Word was slow in coming from Jonathon. It would take time for him to return home, and then, even though it was almost a new century, it wasn’t as if telephone lines had made their way to northern Wisconsin and the remote logging camps. They would need to rely on a telegraph delivered to the railway station in town five miles away. And that was assuming Jonathon’s father was as hospitable as his son.
Abby rotated a hook and wrapped thread around the shank. Creating her nymph patterns and painting her redundant landscapes was about all she could do to calm herself. With Papa still convalescing after only a week since the accident, there wasn’t much for her to do outside of sit and watch him rest. That, and muster the willpower to make the trip to town and send telegraphs to the three other excursionists who had booked stays with them to round out the summer.
Abby tightened the thread on the hook. To cancel the excursions would be detrimental to their future. It would be difficult to arrange bookings for other wealthy thrill-seekers without word-of-mouth recommendations. Jonathon would pull through for them, she knew, but it was still questionable whether Charles would.
Charles. His lurking form unnerved her in so many ways. She had to admit, he’d done a fine job of stacking wood—although they probably wouldn’t need it if they weren’t going to be here for the winter. But he’d also spent time reading to Papa, which she had to admit gave her a much-needed break. He’d even suggested taking a spinning rod, forgoing the more technically inclined sport of fly-fishing, and catching some fish from the river for dinner. She let him, and not surprisingly, he came back with an empty basket.
Abby smiled as she finished tying her nymph design. She had to give the man credit. He was at least trying. The last few days had worn down some of her harsh edges against him. With Papa taking the blame for the accident, she had less to hold against Charles. Well, nothing to hold against him, really, outside his brazen stolen kiss that she couldn’t forget no matter how she tried.
The man of her thoughts rounded the corner. His black curls hung around his face—he’d obviously given up on the citified pomade and bay rum in exchange for one of Papa’s old cotton shirts and floppy hair. She ducked her head and paid more attention to the nymph than she needed to. Was it horrid that she found him far more attractive with his four days’ growth of whiskers and rugged appearance than the flirtatious charmer of barely two weeks ago?
He sidled up behind her, his breath brushing her neck. So maybe the charmer hadn’t totally disappeared. “Making more of your magical nymphs?”
“Mmm, hmm.” Just because she had softened toward him didn’t mean she needed to let him in on her change of heart. It was better to hold him at arm’s length.
“Good. If we tell other potential guests that you have a special fly to lure trout, you might have a unique angle to attract more enthusiasts.”
Well, that was something she hadn’t thought of before. Her nymph had always been her secret. But perhaps … Then the truth sank in once more. “We won’t be here, so it doesn’t matter.”
Charles reached around her and picked up one of her completed nymphs, twisting it between thumb and index finger and studying the craftsmanship. “What do you mean by that?”
Abby turned. “Papa won’t be able to lead any more excursions this summer. There will be no word of mouth to carry back to the wealthy, and so no future for us next summer.”
“The wealthy.” Charles set the nymph back on the fly-tying table and his chest rose in a resigned sigh. “Yes, well, we all know how you feel about the wealthy anyway. You should be relieved.”
He moved to take his leave but Abby reached out and gripped his shirt sleeve. He didn’t deserve her scorn. Not anymore.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
Charles looked down at her fingers that brushed his skin just below his rolled-up sleeve. “How did you mean it?” His brown eyes widened and swallowed her whole.
Abby blinked. “I—I …”
They were a sad pair, the two of them. A wealthy city boy who obviously bore some burden he’d yet to reveal and she, the tired, sorrow-filled daughter of a dead woman. Somehow life seemed to have paused for both of them. But in this moment, Abby realized, it really wasn’t anyone’s fault. Nor was it God’s.
“I’m sorry.” Her whisper swirled around them like a caressing embrace.
Charles blinked.
“I’m sorry I ever blamed anyone for Mama.” Tears crowded her throat. “I just—you would have to lose someone close to understand why I have struggled so. Needing a reason, needing an outlet, having someone to blame for something that made no sense to me.”
Charles’s jaw twitched and she could tell he was clenching his teeth. “Yeah.”
“So I blamed the people I was jealous of. People with money, people who had the luxury to get medical care for those they loved. People like you.” Now that she spoke it out loud, Abby realized how horrid and shallow she had been. She tried to justify herself. “When you’re in our shoes, struggling to make ends meet, my father trying to live out his dream by starting this excursion business … people like—like you seem to have everything, while people like us seem to lose everything.”
