More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

  What she had was a fully functioning shop stocked with delicious loaves and rolls. Not to mention the biscuit booth Rosalind would—

  Abigail bolted upright. “You’re supposed to be with Rosalind.” She pushed away from her husband and scrambled awkwardly off his lap.

  Zach stood more slowly. Deliberately. “Reuben’s with her. I stayed by her side until the parade was over.”

  Abigail gasped. “The parade’s over? Of course it’s over. I need to open the shop. We need whatever profits we can bring in.” She dashed toward the door that connected the bakery to the kitchen.

  But Zach ran her down and snagged her around the waist. He spun her around to face him.

  “What are you doing? I have to go!”

  “I’ll open the shop. You might want to change your, ah . . .” He gestured to her chest, a touch of red staining his swarthy cheeks.

  Abigail glanced down and sucked in a breath. Good heavens. She was a mess. Tiny charred spots across her chest, damp fabric clinging to her curves. And there was no telling what her face and hair looked like. She’d scare off the customers before they could even get a look at her bread.

  But Zach couldn’t open the shop. He knew nothing about prices or running the till. He couldn’t make recommendations or answer questions about ingredients.

  As if he’d read her mind, he raised a brow in slight offense. “I was a professional gambler, Abby. I can run numbers in my head and keep track of multiple pieces of information at one time. Rosalind told me she keeps a price list in the cashbox. I might not do things exactly as you would, but I can make do for the ten minutes it’ll take you to change.”

  Of course he could. He was the most capable man she’d ever met. She shouldn’t have doubted him. Not even for a moment.

  “You’re right.” She smiled an apology, then kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Zach. For everything.”

  He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. But she was coming to understand his nods and grunts. This one warmed her heart. He understood that her thanks extended to more than his opening of her shop. Perhaps he felt a touch of gratitude too for the fact that they had each other, for better or worse. They might be facing the worse right now, but the fact that they could lean on each other in the midst of it moved it into the better category.

  “I’ll be back down in a trice,” she promised as she scurried to the stairwell.

  As soon as she spied herself in the mirror above Rosalind’s dresser, she mentally thanked her husband again for not letting her open the shop in her current state. Gracious, she looked like she’d been sucked up into a twister. As she worked the buttons at her throat, she noticed that the odor of smoke had infused her clothing. No one wanted to buy baked goods from someone who smelled burnt. It killed one’s credibility.

  Would the acrid odor of spent firecrackers seep from the kitchen into her shop? Abigail’s hands paused in tugging her bodice from her skirt. With a sigh, she shrugged off the answer. She couldn’t control where aromas wafted. She’d closed the oven door. The back window had been broken out, so maybe that would help the smoke dissipate. God had been known to bring beauty from ashes. Maybe he would direct the smoke into the alley instead of her shop. Maybe not. Either way, it was out of her control, and she couldn’t spare the energy to worry about things she had no power to change.

  After stripping down to her chemise, corset, and drawers, she scrubbed her face clean at the washstand and examined her hair. She didn’t have time to redo the fancy braid and ribbon that Rosalind had fashioned for her, so she settled for smoothing back the loose strands and adding some extra pins. Thoughts of her sister urged her to hurry. Mr. Sinclair was a good man, but he had his children to watch out for. Rosalind needed Zach with her.

  Abigail grabbed serviceable clothing from the wardrobe, no longer caring about festivity. The brown twill would work just fine. She’d dress it up a bit with her ivory calico shirtwaist with the tiny maroon flowers. It might clash with the red ribbon in her hair, but she couldn’t be bothered with that. Rosalind needed Zach, and Abigail needed to sell bread. Who knew how long today’s profits would have to last them?

  CHAPTER

  36

  Zach might have oversold his abilities just a tad. Once he’d unlocked the front door, he gave a holler to let those within earshot know the bakery was open for business. He’d expected a trickle of people to wander in, not a gushing flood. All right, so twenty people wasn’t really a flood, but for a man who had no idea what he was doing, it seemed like feeding a multitude of biblical proportions.

