More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

  Rosalind was the true catch, as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. If only Abby could mimic her confidence and self-assurance. But outside the kitchen, those commodities proved incredibly slippery. Even now, she found herself shaking her head and taking refuge in what she knew she was good at—work.

  “As lovely as your advice is, Rosie, I don’t have time to sip tea and make lists. I need to deliver the widow bread, then pay my call on Mr. Beekman. If I delay, he might be sitting down to supper when I arrive, and no man appreciates having his supper interrupted.”

  Rosalind didn’t usually demand her way, but her expression took on a decidedly mulish cast as she strode to the basket that held the day-old loaves they donated each evening to a family in need. “I’ll take the bread,” she insisted, fitting the basket handle to the crook of her elbow. “You”—she pointed to the stairs—“sip tea and clean the mental slate. Mr. Beekman’s boardinghouse doesn’t serve supper until six. You’ve got time.”

  Abigail surrendered with a shake of her head. “All right, all right. I’ll take a few minutes to regroup.” It wouldn’t hurt to go over her persuasive tactics again anyway, seeing as how she’d fumbled the delivery with Mr. Hamilton. Although the distracting flutters that beset her whenever she was in his presence were probably more to blame than her arguments. Since Mr. Beekman’s presence was blessedly flutter-free, conversing with him should be less prone to disaster.

  “More than a few minutes, Abby,” Rosalind hounded. “Promise me.”

  Why was this so important to her? Why not just get it over with? Yet something in her sister’s eyes compelled Abigail to agree. “Fine. I’ll stay long enough to brew a cup of tea and read over the contract. Happy?”

  Rosalind strode to the door, triumph in every step. “Yes.” She gave a wink, then shuffled out the door.

  Forgetting to close it behind her. That girl.

  Abigail stuck her head out into the alley, intending to tease her sister with a scold about living in a barn, but changed her mind when she noticed Rosie heading south down the alley instead of north.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” Abigail called. “The Prescotts live on Elm.”

  Rosalind pivoted to face her sister but kept moving down the alley, walking backward. “I know. I have a quick errand to run first.” Then she spun around and scurried around the corner leading to Sixth Street.

  Abigail shrugged and pulled the door closed. Where on earth Rosalind thought to go with a basket of day-old bread getting in the way, Abby couldn’t imagine. But wherever it was, she sure seemed keen to get there.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Zach had just stored his plane in the large tool chest beneath his workbench when young Simeon arrived with a second female in tow. The lad’s face glowed beet red as he escorted the girl in, his gaze veering to her so frequently that it was amazing he didn’t trip over his feet.

  “Mr. Zach. A, uh, ’nother Miss Kemp to see ya.”

  Zach sighed. He hadn’t thought Abigail the type to gang up on a fella. Sending the sister to plead on her behalf was beneath them both. Unless . . .

  He narrowed his gaze at the blond woman with too much hair and a deficit of dimples. “You’re not here to make the same offer, are you? ’Cause my answer won’t be changin’.”

  Instead of taking offense, she smiled at him. Then she turned to the boy at her side. “Thank you for showing me the way, Simeon.” Her smile beamed, and the lad nearly face-planted, so steep was his lean toward her. Rosalind reached into the oversized basket dangling from her left arm and pulled out a pair of dinner rolls. “Why don’t you share these with your pa while I have a few words with Mr. Hamilton.”

  Simeon just stared at her without making a move for the bread.

  Zach rolled his eyes. At this rate, he’d never get out of here. He yanked the bread out of Rosalind Kemp’s hand, shoved it at Simeon, then gave the kid a push in the right direction. “Tell Reuben I’ll close up the shed,” he said, wanting to make sure the besotted boy didn’t make up some excuse to come back and gawk at the Kemp girl.

  Simeon nodded, his feet moving automatically in the direction Zach had started him. He dawdled but kept moving and eventually disappeared into the main lumberyard.

