A Wildflower for the Scarred Rancher (Preview)

Prologue

“Is it so awful of us to ask it of you?” Mother pleaded.

“I mean, really, Abigail, it isn’t as if your mother and I have required you do much of anything,” Father added, his tone somewhere between irritated and bored. 

Abigail Wilson could say nothing in the face of their disgruntlement. She hadn’t been able get as much as one word in edgewise since Mother’s near-hysterics at the beginning of the conversation. 

Now, their raised voices grated on her ears, and she could sense the rising frustration just seeing how their faces flushed red despite the cool evening air from the open window on the other side of the sitting room. 

“He’s a man,” Mr. Wilson muttered dismissively, swirling his bourbon in his glass. “It is hardly astonishing. Besides, his little dalliances have nothing to do with our business, or his family’s. The marriage contract is all that matters. Whatever he does with his private life will not impact the legality of the arrangement, or its success.”

He fixed her with a stern glare. “You, on the other hand—your sudden rejection of his proposal would mean an irreversible disadvantage between our families. Their ties to us shall certainly cool if you publicly reject their son’s hand.”

He’s a man. Abigail winced and looked away. As if that one line explained everything. 

And maybe it did, for Father. 

But she was more heartbroken than anything else. Marriage wasn’t supposed to be a business contract. And even if it was, how reliable could such a contract be, if one of its members considered infidelity a justifiable thing?

She looked at Mother, searching for any respite, any understanding in those blue eyes so similar to her own. 

“Mother, he was kissing her,” she whispered at last, her voice catching. Tears began to burn in her eyes.

But if Mother had any empathy, it could not be seen in her delicate, pretty features. Instead, she appeared on the verge of hysteria again, breathing heavily and fanning herself, eyes snapping at Abigail. 

“Yes, he was kissing her. So you’ve said. Repeatedly, as if that has any bearing on his status! He told you that it meant nothing! He’s a man, after all, as Father said. Men sometimes do foolish things like that, you know. Do not be so foolish as to assume it will change the legality of your marriage! And besides, your engagement was only just recently announced. Likely he was just…” She floundered, brows pinching together as she waved her hand as if to summon the word she was looking for. 

“Sewing some wild oats before he walks down the aisle,” Father snorted, turning his head aside indifferently. “It isn’t unheard of.” 

Abigail’s throat worked, but words failed her again. 

Sewing wild oats? 

Was that what they wanted to call it? 

And if she had been caught doing the same? 

Her heart pounded so loudly that she felt like it was between her ears. Her fingers tightened into fists at her sides as she tried to quell the scream rising in her chest. 

“There isn’t a better match for you,” Mother sighed. She lifted one elegant hand, closing her eyes as she massaged the bridge of her nose. “A banker’s son, Abigail! And he’s so handsome.” 

Father scoffed again. Finally, one point of agreement between him and Abigail. 

What did it matter how handsome he was if he did not love her? 

“I’ve had enough of this,” he growled, pushing himself up from his seat. He downed the last vestiges of bourbon in his glass and returned the drink cart, not even bothering to look at Abigail as he delivered his ultimatum. “Go over it, cry to your mother, but this discussion is done, Abigail. Don’t think these histrionics will get you any further than that. It is an ideal match, and extremely advantageous for both our families. And it is far too important for you to simply discard him on a whim, do you hear me, girl? You’ll marry him… or I’ll disown you. That’s all there is to it.” 

Mother inhaled shakily, her eyes closing even more tightly as if she could shut out the entire room. 

Abigail only wished she could do the same. 

“Yes, sir,” she answered hollowly. 

Because she did. 

She heard him. 

She couldn’t have turned a deaf ear if she’d tried, because every word felt like another rusted nail driven into her heart. 

It didn’t matter that Nathaniel Brown didn’t love her. It didn’t matter that marrying him would mean a lifetime of the very same act she’d seen him in, repeating over and over again, her life with him turning into some pale imitation of what it could have been as she scraped and catered to try and win such a husband’s affection… 

No. All that mattered to the Wilsons, the upper-crust of New York Society, was that their daughter walk down the aisle and exchange vows with the son of one of the wealthiest bankers in the city. 

Father had made his stance quite clear, and Mother had agreed. This was a business venture. 

And she was the negotiation. 

Cold dread sank like a stone in the pit of her stomach.

Mother murmured something, some half-enunciated prayer about saving them from the wickedness of their ways and their selfishness, but Abigail could no longer hear her. And when Father replied, she couldn’t seem to hear him anymore either. Their words droned on in the background, drowned out by the sickly thudding of her heart.

The realization crashed into her with unshakeable force. This? This wasn’t what she wanted out of life. 

