More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

Reuben’s face lit up, and he turned faster than a spindle on a lathe to greet his wife. She was a tiny thing. Her head barely reached Reuben’s shoulder, and her thin frame gave her a delicate appearance that was pure bunk. She might look like a bird, but she had birthed six healthy babes, and even more impressive, she actually managed to control them. Even now, the menagerie clomped down the stairstep planks with exclamations of “Mama!”

  She ignored the calls momentarily, her attention focused solely on her husband as he strode across the expansive lumber shed to meet her. He wrapped her in an enthusiastic embrace, as if they hadn’t seen each other a scant hour earlier, and she gazed up at him with an adoration that pained Zach to watch.

  He turned away from the tender display, a far too common occurrence where the Sinclairs were concerned. It was the only downside to this partnership. Reuben was disgustingly in love with his wife and didn’t care who knew it.

  An ache radiated through Zach’s chest, but he ignored it. Sure, having a woman who looked at you as if you were the hero of her dreams would have its merits, but since Zach was the furthest thing from hero material, envy served no purpose. No female would ever look at him that way, and it was just as well, since the only thing worse than not having a woman look at you that way was to disappoint one who did and having to watch the admiration seep from her gaze. He knew that pain.

  Sweet, cheerful, loyal-to-the-death Evie. The little sister who had adored him, called him her hero, and placed him on a pedestal he had no right to occupy. Yet her adoration made him believe he was better than he was, that he might actually deserve her high opinion. He hid the uglier parts of his nature from her, and for several years had even managed to hide them from himself. But nothing stayed hidden forever, and when the truth of his darkest deed came to light, her adoring gaze had faltered and fizzled into disappointment and shame.

  Every time she looked at him after that, he felt the change. A carpenter shaving away at his heart with a chisel couldn’t have hurt more. She might still love him and proclaim him family, but things had changed between them and would never go back to the way they had been before. It was why he’d left.

  Part of why he’d left, Zach corrected, as he pasted what he hoped was a passably pleasant expression on his face. The Sinclairs were headed his way, their brood swarming around their feet.

  He’d mainly wanted to escape the sorghum farm and cut the familial tether that kept him from the freedom he craved. A freedom he now enjoyed. Audrey Sinclair could scheme all she liked. Zach wouldn’t be shackling himself to any female. Ever.

  CHAPTER

  4

  I can’t believe I’m doing this. Abigail smoothed the skirt of her second-best ensemble, wishing she could eradicate her nerves as easily as smoothing a few wayward wrinkles from the russet fabric of her skirt. The high collar of her ivory shirtwaist didn’t help matters, strangling her with the jet brooch she wore at her neck in honor of her father’s passing.

  With trembling fingers, she retrieved the business proposal sitting on the hall table in her rooms above the bakery. She’d spent the better half of the last week crafting and reconfiguring the document until she had the recipe just right. Her family’s future depended on her ability to bribe a man into marriage without forfeiting her control of the bakery. No easy task.

  Then again, running a bakery on her own for the last year while her father lay ill had been no easy task, either, and she’d accomplished that feat. She’d manage this one as well.

  Lifting her chin, Abigail slid the document into the small satchel already hanging from her right shoulder and marched down the stairs into the darkened bakery.

  They closed at three in the afternoon, since most of her breads sold out by midday, which gave her a few precious hours to conduct business of her own before everyone scattered to their homes for the evening. She’d spent one of those hours bathing and debating with her sister over which outfit to wear. Rosalind had wanted her to wear something bright and cheerful. Abigail preferred a more sober, businesslike ensemble. This wasn’t a romantic rendezvous, after all. It was a negotiation. Besides, they were still mourning Papa. Standards might be more lax in the west than back east, but even here, pinks and yellows would be frowned upon by the townsfolk. So they’d compromised on the ivory blouse with the mourning brooch. The touch of lace on the bodice along with the gently puffed sleeves would have to suffice for displaying her femininity.

