“He owns half of Helena.”
“Feels like more.”
Abigail looked toward the fire.
“He was supposed to marry me yesterday.”
Simon said nothing.
That silence irritated her.
“No judgment?”
“Would it help?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
She studied him.
Simon Boone was difficult to place.
Not because he hid emotion.
Because he seemed uninterested in filling silence simply to control it.
Abigail was used to men who considered every empty moment an invitation to explain the world.
Simon let silence remain empty.
She whispered:
“I ran.”
“I figured.”
“He’ll say I was confused.”
Simon’s eyes hardened slightly.
“He’ll say grief made me unstable.”
“He’ll say the cold affected my mind.”
“He’ll say whatever makes a woman refusing him sound like illness instead of choice.”
Simon looked toward her.
“You know that for certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve heard him do it before.”
Abigail met his eyes.
“Yes.”
That was the beginning.
Not romance.
Not trust.
Recognition.
Simon knew what controlling men sounded like.
He did not ask why.
Not yet.
For the next four days, snow trapped them.
Abigail’s frostbite remained mild enough that she would keep every finger and toe, though walking hurt.
Simon gave her the bed.
He slept beside the door.
Every night.
The first evening she noticed.
“You have another bed?”
“No.”
“Then where are you sleeping?”
He pointed toward the floor.
Abigail frowned.
“That cannot be comfortable.”
“It isn’t.”
“You could sleep in the chair.”
“Chair’s worse.”
She looked at the enormous bed.
It had room.
More than room.
Abigail had always occupied more space than other women.
At roughly 280 kilograms, she knew exactly how much.
Rooms told her.
Chairs told her.
Carriages told her.
Clothing makers told her.
Men told her most of all.
Some cruelly.
Some with fake concern.
Some with vulgar curiosity.
Some by simply refusing to meet her eyes.
Simon seemed aware of her size only when solving practical problems.
The bed needed extra support.
He reinforced one slat without comment.
The chair near the stove was narrow.
He brought in a bench from his workshop.
Her boots no longer fit over swollen feet.
He cut leather slippers wider.
No apology.
No announcement.
No suggestion that her body was an inconvenience he graciously tolerated.
That disturbed Abigail almost more than mockery would have.
Kindness created hope.
Hope was dangerous.
On the fifth morning, Simon cooked oatmeal.
Badly.
Abigail tasted one spoonful.
She stared.
Simon watched.
“Well?”
“It has texture.”
His eyes narrowed.
“That isn’t praise.”
“No.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything.”
Simon looked into the pot.
“Oats.”
“Yes.”
“Water.”
“Too much.”
“Salt.”
“Too much.”
“I added honey.”
“Not enough.”
He sat.
“You cook?”
“I used to.”
“How?”
“With food.”