I look like someone dragged me through a field behind a plow, and I’m alone with a man on my mother’s grave. This tidbit of gossip would nourish the mouths of Wylder for months. The worst part is the man in question is the center of the town’s rumor mill.

Since Finn assigned overseeing Pa to me, I’ve learned the rough and tumble men of Wylder are a bunch of clucking hens. Not only do they talk about anyone and everyone, but also, they will gossip about someone in the same room. The offended person will chuckle along and perhaps embellish the story further. By the time Boone finishes telling our story, it will be capital indecent.

Or will it?

I peek through my fingers as his laughter is carried away on the breeze. The corners of his mouth drop in shame. If we were children, the tumble would be funny. I guess our tussle is still funny to him. I lost my ability to laugh at myself after the scrutiny of the last six years. Between my country accent and ignorance of royal titles, the other women saw me as an easy target of ridicule in England.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Please don’t apologize to me,” he says, lifting my fingers away. “I can’t imagine you ever making a mistake, let alone causing such a ruckus I would require an apology.”

His kind words steal the air from my lungs. Will he feel the same way when he discovers I made the ultimate mistake?