More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

  Mary’s forehead scrunched.

  Abigail knew she wasn’t making any sense, but she didn’t really care. Her equilibrium was coming back into balance, and it felt so good that she nearly laughed.

  “I had a long talk with my husband last night,” Abigail explained, “and he made me realize that I have to choose which voices to believe. I can believe the ones that tell me I’m not good enough or brave enough or pretty enough and let them skew my perception of events, or I can push aside that clamor and seek out the voice that tells me I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

  Mary blinked, her face blank.

  Abigail did laugh then. “If you want to be brave, Mary, choose to be so ahead of time. I knew I couldn’t listen to Sophia anymore, not if it was going to hurt my marriage, so I told myself that the next time she tried to shame me or my husband, I would stop her before she could plant any negative thoughts in my head. That’s what I did. You can do the same thing. Just make a plan and stick to it when the time comes. It’s hard, and it might hurt.” A lot. “But it’s worth it.”

  Especially if it meant strengthening her marriage.

  Perhaps she should apply that principle to another area of her life. Might she be less afraid of sharing Zach’s bed if she made a plan ahead of time?

  It couldn’t hurt to try.

  CHAPTER

  23

  With nervous energy zinging through her at the prospect of actually planning to become a true wife to her husband, Abigail tossed her patriotic purchases on the kitchen worktable, paid the delivery boy for his trouble, then took the new pitcher and basin upstairs.

  She stepped into the master bedroom, and a shiver danced along her arms. Don’t be a ninny. It’s not like you’re planning to don your nightclothes and wait for him under the covers. You’re just surprising him with a gift. A gift that might eventually lead to covers and what occurred under them, but she’d best not jump too far ahead on this planning thing. She’d lose her courage before she even began.

  Bread won’t rise unless the baker first activates the yeast. Another of her father’s favorite sayings. In other words, take one step at a time and trust the process.

  Only she didn’t know the process. Not for becoming a man’s wife. Nor for handling the arrival of children that might follow sooner than she’d like. Once she took this step, there’d be no going back. Changes would come. The bakery could no longer be the center of her existence. Her dreams would have to adjust. Could she do that?

  Sophia mourned the future she’d lost so much that she’d let it embitter her. Would the same happen to Abigail if she could no longer manage the bakery? Would she come to resent her husband, her children?

  There was no question in Abigail’s mind that Zach would be a good father. Just look at Evie. He’d raised his adoptive sister, and she adored him. And his treatment of Rosie only bore that out further. Protective yet at the same time empowering her to face her problems on her own. He didn’t see women as lesser beings. He respected their abilities and would defend them like a hero of old.

  So it came down to trust. Did she trust God either to postpone pregnancy or to work out a way to preserve her career aspirations if she pursued intimacy with Zach? She knew what the right answer was supposed to be, yet she wavered, unsure of how reality would play out. Not only where children were concerned, but with the intimate act itself.

  Abigail sat on the corner of Zach’s mattress, biting her lip when the bed frame creaked. If she knew more about what to expect or had a recipe to follow, it might be easier, but Mama wasn’t around to ask, and as frank as dear Lydia was, Abigail couldn’t imagine seeking such personal advice from someone outside of family.

  She’d tried looking in the Bible, but the majority of the marriages chronicled there consisted of Husband X taking Bride Y into the family tent and—boom—wifedom. Sometimes on the very day the two met. There was the lovely story about Jacob loving Rachel and working for her for seven years, but nothing about courtship was revealed, only work. And the whole bride-switch trickery with Leah brought up too many uncomfortable notions about older, less attractive sisters.

  Which meant Abigail would be making up this recipe on her own.

  Heaven help her.

  Abigail stood and crossed the room to the washstand situated to the left of the wardrobe. After transferring what water remained from the old ewer to the new, Abigail wiped the old pitcher dry with a towel, moved it and its matching floral basin to the floor, and arranged the new set nicely in the center. She tidied Zach’s shaving mug, brush, and razor, then hung the damp towel on the rack to dry. Satisfied with the increased masculinity of the items, she turned her attention to finding a place to store the old set.