  Thankfully, folks were in good spirits from the parade, and after he cracked a joke about having mercy on the ignorant husband until his wife arrived to take over, the patrons seemed more than happy to point to what they wanted in the display cabinet. Which—thank the Lord—was labeled on his side, so he could match the type of bread to the price list. After about ten sales, he started getting the hang of things.

  “Hey, Zach!” one of the builders he and Reuben supplied lumber to called out from the back of the line, his booming voice carrying over the buzz of conversation.

  Zach glanced up from wrapping a sourdough loaf in butcher paper. “Yeah?”

  “She got you wearing an apron?”

  Chuckles rippled through the crowd.

  “Nah.” A fellow from the sawmill who stood second in line called back the answer. “I can still see his trousers. But I want to know if he had anything to do with the baking. I prefer my bread made with flour, not sawdust. Get enough of that at the mill.”

  More laughter broke out, especially among the male patrons. Zach just grinned and held up a hand. “You got nothing to worry ’bout, Jenkins. Abigail made everything you see here.”

  “Good,” an older lady said as she looked up from the display case, “because no one makes yeast rolls like Abigail Kemp.”

  “That’s Abigail Hamilton now, ma’am,” Zach corrected, satisfaction lacing his tone.

  She eyed him as if taking his measure. “So it is.”

  Zach turned his attention back to the sourdough and let the rest of the conversation ramble on without him. His ears pricked every time a regular Taste of Heaven customer bragged to a newcomer about the outstanding quality of Abigail’s baked goods and shared recommendations of their favorite items.

  It made a man right proud to hear his wife praised so highly. It also made a man determined to ensure that his talented wife had whatever she needed to continue her business. As well as seeing that whoever was responsible for the vandalism was brought to justice. And not just the kid with the firecrackers, but whoever hired him to do his damage.

  A kid pulling a prank might break a window and toss a chain of lit firecrackers into a random business and then run for the hills. But no youngster would break into a business, take the time to locate the most expensive piece of equipment inside, then sabotage that equipment. It was too deliberate. Required too much time. Entailed too much risk of getting caught with zero personal reward. Zach had checked the till. All the funds were accounted for, which meant the motivation to do the deed was being supplied by someone else. Someone paying and giving strict instructions on where the vandalism should be focused. Only one person had the motivation to single out Abigail and attack her with such calculated malice—Sophia Longfellow.

  Hinges creaked behind him, and Zach glanced up from making change to see his wife sweep through the door. She wore a bright smile on her face, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and the pride already tightening his chest intensified.

  Trying not to get caught staring at his wife, Zach forced his attention back to the woman with the rolls standing in front of him, her palm extended for the fifty cents he owed her.

  “Here you go, ma’am.” He dropped the coins into her hand.

  As her fingers closed over the coins, she smiled, but not at him. “It’s about time you trained your husband in the family business, Abigail. He looks good behind that counter.”

  Abby
winked at him as she navigated into her customary position behind the counter. “Zach looks good anywhere.”

  His eyes widened. Had she just flirted with him in public? Heat climbed his neck even as an idiotic grin stretched his lips.

  “That he does,” the middle-aged woman said with a wink of her own as she stepped away from the counter to make room for the next patron.

  “Too bad he’s needed in the square,” Abigail said, real disappointment coloring her voice. “Rosalind is running a biscuit booth. Two for a nickel. Zach will be helping her get everything set up. Be sure to spread the word.”

  “I’ll do that,” the woman promised with a wave and headed out the door.

  Zach stepped close to his wife. “Time for me to go, huh?”

  She glanced at him, the joviality in her manner slipping just a bit as she nodded. Man, but he wanted to stay with her. She shouldn’t be alone after all that had happened.

  “I’ll be fine,” she said, as if she’d read his mind.

