Her son leapt from his chair and retrieved the fallen spoon. When he handed it back to her, however, his mother arched a brow in disapproval. Clarence circled back to his seat, his face red. But then he brightened. He passed his unused teaspoon across the table to her and claimed the fallen spoon for himself, taking a moment to wipe invisible dust off it with his napkin before searching his matriarch’s face for approval.
This time it came. A hint of a smile and a nod, much like a pat on the head for a well-trained pup. Abigail half-expected to hear the thump of a wagging tail against her floorboards.
With a barely perceptible twist of her chin, Madeline Ormandy arrowed a barbed glance at Abigail. With nothing more than a lift of her brow, she made her position clear. Clarence might enjoy Abigail’s croissants, but he wouldn’t be turning his attentions in a direction Madeline did not approve. And a baker’s daughter did not qualify for Madeline’s approval. Abigail doubted any woman did.
Pretending to be oblivious of the meaning behind the motherly glare, Abigail smiled sweetly before turning her attention to straightening a tray of cheese scones in her display case. Perhaps she should remove Clarence from her list of potential grooms. In his mother’s absence, he had actually flirted with Abigail a time or two over the bakery counter, so she’d initially thought him the most likely to say yes to her unconventional proposal, but now she felt it prudent to recalculate. Even if she could convince Clarence to marry her against his mother’s wishes, Abigail doubted she could shift his loyalties enough to be effective. More than likely she’d inherit a mother-in-law who would not only try to run her son’s life but her daughter-in-law’s as well. That would never do. The whole reason Abigail was seeking a husband in the first place was to retain control of her family’s bakery. Autonomy and authority were key, and with Madeline Ormandy in the picture, Abigail’s sovereignty would be constantly threatened.
Which left Bachelor Number Three. Zacharias Hamilton. A man who met none of her qualifications save one—he was single.
Abigail finished straightening the scone tray and angled her attention discreetly toward the dark-haired man in the far corner. He always sat there, in the shadows, back against the wall, as far from the other patrons as he could get. He ordered the same thing every day: two sticky buns and black coffee. She’d taken to having it waiting for him at seven thirty each weekday before his shift started at Sinclair’s Lumberyard at eight. He’d come in, take off his hat, and look her way. She’d smile, walk the plate over to his corner table, and pour his coffee. He’d nod and take his seat. When finished, he’d leave the payment on the table along with a tip, stand, catch her eye, and nod his thanks as he fit his hat back onto his head and ambled out the door. No words required.
After attempting to make polite conversation with him and receiving little to no response when he first started coming in, like any savvy businesswoman, she’d noted her customer’s preference and made adjustments. They might not speak, but they were at ease in each other’s company, like old friends who knew what the other was thinking. At least when it came to breakfast. He was a complete mystery to her in every other regard. Yet when his gaze sought hers, either when arriving or departing, little flutters danced in her chest.
It was silly, she knew. Mr. Hamilton appreciated her sticky buns, not her person. Ruggedly handsome men didn’t seek out plain, plump dough slingers for anything other than baked goods. Nevertheless, those silly flutters had her adding the completely unbiddable, and therefore unsuitable, man to her list of matrimonial candidates.
Abigail’s younger sister materialized at her side. “Have you made your decision yet?” Coffeepot in one hand, teapot in the other, Rosalind Kemp paused behind the counter before heading out to refill their customers’ cups. “We’re running out of time.”
“I know.” Abigail rubbed an itchy spot on her nose before recalling the flour still on her hands. She’d been kneading the yeast dough that had risen overnight so she could separate it out into loaf pans for a second rise when she’d heard the Ormandys come in. Mrs. Ormandy’s demanding tones were impossible to mistake. Realizing all three of her bachelors had converged on her shop at once, she’d abandoned her loaves to take stock of the potential grooms on the other side of the counter.
“Here.” Rosalind set down the teapot and retrieved a lacy handkerchief from her skirt pocket. She made short work of wiping the flour from Abigail’s face, then, with a considering look, tugged a few wisps of hair free of Abigail’s bun and twisted each tendril around her finger—as if that would do any good. Abigail’s hair was as straight as a stick. Rosalind gave Abby’s cheeks a pinch before stepping back. “That’s better.” She smiled, true affection shining through. “Just flash those dimples, and whichever one you choose will be helpless to resist.”
“Right.” Abigail snorted softly.
