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No anger or self-pity stirred within her.

How could either?

She had no right to expect anything from Shelby. He had done far more than he should have already, and he owed her nothing.

Nothing.

She would be grateful to him for the rest of her life, and that appreciation would have to be enough, though indebtedness made for a cold bedfellow.

But now, she had Dash to keep her warm on those lonely winter nights. Besides, until a little over a fortnight ago, she believed she would remain a spinster her entire life.

True, she might never share her love, but at least she had experienced it.

Though he was lost to her, prayers for Shelby’s safety rose with the morning sun.

May he be free of the moneylender’s reach.

May peace find him, even if it could never be with me.

Neither had Mitchel sent word, though that came as no surprise. When she lived in London, months often passed without news from her wayward brother.

A robin trilled from the lilac bush, its bright melody breaking the morning’s hush and interrupting her less-than-cheerful musings.

Roxina gave herself a firm mental shake.

Stop moping, Roxina Veronica Jillian Danforth.

The aroma of her freshly baked bread and gingerbread wafted out the open kitchen door.

Roxina tipped her face toward the sky.

She loved it here and didn’t miss London a jot.

The city had never suited her.

Here, among tidy lanes and cozy cottages, beneath this open sky, among these unpretentious people—this life called to her. This was where she wanted to live her life, content with the bucolic simplicity and enjoying her friendly and undemanding townspeople.

Hadn’t Shelby mentioned the same longing?

If stubbornness had not ruled Roxina’s heart, if judgment and condemnation had not clouded her mind, could they have built something together?

Sunlight filtered through the trellis, spilling gold across the herb beds. She ran her fingers over the tender green leaves, their scents rising warm in the air.

Perhaps.

Shelby’s eyes—framed by dark lashes—flashed in her thoughts. Followed by his wind tousled hair, the firm set of his jaw, and the somber intensity he always emitted.

The seconds ticked onward, becoming minutes, hours, days—and Shelby had not appeared.

Now Roxina could no longer pretend.

Only pray.

But did God care?

Her animosity toward Shelby had persisted too long. Only now, she understood it had never been about him, but about what he represented: her brother’s friend—his co-conspirator, his ally.

Mitchel, who despised Roxina from the moment she drew breath, never forgave her for robbing him of his only child status.