet, my father trying to live out his dream by starting this excursion business … people like—like you seem to have everything, while people like us seem to lose everything.”
Abby wasn’t prepared for the haunted expression that passed across Charles’s face, nor for his choked cough of suppressed emotion.
“People like us, eh?” He
nodded, his lips pursed as if willing to bear one more burden that somehow really wasn’t his.
“But I don’t see it that way now.” And she didn’t, Abby realized. A tear trailed down her cheek. “I just miss my mama.” She bit her bottom lip, but the tears began to stream burning paths over her face. “I just miss my mama.”
Charles reached out and gripped her hand. “And I miss my brother.”
Only two times had Charles ever felt worse than he did right now. The first was when he failed to save his brother, the second when he failed to save Mr. Nessling from his boating accident. Now he’d failed Abby, and instead of helping her, had only awakened the raw pain of her grief.
The petite woman before him wrapped her arms around herself as breaths tore from her. It was obvious she was trying to subdue the onslaught of tears, but now that they flowed, it seemed only a miracle would stop them. Her fingers had curled around his for only a moment before she’d retreated into her protective stance. But her eyes, though drowning in salt-water tears, were fixated on his.
“What do you mean? Your brother?”
Now he’d done it. He hadn’t intended on ever speaking David’s name again. He didn’t have to. His father did it daily and reminded him constantly how he’d failed the family and better not fail it again in the business. Charles winced.
“Never mind.”
Abby shook her head, wisps of white-blond hair teasing her lips. Charles averted his eyes.
“No.” Abby’s fingers wrapped around his once more. “Tell me.”
Charles watched the tops of the trees sway in the warm breeze. “My brother David died about twelve years ago. When I was fourteen.”
He heard her small intake of breath. If he were wicked, which he wasn’t, Charles would turn and say, “Yes, see? Grief isn’t limited to income brackets.” But he didn’t say the first words that came to mind. Instead, he remained silent.
Abby moved closer, her fingers linking with his, like the linking of broken hearts in the places they had come apart. “How?”
Charles shifted his attention to her face. That was a mistake. He was captured by the empathy in her expression. He coughed. Blasted emotions. “He drowned.”
“Oh, Charles,” Abby breathed.
“It was my fault.” Fine. He’d just tell her. Might as well lay it all out for her to see. “I dared him to swim out into the river, but he wasn’t a strong swimmer and … I couldn’t save him.”
Abby was merciful and didn’t respond. But Charles knew what she was thinking. “Just like I couldn’t save your father.”
“But Papa didn’t drown.” Abby’s protest was weak.
“No. But I ruined his livelihood.”
Abby didn’t answer. Exactly. If Charles wasn’t such a failure, such a sad excuse for a son, a friend, a man, he would have had the wits to help Mr. Nessling instead of treading water and watching the man be crushed. He would have had the wisdom to have kept David on land by him.
“It seems …” Abby’s body moved even closer until she embraced his arm and laid her head on his bicep. A bold move. Unexpected. More than likely, she was unconscious of the stirring the action sent through him. “It seems,” she repeated, “that you and I both have mistaken views of grief.”
“You weren’t there, Abby. You didn’t see what happened. In either scenario.”
“No.” Her embrace on his arm tightened. “I wasn’t. But I can believe you’re wrong about your perspective of your brother’s death, just as you can believe I’m wrong about mine and my mother’s.”
Charles froze. He did believe she was wrong. Her mother’s death had nothing to do with medical care, or something Abby might have done to save her, or whether Jonathon’s father had wired money. It had to do with … fate? Destiny? But the reason for David’s death, even Mr. Nessling’s accident, seemed so much clearer.
“David’s death wasn’t fate, Abby. Neither was your father’s accident. I could have prevented them both.”
Silence enveloped them as they stood side by side—nymphs, hook, and fly-tying materials ignored on the workbench. Charles looked down at Abby and her eyes were closed. Light-brown lashes resting on damp cheeks blushed with emotion. Her mouth moved as she spoke so quietly, Charles had to lean toward her to hear.
“It wasn’t your fault, Charles. It wasn’t your fault.”
For the first time, Charles heard the words he’d ached for over twelve years to have just one person say. For the first time, he thought maybe he could finally believe it was true.
Chapter Eleven
Moonlight shafted through the windowpanes and across the wooden table. Abby rested her cup of tea on it, and reached for her book. Papa rested in the bedroom just beyond, but he was alert and she could see him occasionally lift his own mug to his mouth and slurp hot coffee.
A knock rattled the cabin door. Papa turned his head and Abby stood with a soft smile. “Must be Charles.” Who else would it be?
