“Do you believe things happen for a reason?” She didn’t look at him when she asked. In fact, she took a step away from him and fisted her hands. Slowly, she pivoted to face the tree that seemed to be the cause of her distress.
Not knowing what else to do—and not wanting to risk disaster by opening his mouth—Zach stepped up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. I’m here, he tried to convey. I’ve got your back.
“Of all the places you could have brought me, you chose this spot. I think it’s a sign.”
Yeah, a sign that he shouldn’t have taken romantic advice from his sawdust-for-brains partner.
“A sign that we shouldn’t deepen our physical intimacies when secrets linger between us.”
Zach stiffened. Did she know? Had she somehow figured out who he was and what he’d done when she found his father’s playing cards? He fought not to pinch her shoulders as tension radiated from his neck down through his back, shooting along his arms all the way to his fingertips.
Her shoulders lifted beneath his palms as if in response to the weight of his fear. But no. She was only inhaling. A heartbeat later, the air released from her lungs, and her shoulders sagged back into place.
“There’s something about me you don’t know, Zach. Something that might . . . might change your opinion of me.”
It took a minute for her words to penetrate his dread-filled brain. Once they did, his relief was so great, he almost forgot that his wife was on the cusp of telling him something important. Scraping his focus off himself and placing it back on her where it belonged, he gave her shoulders an encouraging squeeze and rubbed gently at the tightness he felt beneath his thumbs.
“See that tree?” She raised her right arm and pointed with a shaky finger at the oversized live oak forty yards in front of them. “That’s where I killed my best friend’s beau.”
Abigail stopped fighting the memories of that day and let them pound into her with all their fury. Zach held her fast as the waves buffeted against her, his stalwart strength an anchor in her storm.
He hadn’t left her. His hands might have stuttered for a brief second at her revelation, but they never left her shoulders. Even now they massaged and supported, silently encouraging her to continue her tale.
It had been a day much like this one. Sunny. Warm. Ripe for adventure. For love.
Sophia’s mother never allowed her daughter to gallivant around with Benedict Crowley unescorted. She had set her sights higher than the son of the local blacksmith for her daughter, and she made sure to protect against any scandal that might hasten Sophia to the altar before she was old enough to be dangled in front of a more suitable man. A mature man already established in business or politics. One with clout. Power. Not a grubby urchin who spent his afternoons shoveling horse droppings.
At fifteen, Sophie was well aware of her mother’s plans, but she and Abby had made a pact to protect each other from cold, heartless unions. They’d marry for love or not at all—Sophie to escape the social climbing of a mother who cared more for appearances than affection, and Abby to avoid becoming a broodmare to a man like her father who only saw value in sons.
So when Ben Crowley started courting Sophie, Abby gladly played chaperone. It was an easy task, since they’d all grown up together and were fast friends. And if Abby harbored a secret crush of her own on Benedict, well, she was careful not to let it show. Friends didn’t steal beaus from one another. Not that she could have even if she’d wanted to. A dumpy girl like her could never compete with Sophie’s beauty. Even at fifteen, she had an elegance about her that drew attention.
When Sophie suggested they all climb the old oak that day, Abigail had readily agreed. Tree-climbing was one of the few things she actually did better than her friend, and she couldn’t pass up the chance to impress Ben with her skill. It didn’t take long, however, to figure out that Sophie had made the suggestion in order to finagle time alone with her beau. While Abby darted up the tree like a squirrel, Sophie lingered behind, not making a move without Ben’s hand to steady her. After securing a spot on the lowest layer of limbs, Sophie declared she couldn’t go a bit higher and begged Ben to keep her company.
“But you go ahead, Abby,” she had called with a smile. “Show Ben how far you can go.” Then she’d clasped Ben’s hand to make sure he remained at her side. “She really is the best climber,” Sophie told him.
And that had settled things. Abby couldn’t leave the challenge unmet, even knowing that it had only been issued to give Sophie a chance to lean against Ben and have him hold her while they pretended to watch the climb.