  Exiting from the kitchen into the alley, Abigail locked the door behind her, then turned her feet toward Sinclair’s Lumberyard. She might as well try for the top prize first. If he didn’t pan out, she’d approach the next bachelor on her list.

  Unfortunately, she only made it halfway to her destination before being waylaid by a man who was neither a bachelor nor on any type of desirable list in her estimation.

  “Miss Kemp.” Samson Gerard waved and crossed the street, neatly blocking her path along the boardwalk and making it impossible for her to pretend that she hadn’t seen or heard him.

  Abigail halted and nodded, not trying terribly hard to hide her impatience. “Mr. Gerard.” The spindly man looked even less Samson-like than usual today, dressed in a brown checkered suit with trousers so tapered that his legs resembled sticks. Perhaps if Mrs. Gerard frequented the bakery more regularly than the milliner’s, her husband would have a little more flesh on his bones.

  “Are you ready to accept my offer?” His unctuous smile settled on her like a family of bugs crawling over her skin. “I’ve asked around town, and it doesn’t seem that you’ve sought a partnership with any of our local businessmen. I applaud your intelligence in forgoing that route.”

  Abigail bristled at his condescending tone. She hadn’t needed Samson Gerard to point out the perils of partnering with a third party who didn’t share her passion for the bakery. Handing over the reins to a man who deemed himself better equipped to make financial decisions than his female partner simply because he had the ability to grow chin whiskers grated on her every nerve and would surely cause dissention. Not to mention the fact that an outsider helping himself to a hefty chunk of her profits every month would leave her and Rosalind with a pathetically small income.

  Abigail longed to tell Gerard to stuff his offer in his hat and leave her be, but a wise woman never burned a bridge she might need to cross at a future date. If her marriage scheme didn’t pan out, she might find herself at Gerard’s door.

  She smiled around her grinding teeth. “I have a few more avenues to explore first, but I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

  His composure slipped a notch. “What other avenues?” he pressed, as if he had the right to know.

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  Tired of playing mouse to Gerard’s cat, Abigail strode forward, hoping he’d take the hint and get out of her way. Even if he didn’t, she figured her greater heft would prevail. Sometimes being a woman of substance paid dividends.

  “I’m sorry to dash off,” she said as she bowled forward, sending Gerard skittering toward the storefront to avoid the collision course she’d set, “but I have a pressing matter to attend to. I’m sure you understand.” She threw a consolation smile in his direction as she swept past. “Have a pleasant evening.”

  “You . . . too.” He tugged the brim of his hat, but the move seemed more automatic than deferential.

  Abigail sighed as she continued her march. Samson Gerard might be rooting for her demise, but he didn’t deserve to be treated shabbily. She could have been more patient with him. It was just that she was already wound so tight. She pressed her lips together as she stepped down from the boardwalk into the street. Proposing to a man completely out of the blue wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. She’d been storing up courage for this since that awful ruling last week, and now that she’d begun, she wanted to get it over with before she lost her gumption.

  She still couldn’t believe Judge Hardcastle hadn’t overturned that ridiculous ordinance in her favor. From what sh
e’d been able to uncover, that antiquated law had been added to the books half a century ago in order to rid the town of a female brothel owner. Clearly the spirit of the law had been to protect the citizens of Honey Grove from a den of iniquity. What were they trying to protect Honey Grove from in her case? Promiscuous popovers? A new century loomed on the horizon, yet these curmudgeons had the gall to assert that the spirit of the law meant nothing. It was the letter of the law that must be upheld at all cost.

  Or at least at her cost.

  Why she had expected anything different, she couldn’t fathom. Her own father would have voted right along with the rest of them.

  Edward Kemp had owned the Taste of Heaven storefront outright, had been inordinately proud of that fact, and had dreamed of passing it down to his son one day. Only he’d had no sons, despite driving Mama to an early grave trying to produce one. His only surviving progeny had been female. His greatest disappointment.

