Abby positioned pillows behind her father’s back. Propping him without inflicting unnecessary pain took effort. The grimace etched in the lines on his face told her all she needed to know. Pain was something he would be fighting for days to come.
“You need nourishment.” She stirred the stew in the bowl as she sat next to the bed.
“I can feed myself, teacup.” Papa’s voice hinted of a smile, but she ignored it. She had to. Her insides were twisted in a thousand different emotions, and she couldn’t decipher any of them at the moment. She couldn’t add humor to the mix, or it might be her undoing.
“Here.” She ignored her father and lifted the spoon to his mouth. He obeyed, but his eyes never left her face. Abby avoided his searching gaze.
“Did I hear Charles’s voice outside today? And an axe?” Papa missed nothing, even stuck in his bed.
Abby nodded. For sure, Papa was seeing through Charles’s foolhardy idea that he could provide any support for them at all.
“Hmm.” Papa mouthed a spoonful of stew then raised his eyebrows. If he could have shrugged without affecting his broken ribs, he probably would have. “Perhaps I read the boy wrong.”
The spoon stilled in midair. Abby held it aloft over Papa’s chest. Read Charles wrong? The man was a sorry excuse for a man, unless one counted his kissing skills, in which case he graded off the scale. Abby felt a blush creep up her neck. Papa noticed.
“I see.” He eyed the spoon. “I would recommend feeding me that before it drips. Or let me feed myself.”
“Oh.” Abby pushed the food into her father’s waiting mouth and didn’t refuse when he carefully reached for the bowl of stew. His breath caught with pain, and she stretched out her hand to reclaim the bowl.
“I’m fine.” Papa was stubborn. He gave himself another bite, chewed, swallowed, and then nodded. “You like him, don’t you?”
Abby was sure her eyebrows almost flew off her face. “Charles? No! Not at all. Not in the slightest. The man is a—well, he thinks he can help us by staying? It just gives me someone else I need to take care of!”
Her hand flew to cover her mouth and her eyes burned with remorse. “Papa, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I just meant—I mean—what I was going to say was—”
“It’s all right,” Papa’s soothing voice brought her stammering to halt. “You’ve carried more responsibility on your shoulders than I’d ever intended you to. And now”—he waved the empty spoon toward his bruised and broken torso—“now I’ve added myself to the list.”
“I don’t mind caring for you, Papa. It’s Mr. Farrington I can’t abide.”
Papa’s mouth stretched in a sad smile. He read her like Mama used to read one of her books. Clear and precise, without error, and grasping all the meanings hidden beneath the words. “Abby, Charles isn’t to blame for what happened to me.”
“No?” Her voice was bitter. Even she heard it. “Then what happened, Papa? Explain it to me.”
Papa struggled to take a deep breath, and he closed his eyes against the pain before letting it out. “I tipped the canoe.”
“You?” Absolutely not. Papa was too river-smart to tip the canoe.
Papa gave her a patronizing look of patience. “Abby, canoes tip. It happens. I miscalculated and we sideswiped a small rock. It put the canoe off balance, and while I tried to right it, Charles wasn’t prepared for the lurch. We tipped. Plain and simple.”
“Charles wasn’t prepared. Exactly. If he had been prepared, he could have counterbalanced and the canoe wouldn’t have tipped.” Abby’s argument filled the room and was followed by silence.
Papa looked into his bowl then handed it back to Abby, apparently having satisfied his appetite. “I still got between the canoe and that boulder. That was my error in judgment. The current pulled me, and I was too enthusiastic to save the boat.”
Since they were being honest… “And I suppose when Mama was dying, Jonathon’s father also offered to pay for her to receive medical care and you refused their generosity.” Abby pressed her lips together after she blurted out her statement, delivered with a tone of disbelief.
Papa closed his eyes in resignation. His breath caught, and he winced. When he opened his eyes, Abby knew all she needed to know. Charles had been right, and now, her one escape to avoid grief was being taken from her. If she could blame someone—anyone—for Mama’s death, it was easier than facing that it was simply her time. It was easy to transfer her sorrow into bitterness and hold accountable the wealthy who tossed away income like paper confetti, ignorant of those who suffered pain and poverty. But to know that the wealthy had actually sought to provide, to give them the assistance Abby blamed them for withholding?
“Why?” It was all Abby could ask. Her choked whisper mirrored the soreness of her throat where it constricted with emotion.
Papa leaned his head back on his pillows. “Your mama wanted to die peacefully, here at home. She knew all the money in the world wouldn’t save her in the end, and to live her final days in an institution?” He shook his head, a lone tear escaping and trailing down his strong cheek. “No one is to blame for your mama’s death. There are no mistakes, only God’s perfect timing. You cannot hold anyone accountable for my accident either—least of all, Charles Farrington, rapscallion though he may be. Perhaps he has money, but, it appears he has heart as well. He and Jonathon are going to care for us, and as much as my pride wishes to refuse, I know we need their assistance.”
Abby bit her bottom lip in an effort to still its trembling.
Papa closed his eyes, obviously exhausted and worn from fighting the pain of broken bones. “He may prove to be a help in greater ways than I imagined.”
“How?” Abby whispered.
Her father took a few shallow breaths, avoiding the deep intake in exchange for avoiding the stabbing pain of his ribs. “Maybe you’re not the only one who is pushing through sorrow. Some, like you, turn to bitterness—”
The sound of an axe colliding with wood outside the bedroom window stilled Papa’s words. His mouth turned upward in a slight smile. “And some make their penance by blaming themselves.”
Dusk had settled over the forest. The two cabins, parallel to each other with the clearing in between, were haloed by the orange tint of a sunset that streamed through tree branches. Charles slouched in a chair outside the guest cabin. It was quiet without Jonathon, and Abby certainly wasn’t giving him the time of day. She’d come in and out of the cabin numerous times, but each time it was as if he didn’t exist.
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.