Rosalind was the pretty one of the family. Curves in all the right places, thick golden waves of hair that looked gorgeous even when falling out of their pins, wide blue eyes framed by dark lashes, and delicate facial features that were purely angelic, much like the heart that beat beneath her beautiful exterior.
Abby also possessed her fair share of curves, only they centered around her belly and caboose instead of the areas known to draw a man’s eye. Her sturdy frame and independent spirit offered little enticement to the male population of Honey Grove, but that failed to signify. She didn’t plan on offering her meager charms as bait for the marriage hook. In fact, she much preferred a business arrangement that circumvented physical appetites altogether. Well, non-stomach-related appetites, anyway. She’d gladly use her baked goods as bribery.
“Don’t scoff,” Rosalind said, her brows dipping down to scrunch the skin above the bridge of her nose. Even her scowls were adorable. “You know I’ve always envied your dimples. When you smile, the entire room lights up. Any man who fails to see that beauty is a dolt. And really, you don’t want to saddle yourself with a dolt.”
Abigail chuckled. “I love you, Rosie.”
Her sister grinned. “I love you too.” She stepped back to Abigail’s side and scanned the handful of tables. “Now, who’s it going to be?”
“I don’t know.” Abigail sighed. “Who would you pick?”
“Mr. Hamilton, no question.”
Abigail’s gaze swung to the dark-haired man in black. “Because he’s the best-looking?”
“No.” Rosalind shook her head emphatically. “Because he’s the scariest.”
Abigail’s attention jerked to her sister. “Why would you want to marry someone who scares you?”
An odd look crossed Rosalind’s face, but it vanished before Abigail could interpret it. Then Rosie’s charm took over, and Abigail decided she must have imagined the tension.
“Oh, not scary to me.” Rosalind met her sister’s gaze. “Scary to the town council. If you’re going to win the fight to save our bakery, you need a warrior on your side. Elmer’s a cream puff—sweet and all, but hardly one to stand up to a challenge. And Clarence? Well, his mama could scare the starch out of the city council’s collars, but Clarence himself would fold at the first nudge. Mr. Hamilton might be a lone wolf, but he strikes me as the type who would defend his territory vigorously. Get him on your side, and the city council won’t stand a chance.”
The man in question scooted back his chair and stood, his height impressive, his shoulders broad, his movements panther-like in their grace as he collected his hat and slid his chair back under the small round table. Her sister might have a point. This wasn’t a man others dismissed. If he were her champion . . .
His gaze met hers, and those annoying flutters immediately lurched into chaotic flight, ricocheting off her ribs and ratcheting up her pulse. Zacharias Hamilton fit his hat to his head, then tipped the brim in her direction. Hers. Not Rosalind’s. How had she never noticed that before? He nodded politely to Rosie, of course—no gentleman would offend a lady by ignoring her completely—but his gaze had sought Abigail’s first.
If he had more appreciation for a well-made sticky bun than youthful beauty, Abigail’s prospects might not be quite as dire as she feared.
CHAPTER
3
Zach Hamilton strolled the two blocks between the bakery and Sinclair’s Lumberyard with a heavier step than usual. Something had been off with Miss Kemp today. Nothing he could put a finger on—the buns had melted in his mouth as always, the coffee scalded his gullet just the way he liked, she’d smiled at him as she did every day—but the atmosphere had felt . . . weighted.
He shook his head as he crossed Market Street, sidestepping a man on horseback and waving absently to Mr. Gordon, who was unlocking the corner hardware shop.
Miss Kemp and her weighted atmosphere were none of his concern. Zach’s days of getting involved in other people’s troubles were past. He’d done his duty. More than his duty. Now that he’d started carving out the freedom he’d craved his entire life, nothing would lure him off his path. Not even a pair of dimples and golden-brown eyes that matched his favorite breakfast food.
After thirty years of life, he was finally his own man, free to pursue his dreams, his goals. No harsh taskmaster of a grandfather working him into the ground, no orphanage matron dictating his every waking moment, no younger siblings depending on him for their survival. Not that he begrudged Evie or Seth the years he’d spent looking out for them. As families went, they were better than most. A little naggy from time to time, but they always had his back.
Even when he didn’t deserve it.
Zach slammed the door on that bit of discomfort from the past and concentrated instead on the future he’d plotted for himself. One that entailed freedom, financial security, and absolutely no farming. He’d choose sawdust over dirt clods every day of the week.