When Abby had ascended halfway to the top, she’d stopped to wave at her friends. Only they were no longer watching. They had eyes only for each other. Lips too, apparently, for their faces were plastered together.
Feeling embarrassed, envious, and a tiny bit betrayed, Abby ripped her gaze away from her friends and took refuge in climbing. Higher and higher she scaled, face tipped upward to catch the breeze.
Until that breeze caught her. A gust, really. A strong one that shook the tree, nearly tearing the limb she held from her hands.
A scream tore from her throat as she scrambled for a better grip. For secure footing.
“Abigail!” Benedict called from below. Far below.
She looked down for the first time. Her mind spun in dizzy circles. Her vision blurred. Her equilibrium teetered. Whimpering, she traded her handhold for wrapping her arm around the branch. Why had she climbed so high?
“Abby!” Sophie’s voice this time. “I can’t see you!”
Sophie sounded truly frightened. Abby tried to answer, to reassure her friend that she was all right—at least for the moment—but she couldn’t seem to find sufficient breath. The branches that had seemed so close and easy to grasp before now seemed miles away as she tentatively reached a foot down to a lower limb.
Another gust blew. The tree swayed. Abby gasped and instantly retracted her leg. She couldn’t do it. She’d fall.
Sophie peered up between the branches, a hand shading her eyes. “You’re too high, Abby! You need to come down.”
Leave it to Sophie to try to boss her out of the tree. Abby would have smiled at the ridiculousness of that tactic, but she was too terrified to move a muscle—even the little ones in her cheeks.
“She’s on this side, Ben,” Sophie instructed. “Hurry! The wind is picking up.”
“I’m coming,” Ben shouted up to Abby. “Hold on.”
Holding on was about all she could do at the moment. Everything else seemed impossible.
Closing her eyes, she alternated between praying for God to still the wind and lecturing herself for not paying closer attention to her surroundings.
Her arms grew weary as she waited for Benedict to make his way up to her, and she began to shake as if she were just another leaf on the tree. Thankfully, the blacksmith’s son was tall and strong and climbed nearly as well as she did.
“I’m here, Abby.” The touch of his hand on her ankle infused her with hope and security. Ben wouldn’t let her fall.
Yet when she opened her eyes, she didn’t see her rescuer. She saw the ground, blurry and far, far away.
“I can’t,” she moaned, hating her weakness but not knowing how to circumvent it.
“Look at me,” Ben urged, his voice warm, calm, steady.
Abby forced her eyes open again and found Ben’s face. He smiled, and the wind seemed to lose some of its vigor.
“I’ve got you.” He tightened his grip on her ankle. “I’ll get you down.”
She believed him. How could she not? Benedict Crowley was the most noble boy in school. Kind, honest, trustworthy. And he was here. With her. She couldn’t disappoint him.
So she gave a little nod and loosened her hold on the branch near her shoulder. With Ben’s steadying hand, she managed to make it down to the branch he stood on, and immediately wrapped an arm around his waist and buried her face in his chest. “Thank you.”
/> For one blessed moment he hugged her back, and Abby’s heart sang.
Then Sophie called up to them and broke the intimacy that Abigail had no right to enjoy. “Is she all right?”
“She’s fine.” Ben winked at Abby and reached for a new handhold. “We’re coming down.”
“Good.” Then almost as an afterthought, Sophie added, “Be careful!”
Ben stayed right by Abby’s side as they worked their way down. Patient. Understanding. Never once did he scold her for climbing too high or complain about her timid descent. Instead, he repeatedly offered reassuring touches to her arm or shoulder, praised her for the progress they’d made, and insisted there was no hurry. She could take as much time as she needed.
The belittling voice of her father that had been castigating her in her head ever since she realized her folly slowly faded from her mind, replaced by Ben’s steadfast encouragement. She could do this. They could do this. Together.
Then they dropped onto a branch weakened by mistletoe. A sickening crack. Ben’s wide eyes. His arm snaking about her waist even as he grabbed for another handhold. But there was no time.
