More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

He’d warned her he wasn’t marriage material, but she’d wed him anyway. Too late for either of them to back out now. Zach might not know much about being a husband, but Brother Samuelson had given him a list of verses to study up on the matter. He distinctly recalled one of them stating that they weren’t to let the sun go down on their wrath. So tears or not, he’d find a way to cut through this wrath and defuse it before letting Abigail dodge off to bed.

  He slid a hand under her chin and gently inched her face upward. Damp lashes blinked back pooling moisture. His gut knotted, but he didn’t stop. He caressed her jawline and forced his gaze to hold hers. “I don’t care about one missed kiss, Abby,” he said. “I care about why. Why did you turn away from me? From us?”

  “Because I was foolish enough to believe that you might be coming to care for me. But those kisses we share don’t really mean anything to you, do they? They’re just to pacify your manly needs. Isn’t that what you said? That men tend to focus on the physical side of relationships?”

  Zach winced, his thoughts from a moment ago rising to convict him.

  Her head fell back down, her shoulders sagging. “That’s what I thought. If you cared for me at all, you wouldn’t keep secrets from me.”

  Secrets? Zach’s hand fell away from her face, dread clinching in his gut. What had she heard? He didn’t think anyone in Honey Grove knew about his past, but things like that didn’t stay hidden forever.

  He cleared his throat, determined to face whatever consequences had risen up to bite him. He owed her that much.

  “Ask me,” he said as he braced himself for the bullets she would fire. They might blow this marriage to bits, but he’d made a vow, and he aimed to hold up his end of the bargain.

  She slowly lifted her chin, hope warring with hurt in her golden-brown eyes. “What were you and Rosalind doing alone together in the stables?”

  Zach blinked. He’d braced for a shotgun blast, and she’d hit him with a slingshot. The question bounced off his chest with such insignificant impact that it left him a bit stupefied.

  “What?”

  “Today. In town. You and Rosalind were seen together . . . embracing . . . and–and disappearing into a stable for . . . extensive periods of time. Alone. I asked Rosalind about it, gave her a chance to explain, but she offered only evasive responses and nervous gestures. Then at the table, I saw the way you two looked at each other. Guilty glances. Secrets. It’s obvious that you’re hiding something from me.”

  Zach’s mind spun, searching for a way out of this tangle without hurting either sister, but he hesitated too long.

  “I never should have forced you into this marriage.” Her gaze slid back down to the floor, and her toe kicked at a knothole in the floorboard. “It wasn’t fair to you. My hours in the bakery keep me from being the attentive wife a husband deserves. And while I don’t believe the foul rumors that are circulating about how you and Rosalind are carrying on behind my back, I understand why they are easy for people to believe. She’s so much prettier than I am. Sweet-natured and charismatic. You could have had the sleek, spirited Arabian filly, but you got stuck with the dumpy plow horse instead.”

  “Stop.”

  Her head snapped up at his sharp tone.

  He worked his jaw back and forth, his temper flaring with a heat he hadn’t expected. Busybodies and their small-minded pettiness. Yet it irked him that Abigail had allowed them to get under her skin. And what was she thinking, calling herself a plow horse? If a man had made such a comment about his wife, he would have flattened the scoundrel.

  “Stop belittling yourself, Abby. And stop apologizing for trapping me in this marriage. I’m a grown man who’s been making his own decisions since I was thirteen years old. No one trapped me into anything. I came into this marriage as a willing partner and spoke my vows without any duress. And if I ever hear you compare yourself to your sister in such an unflattering way again, so help me, I just might bend you over my knee and take a paddle to your backside.”

  Eyes wide, she blinked at him as if he’d started spouting Chinese. Well, maybe a little Chinese would finally straighten out her thinking.

  Hoping he was on the right track, he jumbled together the rest of what he had to say and tossed it at her before she could close the door on him for good. “Some cad harassed your sister in town today, and I put my arm around her in an effort to protect her from prying eyes, just like I would shelter Evie if she had been the one involved. I took her to the stables because I couldn’t think of anywhere else in the immediate area where we would be assured some privacy. Rosalind needed to tell me a few things without a bunch of busybodies around to eavesdrop.”