  She’d be busy. He wasn’t so sure about fine, but this wasn’t the time or place to argue. And he really did need to check on Rosalind. A lot of outsiders in town meant an increased chance for trouble.

  So after making a note of the sale he’d just completed on the ledger next to the cashbox, he took his leave. He made sure to pull the door to the kitchen closed behind him. He’d only noticed a touch of smokiness in the air inside the bakery, and no one had said anything, but he wanted to minimize the effect as much as possible.

  Once in the kitchen, he took a moment to examine the broken window, frowning over the glass littering the floor. He grabbed the broom from the corner and swept up the shards, not wanting Abigail to have to deal with it later. When they finished with the biscuit booth, he’d track down the marshal to report the vandalism, then bring the two wooden signs home and use them to board up the window.

  After dumping the broken glass into the trash bin, Zach headed out to the square and met up with Reuben and Rosalind. The kid he’d hired with the promise of food was there too, nailing the signs into place as Reuben held them.

  Rosalind stepped away from the biscuit baskets, leaving Simeon and Dinah to guard them, and met Zach a short distance from the booth. “His name’s Nate,” she said with a nod toward the kid. “Seems to be a good worker.”

  Hunger was a powerful motivator. He’d intended to ask Abby about hiring the boy on, but now with the oven trouble, well . . . Zach set his jaw. He’d just pay the kid out of his own pocket. He wasn’t sure how Abby planned to move forward with the bakery being down an oven, but if he could lessen her workload in other areas, taking the boy on would be a bargain.

  Once the last nail had been driven and the sign hung firmly in place, Zach approached the booth. “Nate, is it?”

  The kid turned and gave a quick nod. “Yessir.”

  Zach smacked him on the back. “Glad to see you took me up on my offer.”

  “I’ll be drummin’ up business fer ya too.” He shot Zach a man-to-man look, one that promised he’d uphold his end of the bargain as long as Zach came through on his. “I’m meetin’ up with my sister in a few minutes over by City Hall. I’ll get her to help too. With two of us working, we’ll spread the word even faster.” He turned a shy smile toward Rosalind. “You’ll be sold out of them biscuits in no time, miss.”

  “Then you better grab a handful for you and your sister before you head off, shouldn’t you?” Rosalind smiled at the boy, which immediately turned his cheeks red, but she pretended not to notice as she retrieved a basket and held it out to him. “Thank you for your help with the booth. You did fine work.”

  Nate might be shy around the pretty Rosalind, but he wasn’t shy around food. Four biscuits disappeared into the small knapsack slung across his body before Zach could even blink.

  “Live around here, Nate?” Zach asked.

  The kid nodded, though his gaze turned wary. “Just outside town.”

  Zach wouldn’t press for more details. Nate’s living situation was his own business. If he turned out to be a good worker and trustworthy, maybe Zach would talk to Abby about offering him and his sister a place to stay—if they needed one. Cots in the kitchen would keep them much toastier in the winter than some abandoned shed or lean-to if they were on their own.

  “Come by the bakery tonight around six. Bring your sister. We’ll feed you supper and maybe talk about offering you regular work. If you’re interested.”

  The boy stood straighter. “I’m interested.”

  “I got to clear things with the wife, first,” Zach warned, not wanting to get the kid’s hopes up too high before he talked things over with Abby, but she had a soft spot for widows and others who had no one to look out for them. Surely she wouldn’t refuse a hungry boy work. “It’s her bakery, but if she approves, you can start on Monday.”

  “Six o’clock. We’ll be there, sir.”

  “Hamilton.” He grinned at the boy and extended his hand. “Name’s Hamilton.”

  Nate took his hand and clasped it with a firm grip that spoke well of his determination. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Hamilton.”

  Zach squeezed the kid’s hand to let him know that he had some proving to do yet, but that he’d receive a fair shake. Nate dipped his chin. Message received.

  When the kid scampered off, Rosalind edged toward her position in the booth, but Zach stopped her with a hand to her elbow. “Hold up just a minute.” He gestured his partner over as well. When they both stood close enough that he could speak without the wandering crowds overhearing, Zach broke the news. “There’s been an incident at the bakery.”

