Girls as pretty as Rosalind tended to use their looks to get out of work, flirting and teasing to entice men into doing things for them. But not Rosalind. He rarely even saw her talking to men, now that he thought about it. She always flocked with other women at church and hung close to the bakery during the week.
“I did something,” she whispered. “Something wrong.” Her knuckles whitened at the force of her grip on the handkerchief. “It was for a good reason, or at least I thought so at the time. Papa needed medicine. He was so sick. So weak. When Julius offered to pay me . . .”
Zach’s throat tightened and bile rose. Surely she hadn’t . . . Please, God.
“. . . to pose for a few pictures . . .”
Air whooshed from his lungs in relief. Yet the dread knotting his gut refused to completely abate.
“. . . I thought it would be safe. He swore that no one within a hundred miles of here would ever see them. And the money paid for the medicine my father needed. Abby was so busy trying to keep the bakery going. Papa’s care fell to me.” Rosalind’s head jerked up. “She doesn’t know.” She stiffened, a zealous light entering her eyes. In three steps, she crossed the stall and gripped Zach’s wrist with icy fingers. “She can never know.”
“Can’t say that I agree with you there,” he said. “Secrets have a way of eating away at a family, even when we think keeping ’em hid is doing the folks we care about a favor. Trust me. I know.” He’d learned that truth the hard way with Seth and Evie. ’Course, he couldn’t deny his reluctance to spill all his skeletons onto Abigail. He would, he told himself. Eventually. After they got to know each other better. A boat needed to be sturdily built before a fella started rocking it.
Rosalind didn’t seem to agree, though. Her fingernails dug into his skin, and if her head shook any harder from side to side, it was bound to pop plumb off.
“Don’t worry.” He patted her hand a couple times, then gently pried her claws out of his hide. “It ain’t my story to tell, so I won’t be flappin’ my gums about it. But if family’s gonna stick together, they need to know what they’re fighting.”
“She wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe not.” Zach sure didn’t. A sweet girl like Rosalind posing for naughty pictures? Didn’t make a lick of sense. Even if it was for her pa’s medicine. “But she’d stand by you, regardless.”
Rosalind shrugged, obviously recognizing it was true but still not wanting to admit her mistakes to the one person whose opinion she valued most. He understood the sentiment.
One thing was painfully clear. That Julius fella had manipulated her, exploited Rosalind’s worry about her pa’s health and trapped her into doing something she never would have done otherwise. The girl had been barely seventeen, for pity’s sake. Alone and unprotected with her father at death’s door. No one to watch out for her.
No wonder she had begged Zach to marry Abigail. She needed a protector. Had probably been needing one for a while. Well, now she had one—one who recalled a particular promise she’d made to reveal everything about her problem once he married her sister.
“So I take it this is the mistake you warned me about, the one you worried would bring danger to Abigail’s doorstep?”
The poor girl’s body wilted in on itself. She nodded.
Zach inhaled a deep breath and made himself as comfortable as possible against the wood slats at his back. He wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.
“Guess you better start at the beginning.”
CHAPTER
18
Rosalind let out a sigh, then scooted around to plant her back against the wall beside him. Taking her cue, Zach stared straight ahead instead of at her and waited.
“There’s not much more to tell,” she hedged.
Zach bent down, picked up a piece of straw, and twirled it between his thumb and finger, signaling he wasn’t in a hurry. That usually did the trick with Evie. She hated the quiet almost as much as she hated him not giving her an easy exit from a difficult conversation. It didn’t work as well on Abigail. His wife seemed to enjoy the quiet. But maybe her sister would be—
“He was a traveling photographer,” Rosalind blurted.
Ah. More like Evie than Abigail, it seemed. Zach hid his satisfied smile behind one of the bland masks he’d mastered during his poker-playing days.
“He set up a portrait studio in a storefront a couple blocks from the bakery. Families came into town from miles away to have their pictures taken. One fellow even brought his horse into the studio, if you can imagine.” Her lips curved slightly, and she tilted her face toward his.