I can’t walk down that aisle. 

***

The resolution itself was one thing. 

From the moment Abigail realized that her parents intended to leave her no option, she realized that she’d have to leave. Knowing she would bind herself to an unfaithful, indifferent man, to the applause of her parents, in a thinly veiled business agreement… a band of wild horses couldn’t have dragged her down that aisle. A marriage like that meant nothing but stepping off of the steep side of a cliff and vainly hoping not to hit bottom. 

But the departure… that was another matter entirely. She hadn’t realized how afraid she would still be, leaving behind an unwanted past only to plunge herself into a future far more uncertain and possibly much more dangerous. 

Heart in her throat, clutching the note in her hand almost convulsively, she stared down at the small bag she had packed, now resting on top of her immaculately made bed. 

One bag. 

Could a person really live out of only one bag? 

She’d heard stories, but she’d never in her life imagined that she’d have to do it herself. She looked around her room, heart twisting oddly, staring at the life she’d be leaving behind. 

From the tasteful upholstered furniture to the elaborate curtains Mother had bought for her on her fifteenth birthday, her room was filled with the finer things in life. All the possessions she had always taken for granted. 

The armoire in the corner boasted more dresses than an entire seven suitcases would have held. 

Yet on her bed, there was only the one small traveling bag. Filled with a handful of dresses for different occasions, her personal necessities, and a few other odds and ends that she thought she might need… and not much else. 

The truth was that she had almost no idea what a person might need out West. 

Her thoughts were broken as Mother’s prized antique clock chimed from the sitting room, ringing throughout the house as it announced the hour. 

Four in the morning. Somewhere outside, a raven croaked as if in answer. 

To Abigail, the mournful chime was like the prod of a hot poker stick. 

Her parents never stirred from their beds before eight, at least not without reason, and they had no reason to rise early today. But that didn’t stop the fear from spreading through her chest or her hands as she pulled on her coat in sharp, jerky motions. New York winters were cold even at the height of the day. This early in the morning, the air outside would feel as frigid as the polar caps she’d read about. Already, she was wondering if she ought to have worn more layers.

Her heart hammered in her throat as she collected her suitcase and took one last, long look around her room. It was a silent, tense goodbye, the clutterings of her youth harder to leave behind than she had anticipated. 

The dollhouse that Father had commissioned to be specially made for her stood in one corner, decorated with years’ worth of dust now; but she kept it for sentimentality. The endless rows of books that Mother had plied her with over the years, slowly shifting from children’s stories to histories, biographies, even a few sensational novels. Even the bible that Mother’s mother had passed down…

Abigail paused, biting down on her lip. Then, almost on instinct, she dashed forward and plucked up the worn bible, tucking it under her arm. 

One thing I don’t think I’d like to leave behind. 

Finally, she turned from her room. 

Her hands felt too full with the suitcase, the bible, and the penned letter she was still clutching. And the floors creaked too loudly as she passed over them, each step making her flinch as she hurried down the stairs, down the hall, and toward the front door. 

She knew herself well enough to know that if she waited any longer, she would be tempted to stay forever. 

Staying would not have been the most imprudent decision. In fact, it made all the sense in the world for her, even with her parents’ expectations and threats. They still provided for her. She had a good life. Nathaniel had promised that their married life would be equally comfortable. She’d have all the things she could ever desire. She’d have the best dresses, the esteem of society, the very best New York could offer. 

But her husband would go on kissing other merchants’ daughters. 

He’d never wake up on Sunday morning to walk to church with her. He’d never look at her the way that Old Mr. Miller stared at Mrs. Miller. He’d never pick flowers for her by the roadside. He might buy them for her, but they would never mean more an apology, the same kind of half-hearted gesture that lay in the fancy bouquet of roses he’d sent her after she’d caught him lip-to-lip with Miss Anastasia Frey. 

Abigail didn’t even like roses. 

She paused just on the threshold of the front entryway, eyes filling with tears as she reminded herself of all the reasons she needed to go. 

She’d written them all down. In the letter that she’d written to her parents. She’d told them that she was going to make her own life, and that she meant it, that was her intention. 

And the West was where people went for such things. 

Her fingers trembled as she took that letter and placed it on the entryway table, front and center, so that it could be seen easily when her parents finally woke. 

You’ll marry him… or I’ll disown you. That’s all there is to it.

Father’s words rang in her head as she reached behind her, opening the front door and bracing herself against the cold. 

She wasn’t going to marry Nathaniel. 

She wasn’t going to live in his father’s house, despondent and alone, despite her high status and wealthy life. 

She wasn’t going to sacrifice herself for a name and a title. 

One last look at Miss Abigail Wilson’s life. At her past. 