  The wardrobe made the most sense. The last time she’d checked, Zach hadn’t stored anything on the high shelf above the hanging rod. The pitcher would be too tall to stand upright, but she could lay it on its side next to the basin.

  She opened the wardrobe door, her gaze skimming over her husband’s Sunday suit coat and the two starched shirts that hung on the rod. Such ordinary items, yet they stirred her heart. These were the clothes of a hardworking man. A good man. A man willing to fight for the well-being of their marriage even though she had yet to share any wifely intimacies with him.

  A man who planned to abduct her the day after tomorrow. Abigail’s stomach fluttered, and a quiet giggle bubbled free. Maybe she didn’t have to plan much after all. Her husband obviously had some schemes in mind already, so perhaps she could simply go along with whatever he devised.

  Then again, did she really want to be a passive partner in this marriage? Zach might be the one instigating their romantic rendezvous, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t wage her own war to capture his heart. For that was what she wanted: his heart. He desired physical intimacy, loyalty, and trust from her. She wanted love.

  Abigail bit her bottom lip as she stretched up on her tiptoes and slid her mother’s basin onto the top wardrobe shelf. When had a practical solution for saving her bakery turned into an emotional campaign for a love match?

  The minute Zacharias Hamilton said yes. That was when.

  Add a month’s worth of delicious good-night kisses along with companionable evenings, the zealous championing of little sisters, and a large smashed foot in her doorway, and Zach had perfected the recipe for love. At least on her side. Now she just had to discover the secret recipe for claiming his heart in return. Equal partners, that was the bargain they’d agreed to. If she were going to fall head over heels, it was only fair that he do the same.

  Rising up on tiptoes again, Abigail tipped the pitcher sideways and slid it onto the shelf next to the basin. Halfway in, though, it stuck on something. She scooted it to the right until it cleared whatever had been blocking its progress, then tucked it securely onto the shelf. Afraid she might have inadvertently pushed one of Zach’s belongings to the back of the wardrobe where he wouldn’t be able to find it, she fetched a chair from the corner and climbed atop it to retrieve whatever she’d displaced. Reaching in nearly elbow-deep, Abigail felt around in the shadows until her fingers brushed against a small leather case. She pulled it to the foreground, intending to simply leave it there for her husband to find when he needed it, but curiosity stirred.

  Zach had left this entire shelf empty save this one item. Was it important to him? But if so, why had he pushed it so far back that it couldn’t be seen? It seemed an odd contradiction.

  Taking it down, she examined the small case, running her fingers over the initials embossed on the top flap. J.M. Who was J.M.? The M could stand for Mitchell, she supposed, the surname Zach had been born with, but what about the J? His father perhaps? Grandfather? The leather looked old, well-worn at the corners. Whoever it had belonged to had used it often. She eased a finger under the flap and slipped the loop free of the button holding it in place. She peeled back the flap and found a rather ordinary deck of playing cards.

  Her brow furrowed. An odd memento. S
he’d expected to find a tintype of Zach’s family or a pocket Bible or something else of sentimental value.

  “Abigail? Are you here?” Rosalind’s voice echoed up the stairwell, startling Abigail badly enough that she nearly lost her balance on the chair.

  “Upstairs,” she called, then frantically closed the card case and thrust it back onto the shelf. It wouldn’t do to be caught snooping through her husband’s belongings. Besides, she had much more important business to discuss with her sister.

  Abigail scrambled off the chair, returned it to its designated corner, and exited the room just as Rosalind hit the top stair.

  “Mrs. Gillespie insisted I accept a half dozen eggs in exchange for the delivery last week and today. I added them to our supply.”

  Abigail grinned. “She’s such a sweetheart. I’ve told her she’s doing us a favor by taking the day-old bread off our hands, but she insists on bartering whenever she’s able.”

  “Pride is a delicate thing,” Rosalind said. “She doesn’t want to admit to accepting charity.”

  Abigail met her sister’s eye. “It’s hard for some people to accept help from others.”

