Moonlight shafted through the windowpanes and across the wooden table. Abby rested her cup of tea on it, and reached for her book. Papa rested in the bedroom just beyond, but he was alert and she could see him occasionally lift his own mug to his mouth and slurp hot coffee.
A knock rattled the cabin door. Papa turned his head and Abby stood with a soft smile. “Must be Charles.” Who else would it be?
She opened the door and sure enough, Charles stood there, a sheepish look on his face.
“Sorry to bother you.”
Bother? Abby realized the form of Charles Farrington III didn’t bother her anymore. All that remained was a lilt of anticipation, of shared understanding, of … friendship.
“Come in,” Abby stepped aside and tried not to dwell on the heat that flooded her face as Charles’s arm brushed hers when he entered. He glanced at her. Offered a small smile, a deepened dimple, and a—oh help—his flirtatious wink had returned. And, he was chewing that pesky toothpick with its devilish tilt in the corner of his mouth. His mouth.
Abby turned away. “Are you here for Papa?”
Charles nodded. “And you,” he added. “But I realize the hour is late.”
“You’ve earned it.” Papa’s voice came from the bedroom.
A look of surprise stretched across Charles’s face as he made his way to the bedroom. “Thank you, sir.”
Abby followed but kept her distance from Charles. Just in case she’d blush again, she busied herself with straightening the painting on the wall.
Papa took a sip of coffee.
“I have something I’d like—well, I have a proposition for you both.” Charles glanced between them, eagerness in his voice. It was a different Charles than the man of earlier in the day. The man who’d choked back his own blame and had held her in silent, unexpected shared grief. Maybe they had both healed a little. Even though there were still shadows of sadness lurking behind his smile, he seemed … more at peace.
“All right.” Charles rubbed his hands together with anticipation. His eyes were earnest as they sought out hers. “I know I’m horrible at this wilderness stuff.”
Papa laughed then cut it short with a wince. He crossed his arm over his chest as if to hold his broken ribs together. “Don’t make me laugh again, boy.”
“So sorry.” Charles winced along with Papa. Paused. “Really. I am very sorry.”
Papa pressed his mouth together in a firm line as he studied Charles. Finally, he answered him, and it sealed away for good any doubts or blame Abby might have still fostered. “It wasn’t your fault, Charles. It was an accident.”
“Accidents start somewhere, sir.”
Abby noticed the guilt overtake Charles’s original energy.
“Yes. They do. More often than not from a string of events that no one can control.” Papa’s eyes narrowed in thoughtful contemplation. “I have faith, and in that faith, I know that what seems accidental or tragic to us”—his eyes met Abby’s over Charles’s shoulder—“is not a mistake to God.”
“Guess I’m a slow learner in the faith practice.” Charles grimaced and glanced at Abby, who couldn’t help but give him a slight smile in shared understanding. “But it’s coming,” he finished. She nodded. For her too.
“Anyway …” Charles charged ahead in the conversation. “I don’t know when Jonathon will touch base with the potential for you to relocate to Milwaukee. But I know it’s neither of your desires to do so.”
Abby didn’t respond. She didn’t want to influence Papa with some manipulative sense of obligation to agree to whatever Charles was about to propose.
“I’m not fond of it, but God is obviously taking us in a different direction.” Papa breathed around his broken ribs. Breaths short but controlled.
Charles held up his forefinger. “Wait. I’ve been thinking. If I use my connections in Milwaukee, I’m sure I can book this place out until the end of this season and well into next.”
“You’re quite persuasive,” Abby mumbled, remembering Charles’s charm and flirtation.
He cast her a wicked grin. “I am. I know.”
“That’s all well and good, but someone has to lead the tours, the excursions,” Papa argued.
“I can’t do that alone.” It was difficult to admit, but Abby had to be truthful.
Charles nodded. “That’s where I come in.”
“You?” Abby couldn’t help but raise her eyebrows incredulously. The man had just admitted he was as adept in the woods and on the river as an African lion.
“I told you not to make me laugh.” Papa grimaced wryly.
Charles nodded and raised his eyebrow in a sardonic expression. “Yes, well, I’m learning.”
Abby covered her mouth, but it didn’t squelch the snicker that escaped.
“I am.” Charles winked at her. “I’m learning what not to do, even if I don’t yet have a grasp on what to do.”
“I still don’t see how this will work.” Papa glanced between the two of them. “You’re thinking you and Abby will lead the excursions?”
Charles nodded, but held up a hand just as fast. “Wait. Just hear me out. I can’t lead myself, I realize that. And, frankly”—he shot a wry look at Abby—“it’s not wise to split up groups and have her leading a man on her own.”
She choked. She couldn’t help it. Papa’s smile of surprise stretched across his face.
“She guided you.” Papa stated the obvious.
“Yes. Also not wise.” Charles’s rakish smile was brazen and, yes, Abby had to turn to straighten the painting on the wall. Again. She could tell both men noticed her blush anyway.
“I see.” Papa nodded slowly.
Wonderful. It was apparent by Charles’s words that something had happened between them, and now he was all but admitting it to Papa.
“So we guide together. As a team.” Charles ignored the awkward emotion that circled the room. “We forgo canoeing on the river, and we simplify what we offer.”
