Chapter 5

Abigail

I drop Boone’s hand like it's on fire to cover my face. Can this get any worse? What if someone sees? 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? The story of my fall from grace will spread through his shop. Will he make jokes at my folly or just laugh along? Lines of concern frame his deep, brown eyes. Somehow, his warmth makes me sink lower.

I can’t contain my sobs and lean into him. Just for a second. When his arms wrap around me, I allow myself to be enveloped in his embrace. I will be strong on my own after this. I know it. My fingers release my face to clutch his shirt like a lifeline. I just need one moment to fall apart. He already has his tale to embellish if he adds how I cried on his shoulder. Half the men won’t believe him. The other half, namely my brothers, will call him out for being a monster because only a scoundrel would make light of a woman crying on her mother’s grave.

I came here to tell Ma that Pierpont wasn’t coming. I cry harder. Boone’s arms tighten to hold me together when Pierpont would have pushed away my messy face. Boone’s scent surrounds me like a security blanket, which transports me back in time to the Wylder schoolhouse, where he draped himself over the desk behind me.

If it had been any other boy, my younger self would have told him to back off, or I’d sic Finn on him. The other boys stunk of horse, grass, and sweat. Gross. Boone started shaving and wearing Old Bay years before any of the others. I loved the combination of aftershave lotion and cologne from his father’s shop. His scent is vaguely similar, but now a masculine spice adds to the bouquet. Oh Lordy, he has matured like a fine wine.

All of England would be scandalized on my behalf, but I can’t resist another lungful of him. Bless him. Boone allows me to soak his shirt with my tears and breathe his strength to my heart’s content. “I probably owe you an explanation,” I say within the folds of his flannel. My cheeks heat with embarrassment at our proximity.

“You don’t owe me a thing, Miss Wylder,” he replies with a small shift of his weight. A hard bulge in his trousers brushes against my hip before he can conceal his reaction to me. Perhaps he isn’t such a victim of my outburst as I thought.

“Our position is quite indecent. People will talk.” My words are muffled, but I refuse to move until he makes me. This is the first time I’ve felt secure since before I moved to England…maybe ever.

From Ava’s protector to Ma’s nursemaid, to Eloise’s companion in England, and back to Pa’s caregiver, I’ve never had someone ask after me—let alone hold me in their arms to cry. Pierpont would stiffen at my tears and hand me his handkerchief with an outstretched hand. I had assumed it was his aristocratic upbringing that made him distant but what if he was cold from lack of true interest?

And here come the tears again.

“There’s no need to cry on account of scuttlebutt, Miss Wylder.” I’m treated to the rumbling in his chest as well as his baritone voice. “I’ve been watching for anyone who may happen upon us.”

Of course, he has. I’m such a mess, I forgot who accompanied me. His livelihood depends on his popularity. If he’s half as successful as his father, he has clients traveling to Wylder for his services. A scandal with me would hurt his business—especially if my brothers and my cousin the sheriff rose a stink about the matter. Boone could be physically and socially hurt, and it’s all my fault.

So why can’t I let go of him?

“I’m under a little pressure,” I say with a sigh. One last inhale and I raise out of his arms. Like a gentleman, he allows his embrace to fall away. Despite the warm, spring sun baking the Earth, I shiver from the loss. Our only contact is where our thighs touch on the ground, which I will ignore unless he takes exception…which I doubt.

“You see…Pa…Mr. Wylder Sr. He’s not well. I came home from England to care for him so Finn can run the mercantile. I’m sure you have noticed his change in demeanor, and I trust you not to add to the gossip surrounding him. He creates enough of a scene on his own. My number one priority is to mitigate the damage he is inflicting on our family name. He worked most of his life to build our legacy.” A weight lifts off my chest in confessing to him. Whether or not he keeps our secret, I am glad I told someone.

“Running the shop was difficult when my Pa was at the end of his wits too,” he says carefully. “I wouldn’t run my mouth about Ralph when he was one of Pa’s closest friends. If I have your permission, I can try to smooth any of the rumors I hear about him. Truth be told, the men of Wylder are more interested in finding wives than Ralph’s outbursts, but if he comes up…”

“Would you?”

“Of course, our families have been friends since the creation of Wylder.” A friend! An ally! With Boone’s help, the rumors will vanish. If I can push Ava and Fletcher to take turns with Pa, and set a schedule for their visits. All will be settled so, I can…I can…

Wait, I can’t return to England, can I? There is nothing left for me on the London social circuit. At twenty-six, I’m an old maid and not fit for matching with gentlemen. I’d be placed in a dreadful match with another person rejected by the social circuit standards due to their checkered past, ugly countenance, or other unsavory reason to be skipped over—as a debt to my mother by Cousin Eloise. Why pawn myself onto some English peasant when there are plenty of single, simple men in Wylder?

Not a hair out of place and his clothes wrinkle-free until I got to them, Boone is as handsome as ever. Could he stand in for Pierpont? He’s held a torch for me since we were children, but what about now? He’s sitting in the grass with me, but what if he has a family tucked in his apartment above his shop? How ghastly! Boone’s sparkling smile behind his groomed beard falls to a frown.

“I meant to reassure you,” he says with a note of confusion. “However, I managed to steal your smile. What did I say?”

