Prologue – 1916
"Everyone! We're going to do something a little different now."
The enticing call from the stage drew Abigail Stanton's attention from her conversation in the far corner of the saloon. Rosemary Coulter was smiling mischievously from her perch above the crowd as all eyes came around to fall on her. Abigail waited with anticipation and more than a little amusement as the actress drew out the moment.
"The next song will be…" Rosemary paused, no doubt relishing the feel of a captive audience, "…ladies' choice!"
Immediately upon hearing this, the crowd returned to its hum of excitement. Over the giggles and murmurs, Abigail could hear Rosemary telling the ladies to choose their dance partners - an unnecessary prompt, and meaningless to her besides. There was only ever one name that echoed through her empty spaces, though she never had, in any sense, chosen him. Tonight she would change that.
Her eyes scanned the room until she saw him up ahead, pushing himself off the bench near the door. Coy young women zig-zagged by her, trying not to appear as though they were racing anywhere in particular. Abigail felt no similar shame in the quickening of her step as she made her way across the floor. Let them all see.
She caught up to him before he could exit, stopping him with a gentle hand laid on the shoulder of his suit.
"Henry?"
Henry Gowen turned back with some surprise at her touch, nearly losing his balance. Abigail reached out across his back to steady him. He grunted out a thank you, and she smiled warmly at the shyness with which he accepted her help, her presence there at all.
"Henry, would you like to dance?"
He hesitated. "Oh, I don't know," he started, shaking his head. "It's been a long day…"
"Please?" she interrupted, desire plain in her voice despite its delicate tone. "I would really like to dance with you tonight."
The pained expression he so often wore was there now - the heavy, guarded eyes of a man who knew too much about regret. He studied her, those eyes holding back everything except for how obviously they were holding something back. She tried to stay calm but all she could feel was the restless thrum of years pounding between them. Please say yes, her mind ached. Please say...
"Alright."
She had to stop herself from sinking into him right then, the earnest loneliness in his voice always breaking her heart. He laid his hat and coat down on the bench, and they walked back out onto the floor. They did not touch, instead shuffling nervously next to each other like two young children on a first date until they reached a shadowed edge of the crowd where they could blend in.
The music started up somewhere behind her, lilting and sweet, the notes designed to accentuate the romance of the moment. Like slow motion, her left hand came up to settle on his shoulder. Her right seemed to float in the air, waiting for him to catch it. Her breath hitched as he raised his hand just above it, slowly sliding his fingers down her hand until his palm settled perfectly into hers. The roughness of his skin was a reminder, the manual labor of recent years having taken its toll. Their hands curled around each other and she dropped her gaze to the floor. This should be the moment she could finally exhale, but she was having trouble not shaking from his touch.
Rather than keeping them apart, their fears forced them together – tiny steps and pulls, wordless pleas for comfort, her hand gripping his back. Her left breast pressed into him, the cream-colored dress against the dark gray of his suit, her head bowed near his shoulder. She could feel the heat of his temple, his stubble brushing her cheek. She closed her eyes and strained the underside of her arm against his sleeve, trying to hold on to some sense of where they were, trying not to bury her face in his neck and let go of her tears. But he squeezed his hand tight against hers, forcing out a deep ragged breath so close that it stirred the tender spots of her skin, and she couldn't, she couldn't, she couldn't...
"Oh Henry, I missed you."
It was a whisper, an involuntary sigh of release…
But its weight came down like iron chains around their feet, holding them frozen in place. The air chilled around her as he dropped her hand and backed away. In an instant, the gulf between them had reappeared – inches that felt like miles that felt like decades.
"I'd better go. Night, Abigail," he said quickly, barely offering a nod before rushing away from her.
The front door ushered in an ominous gust of wind as he flew through it. She didn't know what she would do if she followed him, but she knew she had to, even if all of these eyes followed her. The two of them had come so far, and she couldn't bear the thought that she had destroyed it yet again.
She rushed out into the night, her hands wrapped across her body. It took only a few steps before she was right beside him, his bad leg more of an impediment than her dress.
"Henry, wait, please."
"Go back inside, Abigail. Just let it be."
He threw the words back roughly, more anguish than anger.
"Can't we talk about this?"
"No."
"Why?" she pleaded.
He slowed, dragging himself to a stop. The fog of their labored breath painted the cold space around them as she waited for a response. He was looking everywhere but at her, his lips pursed against the words he might say. She knew she shouldn't prompt; she knew letting her behavior cross the line had always been the problem. But she needed, after all this time, to hear the truth.
"Henry," she begged softly.
But he just shook his head.
"You broke the rules, Abigail."