The limb broke. Their feet hit the air. They fell. Sophie screamed.
Ben held Abby tight against his chest, taking the brunt of the damage as they banged off limbs. One slammed against his skull. His neck flopped. Then they hit the ground. Ben first. Abby second, her friend’s body cushioning the blow.
Abby was battered and disoriented, and everything that happened next was a blur. Sophie crying. Asking Abby if she was all right. Then pushing her off of Benedict. Screaming. Blood. Brokenness. And one sentence that rang in Abby’s head over and over.
“You killed him! You killed Ben!”
Silent tears ran down Abigail’s face as the past shifted back into the present. Zach still stood behind her, listening. At some point during the retelling, he’d ceased rubbing her shoulders and instead wrapped his arms completely around her torso, surrounding her with his strength, his acceptance.
She turned her head to find his eyes. “I killed him, Zach. Not on purpose, but it’s my fault he’s dead.”
Zach glanced away from her, and pain ripped through her breast. What had she expected? That his holding her meant acceptance? That there would be no consequences? She was responsible for a young man’s death and guilty of keeping secrets from her husband.
“I should have told you before we married,” she said, facing forward again to keep from seeing the disappointment, the betrayal in his eyes. “You had the right to know who you were taking to wife. We should be able to get an annulment, if that’s—”
Zach spun her around so fast, her words cut off in midair. His glare was fierce enough to fire her bread oven without kindling. She tried to back away from him, but he wouldn’t let her. He grabbed her upper arms and refused to let her budge.
“I don’t want an annulment,” he growled.
That declaration should have made her happy, yet he seemed almost savage as he said it, leaving her confused and aching. He probably felt trapped, figuring an annulment would reflect poorly on him. But it wouldn’t. This was her failure, not his.
“I’ll testify to withholding the truth from you before we wed. No one will blame you for not wanting to be married to a killer.”
“You’re not a killer.” He shook her.
“Not legally, I suppose. Yet I am responsible for a young man’s death. If it wasn’t for me, Benedict Crowley would still be alive. I don’t expect you to understand—”
“But I do.” His voice broke. In a flash he released her and stepped back. His gaze rammed into hers for a split second before it darted away, but not before Abigail caught a glimpse of the torture dwelling in her husband’s soul. “I killed a man too.”
CHAPTER
28
How had a picnic designed for courtship turned into an exercise in stripping the skin from each other’s souls? Zach blew out a breath and gripped the back of his neck, as if the action would anchor him when his entire being was adrift.
This wasn’t how the evening was supposed to go. He and Abby were supposed to be sitting on a blanket by the creek, eating fancy hotel food, and sharing kisses. Not standing in the middle of an emotional briar patch, confessing secrets that held the power to destroy everything they’d built.
Yet in the midst of that poisonous bramble, a gentle hand alit on his arm, and his barbed surroundings retracted some of their thorns.
“Zach.” It wasn’t a demand but an invitation. One he couldn’t resist.
He looked down at his wife and nearly wept when he saw compassion shining in her soft brown eyes. Like a drowning man grabbing a lifeline, he reached for her, cupping her face in his hands and bringing his mouth down upon hers.
His kiss was rough, desperate, afraid. Even so, she made no effort to pull away. In fact, she clasped his shoulders and rose up on her toes to meet him. He could taste the salt of her tears, reminding him that she’d already blazed the trail. Brave, wonderful woman. He’d offered to help her run from her fears, but she’d turned and faced them. Faced him. He could do no less.
Curbing his rising passion, Zach softened his hold and eased his lips from hers. Abby’s eyes were slow to open, and with her moist mouth still upturned, he found her impossible to ignore. He had to press two tender kisses to her lips before he found the strength to pull away.
“How do you deal with it?” he asked, his voice scratchy and hoarse, the words he never spoke aloud scraping against his throat as he forced them out. “The guilt of knowing your actions hastened a man’s end?”