  “Look,” Zach grumbled, “I don’t know why your sister sent you, but—”

  “Oh, Abigail doesn’t know I’m here,” Rosalind said as she spun to face him. All residual pleasantness faded from her features, leaving a slightly panicked look in her eyes that snagged Zach’s attention. “I don’t have much time.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest, not wanting to look too interested. Pretty girls had ways of getting their hooks into fellas before they knew what was happening, and while Abigail’s sister had never flirted or pestered him, she might not be above using wiles to try to manipulate him. Not that he’d let her, of course. He could read truth on a person’s face the way a preacher read it from the Bible. Learning at the knee of the most renowned riverboat gambler on the Mississippi had given him a distinct advantage: he could spot a bluff a mile away.

  “I’m listening.”

  She set the bread basket on the ground, then stepped close and laid a hand on his arm. “You need to marry my sister.”

  Well, she could get to the point. That was a mark in her favor.

  “To save your bakery, I know. But there are other ways to save it that don’t require a leg-shacklin’ on my part. She might not like the idea of joinin’ up with a partner, but—”

  “It’s more than the bakery.” Rosalind bit her lower lip and cast a quick glance around before turning back to him. The fear in her eyes was real. He’d stake a year’s wages on it. “I did . . . something a while back. Something Abigail knows nothing about. Something that started a chain of events I can’t seem to undo. No danger has touched Abigail yet, but there’s a chance . . .” She bit her lip again.

  Zach heard the unspoken words. The danger might not have touched Abigail yet, but it had touched Rosalind. Enough to put that panic in her eyes.

  “If you don’t marry her, she’s going to propose to Elmer Beekman, and I’m pretty sure he’ll say yes. He’s about as tepid as they come, and at his age, he’s sure to jump at the chance to gain a young wife with nothing beyond agreement required on his end. But he won’t be able to protect her, Mr. Hamilton.” Her grip on his arm tightened. “Not from the council. Nor from . . . other trouble.”

  Elmer Beekman? That was who she planned to replace him with? The man was a mouse. Timid, bland, and old enough to be her father, for Pete’s sake. She could do better. Much better. And her sister was right. Beekman would be about as useful in a fight as wet newsprint.

  Tension radiated up Zach’s spine, crimping his neck. He rolled his head back and forth on his shoulders to loosen the muscles, then looked down at the girl before him. “What kind of trouble we talkin’ about?”

  Rosalind couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “The pushy, male, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer kind.” Slowly she lifted her chin and forced her blue eyes to meet his, impressing him with her fortitude. “I won’t go into the details with someone who’s not family, but I swear that if you marry Abigail, I’ll tell you everything. She doesn’t deserve to pay for my mistake, but I fear that’s exactly what will happen if things continue unchecked.”

  Miss Kemp released her hold on him, paced a few steps away, then pivoted to face him again. “I don’t trust Elmer Beekman or Clarence Ormandy to be of much use. Elmer would say a prayer, then hide his head in the sand, and Clarence would run to his mother. Mrs. Ormandy would never risk her position in Honey Grove society by taking up for a pair of girls touched by scandal, even if one of them happened to be married to her beloved Clarence. She’d more likely use her influence to have the marriage annulled. And while I believe in prayer and utilize that weapon every day, when one faces Goliath, it’s best to have a rock in the sling.”

  And he was the rock she planned to have on hand.

 
Zach frowned. Elmer and Clarence had to be the two biggest milksops in Fannin County. What was Abigail thinking? They’d be of no help whatsoever.

  Which was why she came to you first, knucklehead.

  Zach turned his back on Rosalind Kemp, unfolded his arms, and braced his palms against the surface of his workbench. His fingers gripped the wood tighter than the vise jutting out from the side.

  This wasn’t his problem. His knuckles whitened. It wasn’t. His shoulders hunched. His head dropped. It wasn’t. His eyes closed.

  Mistake.