And then… she ran.

Chapter One

“Don’t wave at him, Milly!” the woman hissed, grabbing her young daughter’s hand as she all but dragged her across the street, heedless of the wagons coming from both directions. 

The girl couldn’t have been more than three or four, with warm brown eyes and a smile to match. She giggled and waved anyway, casting furtive looks over her shoulder as her mother yanked her along. 

As if Caleb was going to tear off after them and chase them down. 

As if he hadn’t been in the same spot leaning against the feed store wall for longer than five minutes, well before the pair of them had wandered down from whatever shop they’d come out of. 

The commotion was enough to draw more stares. Not that Caleb Jackson was surprised. 

He drew the steel toe of his boot through the dry winter dirt, scuffing it as he stared down to avoid causing any further ruckus. God alone knew that if he looked up, someone else might get the wrong idea. The whispers were growing again, people parting around him like the Red Sea as they hurried down the other side of the street. 

“You old bear!” a voice boomed, and Caleb winced, at the reference as much as the exuberance. 

“I almost didn’t see ya there!” The tall, loud redhead was now pushing himself through the crowd, grinning from ear to ear, blind to the people who were purposefully avoiding Caleb. Anthony Hopper, the only person he could really call a “friend” in this town.

Caleb gave a nod, but didn’t holler back. Slowly, he pushed off the wall behind him, dragging his boot back through the dirt and reaching up to scratch the back of his neck. 

“Sorry I’m late!” Anthony fell into an easy step beside Caleb, oblivious to all the stares, as always. “Tanner let that darned mare out the pasture ‘fore he was s‘pposed to. Had us all runnin’ round like chickens without heads on butcher day. You ate yet?” 

Caleb kept his head down as they walked, his shoulders rolling into a shrug. “Didn’t reckon we were eating out here,” he muttered after a moment, frowning.

Eating meant the diner, and the diner meant more people. More people meant more stares. 

“Well, I sure as all that’s holy ain’t waiting to get back to the ranch to eat!” Tanner scoffed. “I thought you said you had to come in early this morning? You tellin’ me you ain’t ate since breakfast and you weren’t plannin’ to?” He groaned, and his stomach made a similar noise. 

Despite Caleb’s hesitation, his own stomach was beginning to gnaw at him. He couldn’t expect Anthony to wait to get back to work to eat.

So, begrudgingly, he turned his feet in the direction of the diner, rolling his eyes at Anthony’s victorious whoop. 

“I just reckoned we would ride back together,” Caleb muttered, sighing. “You could’a come to my place to eat.” 

“And yours is as far as the ranch,” Anthony chuckled. “Ask me to wait ‘til I get next door, c’mon now.” 

“It’s about ten miles further out,” Caleb admitted ruefully, offering his friend a half-smile.

One that immediately slid off his face at the scattered gasps and horrified murmurs. 

He winced and closed his eyes. He’d forgotten how smiling could pull at his scars. He always tried not to smile in public, but this time he hadn’t been thinking. 

“You keep adding to it, friend.” Anthony’s lips twitched as he stepped between Caleb and the shocked onlookers to open the diner door. “When’s the last time you had some of Eileen’s chicken fried chicken anyway? You tryna tell me your mouth ain’t waterin’ just thinkin’ about it?” 

The smell hit Caleb at the same time the words did, his stomach loudly agreeing with Anthony despite how he winced. 

The last time he’d gone to the diner, the sheriff had up and walked out with his wife on account of her hysterics at seeing Caleb there. 

“I like the fried steak,” Caleb muttered, ducking past Anthony and heading into the restaurant, looking around him as little as he could. 

He didn’t want to see how full the place was now, compared to how empty he knew it was about to be. He bee-lined right for the back, winding his way through the tables to take the furthest corner booth he could find. He plunked down in the seat that faced away from the rest of the diner before Anthony could try beating him to it. 

“Afternoon, Eileen, Cora,” Anthony called out, following at a more relaxed pace as he wove past the tables. 

The murmur of voices calmed, whispers picking up and the clattering of silverware ringing in Caleb’s ears, but he sat straight-backed, facing forward until Anthony slid into the chair across from him. 

“Y’know, that’s part of your problem,” Anthony pointed out as he whipped the napkin off the table to spread across his lap. “You don’t ever greet them when you come in. You start smilin’ more and callin’ out, you might feel a mite more comfortable.” 

Caleb snorted, raising one brow as he leaned back in his chair and tuned out the noises behind him. “Ain’t my comfort that’s the issue here,” he reminded Anthony pointedly.

Besides, if he started smiling any kind of way, there’d be more people repulsed by it than not. But telling Anthony that didn’t get him anywhere. Anthony barely seemed to see the scars now—if he ever had. 