Abigail’s breath shuddered, but her hand slid down his arm, over his wrist, and into his palm. Her fingers twined with his, and for the first time in nine years, the weight on his soul lessened just a little.
She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she started walking toward the creek, turning along the grassy shore to follow the stream’s winding path. She dragged him along with her. Not that he minded. It felt good to move, to have an outlet for all the pent-up emotion ricocheting around inside him.
“It’s not easy,” she finally said. “Especially when Sophia won’t let me forget.”
Zach nodded. “Mine hits me fresh every time I see Logan.”
Her steps faltered as she craned her neck to look at him. “Evie’s husband?”
“Yep.” Zach cleared his throat. “His father is the man I killed.”
“Oh, Zach.” Those beautiful eyes swam not with disappointment or accusation but empathy—a commodity he’d never thought he’d find. “How awful for you. Is that why you moved to Honey Grove? To keep from having to see him every day?” Suddenly her eyes sparked. “He didn’t make you leave, did he? To keep you away from Evie? He seemed pleasant enough at the wedding, but if he’s keeping you from your sister, I’ll grab my frying pan and–and . . .”
He grinned, then bopped the end of her nose. “No need for frying pans, sugar. At least not where Logan is concerned. I might take one to Mrs. Longfellow one of these days, but that’s another matter.”
How had he managed to hitch himself to the one woman in all of creation who not only understood his past but stood ready to fight for his future? The miracle of it made his head spin. All he could do was thank God for antiquated laws and prejudiced council members. If Abigail hadn’t proposed to him . . . well, he didn’t want to contemplate how bleak life would be without her.
“Logan’s a good man,” he said as they resumed their stroll along the water’s edge. “We might not be the best of friends, but he’s good to Evie, and he’s forgiven my part in his father’s death.”
“Have you forgiven yourself?”
The quiet question slipped between his ribs to stagger his breath.
Abby squeezed his hand. “That’s the hardest part, I’ve found.”
A thickness crept up Zach’s throat. “How do you manage it?”
“Little by little. I take comfort in scriptures that talk about how God removes our tra
nsgressions from us as far as the east is from the west, how he will remember our sins no more, how he urges us to cast our cares on him. But to be honest, whenever I see Sophia, the guilt twinges in my heart and tempts me to believe that I’m not worthy of such forgiveness.”
That was a feeling he could relate to. He didn’t even have to see Logan in the flesh. He thought about it every time he spied his father’s card case. He wanted the shame, though. Wanted the reminder of the consequences so he’d never repeat his mistake. But for the first time, he wondered if locking one foot in the past had kept him walking around in circles without really making any forward progress.
“After the accident,” Abby continued, “I stopped going out in public. I saw accusation everywhere I looked, though in truth it was more in my own mind than in the eyes of others. Thank the Lord for Lydia Putnam. She refused to let me hide away. When I stopped attending church and delivering her widow bread, she started barging into the bakery kitchen when Papa was on break. Rosalind abetted the ambushing, of course, allowing Lydia behind the counter where only family was permitted. At first Lydia tried to cajole and reassure me that the accident wasn’t my fault, but when that met with no success, she changed tactics. I still remember the day she marched into the kitchen and slapped her Bible down on the worktable with enough force to make the yeast bowl rattle. She jabbed a crooked finger into my face and said, ‘Abby Jane, quit being a hypocrite.’”
Zach’s head jerked toward his wife as she wagged a finger in the air, reenacting the scene. “A hypocrite?” he echoed, disbelief thick in his voice. He might deserve that moniker, but not Abigail. “Seems harsh.”
Abby smiled. Not a wide smile that exposed her dimples, but a soft, gentle one of fond remembrance. “She asked me straight out if I had sought the Lord’s forgiveness for my poor choice in climbing that tree. When I said yes, she asked me if I believed the Bible to be true. When I said yes again, she snorted and said that if I believed the Bible to be true, I wouldn’t be hiding away and wallowing in guilt when the Word clearly stated that there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.
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