  Abigail’s forehead scrunched. “What would she tell you that she couldn’t tell me?”

  “I promised to keep her confidence, so I can’t say, but I did encourage her to talk to you. Told her you would support her no matter what.”

  “Of course I would!” That fierce light he loved so much flashed in her eyes.

  “Just like I will support you no matter what.”

  She tilted her head, her gaze searching his.

  He gently gripped her upper arms and rubbed her shoulders with his thumbs. “I vowed to stand by your side for better or worse, and I meant it. But there’s more than a wedding vow holding me to you, Abby.”

  She blinked, then nodded. “Our contract.”

  Good grief. Was she really so blind to her own value? He shook his head. “I haven’t given that piece of paper a second thought since we wed.”

  Her brows rose slightly as she scanned his face for clues. “Then, what?”

  “You, Abby.”

  Her head tipped back. “Me? I–I don’t understand.”

  And that was the problem. One he needed to rectify. No more patiently waiting for her to get used to him. Time to stake his claim in a way she wouldn’t be able to doubt.

  “I didn’t marry you to save your bakery.”

  “Y-you didn’t?”

  “Nope.” His grip on her arms tightened slightly, urging her to pay attention. Words weren’t exactly his specialty, and he didn’t want to have to repeat himself. “If some other female had proposed marriage to me in order to keep her sewing shop or laundry business, I would have turned her down.” He gave her a sharp look. “Even Rosalind.”

  Her breath stuttered a bit as she inhaled. “Why?”

  “Because I’m selfish. I ain’t about to tie myself to a woman for the rest of my days when I hold no affection for her.”

  She swallowed. “Are you saying that you . . . care for me?”

  “I’m saying that of all the women in this town, you’re the only one who could have tempted me to say yes.”

  “But why?”

  Could she not just believe him and be done with it? How much explaining did a man need to do to convince his wife of his affection? He felt sweat gather between his shoulder blades. He was no good at making pretty words. The more he opened his mouth, the greater his chances of mucking things up. But she was looking up at him with such a mix of confusion and expectancy. He knew that if he failed to give her an answer, he’d undo any progress they’d just made.

  “Your dimples,” he blurted.

  Oh, good one. Zach fought not to roll his eyes at his ineptitude. He dropped his hands from her arms and shifted his weight. “I like looking at them, all right? When you smile, your cheeks crease and it makes me feel . . . I don’t know . . . lighter.”

  That had to be the stupidest attempt at flattery ever uttered. Even he could hear how defensive and grumpy he sounded. But she didn’t scoff or grunt in disgust. No, she smiled, letting those little creases dance for him, and something shifted inside him, making him feel—yep—lighter.

  So he tried again.

  “I like your hands too.”

  She held her palms out in front of her and flipped them over, as if trying to see what he could possibly appreciate. He brought his own hands up and traced the lines of her fingers, the pads of her palm. “T
hey’re strong hands. Not afraid of hard work. Yet delicate and gentle too.”

  She watched his hands move over hers, her fingers quivering at his touch.

  He searched for another compliment to give, gaining a bit of confidence at her response. But the next several parts of her anatomy that jumped to mind as being exceptionally admirable were not exactly appropriate to mention.

  Slowly, her focus lifted from their hands back to his face, and he saw the craving there. The hunger to believe she could be wanted for herself.

  Come on, man. Think of something.

  “Your clothes.”

  Her nose scrunched, and she cast a quick glance down at her plain, dark blue frock. “My clothes?”

  “Not your clothes, exactly,” he hedged, trying to find the words for what he meant. “More the fact that you don’t really care about how they look.”

  She frowned.

  He knew he would screw this up if he kept opening his mouth. “That didn’t come out right.” He let go of her hands and paced. “What I meant was that you don’t waste time gussying yourself up.”

  “And you like having a plain wife?”

