They rested at her waist.
Carefully.
Her size meant his palms barely covered a small part of her.
He made no attempt to pull her closer.
Abigail noticed.
Something warmed in her eyes.
Cole said:
“You stand this close much longer and I’m going to want more than a kiss on the cheek.”
Her breath changed.
The companion looked toward the ceiling.
The housekeeper suddenly decided the dining room required urgent attention elsewhere.
Abigail’s lips curved.
“Then perhaps you should ask properly.”
Cole stared.
He had forgotten that flirtation could feel like this.
Not conquest.
Not strategy.
A door being opened slowly.
“Can I kiss you?”
Abigail’s eyes filled with warmth.
“Yes.”
Then she added:
“But don’t kiss me like you think I’m going to disappear.”
Cole froze.
The sentence hurt unexpectedly.
Disappear.
He knew too much about that.
Abigail seemed to realize.
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“Don’t apologize.”
Cole moved slowly.
His hand remained at her waist.
His other rose to the side of her face.
He kissed her.
Gentle.
Brief.
The kind of kiss a man gives when part of him cannot believe permission will remain if he asks for more.
Abigail kissed him back.
When they separated, her hands stayed around his face.
Cole looked into her eyes.
Something had changed.
Too quickly.
Too much.
He stepped away.
Abigail let him.
No hurt expression.
No attempt to recapture the moment.
That restraint mattered.
Cole looked toward the fireplace.
And saw the photograph.
He had forgotten she could see it.
A frame stood on the mantel.
Silver.
Untouched.
In it, a younger Cole laughed beneath a summer sky.
His wife stood beside him.
His four-year-old daughter sat on his shoulders.
Curly brown hair.
One missing tooth.
Tiny hands in his hair.
Everyone on the ranch knew the rules.
Do not touch the photograph.
Do not move it.
Do not discuss it.
Abigail walked toward the mantel.
Cole’s body stiffened.
She noticed.
Her companion said quickly:
“Abigail.”
But Abigail was staring at the child.
Something strange appeared on her face.
Recognition.
Cole moved closer.
“What?”
She pointed.
“Who’s she?”
His throat tightened.
“My daughter.”
Abigail looked at the photograph again.
“What’s her name?”
“Emily.”
The name still hurt.
Even after ten years.
Abigail whispered:
“Where is she?”
Cole’s jaw tightened.
“She died.”
Abigail turned.
“What?”
“My wife and daughter were in a wagon accident outside Helena.”
He stared at the photograph.
“My wife died there.”
His voice became quieter.
“Emily survived until they reached the doctor.”
Abigail’s eyes filled.
“I didn’t get there in time.”
She said nothing.
Cole continued because once the door opened, it seemed impossible to close.
“I was supposed to travel with them.”
His hands curled.
“A herd broke through the east fence.”
“I stayed.”
“I told them I’d follow.”
He looked toward the window.
“They never came back.”
Abigail’s companion lowered her eyes.
Cole stared at his daughter.
“I arrived at the clinic six hours later.”
His voice nearly failed.
“The doctor told me she had died before noon.”
Abigail looked at him.
“Did you see her?”
Cole froze.
“What?”
“Did you see Emily?”
He frowned.
“No.”
“Why?”
“They said…”