Society already believed a large unmarried woman nearing forty must be desperate.
Josiah had counted on everyone believing him before believing her.
He had underestimated one thing.
Abigail.
The hearing lasted two days.
Josiah appeared himself.
Perfect suit.
Silver watch.
Measured voice.
He looked at Abigail like a disappointed father.
“My only concern has always been her welfare.”
Abigail nearly laughed.
Her attorney asked:
“Then why did your agents fire at the cabin where she was staying?”
Josiah’s face did not move.
“I did not authorize violence.”
Convenient.
The bounty hunter later confirmed Josiah’s office had instructed them to retrieve Abigail but denied instructions to fire first.
Testimony conflicted.
The judge did not need to settle every criminal question to settle Abigail’s capacity.
She answered financial questions.
Property questions.
Dates.
Contracts.
Mining terms her father had taught her.
She produced correspondence.
She explained exactly why she fled.
At the end, Judge Warren said:
“Mrs. Prescott is neither incompetent nor under guardianship.”
Josiah corrected:
“Miss Prescott.”
Abigail looked toward him.
“Still not yours.”
The courtroom went silent.
Simon sat in the back.
His eyes warmed.
The guardianship attempt failed.
Further proceedings followed regarding coercion, debts, and mineral rights.
Josiah did not become powerless overnight.
He remained wealthy.
Connected.
Dangerous.
But he could no longer simply have Abigail carried home.
That mattered.
After the hearing, Simon waited outside the courthouse.
Abigail approached.
For days, they had barely been alone.
Simon tipped his hat.
“You did good.”
She stopped.
“That is all?”
“What else?”
Abigail stared.
Simon looked confused.
She lowered her voice.
“You asked me to share your bed forever.”
His expression changed.
“That was before bullets interrupted.”
“Yes.”
“Still stands.”
She blinked.
Simon continued:
“Unless you changed your mind.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Simon.”
“What?”
“I now own mineral rights that may be worth more than Josiah expected.”
“I heard.”
“That doesn’t concern you?”
He frowned.
“Should it?”
“Men behaved differently around me the moment they discovered.”
Simon leaned closer.
“I found you buried in snow.”
“You were worth saving before either of us knew what paper was in your trunk.”
Her eyes filled.
Simon added:
“And you still make terrible coffee.”
“My coffee is better than yours.”
“Low standard.”
She laughed.
Then cried.
Simon opened his arms.
Waited.
Abigail stepped into them.
He held her outside the courthouse while people passed.
No shame.
No hiding.
For the first time in her life, Abigail did not wonder whether strangers were counting the space she occupied.
Weeks later, they returned to the cabin.
The front door had been repaired.
Margaret Delaney had sent curtains.
Simon hated them.
Abigail loved them.
The owl box remained near the stove.
The bed remained where it had been.
Abigail stood beside it.
Simon noticed.
“What?”
She looked at him.
“You still planning to sleep on the floor?”
His eyebrows rose.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”