  “You’re not plain!” Zach groaned. Could he dig this hole any deeper? “I’m no good at this, Abby.” He blew out a breath and gazed at the ceiling. “I’m trying to compliment you on being practical and concerned about things that actually matter instead of superficial fripperies, all right? Cut me some slack.”

  A strangled sound erupted from his wife. He slanted a glance at her. Abby’s hand covered her mouth as her eyes twinkled with mirth. He scowled, which only made her eyes brighter. Ornery woman.

  “So what you’re saying,” she said, dropping her hand from her mouth and stepping closer to him, “is that you like that I’m a businesswoman, even if that means I don’t have time to gussy myself up for you.”

  He harrumphed. “You don’t need any gussying. You’re plenty pretty without all the rigmarole females call fashion.”

  Her fingers fiddled with the shirt button in the middle of his chest. His pulse kicked up.

  “And you don’t think I’m a neglectful wife because I go to bed early and leave you to your own devices instead of doting on you hand and foot?”

  “Shows you’re sensible,” he said as her fingers worked their way up to the next button. “A well-rested woman makes better company than one who’s short-tempered ’cause she didn’t sleep enough. Besides—” He paused to clear his throat. She had walked her fingers up to the button just beneath the opening at his neck, and concentration was becoming scarcer by the moment. “My, uh, hands and feet work just fine. Don’t need you waiting on me.” Her finger slipped inside his collar, and her cool skin brushed against his heated neck before dodging away to lay against the fabric of his shirt. “Though I’d, uh, not be opposed to a little doting every now and then.”

  “Zach?”

  “Hmm?”

  Her head tilted up. “I’m ready for that good-night kiss now.”

  Thank heaven. He could finally do something with his mouth that didn’t require words.

  Zach clutched his wife to him and claimed her lips with such intensity, such heat, that their connection would surely be seared into her memory, cauterizing all doubt.

  And just in case a few worrisome breaches remained, he kissed her again.

  CHAPTER

  21

  The following morning, Abigail hummed as she pulled her second batch of sticky buns from the oven. Memories of the kiss she’d shared with her husband last night zinged through her mind and energized her work.

  Zach had been kissing her good night for a month, but as much as she’d enjoyed every one of those kisses, none of them had left her as staggeringly altered as the ones they’d shared last night. Perhaps it was because they’d shared more than a physical connection. They had laid their hearts bare to each other, exposing the raw and ugly places. Anger, jealousy, and self-derision had swirled within her, yet Zach hadn’t shrunk back. Even when the muck inside her spilled out onto him. Instead, he stepped into the fray, fought for her—for them. With the most backward, inelegant, completely wonderful compliments she’d ever received. No poet could stir her heart as completely as her husband grousing at her to cut him some slack because he couldn’t get the words out right.

  Abigail grinned as she flipped the round baking pan over and coaxed the sticky buns onto the worktable. The sweet concoction of maple syrup, brown sugar, and nuts she’d lined the pan with glistened atop the buns in sheer perfection. Judging the dozen buns with an expert eye, she picked out the two best from the batch and set them on a plate for Zach. She’d carry them upstairs as soon as she finished organizing her bakery trays for the morning. Perhaps instead of simply leaving his breakfast for him, she could seek him out and share a pleasantry or two before they went their separate ways.

  As if her thoughts had conjured the man she sought, a stair creaked and a pair of large feet worked their way down. Unable to look away, she watched as long legs appeared, gradually stretching up into a solid, well-muscled chest. When his face finally cleared the stairwell wall, her breath caught. His midnight-blue eyes locked directly onto hers as if he’d known precisely where she stood.

  “Mornin’.” His low voice rumbled, and her skin registered the vibrations with delightful tingles of awareness.

  Her lips curved upward. “Morning.”

  He didn’t say more, just took a seat on the third stair and reached for his boots. He winced slightly as he shoved his right foot in, and Abigail immediately recalled the abuse she’d dished out with her bedroom door last night.