“Doesn’t help it any, either,” Anthony replied lightly, shrugging as he settled back in his own chair. “You should—” 

“No.” Caleb cut him off, already knowing where the conversation was going. He wasn’t about to get into that same tired old argument again. 

“But maybe—oh! Hey, Cora! Cora!” Anthony waved past Caleb to one of the girls at the counter. “We ain’t got our drinks yet, and I reckon we’re ready to order.” 

For a long moment, silence reigned in the diner. Only the clatter of forks was heard, and Caleb had to fight not to hang his head. 

“You’re welcome to come up front and put your order in, sugar,” Cora answered after a beat, her usually chipper voice subdued. “Or you can write it down for me.” 

Anthony frowned, giving a huff of disbelief before his smile started to pick back up, the look on his face.  “C’mon now, darlin’, you ain’t never made me come up front to order before. Don’t tell me you gone sour on something,” he teased, leaning forward with that half-crooked charming grin of his. Clearly he thought she was yanking his chain.

“You ain’t come in with him before, either,” Cora snapped, her patience clearly at its limit. “Whaddya take me for, Anthony Hopper? Tryin’ t’ make God angry, like he did?” 

Her voice was bordering on hysteric, followed by the swish of skirts and hurried footsteps away. Caleb’s shoulders tensed even further. 

Tryin’ t’ make God angry, like he did? 

It was hardly the first time someone had suggested that, but it didn’t make the words sting any less. 

He’d told Anthony time and time again that he wasn’t wanted around here—not in the middle of town with everyone else. But Anthony never seemed to understand. 

I should just go. His leg twitched, boots digging into the wood floor beneath them as he made to push his chair back, but a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, staying him. 

“Cora’s havin’ a bad day,” Eileen Sackby announced by way of greeting. “Had that Tilburn boy turn her head all around. I’ll take y’all’s order ‘fore I head back to the kitchen. I’m guessin’ you’ll both be wantin’ sweet tea?” 

Caleb bit down on the inside of his cheek, lifting his eyes to the older woman. Her haze was anywhere but on him. She’d always been kinder than most, but even she couldn’t seem to look him straight in the face. 

Anthony, though, looked relieved. 

“Yes, ma’am. Ain’t nobody who’s anybody comes in here without leavin’ with some of your sweet tea first,” he grinned. “And I told Miz Cora to leave that boy alone. He’s a mess of trouble. A nest of rattlers all rolled into one.”

He eyed Eileen sternly. “You tell her that the boys out at the ranch have no problem handling anything if he keeps giving her problems.” 

“Oh, he won’t be giving her any more problems, honey,” Eileen murmured. “Now, what can I get started for you boys? I can’t stand out here gabbin’ all day.” 

“I want the chicken, fried chicken,” Anthony said decisively, his stomach backing up his words yet again. “With a side of fried okra and a mess of potatoes. Heavy on the gravy.” 

Eileen snorted but didn’t comment. 

Caleb cleared his throat. “I’ll take the chicken fried steak,” he said when the silence stretched for a beat too long. “Same sides, and some extra gravy on the side, if it’s not too much trouble.” 

Eileen nodded. “I’ll just make y’all a fresh batch. And I’ll have Henry run the sweet teas out here in a minute. Y’all go on and sit back; I’ll get you your food.” 

She went off just as quietly as she had come, and Caleb had to fight not to look over his shoulder to see how many people were still staring. 

Anthony looked about ready to burst with excitement, grinning from ear to ear just at the mention of food. “Fresh batch, you hear that? Lord amighty, I love me some of Eileen’s gravy,” he groaned. “You reckon we could get some to take with us,? That new cook the Smiths done hired over at the ranch can’t make gravy to save her life. Full of lumps, and half-raw, I swear.” 

Caleb’s lips twitched, his friend’s enthusiasm for food and talking whittling away at the unpleasant feeling of eyes on his back. “You could learn to make it yourself,” he suggested sagely, keeping his focus on Anthony as the noise of the diner started picking back up again. 

“Psh. I burn water,” Anthony reminded him forlornly. “If I could cook for myself, I wouldn’t have no need of a woman.” 

It was a common statement, one that made Caleb roll his eyes every time. The day Anthony stopped looking at women would be the same day that Caleb’s face miraculously healed. 

“If you could cook for yourself, you’d be a whole ton heavier,” he corrected, shaking his head and giving into the amusement it always was to spend time with Anthony. 

It wasn’t the best trip to town. But nobody had spilled coffee in his lap, nor thrown anything—and he’d be leaving with a full belly. So it sure wasn’t his worst trip into town, either. 

And he would take what small blessings he got.