  When Abigail showed an aptitude in the kitchen, he’d grudgingly agreed to train her, and when she proved her mettle, he put her to work. They’d punched dough side by side for years, until his bad heart slowed him down. Gradually, she took over. The baking, the books—everything but the name on the deed. In the meantime, Papa schemed to use his younger daughter’s beauty to land a son-in-law he could train to take over the business that Abigail had earned. Thankfully, his illness delayed his plans for the youngest Kemp sister. Rosalind deserved to marry a man of her own choosing instead of being bartered away like a horse at auction.

  Abigail might be bartering herself, but it was her choice to do so, and she fully intended to maintain control over the negotiations. The man she chose would agree to her terms or have his candidacy rescinded.

  Fueled by indignation and desperation, her steps quickened, and before she knew it, Abigail stood in front of Sinclair’s Lumberyard. Like a kettle that had run out of steam, her footsteps faltered. She stared at the door looming before her, apprehension billowing.

  You’ve come too far to turn back now.

  Setting her chin, she grasped the handle and strode inside. Only to find the small office empty save for a young boy around eight or nine years of age seated behind a desk that dwarfed his small frame. The lad looked up from the schoolbook he’d been reading, then shot to his feet.

  “Afternoon, ma’am.” He darted around the desk and stood at attention before her. “How can Sinclair’s Lumberyard serve you today?”

  Abigail couldn’t help but be impressed by the young man’s professionalism. His parents had trained him well. She could remember her own parents instructing her on how to interact with customers. She’d always been more comfortable in the kitchen than in the front of the shop, but her father had made sure she could handle both duties from an early age. Good posture, eye contact, a deferential tone, and most important, a smile. Young Simeon Sinclair exhibited all four hallmarks.

  Abigail returned his smile. “I’m looking for Mr. Hamilton. Do you know where I might find him?”

  Simeon nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He and my pa are planing in the dressing yard. I can take you there, if you like.”

  “Yes, thank you.” She’d hoped to find Mr. Hamilton alone, but this was not a day to let embarrassment keep her from her objective. A woman on the verge of losing her business couldn’t afford the luxury of pride. The whole town would learn of her scheme eventually, anyway.

  She followed the sandy-haired boy out the office’s rear door and through the main yard to a covered area that housed the dressed wood. Inside, a pair of men worked at matching benches, scraping long planks with a rectangular box that must contain a blade of some sort, for a curl of shaved wood pushed out the top as they moved. Well, she assumed both men produced shavings. In truth, she had no idea what Reuben Sinclair did or did not produce. Her gaze had focused solely upon Zacharias Hamilton the instant she’d spotted his dark head bent over his work.

  A craftsman, like herself, he moved methodically, his strokes rhythmic. The scrape of the plane ebbed and waned in perfect symmetry as he scraped, stepped forward with arms still in place, then scraped again, along the entire length of the board pinned to the workbench with a set of vises.

  “Miss Kemp?”

  The voice did not belong to Mr. Hamilton, but at the sound of her name, his head lifted, and for a heartbeat, their gazes held. Feeling a blush warm her cheeks, Abigail looked away and focused instead on Mr. Sinclair as he set aside his tools and strode forward to greet her.

  “How can I be of assistance?”

  Simeon, bless his enthusiastic heart, blurted out her business before she could find the wherewithal to answer. “She’s here to see Mr. Zach, Pa.”

  “I see.” Mr. Sinclair turned a teasing grin toward his partner. “I suppose I could spare him for a few minutes.” He crooked an arm around his son’s neck. “Simeon and I will start inventorying that shipment of pine that just came in.”

  Abigail peeked back at Mr. Hamilton. He stood beside his bench, one brow quirked slightly higher than the other. Yet he said nothing. Just waited for her to get on with whatever had brought her here.

  The Sinclairs’ footsteps faded. Abigail shot a glance at the departing father and son to make sure they were out of earshot, then gripped the satchel slung over her shoulder and marched forward.

  Mr. Hamilton stood in place, his legs braced slightly apart as if prepared for any eventuality. This was not a man who would be easily bowled over. The observation should have given her pause, seeing as how she aimed to be in charge of this arrangement, yet she found it oddly comforting instead. He wouldn’t be blown off course when life’s storms battered his hull. He’d hold fast, a shelter for those under his protection.