She opened the door and sure enough, Charles stood there, a sheepish look on his face.
“Sorry to bother you.”
Bother? Abby realized the form of Charles Farrington III didn’t bother her anymore. All that remained was a lilt of anticipation, of shared understanding, of … friendship.
“Come in,” Abby stepped aside and tried not to dwell on the heat that flooded her face as Charles’s arm brushed hers when he entered. He glanced at her. Offered a small smile, a deepened dimple, and a—oh help—his flirtatious wink had returned. And, he was chewing that pesky toothpick with its devilish tilt in the corner of his mouth. His mouth.
Abby turned away. “Are you here for Papa?”
Charles nodded. “And you,” he added. “But I realize the hour is late.”
“You’ve earned it.” Papa’s voice came from the bedroom.
A look of surprise stretched across Charles’s face as he made his way to the bedroom. “Thank you, sir.”
Abby followed but kept her distance from Charles. Just in case she’d blush again, she busied herself with straightening the painting on the wall.
Papa took a sip of coffee.
“I have something I’d like—well, I have a proposition for you both.” Charles glanced between them, eagerness in his voice. It was a different Charles than the man of earlier in the day. The man who’d choked back his own blame and had held her in silent, unexpected shared grief. Maybe they had both healed a little. Even though there were still shadows of sadness lurking behind his smile, he seemed … more at peace.
“All right.” Charles rubbed his hands together with anticipation. His eyes were earnest as they sought out hers. “I know I’m horrible at this wilderness stuff.”
Papa laughed then cut it short with a wince. He crossed his arm over his chest as if to hold his broken ribs together. “Don’t make me laugh again, boy.”
“So sorry.” Charles winced along with Papa. Paused. “Really. I am very sorry.”
Papa pressed his mouth together in a firm line as he studied Charles. Finally, he answered him, and it sealed away for good any doubts or blame Abby might have still fostered. “It wasn’t your fault, Charles. It was an accident.”
“Accidents start somewhere, sir.”
Abby noticed the guilt overtake Charles’s original energy.
“Yes. They do. More often than not from a string of events that no one can control.” Papa’s eyes narrowed in thoughtful contemplation. “I have faith, and in that faith, I know that what seems accidental or tragic to us”—his eyes met Abby’s over Charles’s shoulder—“is not a mistake to God.”
“Guess I’m a slow learner in the faith practice.” Charles grimaced and glanced at Abby, who couldn’t help but give him a slight smile in shared understanding. “But it’s coming,” he finished. She nodded. For her too.
“Anyway …” Charles charged ahead in the conversation. “I don’t know when Jonathon will touch base with the potential for you to relocate to Milwaukee. But I know it’s neither of your desires to
do so.”
Abby didn’t respond. She didn’t want to influence Papa with some manipulative sense of obligation to agree to whatever Charles was about to propose.
“I’m not fond of it, but God is obviously taking us in a different direction.” Papa breathed around his broken ribs. Breaths short but controlled.
Charles held up his forefinger. “Wait. I’ve been thinking. If I use my connections in Milwaukee, I’m sure I can book this place out until the end of this season and well into next.”
“You’re quite persuasive,” Abby mumbled, remembering Charles’s charm and flirtation.
He cast her a wicked grin. “I am. I know.”
“That’s all well and good, but someone has to lead the tours, the excursions,” Papa argued.
“I can’t do that alone.” It was difficult to admit, but Abby had to be truthful.
Charles nodded. “That’s where I come in.”
“You?” Abby couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows incredulously. The man had just admitted he was as adept in the woods and on the river as an African lion.
“I told you not to make me laugh.” Papa grimaced wryly.
Charles nodded and raised his eyebrow in a sardonic expression. “Yes, well, I’m learning.”
Abby covered her mouth, but it didn’t squelch the snicker that escaped.
“I am.” Charles winked at her. “I’m learning what not to do, even if I don’t yet have a grasp on what to do.”
“I still don’t see how this will work.” Papa glanced between the two of them. “You’re thinking you and Abby will lead the excursions?”
Charles nodded, but held up a hand just as fast. “Wait. Just hear me out. I can’t lead myself, I realize that. And, frankly”—he shot a wry look at Abby—“it’s not wise to split up groups and have her leading a man on her own.”
She choked. She couldn’t help it. Papa’s smile of surprise stretched across his face.
“She guided you.” Papa stated the obvious.
“Yes. Also not wise.” Charles’s rakish smile was brazen and, yes, Abby had to turn to straighten the painting on the wall. Again. She could tell both men noticed her blush anyway.
Of Rags and Riches Romance Collection Page 48