“Fishing is enough to draw folks?” Papa sounded doubtful.
Abby finished straightening the painting and composing herself. “I don’t think it is.”
Charles waved his hand in disagreement. “It is. Think of it, Abby.” His attention turned on her full force caused her horrid blush to return. She could feel its betraying warmth. He noticed, and the corner of his mouth where his toothpick still somehow lodged as he talked, turned up in a smile. “Your nymph. The new fly. You said yourself it’s unique to you. That’s what we advertise. We tell folks we offer fly-fishing excursions with new, never-used fly designs.”
“But the trout are in the streams, not so much in the river. People come here for the river. For the white water. For the big fish.” Abby’s protest seemed to resonate with her father’s, for Papa nodded in agreement.
Charles shook his head. “How many fish did I catch, Abby?”
She swallowed. “One.”
“And how big was it?”
“About eight inches.”
“And was I upset when that’s all I caught? Did I ever give up fly-fishing in the stream? Did I complain once that we weren’t going after the big fish?”
“No, but I assumed it was because—” She stopped. No need to finish her thought that Charles stayed only because she was a female he wanted to charm.
He grinned. “One could say my guide was pretty.”
Papa cleared his throat.
Charles hurried on. “But there’s something about fly-fishing that makes a man want to keep trying. It’s strategic. It’s an art. Like your painting, Abby. Certain strokes, patterns, the way the brush falls on the canvas. It’s the same with fly-fishing. You cannot underestimate what you have here. It’s not all about conquering the large muskie or bass. A man could love the hunt of fly-fishing, the creation around the streams, the—the colors of the trout.”
“Wait.” Papa held up his hand. “So you’re saying, the river is only the canvas, but the stream and the fly-fishing, they’re the details to our outfitting?”
Charles nodded, light entering his eyes now that Papa seemed to be grasping the idea. “That, and Abby’s flies. Home-tied patterns. You can’t buy those in Milwaukee. People will pay a mint for them. I’ll be along to add conversation. Abby can focus on what she does best, and I’ll be the host.”
“Can’t argue that.” Papa nodded. Then his brows furrowed. “But what about your future? In Milwaukee?”
Charles ducked his head. He drew in a breath and exhaled. “I’ve no desire to return to my father’s business. Or the blame. The guilt.” He met Abby’s eyes. “There’s healing here. Now that I’m finding it, I want to stay.”
The earth was dewy; a low fog drifted through the trees, floating over the underbrush toward the river. Abby rested on a wooden stool, Harold perched on her lap, his bushy tail waving back and forth as if bidding her farewell.
“You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” she whispered. She could sense it. Each day Harold had returned later and later. A part of her wished she’d continued the habit of locking him in the cabin, but the restlessness in the squirrel’s eyes burrowed into her heart. He had healed. He needed to be free.
She reached out her finger and Harold nudged it with his nose and then scampered off her lap. The rustle of his body through the leaves and over sticks carried for a moment and then disappeared. With that, Harold was gone. Perhaps he’d return.
“You said goodbye?” Charles crouched beside her and they both stared into the brush where Harold had hurried off in search of nuts. Charles’s words held so many layers, Abby didn’t reply.
Goodbye? She’d never really said goodbye to her mother. Maybe that was the next part in healing, toward her freedom.
“Have you?” she whispered.
“No,” he admitted. Charles shifted his body so he sat on the ground, his knees up and his forearms resting lazily on top of them. “But I will. Someday.”
Abby gave him a sideways glance. “You will?”
He shrugged. “We have to, don’t we?” His eyes bored into hers. Abby didn’t look away this time. What she saw was understanding, concern, and maybe hints of more.
Charles reached out and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hear there’s always a time to let go.”
“Like I let go of Harold?” She leaned into his hand and Charles trailed his palm down her cheek before letting go.
He nodded. “Like Harold.”
They sat in silence together, both gazing deep into the woods. Their woods now. In a few short weeks, Charles had transitioned from unwelcome interloper, to charmer, to enemy, and then … to friend. And now?
“What’s next?” Abby mumbled, half aware that she said it aloud.
Charles chewed his trademark toothpick for a moment. “Well, I’ll need to get word to Jonathon that your father agreed to my plan for the fly-fishing outfitters.”
“No.” Abby had to be honest. “I didn’t mean that.” Although it was a relief to know they wouldn’t be leaving this beloved haven.
Charles shifted toward her. Question furrowed his brows. “What do you mean?”
She couldn’t ask it. Not really. It was too personal, too exposing, and too soon. She blinked to break their gazes. It didn’t work.
“Abby.” Charles repositioned to his knees and knelt in front of her where she sat frozen on her stool. “What’s next for us is to continue on. For your mama, for David, and for … each other.”
He leaned forward and intertwined his fingers with hers. The earnestness in his expression made all his charm and flirtation drift away to expose the sensitive soul burrowed deep inside of him.
“Together?” Abby whispered.
Charles’s thumb stroked her hand in a hypnotic motion. “Together, my little nymph.”
In that moment, Abby knew. Charles Farrington III would never be a world apart from her again. He would be right outside her back door, and if the gleam in his eyes told her anything as he leaned in to emphasize his point with a kiss … he would be hers.