  Now all she had to do was convince him to take on a passenger with sizeable baggage and a penchant for steering the ship.

  Before she could lose her courage, Abigail unstrapped her satchel and retrieved the marriage contract she’d constructed.

  “Mr. Hamilton,” she said, thankful that her voice trembled only slightly, since her insides were quaking like the ground beneath a racing locomotive, “I have a proposition for you.”

  CHAPTER

  5

  Zach picked up the steel square edge from his workbench, but instead of testing the board he’d been planing for perpendicularity like he normally would, he fiddled with the L-shaped tool while he stared at the woman before him.

  She’d changed her clothes since that morning. Why he should notice that insignificant detail, he couldn’t imagine, but he had. She looked different without her apron. And without the flour that more often than not dusted some part of her face. Looking for the telltale streak each morning proved entertaining, not that he’d ever admit that he enjoyed examining her face. Someone might get the wrong idea.

  But her countenance at the moment provoked no entertainment whatsoever. Her brown eyes glowed with purpose, and her chin angled upward in a manner that reminded Zach of his little sister when she was in the mood to lecture him.

  What kind of proposal could Miss Kemp possibly have for him? If she needed shelves for the bakery, surely she would have included Reuben in the discussion, yet she’d looked relieved when he and Simeon had left.

  And now her cheeks were growing pink. Probably because he was just standing here staring at her like an idiot instead of saying something.

  Tightening his grip on the square, he cleared his throat. “What kind of proposition?”

  She thrust a set of papers at him, the sheets crinkling as the corners bent against his chest. “A business proposition. A rather, um, unconventional one, but one I believe will prove beneficial to both of us if you’ll look past the first hurdle.”

  He reached for the papers. “That hurdle being?”

  She straightened her posture, which was an impressive trick of engineering, since she was already standing as stiff as the board he’d been working on moments ago. Then she met his gaze, and something grabbed at his gut. “Marriage,” she said. “To m
e.”

  A cough exploded in his throat. He ducked his chin and turned aside, the choking sensation worsening to the point that he had to brace his arms against the workbench as he struggled to control the spasms. He’d always wondered how his brother Seth felt when an asthma attack hit. Now he knew.

  “It might appear to be a beggar’s bargain on the surface,” she said from behind him, “but I promise there are benefits.”

  At the word benefits, images jumped immediately to Zach’s mind. Vivid images. Of bedsheets and unpinned hair. Of luscious curves, dimpled smiles, and welcoming glances.

  His throat constricted further. Not even a cough could escape now.

  “To start with, you can have all the sticky buns you like free of charge. For life.”

  Breakfast. She was talking about breakfast.

  A bit of air seeped into his lungs, allowing him to wrestle his unruly thoughts into submission as he turned to face Miss Kemp. He leaned back against the workbench, not yet trusting his knees to hold him up on their own, and forced himself to meet her gaze.

  He thrust the crumpled papers back at her. “I ain’t lookin’ for a wife.”

  She made no move to take the documents. “Well, I wasn’t looking for a husband either, until Judge Hardcastle backed me into a corner.”

  Zach jerked upright. That randy old goat had assaulted her? Was she pregnant? What else could have set her on this desperate course? “Did he hurt you?” he growled through clenched teeth.

  Her brow scrunched. “Who? Judge Hardcastle? No. Why would you . . . ?” Her face cleared as comprehension dawned. “Oh. No. Sorry.” Flustered, she stumbled over her words, making it even more difficult for him to follow. “I can see how you might have thought—with the whole marriage thing . . . it was a proverbial corner he backed me into, not a literal . . .” The explanation died beneath a heavy sigh. “Heavens, but I’m making a mess of this.”

  Zach relaxed. The judge hadn’t accosted her. Thank God. The thought of someone as sweet as Abigail Kemp being ill-treated in such a despicable fashion made him want to tear whoever dared touch her limb from limb. But if she wasn’t with child, why was she proposing marriage? And why to him? Surely there were other men in town more suitable, more . . . worthy.