Chapter 6

Boone

Every day I tell myself how stupid the idea of a promenade is and every day I rush out of my shop to take part with a three-by-nine smile. Miss Abigail Wylder, the jewel of Wylder Wyoming, wants the entire town to see me as her huckleberry. Each time she waves at someone passing us, I pinch myself. Certainly, I must be stuck in one of my teenage dreams. Any moment I’m going to wake with my head on my desk in the Wylder schoolhouse. I’ll be punished with an hour after school of clapping erasers for getting caught sleeping in class.

Today is no exception, as I trim my beard and wide sideburns to perfect angles. I thought the Harvey brothers were going to swallow their tongues yesterday when Abigail placed her glove between my patches of facial hair as I predicted a woman would. The more I’m seen with her, the more special shave styles I sell. Not that I’m using her for the business. I have to close my shop each day for the outings. I’ve had more than one angry customer raise Cain at the inconvenience. But I would walk through fire and lose my last penny if it meant she spent an extra second on my arm.

Our sixth promenade is today, and I plan to take the reins of this nonsense. We are going somewhere—not just around in circles to be seen. The Abigail I remember has a sweet tooth. While she fusses about her weight, I love the extra width of her figure. Her waist isn’t as tight, but her hips have rounded out, so she cuts a fine shape to me—especially her bosom. The rub of her gown’s bodice against my arm is a heaven on earth…but such improper thoughts will certainly keep me from those pearly gates.

“Not today, Abigail,” I practice in my barber’s mirror. “I am taking you for pie at the bakery. No arguments. Let me treat you. No. Let me indulge you. No. Darn it! My flannel mouth keeps me in business. Why do I always give in when she’s involved?”

I slam my palms against the mirror and rip the cape off my body. How can I move our courtship along without offending her sensibilities? If I had my way, I’d marry her tomorrow. I can’t say that to a highborn lady like Abigail. I wad the cape into a ball and toss it in the boiling pot for towels. We are literally walking in circles. I didn’t know what a promenade was, let alone that it was a vital step to courting. How long must we do this?

No wonder my marriage to Kacey didn’t work out. We never went on a promenade. I’d visit her caravan circle, and we’d find a secluded spot in the woods to kiss ourselves senseless. Thinking back, a good promenade would have nailed to the counter the schemes going on behind my back. I would have woken up before she abandoned our vows. By gum, how different can two women be?

At the door to my shop, I smile at my reflection. No matter the speed of this courtship, I will find happiness. Abigail isn’t Kacey. Kacey is an Irish Traveler with one foot on the road at all times. Abigail wants us to be reintroduced to Wylder as a couple. For Pete’s sake, her family founded this town. She’s here for the rest of her life…and she will choose to spend it with me.

Today.

While my shop sits back-to-back with her house, she requests I walk around the funeral parlor, gunsmith shop, and the supply company to her front door. She wishes all of Wylder to know I call upon her. I’d argue with the poppycock, but these quirks are her way of piling up her English experiences with her Wylder future.

I’m grateful to be at the center of her first-class world and for the extra steps to walk off my nervousness. I don’t think I’ll ever get over my butterflies of seeing Abigail for the first time each day, except maybe if we were to wake beside one another. Down Boone! You can’t show up at her house ready to bed her.

With a plan and my hairstyle in place, I knock on the door of the stately Wylder Family Home. I can’t look too anxious, so I lean on one of the white pillars, cross my ankles, and prop a boot on the rocker of a nearby chair. The door swings open to the swish of skirts. Abigail’s curves fill the doorframe, draped in layers of cornflower blue.

Her lacy collar covers her slender neck in unfortunate ruffles, but I puff like a rooster with the knowledge she wears them for me. I have the same ill regard for the large blue hat she wears which ties beneath her chin and blocks access to her ears. I was looking forward to whispering in them. Drat, that hat! If today goes as planned, I will have plenty of time to feel my lips against the shell of her ear in a more intimate setting.

“You are more beautiful than the blossoms on the trees, Abigail.” I love how my compliments paint a light pink flush upon her cheeks. The indulgence of watching it slide over her skin to disappear in her collar is one I wish I didn’t share with everyone in town watching us. Despite our walks filled with intimate conversations, she has yet to mention her time in England. How did six years vanish from her life? She relocated to find a husband and yet promenades with me. How did she slip through the fingers of a whole country of suitors?

“Oh Boone, you are silly with your flattery,” she replies and playfully swats my shoulder. “We will have to drop Pa off at the Long Horn Saloon for his card game. Do you mind?”

“No, that’s fine—”

Ralph storms out of the door like a thunderhead and barrels onto the street. I jump to the side before I’m slugged with the fist he shakes in front of his nose. He doesn’t stop to take in our conversation but continues his journey to the saloon. The man is red-faced with anger and muttering about his “headstrong kids” and their “impertinent attitudes.”

“Pa, wait!” She lifts her skirts and shuffles down the stairs. I reach behind her and close the door and verify the lock has engaged. She waves frantically, but Ralph is on the prod.

“Pshaw,” he fumes and waves a hand over his head to brush her off.

“Let him mosey it off,” I say as I join her in the street. “We can see him if he finds a pack of trouble. I think he needs to vent some steam from his kettle.”

“What if he says something to someone?” Her eyes are wide with fear as she coils her arm around mine. Our pace is faster than usual as she attempts to catch up to Ralph.