Zach grinned in reply, but they both knew she was only delaying the distasteful part of the story.
“Julius ate at the bakery most mornings and tried to convince Abby and me to come sit for him. But we had Papa to worry about and money was tight, so we turned him down, even when he offered us a discount.” She scuffed the sole of her left shoe against the straw-littered floor. “He was always very charming and gracious. Wore a tidy brown suit with a chocolate brown tie and a bowler hat. He never flirted with me, at least not the way most men do. No winks or suggestive comments. No excessive compliments or bragging. Just earnest conversation and attentive listening. When he looked at me, I had the oddest feeling that he was . . . absorbing me, as if I were a painting or a piece of sculpture.” She shook her head. “It’s foolish, I know. But he was an artist, and his interest flattered me more than it should have.”
Zach stuck the straw in his mouth, needing something to chomp down on before his lips opened and his opinions on artists and their flattering attention disgorged all over the girl at his side. Julius might need his camera tossed off a cliff, but Rosalind didn’t need to feel worse about a situation she no longer had any control over.
“A few days before Julius planned to leave town,” she continued, “he ran across me coming out of the drugstore. The doctor had diagnosed my father with heart failure earlier that morning. He’d said there was nothing we could do beyond keeping him comfortable, but I couldn’t just let him die. He was my father, and his care was my responsibility. So I consulted with the apothecary, and he advised me on a few patent medicines that promised invigorating results. They were costly, however, purchased mostly by his wealthier clientele, but I wouldn’t be deterred. I told him I’d be back the next day with the funds.
“I intended to take coins from the till that night after Abby went to bed. Then I ran into Julius. Seeing my distress, he took me aside, and I poured out my troubles. I couldn’t help it. I felt so overwhelmed. So alone. That’s when he mentioned his side business. Photographic cards. If I posed for him and signed a document that granted him permission to replicate my image, he’d pay me enough to purchase the medicine Papa needed.”
A regular Good Samaritan. Zach’s molars ground the straw to stringy bits. He could have offered to buy the blasted medicine for her, but no. The photographer had seen an opportunity to make a profit, and he’d taken advantage.
“For the first time in my life, I felt as if my appearance might actually have value beyond superficial packaging. As if, like Esther, God had graced me with beauty in order to fulfill a higher purpose—saving my father.”
So naïve, yet the longing in her voice resonated. How often had he wanted to believe that he was created for some higher purpose? For a while, he’d found that with Seth and Evie. His efforts had been imperfect, and he’d gathered more than his share of regrets along the way, but his purpose had been crystal clear: Provide. Protect. Then they outgrew their need for him, and he’d floundered.
Until the Kemp sisters. They’d given him a cause higher than himself to serve. He might still be figuring things out with Abigail, but he knew his job. Provide. Protect. Maybe if he fulfilled his purpose well enough, Rosalind would gain the freedom to find hers.
“I followed him back to his studio,” she recounted, “and he showed me some of the photographic cards he’d made of other girls. Young. Pretty. The ph
otographs were improper, to be sure, but not sinfully immodest. At least that’s what I told myself. All the girls wore undergarments. Their hair might be unbound and their poses a tad wanton, but Julius promised that my pictures would be different. Special. He wanted to capture my vulnerability. Preserve my purity.”
Preserve his profits, more like. Zach spit out the mutilated straw. Most decent men would feel guilty even looking at a print of a partially clothed woman in a salacious pose, but a print of a young girl with innocence shining in her eyes? It would stir protective instincts and conjure fantasies about rescue and marriage. The clever fiend would make a killing.
“I signed the paper and sat for the photograph.”
Zach hated the flat tone of her voice. So defeated. So filled with self-derision. He couldn’t let that stand.
“You made a poor choice.” He wouldn’t sugarcoat it, but neither would he allow her to define herself by it. “So have I. More than once.” He cocked his head in her direction, but she kept her gaze glued to the ground in front of her. “Can’t undo what’s been done,” he said, “but you can change how you handle the consequences.”