  Rosalind frowned, obviously sensing Abby’s double meaning.

  “Come sit with me in the parlor, Rosie.” Abigail laid a gentle hand on her sister’s arm. “Zach won’t be home for another hour, and it’s been a while since we’ve talked.”

  “Talked? About what?” Rosalind’s voice rose slightly, and an expression came over her face that reminded Abigail of a rabbit caught in a snare. “What did Zach tell you?”

  “Frustratingly little,” Abby admitted, “but enough for me to know that you’ve been carrying something on your own for far too long. Whatever it is, I want to help.”

  Rosalind pivoted sharply and crossed her arms over her midsection.

  The self-imposed distance slashed at Abigail’s heart. Perhaps she shouldn’t push. Rosalind obviously didn’t want to talk, and she feared driving a wedge between them if she forced the issue. But then she remembered Zach’s foot in her door. The easy path rarely brought healing. Her sister carried a secret that had her seeking out lessons in defending herself against attack. Abigail couldn’t just let the matter drop.

  She circled her sister until she could see her face. “I’m sorry, Rosie. Sorry that I’ve been so wrapped up in bakery business that I failed to notice what you were going through. I let you down, but I’m here now, and I want to support you. To help you however I can.”

  Her sister pressed her lips together as she shook her head. “I can’t tell you, Abby.” Her voice rasped as if she’d wandered too close to a campfire. Her eyes reddened, and her chin quivered. “You’ll be so ashamed.”

  Abigail vowed that no matter what her sister revealed, she’d show no shock and offer no recriminations. Only compassion.

  “You’re my sister.” Abigail squeezed Rosalind’s arm. “I love you. No matter what. You stood by me after what happened with Benedict. Let me stand by you now. Please.”

  Rosie’s face crumpled. Her arms uncrossed, and tears slid down her cheeks. Abby didn’t hesitate. She wrapped her sister in a hug and held on tight. A sob exploded from Rosalind’s chest, and her arms came around Abby’s waist. She bent her head to Abby’s shoulder and let the tears fall.

  After long minutes of mutual tears and murmured comfort, the two sisters finally made their way to the parlor and sat side by side on the settee. True to her vow, Abigail listened to Rosalind’s tale with objective stoicism. At least on the outside. She nodded encouragingly and held Rosie’s hand even as horror and heartbreak flared in equal measures in her breast.

  Her baby sister had been manipulated by an older man, tricked into compromising herself in the guise of helping her dying father. Yes, she bore responsibility for her foolish choice, but it seemed grossly unfair that she should be the only one to pay the consequences. A man who profited from a young girl’s desperation deserved to rot in jail, even if his actions weren’t technically illegal. They were morally reprehensible and should be punished.

  Yet even as outrage heated her blood, Abigail knew that railing at the corrupt photographer would do her sister no good. It wouldn’t change what had happened, wouldn’t remove the encroaching danger Rosie faced, and wouldn’t help her move forward. So instead, Abigail held tight to her sister’s hand and made sure Rosalind knew she wasn’t alone.

  “We’ll get through this, Rosie. With God’s help, no problem is insurmountable.”

  “God and your husband.” Rosalind managed a small smile as she dabbed wetness from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Zach taught me the most wonderful things today, Abby.” Her eyes lit up, and she bounced a bit on the settee as she turned to face her sister more fully. “Did you know that a man has weak spots a woman can exploit? Like gouging at his eyes or stomping the heel of our shoe onto the top of his foot. An elbow to the soft spot under his ribs can knock the wind out of him.” She demonstrated with a short, quick jab of her elbow into the air above the settee’s arm. “And a knee to, well, you know . . .” Pink colored Rosalind’s cheeks. “Zach said if you jab as hard as you can, a man will double over and give you the opportunity to run away. Apparently an injury to that . . . area is quite debilitating.”

  Abigail blinked, not sure how to respond to such frank commentary. “Well. I suppose that’s . . . good to know.”

