His gray eyes held hers.
“I ain't made of stone, Abigail.”
Silence.
Understanding came.
Abigail looked down.
Old fear joined the embarrassment.
Simon saw.
His expression softened.
“I won't touch you.”
“I know.”
“You don't sound like you know.”
She twisted the blanket.
“Josiah talked about our wedding night.”
Simon went still.
“He described what would happen.”
His jaw tightened.
“He thought frightening me was funny.”
Simon looked toward the fire.
“I know nothing of men,” Abigail whispered.
Then, because truth felt easier in that cabin than anywhere else:
“I've never even shared a bed.”
Simon looked at her.
Long silence.
Then he crossed the room.
Slowly.
He stopped beside the mattress.
“May I sit?”
She nodded.
He sat at the edge.
His hand rose.
Stopped near her face.
“May I?”
Abigail's breath caught.
“Yes.”
His fingers touched her jaw.
Barely.
The enormous hand that could snap trap springs moved with astonishing gentleness.
No force.
No expectation.
Her eyes filled.
Simon whispered, “Then share mine.”
Abigail stared.
His gaze never left hers.
“Forever.”
Her heart stopped.
“What?”
Simon swallowed.
Perhaps for the first time, the feared mountain man looked uncertain.
“I ain't asking for tonight.”
She waited.
“I mean if you're ever going to share a man's bed, I want the chance to be the one you choose.”
Abigail's throat tightened.
“Simon.”
“I know this is too fast.”
“You rescued me a week ago.”
“Yes.”
“You barely know me.”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
He looked at her.
“Because every day I've woken expecting to wish my cabin was empty again.”
She waited.
“I don't.”
Something inside her broke open.
Simon continued.
“I like your questions.”
“That makes you unusual.”
“I like you arguing with my coffee.”
“It is terrible.”
“I like hearing someone upstairs.”
His thumb moved gently against her jaw.
“I like that you're here.”
Abigail whispered, “That isn't love.”
“No.”
His honesty surprised her.
“But it might become it.”
A rifle shot shattered the window.
Simon moved before Abigail understood the sound.
He threw himself over her.
Glass struck the blankets.
The lamp went out.
Another bullet tore through timber.
“Floor.”
Abigail dropped beside the bed.
Simon grabbed his Sharps.
Outside, horses moved.
Five riders.
A voice shouted:
“Send Abigail Prescott outside, Boone, or we burn the cabin down with both of you inside!”
Abigail went cold.
Simon looked toward her.
“Know him?”
“No.”
“Sterling?”
“Not his voice.”
Simon crouched beneath the window.
The rider shouted again.
“My name's Wallace Trent. Sterling pays two hundred dollars for the girl alive.”
Simon muttered, “Girl.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Trent continued.
“You got thirty seconds.”
Simon looked toward the rear door.
“Snowbank behind there.”
Abigail's breathing accelerated.
“You want me to run?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“I want you low.”
He checked the rifle.
Abigail stared at him.
“You cannot fight five men.”
“I can shoot better than five men.”
“That is not comforting.”
“It wasn't meant to be.”
She caught his sleeve.
Simon looked down.
“Don't die because of me.”
His expression changed.
“Ain't planning to.”
“Simon.”
He crouched closer.
“You asked whether you should share my bed forever.”
“No.”
“You asked.”
A strange smile touched his face.
“I remember.”
Abigail's eyes filled.
“Then survive long enough to hear my answer.”
His face changed completely.
Another shot struck the cabin.
Simon moved.
The standoff lasted nearly an hour.
Simon fired only twice.
Not at men.
At horses' reins and a lantern one rider attempted to carry toward the cabin.
The second shot shattered the lantern in snow.
Trent cursed.
“You're making this worse.”
Simon shouted back:
“Ride away.”
“Sterling owns her contract.”
Abigail stiffened.
Simon answered:
“No man owns a woman breathing under my roof.”
Silence.
Then Trent laughed.
“She tell you that?”
Simon glanced at Abigail.
“Yes.”
That single word mattered more than any threat.
The attackers finally withdrew after Simon shot a saddle from beneath one man without hitting him.
They would return.
Everybody knew.
At dawn, Simon saddled his horse.
Abigail stood in the doorway.
“Where?”
“Fort Brennan.”
“How far?”
“Four hours in good weather.”
“You're leaving me?”
“No.”
He saddled a second horse.
“You're coming.”
The journey took six hours.
They reached the fort near afternoon.
Captain Nathan Webb listened carefully.
Abigail told her story.
Simon remained silent unless asked.
The captain examined the engagement agreement Abigail had taken from Josiah's study before running.
She had forgotten it was sewn inside the lining of her cloak.
“That is useful,” Webb said.
“Why?”
“Because this is not a marriage license.”
Abigail frowned.
“What is it?”
“A private debt settlement.”
He read.
“Sterling agreed to discharge specified Prescott obligations upon marriage.”
“Yes.”
“But several of these debts are listed twice.”
Simon leaned forward.
“How?”
Webb pointed.
“Mine note and water lien appear under separate entities, but both are controlled by Sterling.”
Abigail felt sick.
“He inflated what Father owed.”
“Possibly.”
Webb continued.
“There is another problem.”
“What?”
“The Prescott water line.”
Abigail looked up.
“What about it?”
“Sterling never owned the diversion rights.”
Her pulse quickened.
“Then how did he cut our water?”
“Good question.”
Captain Webb sent a telegram to Helena.
Two days later, answers arrived.
Josiah Sterling had bribed a territorial survey clerk.
The creek feeding the Prescott mine had been diverted using a falsified easement.
The debt collapse had not merely been exploitation.
It had been engineered.
Abigail's father had still made terrible decisions.
But Josiah had designed the trap.
Simon sat beside her as she read the telegram.
She looked at him.
“He destroyed us deliberately.”
“Yes.”
“To force the marriage?”
“Seems likely.”
Abigail stood.
“What are you doing?”
“Going back.”
“To the cabin?”
“To Helena.”
Simon stared.
“No.”
Her expression hardened.
He immediately heard himself.
Simon corrected.
“Bad word.”
“Yes.”
“You want Helena.”
“I want Josiah.”
Simon's jaw tightened.
“For what?”
“Truth.”
He looked toward the snow outside.
“Dangerous.”
“I ran once.”
“Yes.”
“I nearly died.”
“Yes.”