Chapter 11

Abigail

“Are you sure you don’t want to hold her?” Doc Sullivan’s compassionate green eyes hold no judgment. Through my screams, grunts, pushes, and sobs, he has been a professional. However, the experience of delivering a stillborn baby almost four months early has left me with the stench of shame and failure. A dead-end to a dead relationship is the least of my problems.

“You won’t tell anyone, will you?” I twist the sling on my arm between my fingers. We ruined every towel, sheet, and blanket in the house, but still couldn’t contain the mess I made in England. It will all have to be burned and replaced before someone notices. Weaving new doilies for every surface will take me months. Why was there so much blood? What a mess.

The doctor stops stroking the bundle of blankets in his arms to stare at me in bewilderment. Lines of pain crinkle the skin around his eyes. “I’m bound by my oath to keep all matters between my patients and myself.” His words sound like a question but put me at ease nonetheless.

He walks from the foot of the bed to my side and tries to hand the bundle to me again. We’ve done this dance four times already. I fold my arms across my chest and glare at him. Holding the baby will make this nightmare more real. The sooner I can move on, the fewer people will talk. My waistline will shrink and my life as Pa’s caregiver will resume. This is a tiny blip in my social rise and one I can now put behind me…as soon as the doctor puts the bundle in his arms away.

“Can we see her?” Finn’s head pops through the door. He is a welcome diversion for whatever lecture was building in Doc Sullivan’s chest. I don’t need to hear about saying goodbye. Besides, Ma isn’t here to counsel me through this.

“I don’t see why not,” I snap as the doctor shakes his head no. I arrange the covers over the worst of the bloodstains on my nightgown. My fingers quickly braid my unruly curls. The thick plait wraps around my head to make a crown. I tuck the end, so it stays without pins. The task pulls my broken elbow and I suppress a cry of pain. “We are finished here.”

Pa and Finn enter the room wearing matching expressions of sorrow. Their hunched, identical posture and shuffling feet remind me of toy soldiers. My jaw drops when Boone steps in behind them. What is he doing here? I glare at the doctor. Did he send someone to fetch Boone because he mistakenly thought the baby was his? So much for that patient confidentiality. Now, two more people are involved—Boone, who was already in on the pregnancy ruse, and whoever was sent to fetch him. With any luck, Finn was the runner.

“Abigail—” Finn’s words of sympathy are stopped by my outstretched hand. I refuse to live through their pity party. We must pull ourselves together and be practical. No amount of crying will bring the baby back or clean up my mistakes.

“Dear Brother,” I begin with my chin aloft like a queen. “Please pay the good doctor, and send him on his way. I appreciate his expertise and discretion, but I will be fine. Also, we will need a full complement of linens to replace those I have soiled. Will you order them through the mercantile? The less noise we make, the less likely the scandal will leak.”

Finn’s mouth opens and closes with shock. Did he really think I would be mourning? There is too much to dispose of before the dawn can shine a light on what has transpired. If I am to live in this town, my mess must vanish before the town’s rumor mill discovers it. Boone will control the men’s gossip in the barbershop, but the dress shoppe is also a hotbed for scuttlebutt.

“Thank you, Coyote, for coming and spending most of the night here,” Finn says with a squeeze to the doctor’s shoulder. Thank goodness someone has recovered their wits. You would think the men had labored in bed all night. “Can I set up a room for you or make you a cup of coffee before you travel back?”

“No coffee for me, thanks. I’m eager to get home,” Doc Coyote says, waving his hand. He turns to me, and I raise an eyebrow at him. No way is he using his exit to put the burden in my arms. I’m incensed when Boone flicks his fingers to take it. How dare he!

“I can’t thank you enough,” Finn says with a hand on the doctor’s back. “I’ll head out with you to fetch the Sheriff. These men will be caught and made to pay, Abigail, so don’t even argue with me on telling Cousin Branch. You will cooperate with him and he will use discretion.”

Coyote nods to everyone in the room, gathers his bag of supplies, and follows Finn into the hallway. He shoots me one last tearful expression before the door softly shuts. If my Pa weren’t standing between the door and my arm, I’d throw a pillow at him. Why is it so wrong that I don’t want to cry? The conception was a mistake, so why is the stillbirth a tragedy?

My ire ricochets from Coyote to the nearest target.

Boone cries silently over the bundle. He sways as if he’s rocking the baby. What a fool.

“What do you think you are doing? Why are you even here?”

“Abigail,” he says with a sigh. The way he cuddles the bundle to his chest lights my fuse. “Your grief is buried under shock, but when it bubbles up, you will wish you said goodbye to our daughter. Even if the emotions aren’t there, you will regret—”

“Don’t talk to me of regrets! You have no idea!” I scream at him and throw a bloodstained pillow at him. Pain blazes up my arm with the motion. He turns his back to shield the blanketed bundle and allows the pillow to hit him. It leaves a stain because the idiot didn’t step out of the way.

“Abigail,” he repeats in an irritatingly patient tone. He’s not talking to a child! He’s not holding a child. He’s acting like a child by dragging this out. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him so when he places the bundle on my lap. “Pull the blanket back so you can see our daughter—"

I can’t do it. My fingers tremble around my torn bicep. I bite the inside of my cheek to hold in my sobs. He can’t do this. He can’t make me feel the loss of something I didn’t want. He wanted a baby, not me. Resentment fills my heart. Bitterness pushes out the love I feel him.