“Does he look like he would stop to chew the fat?” I stifle a chuckle when Ralph pulls his hat low to check on our progress discretely. The man is eager for time away from Abigail’s mothering. Too bad I have this afternoon scheduled because the old man is not only lucid but also in the perfect mood for me to ask for Abigail’s hand. He is so desperate for time away from his children’s rules, he would agree in a heartbeat. Never you mind, I’m not the English Lord they had planned on Abigail marrying.

Abigail’s giggle at her father’s antics warms me like the sun. With the release of her tension, our pace calms to a stroll. During our first promenade, I was flummoxed. Abigail steers us in a crisscross pattern on the streets, so we meet with everyone—whether they are strolling or rustling to an important destination. Now, I can’t help the pride building in my chest with each tip of my hat. There is no doubt in Wylder that Abigail is interested in me. With the determination to settle our matters permanently, I take the reins of this promenade and turn Abigail down Sidewinder Lane.

Abigail shoots me a pouty look at the change in route until Ms. Lowery steps out of the dressmaker’s shoppe. The woman holds a broom as if she intended to sweep her porch, not gather gossip. Abigail’s extended lip is curved into a three-by-nine smile at the chance to show our entwined elbows to a new set of eyes. Ms. Lowery takes the bait and doesn’t conceal her perusal of us. The ladies nod to one another.

I can’t help but interpret Ms. Lowery’s nod as a gesture of approval. If only my teenage self could see me now! He would have confidently pursued Abigail and avoided a decade of heartache and loss. I wouldn’t have been tricked by Kacey… There is still the issue of my little problem, but maybe I tried too hard to do right by Kacey. Will the love built over nearly my whole life for Abigail be enough?

The exchange with Ms. Lowery distracts Abigail all the way to the bakery at the end of the lane. I steer us inside and tuck us into a small table by the window without a peep from her. This way she will get her wish to be seen by those passing the bakery and the treat she doesn’t know she wants—a piece of pie.

“We should have split one, Boone,” she whispers tersely. Will the sound of my name from her lips ever lose its thrill? “These slices are huge.”

She may fuss at me, but her fork is already pinching off the tip of her chocolate silk pie. I’m spellbound. The way her eyelashes flutter as the chocolate glides through her lips is indecent. My leathers threaten to cut me in half at the waist. I wiggle in my seat like a fish to relieve the pressure. She’s on her third bite before I find a comfortable way to sit. I had forgotten the pleasure of watching her eat. Oh, many times did I lurk in the corner at Jake’s restaurant with my parents and not eat a bite because I was driven to distraction by her.

“What’s so funny?” She has a smear of chocolate on the corner of her frown.

“I was thinking about how I love the way you eat,” I say quietly while leaning under her hat. I’m not sure if she would find my memories of teenage pining charming or improper. “Seeing you eat with your family at Jake’s used to be the highlight of my Sundays. Abigail, I have loved you from afar since we were knee-high to a horse.”

I hold my breath as she digests the truth I have dropped between us. My fool mouth was supposed to slip into an easy conversation about marriage, not smack her over the head with it! She eats her pie while studying the plate. Is she already contemplating an understanding? With each swallow, I wait for her to say a word. I’d take a bite of my pie to fill the space, but I fear I will choke on it. Anxiety has a hand around my neck. Is she trying to let me down gently?

By gum, woman, say something!

“Forget—” I start with tears lodged in my throat.

“I have finished my slice!” She exclaims. She looks over her shoulder and then in horror at my barely touched piece. Maybe she didn’t hear me. Maybe I can take a second approach.

“Shhh.” I place a finger to her lips and hunch my shoulders closer to the table. “Eating a slice of pie in a bakery is highly improper. Good thing, I’m here to rescue your reputation.”

Not only do I receive the gift of her sparkling smile framed with eyes full of mischief, but she also bends to press her bosom against the table. Stop it Boone and focus! I raise one eyebrow and then the other to match my overt eye swings to each side as if looking for authorities on pie eating. I switch our plates and quickly lean back. The clink of my fork onto her empty plate draws the attention of the diners around us, but they only see me dabbing my beard with my napkin.

Her giggles inflate my heart. If she asked me, I would fly. Time to swoop in for the kill.

“I’m sorry, Abigail, I have tricked you,” I say with my hand over my heart. She stops with a forkful of my pie in midair. “I can’t go on with the deception.”

The color drains from her face. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“When a man eats pie with a beautiful woman and he finishes his piece, he expects to share hers,” I whisper.

“Is that so?” The minx holds my gaze while eating her bite with agonizing slowness.

“Oh yes, and it makes people talk,” I whisper with my palms toward her in surrender. “It's nothing to nobody but they will say we are courting if I take a bite from your plate.”

An expression best kept in a bedroom darkens her eyes and curls the corner of her lips. My thumb gathers the chocolate at the corner of her seductress’s grin. Her gaze follows my digit into my mouth until her breath hitches. She picks up another bite and holds it between us. Is it excitement or nerves that raise her bosom in shallow pants?

“What will people say if I’m caught feeding a bite of my pie to a handsome man in a bakery, Mr. Silvers?” Her tiny voice has the force of a twister tearing across the prairie. With one question, my world is upended and rearranged in a new configuration. Abigail becomes my moon, my sun, and my stars once again. No more containing how I feel.

“They will be dying to know if I’ve asked Mr. Wylder for your hand yet,” I reply in a hoarse croak that’s the opposite of my usual confident self.

“Well then,” she says, pushing the fork in front of my mouth. “We better finish our pie and fetch my father.”