The first time Abigail Prescott opened her eyes inside Simon Boone’s cabin, she thought she had been captured.
For several seconds she could not remember the mountain.
She could not remember the snow.
She could not remember the moment her legs stopped carrying her.
All she knew was warmth.
Too much warmth.
A wool blanket pressed heavily over her body.
Buffalo fur covered her feet.
Something crackled nearby.
Fire.
The room smelled of pine smoke, leather, boiled coffee, and something medicinal she could not identify.
Abigail moved.
Pain answered from everywhere at once.
Her ankles.
Her hips.
Her shoulders.
Her lungs.
Even her fingers hurt.
Then fear arrived.
She looked down.
She was in a bed.
Not her bed.
A large wooden bed inside a rough log cabin.
Her emerald traveling cloak hung near the stove.
Her wet dress had been removed.
Beneath the blankets, she wore a long woolen shirt several sizes too large.
A man’s shirt.
Abigail’s breath caught.
She pushed backward.
The bed frame groaned beneath her considerable weight.
A chair scraped from somewhere near the door.
“Easy.”
The voice was deep.
Abigail turned.
A man rose from a bedroll on the floor.
Huge.
That was her first thought.
He seemed too large for the cabin.
Tall enough that the low rafters nearly threatened his hair.
Broad shoulders beneath a dark wool shirt.
Heavy brown trousers.
Suspenders.
Dark beard.
Black hair falling over his forehead.
Hands scarred from work.
Not a gentleman.
Not anyone Josiah Sterling would ever invite to dinner.
That did not make him safe.
Abigail grabbed the blanket to her chest.
“Where am I?”
The man stopped immediately.
Did not approach.
“My cabin.”
“Who are you?”
“Simon Boone.”
“How did I get here?”
“Found you below Miller’s Creek.”
He pointed toward the window.
Only white existed beyond it.
Snow pressed against the glass.
Abigail’s memory returned in pieces.
The wedding dress hanging in the Prescott house.
Josiah’s carriage arriving before sunset.
Her father’s empty study.
The unsigned marriage settlement.
A servant whispering that Josiah had doubled the guards around the property.
Abigail taking the emerald cloak.
A side door.
Snow beginning.
Then darkness.
Her hands trembled.
“Don’t touch me.”
Simon raised both hands.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Abigail stared at him.
Men often said one thing while arranging another.
Josiah had spent months calling himself her protector while buying her father’s debts one note at a time.
He had said:
You will never have to worry again once you become my wife.
What he meant was:
You will no longer own enough of yourself to worry about.
Abigail looked toward her clothes.
“Why am I wearing that?”
Simon glanced at the oversized wool shirt.
“Your dress was frozen.”
Her stomach tightened.
“You undressed me?”
“No.”
He pointed toward a curtain dividing the rear corner of the cabin.
“Mrs. Delaney did.”
“Who?”
“Neighbor.”
“There’s a neighbor?”
“Three miles.”
Abigail blinked.
“You went three miles through that storm?”
Simon shrugged.
“Needed somebody who knew more about freezing women than I did.”
That answer did something unexpected.
It embarrassed her suspicion.
Not enough to erase it.
Enough to complicate it.
Simon moved slowly toward the stove.
“Broth?”
“No.”