  “Sorry about your foot.” She took a hesitant step toward him, her gaze climbing upward as he stood.

  His intense regard didn’t flicker one iota at the reminder of her less-than-commendable behavior. It just kept radiating heat in her direction. “It’ll heal.”

  Goodness. She wouldn’t need her oven the rest of the morning if this heat between them kept up.

  Clearing her throat, she ventured a step closer. “You’re down early today. I just pulled the sticky buns out of the oven.”

  “Thought I’d start breaking my fast here in the kitchen.” With you. His mouth didn’t say the words, but his eyes did.

  Abigail wasn’t accustomed to such overt masculine attention. It made her jittery and altogether uncomfortable. Yet she refused to duck her head as instinct demanded. Zach had emboldened her last night, made her believe she might actually be worthy of a man’s regard despite her unconventionally round shape. Perhaps even because of it. And wasn’t that a mind-altering thought? Zach might actually prefer abundant curves to wispy waists and delicate features. As much as that contradicted her previous experience with men, she could no longer deny the possibility. After all, there had been nothing polite about Zach’s most recent kisses. They had been passionate. Barely contained. Not the kisses of a man simply doing his duty.

  “I’d like that,” she said, finally turning away from his sizzling gaze to collect the sticky buns she’d set aside for him. She carried the plate to the small table she kept in the kitchen, then fetched a mug from the cupboard and filled it to the brim with coffee from the freshest pot on the stove.

  The bakery would open for business in about thirty minutes, and Rosalind would soon bustle between the kitchen and the shop as she tended to customers. But for now, Abigail and Zach had a few private moments.

  “Sit with me?” Zach held out the second chair.

  She nodded. All of her breakfast items were done and cooling. She’d need to arrange them on the trays and move them to the display case in the shop, but that could wait a few minutes.

  Abigail seated herself across from him, her gaze raking his features while he turned his attention to his breakfast. Broad shoulders encased in blue cotton, nearly black hair in need of a trim curling slightly behind his ears, tanned swarthy skin, dark whiskers shadowing his square jaw. He hadn’t shaved. He must have changed his morning routine to accommodate
having breakfast with her. Her heart warmed at the thought.

  She watched as he sipped his coffee, deciding that she liked his dark scruff. It enhanced his rugged appeal. Made him look just the tiniest bit dangerous. Though not to her. Never to her. He was her protector, only dangerous to those who threatened what belonged to him. And she belonged to him. While some independent women who ran their own businesses and made their own decisions might balk at that rather primitive idea, the concept secretly thrilled Abigail, because she knew that he belonged to her as well. Equal partners. Mutual respect. Belonging wasn’t ownership, it was relationship. A relationship she very much wanted to build with Zacharias Hamilton.

  He’d finished his first bun while she wool-gathered. Embarrassed to have made no effort to converse, Abigail frantically dug around for something to say, latching on to the item most on the town’s mind of late.

  “Will Mr. Sinclair be closing the lumberyard early this Saturday for the Fourth of July celebration?”

  “Yep.” Zach wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then reached for his coffee. “If we can get the order for the James Gilmer house filled by Friday, we’ll take the entire day off.”

  She smiled. “That’s wonderful! I’m glad you’ll have time to relax and enjoy the festivities.”

  The coffee halted halfway to his mouth. “I thought we’d be enjoying the festivities together.”

  “I’ll be there,” Abigail hedged. “Eventually.”

  Zach set the coffee cup down with a thunk and shot her a frown.

  “Holidays and special events bring so many people to town that the businesses on the square remain open late into the afternoon.” She shrugged in apology. “I make some of my best profits in the hours before and after the Fourth of July parade.”

  “Then I guess you better give me some pointers on how to help in the shop.”

  Help in the . . . ? Abigail blinked. Surely she’d misunderstood. Zach didn’t know the first thing about baking, and he certainly wasn’t the sociable type to chat up customers while they stood in line. And picturing him in an apron was ludicrous in the extreme. Her father might have worn one, but Zach? Abigail bit back a giggle.