  “He insisted I hit him. Full strength. I didn’t want to at first. I was afraid I’d hurt him. But he insisted. He said I needed to know what kind of force to use. The poor man will be sporting a few bruises tonight.” As her enthusiasm built at the retelling, Rosalind’s natural optimism returned. Tears dried, and the temporary blotchiness of her complexion dissipated to reveal her usual peaches and cream. “He did protect his eyes and other . . . sensitive areas,” she said, “but I lost count of how many times he took my elbow to his midsection and my heel to his foot.”

  “Oh dear.” Abigail looked guiltily at her sister. “I hope it wasn’t his right foot. I already abused that one quite shamefully with my door.”

  “During your argument last night?”

  “You heard?” Abigail nibbled her lip.

  Rosalind nodded. “It’s a small house.” She patted Abigail’s knee. “But I also spied a rather enthusiastic kiss when I peeked down the hall after things quieted down, so I assumed the two of you worked everything out.”

  Heat flared in Abigail’s face.

  Her sister grinned at her discomfort. “So, will you be moving out of my room soon?”

  Abigail shrugged. “Possibly.”

  Rosalind laughed. “It’s about time.”

  “I didn’t realize you were so eager to kick me out.” Abigail pushed her sister’s shoulder.

  “Never.” Rosalind’s face grew serious. “And if I had any qualms about how he might treat you, I’d lock you in with me. Zach might be a little grumpy, but he has a good heart.”

  “He’s not grumpy, he’s just . . . not talkative.”

  “And you’re completely besotted.”

  Abigail met her sister’s gaze. She couldn’t verbalize her agreement, but the warmth in Rosie’s eyes told her she didn’t have to. They both knew Abigail was well on her way to falling in love with her husband.

  “You made a good choice, Abby.” Rosalind’s hand enveloped hers.

  “I know.”

  She just wished she knew if Zach felt the same way. He obviously believed in making the best of any situation he found himself in and was doing an admirable job of making the best of their marriage, but if he could go back in time, would he make a different choice?

  CHAPTER

  24

  Zach pushed open the bakery’s back door and made sure not to limp when he entered the kitchen. He couldn’t have the womenfolk thinking him battered by a little afternoon sparring. But the show was for naught, since his womenfolk were nowhere to be seen.

  Clicking the door shut, Zach glanced about the kitchen. Empty. No pots on the
stove. No food on the counter. Abigail usually had supper ready when he dragged in from the lumberyard, but the only evidence that she had even been home recently came from a haphazard pile of red, white, and blue decorations on the worktable.

  With no one around to impress, he rolled his shoulder to ease its stiffness and rubbed at the sore spot beneath his ribs as he hobbled over to the stairwell. “Abigail?” His voice boomed up the stairs. “You home?”

  Footfalls echoed above him a moment before a pair of lovely ankles encased in familiar brown leather half boots appeared at the top of the stairs. Zach enjoyed the view afforded by his wife’s slightly raised petticoats as she bustled down to greet him.

  “I’m so sorry. I lost track of t—”

  He grabbed her by the waist, cutting her off mid-word while she was still two steps from the bottom. As she squealed in surprise, he spun her around, his achy shoulder and tender rib cage forgotten. The bruises on his instep smarted, however, when his off-balance bride stumbled over his feet to find purchase as he lowered her to the floor. He ignored the insignificant twinge. After their breakfast discussion of abductions and box dinners, he’d been fantasizing all day about having her in his arms and all to himself.

  Slightly breathless, Abigail peered up at him with a delightfully dazed expression, her dimples winking at him. “My! Had a good day today, did you?”

  His mouth tugged up at one corner. “Havin’ a good one now.”

  Her lashes dipped to hide her tawny eyes. The shy smile she sported widened, deepening the creases around her mouth, which immediately put him in mind of kissing. Too bad the click of additional footsteps on the stairs warned that their privacy was about to disintegrate.

  Not one to let a good hand go unplayed, however, Zach slid his palm from Abigail’s waist to the middle of her back, pressed her up against him, and planted a kiss on those plump lips just as they formed an O of surprise. The kiss was quick but mighty sweet. So sweet, he had to turn away to collect himself before greeting his young pupil.