That brought her chin up. Her brow furrowed as she tilted her head toward him. “What do you mean?”
He pushed away from the wall and turned to face her more fully. “Don’t let this mistake shape who you are. Deal with it, make recompense where you can, but don’t let it dictate your future. You are a strong young woman with a kind heart. Don’t let it change you into a weak little girl cowed by guilt and fear of discovery.”
Zach tried to ignore the taste of hypocrisy on his tongue. It was a miracle he hadn’t smacked her to the ground, swinging that protruding log from his eye while he lectured her on how to clean the speck from hers. Practicing what he preached might not be his forte, but with any luck, Rosalind would surpass his less-than-stellar example.
“But if people find out, my reputation will be ruined.”
He stared hard at her. “So?”
“So?” She jerked away from the wall, fire lighting her eyes. “So? You may not care what people think of you, but you’re a man. Your life isn’t dictated by the opinions of others. If word gets out about these photographs, my friends will turn their backs on me. Decent men will scorn my company, and indecent ones will proposition me like that fellow in the alley. I will be gossiped about and looked down upon. No one will ask me into their homes or trust me to watch their children. I’ll be a pariah.” Tears moistened her eyes. “And because of her relation to me, Abigail will suffer as well. The bakery will suffer. People won’t patronize the shop of a woman with an immoral sister. They’d view it as a contamination of their standards.”
“You won’t be a pariah. Or a contamination. Not to the people who matter.”
For the first time since meeting Rosalind Kemp, the truth of her youth hit him square between the eyes. Evie had instigated a few similarly dramatic scenes during her teen years, certain the world was going to end. But it never did. The world kept spinning, and she kept putting one foot in front of the other until things improved. Granted, Rosalind’s situation had a little more kick to it than anything Evie had faced, but his sister had dealt with ostracism too, thanks to close-minded people judging her by her mismatched eyes instead of her character. He’d borne witness to Evie’s pain and understood what Rosalind stood to lose.
Zach put a hand on her shoulder. “No matter what happens with the bakery, I’ll take care of you and your sister.”
She twisted away from his touch. “That’s not enough! I want a future. And without my reputation, I won’t have one.” Clapping her arms against her sides, she turned her back on him.
“So we build you a new one.”
Rosalind cast a disbelieving look over her shoulder. “As if that’s possible.”
Zach took a step in her direction. “Why not? We could move to a new town where no one knows us. Maybe even a new state.”
She shook her head. “Abigail would never leave the bakery.”
If the worst came to be, she might not have a choice. “Your sister is good enough at what she does to be successful anywhere. And if forced to choose between you or the bakery, she’d choose you every time.”
“But she shouldn’t have to choose!” Rosalind spun to face him, cheeks red and eyes flashing. “Don’t you see? It’s not fair for her to pay for my mistake. I won’t let her!”
“Well, we’ll just have to pray it doesn’t come to that, then, won’t we?” Zach crossed his arms over his chest.
He had no satisfactory answer to her problem, and he hated that. Hated not being able to fix things for her. He couldn’t just smash his fist into the photographer’s jaw like he had the fellow in the alley. He didn’t even know where the scoundrel was. And with Rosalind’s signature on that paper, he had no legal high ground, either.
“Look, Rosie, we can’t control the future. All we can do is deal with the present. And right now, your reputation is intact, so frettin’ about what could happen does you no good. What might do you some good, though, is learning how to handle yourself should any other fella try to lay hands on you.”
A spark of interest flared in her gaze, clearing away the foggy hopelessness that had been dulling the blue of her eyes. “You’ll teach me?”
“Yep.”
Thank God for something he could actually do. He was about as good at using words to soothe female worries as he was at walking on water. But fighting? That he could do. After scrapping his way through the majority of his life, he had enough experience to make her a prize-winning bare-knuckle brawler if she wanted.
“Taught my sister,” he said, making no effort to disguise the pride in his voice. “Figure I can teach you too.”
“When can we start?”