“I ask again. Why are you here? The cat’s out of the bag. A doctor must be good at math to get through his training. My reputation hinges on his professionalism, not on anything you can do. Now get this thing off my lap!” My words shriek when my calm facade slips.

I’m not strong enough to maintain my decorum if he keeps shoving my mistake in my face. I can’t forget with the evidence sitting on my lap. Coyote said the bundle weighed less than three pounds, but it feels like a boulder. My head shakes until I fear it may fly off my neck. To my horror, tears land on the linens gathered around me.

“I’ll take the little one,” Pa says quietly.

“She must at least acknowledge—” Boone’s words are cut off when Pa comes to my rescue. My arms drop when Pa retrieves the bundle and holds it to his chest. He kisses my head like when I was a little girl.

“I know what to do,” Pa says with the same serene sorrow written on his face. He sniffles before his tears fall. “I’ve buried a babe once…for Naomi.”

Boone opens the door for him and calls for Finn to accompany Pa. We can’t have him wandering around Wylder with a dead little…thing…in his arms. He will wind up in jail. Wouldn’t that set tongues wagging?

People will ask about the baby’s whereabouts and true parents. With any luck, they will blame Ava…no, this will not do! Breathe. Finn will take care of Pa. I’m not alone like in England. Finn cares as much about our reputation as I do.

The click of the door forces my mind to settle…on Boone. We are alone.

“Nice try. Do I need to ask a third time why you are here?”

“You are hurting,” he says in a husky whisper. “I want to help.”

“Well, aren’t you an angel?” I snap at him and add an eye roll to drive my opinion home. “Making me face it doesn’t help. Being seen by the doctor doesn’t help. Badgering me doesn’t help. How exactly did you plan on helping? Haven’t you done enough?”

“Abigail—” He approaches the bed with his arms open and my hands fly up.

He stops short. His face crumples.

“I think Miss Wylder is more appropriate now. Our arrangement is no longer necessary,” I say flatly. If he wants me to spell it out, I will. I bet he doesn’t enjoy facing the facts either. Maybe I’m not the only one who needs to wake up to the pain of our reality.

“Arrangement? Please, Ralph gave his blessing to me to marry you tonight. When your horse rode up… I’m the one who went to the doctor for help. I love you—” He advances until my hand lands on his chest. His heart thunders against my palm. I ignore the beat which steadied me through the last few weeks. Cutting him loose will be best for both of us.

“You loved who I used to be,” I sneer. “You never saw the loose woman who fled England carrying another man’s baby. You saw the little girl who sat in front of you in school. Now you stand there—all high and mighty, insisting I see my present situation while you live in the past. I loved another and that bundle of blankets is all I have to show for it. Don’t you get it? You were just a convenient showpiece to hide behind!”

“I see,” he says quietly and steps away. “Miss Wylder.”

My heart shatters. Why isn’t he yelling? Why isn’t his pride hurt? His quiet acceptance of my cold dismissal is more than I can take. I sob into my hands. My body shakes hard enough to rock the bed and knock the headboard against the wall. My elbows press into my belly, where the dull pain keeps me grounded. I was fine. I was bouncing back fast enough that my reputation wouldn’t get hurt…until he started picking at my armor.

“Just leave!” I scream between sobs into my hands. My control has bled over my sheets. I hate the feral animal I am right now and wish to hide. As long as he stands there, I can’t pretend what I created doesn’t exist. If he would just leave, I wouldn’t need to hurt him. We could part civilly.

“Not without some explanation,” he says with a quaver. I never intended to hurt him, but I didn’t love him, did I? How could I have fallen for a small-town barber? My last act of mercy will be letting him go. I don’t deserve him, but if he persists in torturing me, I will push him away.

“I owe you nothing,” I say, twisting to bury my face in my soiled pillow. I throw my left fist into the bed as my frustration pours out of me. The feelings are replaced with shame in my bosom.

“I don’t agree, but I will wait for you—” His hands bunch into fists and release, at odds with his cold tone. Finally, some anger to appease my own!

“You waited your whole life and look what it got you. Move on, Boone!” I glare at him over my shoulder. I hate that he sees me unhinged. I’m turned inside out and half-deranged. If he were closer, I’d physically hurt him, which makes me disgusted at myself. Why can’t I recover my control? My hands have curled into claws as I grip my sheets. Has shock turned me into someone else permanently, or will Abigail Wylder come back eventually?

“Move on,” he says and throws his hands in the air with a hollow chuckle. He places them on his hips as he walks in a circle. “I did move on. I married while you were gone. You had to have heard the gossip, Abigail, so wipe the shocked look off your face. I moved on, and I lived. I loved and I lost. You get my grace and patience now because you aren’t in your right mind, but that ends tonight.”

He walks to the door and puts his hand on the knob. His fancy hairstyle flops over his forehead as he studies his fingers.

Over his shoulder, he says, “If you wish to apologize, Miss Wylder, you know where to find me. Until then, stay away. I don’t want your friendship. I don’t want the civil veneer that you give everyone else. Don’t come into my shop unless you have a real, heartfelt apology and the desire to love me as my wife. I’ll accept nothing less.”

He doesn’t look back again as he steps into the hallway. The misplaced anger drains from my body as the door softly clicks. Not even a door slam. He hasn’t left in anger, just acceptance. His descending boot stomps down the stairs drilling a hole in my heart.

What have I done?