Chapter Six #2
A small ache settled in Abigail’s ribs at the distance between her own life of ease and the quiet devotion woven into every corner of this forgotten garden.
She knelt at the edge of the flower bed.
“I’ll try to coax them back.” She whispered the words, as if saying them aloud could tame the wildness.
Eloise moved back to the porch. “It won’t be easy, but I look forward to seeing your progress.”
Once alone, Abigail began tugging at the tangled weeds, tossing them to the side. Hours later, she straightened and glared at the bed. It didn’t look like she’d done a thing. With a sigh, she bent back down and continued her assault.
“You’d think he’d want to honor her memory,” she muttered, ripping a stubborn root free and tossing it in an ever-growing pile. “Almost as if he—”
The creak of a door interrupted her, and she craned her neck around the bushes. Mr. Moreau strode from the back door down a path into the swamp. When he passed the barn, her brow furrowed. What else was back there? Wiping her hands on her apron, she stood, shifting her weight on stiff knees.
She shouldn’t follow him. Since they’d returned from New Orleans the evening before, he had been much less withdrawn. Had he sought out conversation with her? No. But he hadn’t insulted her either. So, she would take it as a small victory.
Snooping would do her no good.
Her back protested as she bent back down.
She pulled her lip between her teeth and glanced toward the tree line.
A small walk to stretch wouldn’t hurt. Just a quick peek.
No one would know. One careful step led to another, and soon trees loomed above, their sweeping canopies blotting out the light.
The swamp seemed to hold its breath around her, the caw of a distant bird snapping her nerves taut.
Her pulse fluttered, a mix of guilt and curiosity spurring her forward.
A narrow path skirted a dark channel, green-black water glinting between tangled roots.
After a few minutes, the trail split, one well-worn fork turning from the swamp and another less traveled continuing along the water.
She turned onto the worn route, and the ground rose gently, her steps muted by damp leaves.
At the top of a small hill, she slowed when the trees thinned.
Above, a live oak stretched its limbs wide, sunlight filtering through the leaves like a gentle cathedral glow.
Abigail eased around the trunk, pressing her palm to its furrowed bark, and peered into the clearing.
Beyond drooping curtains of Spanish moss, a small cemetery stretched before her.
The trimmed grass and manicured flowers around each stone set the space apart—an island of order in the wild swamp.
Mr. Moreau sat leaning against a headstone, his knees drawn up, eyes closed.
Isabelle’s grave.
His lips moved, shaping words too soft for her to catch, his face tightening with unspoken sorrow.
He pressed his forehead to the smooth stone, shoulders bowing as though the weight of the grave drew him down.
He stayed there, unmoving, while sunlight sifted through the moss and pooled around him.
At last, he set a single rose at the base of the headstone, its crimson petals stark against the clipped grass.
Her heart caught.
He did not look like a man who had killed his wife. Quite the opposite. He looked like a man who had been very much in love.
Shame twisted in her gut for intruding on such a private moment, and she took a small step back. Directly onto a dry twig. It snapped, the sound ricocheting through the clearing.
Abigail froze as his head snapped up, stormy gray eyes locking onto hers.
For a heartbeat, neither moved, the world reduced to the space between them—the faint rustle of moss, the soft hum of insects, the rise and fall of his chest. Every inch of her body screamed to run, yet she remained rooted in place.
Then his jaw tightened, his lips pressed into a thin, hard line. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”
Heat flooded her cheeks. “Of course, they did.”
“Then why are you spying on me?” The words came out in a growl.
“I didn’t mean to…” She clamped her mouth shut at the absurdity of her words.
He pushed off the headstone, rising with deliberate precision, and the clearing seemed to shrink around him.
A quiet energy gathered, his presence filling the space like a coiled threat.
After a few breathless heartbeats, he took a single step toward her.
She swallowed. The anger in his gaze was real, a storm breaking over the stillness of the grave.
Without thinking, she spun on her heel, her feet tangling in roots and dead leaves. Branches clawed at her sleeves and hair as she lunged down the slope, the path she had followed moments ago now impossibly narrow and wild.
“Miss Ross. Stop!” His voice tore through the swamp, sharp and commanding.
The force behind his words spurred her into an even quicker pace.
The swamp rushed past, a tangle of moss and twisted vines whipping at the edges of her vision.
As she rounded a corner, she frowned. She should be back at the house by now.
Instead, the trail twisted deeper into the swamp.
Her stomach sank. In her haste to escape, she’d turned the wrong way.
Mr. Moreau’s footsteps crashed through the undergrowth, and she bit back a strangled cry. Why couldn’t he leave her be? Sucking in a breath, she broke into a sprint. Maybe if she got far enough, he would stop.
But the path twisted sharply, and before she could gain much ground, it dead-ended against the water. The air thickened, humid and clinging as Mr. Moreau came to a stop behind her. She clenched her fists, trying to slow her harried breathing. With nowhere else to go, she slowly turned.
He stood several yards away, hands planted on his hips, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. “Why didn’t you listen?”
She clenched her teeth against all the answers that sprang to her head. Because you vex me. Because for a moment, I sympathized with you. Because I don’t know what to think of you.
Instead, she raised her chin. “Why did you follow?”
He straightened, his expression changing in an instant. The anger slipped away, replaced with a cold intensity that made the hairs along her neck stand on end.
His hand slid down to his pocket. “Don’t. Move.” Each word came out with a quiet authority that compelled her to obey.
With a deliberate motion, he pulled something free. Cold steel glinted in the sunlight and she gasped.
A pistol.
Her blood chilled as he slowly raised it, aiming it squarely at her.
A moment later, his thumb clicked the hammer into place, the gut-wrenching sound cutting through the stillness.
The swamp around her blurred, the heat and scent of stagnant water vanishing as if the world itself had been drained from her lungs.
Her heart pounded, each beat deafening in her ears, and her legs threatened to buckle beneath her.
“Wha—”
“Shh.” His gaze narrowed as his grip on the gun tightened.
Tears burned the corners of her eyes. “Are you going to murder me too?” She choked the words out, her tongue heavy and thick.
He blinked.
Then pulled the trigger.
Two things happened at once. She screamed—at least she thought she did. And something large thrashed in the water behind her. Very large.
She stumbled to the side and caught a glimpse of yellow eyes and rows upon rows of sharp teeth before the monstrous beast disappeared beneath the water. With a flick of its serrated tail, it swam into the depths, leaving a rippling trail behind it.
An alligator.
Heart racing, she turned back to Mr. Moreau, who stood silent, pistol hanging at his side. His gray eyes remained emotionless, but his jaw ticked as he stared at her.
At that moment, the weight of her accusation hit her. Mr. Moreau had not shot her. He’d saved her life.
Oh God.
Her lip trembled. “I—”
He swept his free hand up. “I think it’s best we return to the house.”