Zach fought off a grin. He didn’t want her to think he was laughing at her. In truth, he was downright impressed by this newfound gumption. She was gonna need plenty of that to face whatever trouble came from those picture cards.
“Tomorrow. Noon. Meet me at the field behind the church. Should be a private enough spot for a few lessons.”
“Thank you, Zach,” she said as she jumped forward and flung her arms around his neck.
Unprepared for such an attack, he froze. With his arms still crossed in front of him, he couldn’t exactly hug her back. And while she was family, it just didn’t feel right to hold another female close when he and Abigail still had distance to navigate between them.
Thankfully, Rosalind released him nearly as quickly as she’d grabbed him. A smile on her face, she opened the stall door and swept out into the heart of the stable. Whisking up the market basket, she waved her fingers at him. “Until tomorrow.”
Well, actually she’d see him tonight at home, but he didn’t correct her. Just nodded as she traipsed away, chin high, her world no longer facing imminent collapse.
Too bad his own world felt a little shaky. He’d just made a date with the wrong sister.
CHAPTER
19
“Are you sure one loaf will be enough, Mrs. Putnam?” Abigail smiled at the tiny gray-haired lady carefully wrapping a bread cloth around the sourdough loaf Abigail had just given her. “You’re the last stop of the day, and I still have this pair of rolls that will go to waste if you don’t claim them.” She tilted her basket so the rolls tumbled toward the side closest to her friend.
It probably wasn’t right to have favorites, but Lydia Putnam was such a little firecracker that Abigail always saved her for last on her widow bread delivery days.
Lydia raised a brow and pointed an accusing finger, one that tremored slightly with palsy. “I know your tricks, Abby Jane. Forcing your leftovers on a poor old lady who can’t defend herself.”
“Can’t defend yourself?” Abigail gave a snort of disbelief. “You could hold off a stampede with a cast-iron skillet and a hatpin.”
“Hoo! Now yer talkin’.” Lydia smacked her palm against the top of the pie safe that stood waiting for its new
acquisitions. “If they’d a-had me at the Alamo, Elizabeth Crockett wouldn’t have ended up a widow.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Abigail smiled.
Lydia and her husband had helped settle Hood County decades ago, surviving Indian raids and harsh conditions, and meeting the famed Mrs. Crockett after she and her son claimed land in Acton. Lydia’s connection to the famous frontiersman’s wife was significant in this area, seeing as how Davy Crockett himself was responsible for naming Honey Grove. The story went that on his way to the Alamo, he set up camp in a copse of trees filled with honeybees and found the area so pleasing that he carved his name and the name Honey Grove into one of the trees, intending to return. Unfortunately, he didn’t survive the Alamo, but a few years later, a dear friend of his, Samuel Erwin, purchased land near Crockett’s camp and preserved the name. Honey Grove was born. Needless to say, Lydia was inordinately proud of her connection to the Crockett family and found a way to work Elizabeth Crockett into a conversation at least once per week.
“I can still shoot a squirrel in mid-leap, you know.”
A slightly terrifying thought, when one considered the way the dear lady’s hand shook, but Abigail couldn’t naysay her. Not when she’d enjoyed Lydia’s squirrel stew last week when she brought a pot by the shop as a belated wedding gift. It might have taken her three weeks to bag that squirrel, but she’d done it.
Lydia set the carefully wrapped sourdough in the pie safe, then reached for the dinner rolls. “Are these wheat?”
Abigail nodded. “With a touch of honey.”
“So not only are you trying to fatten me up, you’re trying to sweeten me up, too.” She tsked and wagged her head. “If you have your way, folks around here won’t know what name to put on my headstone when I finally turn up my toes.” But she accepted the rolls and added them to the pie safe. “How’re things going with that new husband of yours? Big strapping fella. Just like my Abe. Makes a woman feel safe, a man like that.” She patted Abigail’s arm as her teasing gaze turned serious. “Don’t waste a moment, girl. As much as we love ’em, they don’t live forever.”
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