Abby wasn’t prepared for the haunted expression that passed across Charles’s face, nor for his choked cough of suppressed emotion.
“People like us, eh?” He nodded, his lips pursed as if willing to bear one more burden that somehow really wasn’t his.
“But I don’t see it that way now.” And she didn’t, Abby realized. A tear trailed down her cheek. “I just miss my mama.” She bit her bottom lip, but the tears began to stream burning paths over her face. “I just miss my mama.”
Charles reached out and gripped her hand. “And I miss my brother.”
Only two times had Charles ever felt worse than he did right now. The first was when he failed to save his brother, the second when he failed to save Mr. Nessling from his boating accident. Now he’d failed Abby, and instead of helping her, had only awakened the raw pain of her grief.
The petite woman before him wrapped her arms around herself as breaths tore from her. It was obvious she was trying to subdue the onslaught of tears, but now that they flowed, it seemed only a miracle would stop them. Her fingers had curled around his for only a moment before she’d retreated into her protective stance. But her eyes, though drowning in salt-water tears, were fixated on his.
“What do you mean? Your brother?”
Now he’d done it. He hadn’t intended on ever speaking David’s name again. He didn’t have to. His father did it daily and reminded him constantly how he’d failed the family and better not fail it again in the business. Charles winced.
“Never mind.”
Abby shook her head, wisps of white-blond hair teasing her lips. Charles averted his eyes.
“No.” Abby’s fingers wrapped around his once more. “Tell me.”
Charles watched the tops of the trees sway in the warm breeze. “My brother David died about twelve years ago. When I was fourteen.”
He heard her small intake of breath. If he were wicked, which he wasn’t, Charles would turn and say, “Yes, see? Grief isn’t limited to income brackets.” But he didn’t say the first words that came to mind. Instead, he remained silent.
Abby moved closer, her fingers linking with his, like the linking of broken hearts in the places they had come apart. “How?”
Charles shifted his attention to her face. That was a mistake. He was captured by the empathy in her expression. He coughed. Blasted emotions. “He drowned.”
“Oh, Charles,” Abby breathed.
“It was my fault.” Fine. He’d just tell her. Might as well lay it all out for her to see. “I dared him to swim out into the river, but he wasn’t a strong swimmer and … I couldn’t save him.”
Abby was merciful and didn’t respond. But Charles knew what she was thinking. “Just like I couldn’t save your father.”
“But Papa didn’t drown.” Abby’s protest was weak.
“No. But I ruined his livelihood.”
Abby didn’t answer. Exactly. If Charles wasn’t such a failure, such a sad excuse for a son, a friend, a man, he would have had the wits to help Mr. Nessling instead of treading water and watching the man be crushed. He would have had the wisdom to have kept David on land by him.
“It seems …” Abby’s body moved even closer until she embraced his arm and laid her head on his bicep. A bold move. Unexpected. More than likely, she was unconscious of the stirring the action sent through him. “It seems,” she repeated, “that you and I both have mistaken views of grief.”
“You weren’t there, Abby. You didn’t see what happened. In either scenario.”
“No.” Her embrace on his arm tightened. “I wasn’t. But I can believe you’re wrong about your perspective of your brother’s death, just as you can believe I’m wrong about mine and my mother’s.”
Charles froze. He did believe she was wrong. Her mother’s death had nothing to do with medical care, or something Abby might have done to save her, or whether Jonathon’s father had wired money. It had to do with … fate? Destiny? But the reason for David’s death, even Mr. Nessling’s accident, seemed so much clearer.
“David’s death wasn’t fate, Abby. Neither was your father’s accident. I could have prevented them both.”
Silence enveloped them as they stood side by side—nymphs, hook, and fly-tying materials ignored on the workbench. Charles looked down at Abby and her eyes were closed. Light-brown lashes resting on damp cheeks blushed with emotion. Her mouth moved as she spoke so quietly, Charles had to lean toward her to hear.
“It wasn’t your fault, Charles. It wasn’t your fault.”
For the first time, Charles heard the words he’d ached for over twelve years to have just one person say. For the first time, he thought maybe he could finally believe it was true.