“Nothing wrong,” I reassure him. I quickly add the months I have been pregnant against the months I have been home versus how fast a decent courtship must last. I will not go through all this to be saddled with rumors of a shotgun wedding—whether the tale is true or not.

“Forgive me for saying this, Miss Wylder,” he says with a shift of his posture and a poorly concealed wince. “I don’t think Mr. Wylder Sr. is the reason you came to your Ma for answers.”

Oh, merciful heavens, has he figured it out? How? The blood drains from my face as my jaw drops to the ground. I twist my fingers as if I can wring an explanation from my skirt folds. Oh yes, my skirt!

“You are right,” I start slowly. “I’ve got a scandal of my own—” I pause to inhale a lungful of courage and come up empty. “I gained quite a few pounds in England. The dresses I used to wear no longer fit. They can’t even be let out again without it being disassembled and recreated with more fabric. I’m in this off-rack frock because it would fit my waist, but it doesn’t fit anywhere else. It’s ugly—”

“All the more to offset your beauty,” he interjects. The apples of his cheeks blush a dusty rose. He shifts his body uncomfortably as if resisting the urge to run. “I’m sorry. I have no right to say such things.”

“But those words are what I needed to hear,” I say with a pat on his hand. Can I do this? If I ever needed my Ma’s advice, it's now. Am I really contemplating tricking this sweet man to the altar? The hope in his eyes tells me he would be the most attentive husband and father…if he isn’t already. My stomach churns at the idea of being the other woman and up the spout by a second man. “Do you feel you haven’t the right to compliment me because you have an understanding with someone else or because you think I’m spoken for?”

“Miss Wylder—”

“Abigail, please.” My fingers wrap around his hand and squeeze. His brown eyebrows fly upward but can’t reach his slicked-back hair. He stares at my glove, and I wish it weren’t tanned from my visit to Ava’s hovel. While I always imagined myself the lady of a large manor house and sprawling estate, there is a bright side to ending up cloistered in Boone’s upstairs apartment. My lot in life will be better than Ava’s. With Boone’s popularity, I will enjoy the same level of comfort as I was accustomed to before my trip to England. I won’t be living in a teepee over an hour from civilization.

“Abigail, I’m not attached,” he whispers to our hands. “I’d…I’d…”

“Boone, why I never? Is Wylder’s famous silver tongue speechless?” My eyelashes flutter as I flirt. I’m as surprised as he is at the genuine giggle that escapes my lips. The sway of my body pushes me close to him so my swollen bosom brushes his arm. Merciful heavens, he still smells amazing.

“Abigail, does this mean I can call on you…perhaps?” I hope the shock in his voice isn’t a sign of a health problem. He must be in peak condition if people are to believe he could get me pregnant quickly.

“Well, meeting alone in the cemetery is highly indecent,” I quip. My joke falls flat, and Boone stands. . “What I meant is, in England, we would have a promenade.”

“A what?” His hands are on his hips until I raise my gloved hands to him. His lips curl into a tiny smile at the prospect of lifting me from the ground. I’ll take that as a sign he will be helpful as I get…bigger…

“A promenade is a walk down the main street or through the park. The purpose is for everyone else to see us together. After a while, everyone will know we are courting and…perhaps…” My confidence falters.

Can I do this?

He has had a shine for me for years, so why does courting him make me feel like ants are crawling over my skin? If he grows to despise my company, he can always back out. It’s not like he is chained to me. I’d be happy as his wife…right?

Do I deserve happiness after I gave away my chastity to a scoundrel? Boone’s wide shoulders and muscular build wouldn’t be a hardship in the marriage bed. Honestly, I need to get over my stupid, girlish fantasies and take the gift of the torch he’s carried for me. I earned my soft landing with all the time I spent on my hair, clothes, and studies.

“I’d like everyone to see you on my arm, Miss…Abigail.” He adds my name after I raise an eyebrow at him. The momentum of his assistance from the ground brings us together. My softer curves flatten against his hard planes. I know he noticed because his face lights up like a Christmas tree.

“But Abigail, please promise me you won’t visit this cemetery alone. Every outlaw riding into town passes through here. They could snatch you and have a day’s head start. We may never find you.”

It's on the tip of my tongue to say no outlaw would take a pregnant lady. “Of course, I don’t know what I was thinking. It is indecent for me to be anywhere without a chaperone. Which is why you must call upon me to promenade as soon as possible.”

“What? Yes, yes, that’s mighty fine,” he sputters.

“Tomorrow. Will you be able to step away from the shop for an hour?” I bat my eyelashes and lean into him. Can he say no with my bosom pressed against his forearm? This thick, scratchy dress ruins the effect. However, the neckline tends to slip…

“I usually close for lunch, but I can close later for a walk… err…promenade to Wylder Side Bakery if you wish,” he replies. He replaces his hat as I tug him to where I have tied Chester to a hitching post. My belly flips at the way my hand fits in the crook of his elbow. I’m at the height where if I were to lean my neck, my head would rest on his shoulder. We fit. I bet if we got a wedding photograph, we would make a handsome portrait.

“You don’t promenade to a place, silly man,” I say with a wave of my hand. “The purpose is to be seen together.”