  Images popped up behind his lids. Evie. A distraught four-year-old girl with mismatched eyes, unwanted by adoptive families and in need of a big brother’s protection and guidance. Then there was Seth. Asthmatic, weak, wouldn’t last through the year without someone looking out for him. They hadn’t been Zach’s problem either. Not until Evie’s brother saved Zach’s life, losing his own in the process. A promise to a dying kid had changed the course of Zach’s future. Changed him from loner to head of a family at age thirteen. He’d been too young to understand the ramifications of having others depend on him. At thirty, he understood plenty. Especially his own inadequacies and his likelihood of disappointing those who relied on him. But would he disappoint Abigail any more than Elmer Beekman or Clarence Ormandy would?

  He snorted in disdain. Not if she was looking for a rock, as her sister suggested. His competition offered nothing but down fluff—a worthless commodity if trouble came knockin’.

  Zach had lived through trouble those milksops couldn’t even imagine. Orphaned, worked nearly to death by a bitter grandfather, train-wrecked, and left on his own with two scrawny kids to provide for when he was still a kid himself. Yet his adopted siblings had never gone hungry. They’d never suffered physical harm. They’d grown into remarkably normal people despite his rough ways and less-than-conventional methods, because they’d known he always had their backs. Always. They’d even found love. Surely that counted for something.

  What did Beekman or Ormandy have on their résumés?

  Nothing that amounted to a hill of beans. That was what.

  Yet this wasn’t his problem. As much as he liked the Kemp sisters, Abigail in particular, this still wasn’t his problem. On the other hand, what would happen if he left them to fend for themselves, two lambs in a world of wolves?

  He’d done things in his life he wasn’t proud of—lots of things, things that made him a poor match for a woman like Abigail Kemp—but he’d never deliberately allowed harm to come to an innocent person when he had the power to stop it. And while Abigail deserved better than the likes of him, Beekman and Ormandy didn’t measure up either. At least he could offer protection from whatever trouble knocked on the Kemps’ door. All Beekman could do was be a name on a piece of paper. He’d be worthless if any real danger came calling.

  And the idea of Abigail sharing a marriage bed with that paunchy, middle-aged softy left Zach queasy.

  Slowly he straightened and turned. Rosalind stood quietly, hope glittering in her blue eyes. Yep, the kid needed a big brother, all right. Vulnerable, young, and pretty enough to cause a stir. She reminded him of Evie.

  But her sister? The last thing he felt for Abigail Kemp was brotherly concern. If he was going to marry her, they were definitely having a discussion about benefits. ’Cause not even a saint could manage a marriage of convenience with that combination of spunk and curves. And Zach was no saint.

  “So?” Rosalind prompted. “Will you do it? Will you marry my sister?”

  “I ain’t ready to say yes just yet. I’ll need to look over those papers she kept trying to pawn off on me, and possibly renegotiate a few—oomph.”

  The fool kid smacked into his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist before he had the wherewithal to fend her off. She reminded him more of Evie by the minute.

  “Oh, thank you!” She kissed his cheek then jumped back. “You won’t regret this. I know it! Abigail is the dearest soul in the world. The two of you will be a splendid pair. You’ll see.”

  Zach backed up a step, then another, his gaze going a bit black around the edges. “Hold up, now. I ain’t made any promises. Just said I’d read her papers and consider things.”

  Her smile didn’t dim one iota. “You’ll marry her. You’ve already decided. I can see it in your eyes. You’re just dragging your feet now at the prospect of abandoning your bachelorhood, but believe me, you’ll be gaining far more than you’ll be giving up.”

  His bachelorhood. His freedom. The freedom he’d waited thirty years to claim. The thought of sacrificing it again made his knees weak. He reached for the worktable behind him. “I’m gonna need a few days to think things through.”

  She shook her head. “Sorry. I’ve already given you more time than we can afford. When Abigail gets her mind set on something, she doesn’t rest until the job’s done. I made her promise not to leave the bakery until she brewed herself a cup of tea, but she’s probably already swigged that down and is making for Mr. Beekman’s boardinghouse even now. If you don’t stop her before she gets there, this whole conversation will be moot.” Rosalind grabbed his hand and tugged. “Go after her, Mr. Hamilton. Now. Before you and I both are stuck with regrets we can’t undo.”