  Rosalind sucked in a breath. “Is Abby . . . ?”

  “She’s fine. A young boy broke in and set off a string of firecrackers in the bread oven.”

  “No!” Rosalind’s hand shot up to cover her mouth. “Is it salvageable?”

  Zach shook his head.

  Tears gathered in his sister-in-law’s eyes, but Zach gave her a pointed look. This was not the time to fall apart. They had biscuits to sell and Abigail to support.

  Rosalind blinked the moisture away and stiffened her spine.

  Reuben scowled. “That makes no sense. What kid would vandalize an oven? There’s no flash to show off, no bragging rights to claim.”

  “I got no proof, but my money says Sophia Longfellow’s behind it. She bears a hard grudge against Abigail and is the only one with a motive to damage the bakery.”

  Reuben’s brows rose. “The mayor’s wife? Why would she—”

  “Benedict Crowley,” Rosalind said as if that would explain everything, but Reuben’s face remained lined with confusion. A thoughtful look crossed her face. “I suppose the accident happened before you and Audrey moved to town. Benedict was Sophia’s beau when they were in school. He died in a fall while rescuing Abby from a tree. Sophia’s never forgiven her for it.”

  As they spoke, little Dinah approached and tugged on Reuben’s sleeve. “People have started askin’ about the biscuits, Papa. What should we do?”

  Rosalind spun away from the men, pasted a cheerful smile on her face, and swept up the little girl’s hand. “We should sell them, of course. Come on. Let’s get busy.” A few steps away from the men, she raised her voice and called out to the crowd, “Best honey biscuits in Texas! Two for a nickel!”

  Reuben moved closer to murmur in Zach’s ear. “Whatever you need, you’ve got it. Just let me know.”

  Zach nodded, his heart twisting in his chest at the gift of unconditional friendship and generosity. “Thanks. I’ll need some time off to visit the bank on Monday morning. See about a loan.”

  Reuben grimaced and hissed in a breath. “Charlie Evans at the bank is Sophia’s cousin. If she really bears as strong a grudge as you suspect, I doubt you’ll get much help from that quarter.”

  Zach frowned as Reuben slapped him on the back and moved off to supervise his kids.

  If a professional bread oven was as pricey as Abigail had implied, and
the bank refused to offer him a loan, how was he going to set this issue to rights?

  Short of a confession and restitution from the woman responsible, he could only think of one way—one that required breaking a vow nearly as sacred to him as the one he’d spoken on his wedding day.

  CHAPTER

  37

  Abigail closed the shop at ten minutes before five o’clock after selling her last wheat loaf. Not one crumb remained. She nearly wept at the beauty of an empty display case, so thankful for the Lord’s provision. Of course, the empty display case also terrified her, heralding the famine to come. She tried to focus on the current victory, but the looming possibility of defeat proved too big to ignore.

  Would she be able to limp by for a while with the small cookstove oven they used for their personal meal preparation, or would her customers grow impatient with insufficient inventory and less variety?

  And what of the widows? She always baked extra so there would be leftovers for those in need, but there’d be no extra now for Lydia and the others. They’d survive without her baked goods, but she hated to think of them going without.

  A rummaging sound came from the kitchen, alerting Abigail to Rosalind’s arrival. Hopefully Zach’s as well. Her heart beat a little faster in anticipation. She wanted his arms around her again, his fingers on her hair, his strength infusing her. The future looked much less bleak when he held her.

  Forcing her lips into a cheerful arc, she pushed through the connecting door, the cashbox under her arm. “We sold out the shop! How did the two of you fare?” Her gaze skimmed over Rosalind, searching for Zach, but he wasn’t there.

  “He stopped to talk to the marshal,” her sister said. “Wanted to report the vandalism.” Rosalind crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Abigail. “Oh, Abby. I’m so sorry.”