  Zach ignored her pulling, not swaying an inch. He wouldn’t be bullied into marriage, not even by a sweet girl who reminded him of his sister.

  But those regrets . . . he already had a sizeable collection. He didn’t care for more. But what of his freedom?

  A picture of Elmer Beekman standing before a preacher with Abigail Kemp rose in his mind. The bald pudding of a fellow putting his hands on her and leaning in for a kiss . . .

  Zach clenched his fists and marched toward the door of the shed.

  Some crimes were just too great for a man to stand by and take no action.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Providence must have taken pity on Abigail, for she ran across Elmer Beekman in the lane outside his boardinghouse, giving her the chance to conduct her awkward interview in the relative privacy of the outdoors instead of the overheated parlor where any of the other residents might overhear.

  “Mr. Beekman,” she called, lengthening her stride as she came up behind him. When he turned, she plastered a smile to her face and waved. “Just the man I wanted to see. Might I have a word?”

  He dipped his chin as she closed the remaining distance. “Of course, Miss Kemp. How can I be of service?”

  The potency of his breath apparently didn’t wane during the course of the day. Unfortunate. She’d hoped . . . never mind what she’d hoped. She’d just invest in mint tooth powder or something. She would not be deterred from her course. Though it might be prudent to put a bit more distance between herself and her intended.

  Abigail leaned back slightly, careful to keep her smile in place. “I find myself in a rather difficult predicament,” she confided, “but you have the power to set it all to rights, Mr. Beekman.”

  His eyes widened. “Me?” He looked bewildered and not a little alarmed.

  Botheration. She’d been hoping to inspire heroism, not terror.

  Abigail took hold of his arm. “Don’t worry. There are no actual dragons to slay, but I do find myself in need of your assistance.” She tried to look as helpless as possible and even batted her lashes once. Desperate times called for desperate measures, after all. “Is there someplace we can speak? Privately?”

  He blinked as if he couldn’t quite make sense of the woman before him, but his kind heart took over. He patted her hand, then offered his arm for her to take in a more conventional manner. “Of course. There’s a bench here, around the oak. Why don’t we sit?”

  “Perfect!” Abigail allowed him to lead her toward the slender oak that shaded the side of the boardinghouse. Someone had built a circular bench around the base of the trunk, creating a quiet place for reading or conversing.

  She swept her skirts beneath her and took a seat, trying not to notice the way th
e buttons on her companion’s vest strained as he sat. She could make him new ones that fit better, emphasizing his stature instead of his girth. Well, maybe not his stature. He was actually an inch or two shorter than her. Maybe she could simply let out the side seams. She knew firsthand how uncomfortable clothes that were made with average measurements in mind could be. They pinched in all the worst places and pooched in others. Thankfully, she had a sister who was a whiz with a needle and who had taught her the art of fitting clothes to the body she had instead of trying to stuff her body into patterns made for someone else’s shape. Abigail could do the same for Mr. Beekman.

  Feeling a renewed comradery with the man at her side, Abigail smiled with genuine warmth.

  “How can I be of help to you, Miss Kemp?” His brown eyes had a lovely softness to them. Perhaps if she focused on his eyes, hers would be less likely to water when he spoke.

  She pulled her satchel across her lap to retrieve her papers. Hoping he wouldn’t notice their slightly crinkled state and realize he wasn’t the first would-be rescuer she’d approached, she slid them out of the bag.

  “You might not be aware,” she began, “but the city council has chosen to enforce an outdated law prohibiting women from—”

  “There you are, Miss Kemp.” A shadow fell over her. A large shadow with considerable stature and a broadness to its outline that made her words stick to the roof of her mouth. “Not trying to give my contract to another fellow before I have the chance to read all the details, are you? That’s not very sporting.”

  “Mr. H-Hamilton!” Elmer Beekman lurched to his feet and backpedaled as if the papers the lumberman reached for were a pair of loaded six-guns.