Perhaps living unencumbered wasn’t the grandest of aspirations, but for a fellow who’d spent his entire life gritting his teeth as circumstances dictated his path, having the freedom to make decisions as they came without worrying about how his choices might impact anyone other than himself was a luxury that would never grow tiresome. If he wanted to leave the lumberyard and take a job laying track for the railroad, he could. If he decided to ride down to Galveston and catch a ship bound for England in order to see the queen, no one would stop him. Not that he had any desire to do either of those things, but simply knowing that he could gave him a level of contentment he’d never enjoyed before. Strange how light a man could feel without the weight of obligation pressing down on him.
As Sixth Street dead-ended at the T&P Depot, Zach pivoted left into Sinclair’s Lumberyard, opened the office door, and stepped into chaos.
Ah, yes. Last Tuesday of the month. The day Mrs. Audrey Sinclair had breakfast with her sister and saddled her husband with their zoo of children. Monkeys hung from the rafters, a dancing bear twirled amid chairs and cabinets, and a lady riding an elephant paraded past.
The oldest two children were in school, thank the Lord, but the remaining four ran amok in the office. Not that Zach’s business partner seemed to care. He tromped around on all fours, giving two-year-old Tali an elephant ride across the carpet. The little girl grabbed his neck and giggled in glee as Reuben Sinclair reared up on his hind legs to see who had entered.
“Zach! Just in time. Peel Ash and Zeb off the ladder, will you? Their mother will have my hide if they fall.”
Zach had been giving the office a fresh coat of paint yesterday and had left the ladder out in order to touch up any missed spots. Thank heaven the paint remained sealed up tight in its canister in the corner. He didn’t want to think about what mischief the twins could manage with half a can of paint.
Zach carefully sidestepped three-year-old Ephraim, who’d decided that spinning in circles until he got dizzy enough to fall over was the best game ever invented, and made a grab for the boys whose competitive quest for the top step had set the ladder to wobbling enough to give even Zach’s heart palpitations. Fastening a fist onto each boy’s suspenders, Zach swung the twins off of the ladder and let them dangle a couple feet off the ground on either side of him.
“Where do you want ’em?”
Reuben reached behind his back to hold his daughter in place as he rose to his feet. He shifted the little girl to his front and reached out to halt the whirling dervish that was Ephraim. Reuben was only a couple years older than Zach, but he’d married early and obviously taken the charge about being fruitful and multiplying to heart.
“I thought to let them climb on the wood piles until Audrey gets back, but I didn’t want to unleash them without reinforcements.”
“Shoulders, Mr. Zach. Shoulders!” Ash demanded, his little body growing heavy at the end of Zach’s arm.
“Yeah! Shoulders!” Zeb was never one to let his twin outdo him. They might not be identical in appearance, but they possessed the same adventurous spirit and rivalrous nature.
With a grunt, Zach complied and hefted up both boys, setting one on each shoulder. He moved his hands to their waists to secure their seats even as they tucked their heels into his armpits.
Reuben chuckled. “You’re a big pushover. You know that, right?”
Zach shrugged, or would have if his shoulders hadn’t been held down by two crowing boys. “I figure they can clean out the cobwebs while they’re up there. Hand me a rag.”
Reuben made a show of looking around. “Don’t see one handy. Just use their hair. Those mops ought to be good for something.”
“No, Papa.” Zeb squirmed, his fear of spiders a well-documented family fact.
Zach lowered him to the ground while his sibling, the cleverer of the two, grabbed Zach’s hat and crammed it on his own head. It probably fell down to his nose, but Zach had to give the kid credit. He’d outsmarted the two adults at their own game.
Zach shared a wink with Reuben, who seemed equal parts exasperated and proud of his son’s antics.
As Zach straightened, Ash hooked a leg around his neck to situate himself more securely. “Giddyup, Mr. Zach!” He grabbed Zach’s ears as if they were reins.
How much longer until Mrs. Sinclair returned? Zach rolled his eyes and grabbed the boy’s ankles. Didn’t matter. It was already too long.
Reuben held the door open and shooed Ephraim and Zeb through it while Zach ducked to ensure Ash didn’t hit his head on the jamb.
Steering the kids past the dressed lumber shed, Reuben let them loose in the raw lumber section. There were more planks and posts to climb on, and since none of the wood had been planed, the kids couldn’t do much to hurt its value.
Zach crouched to let Ash scramble down. The lad shot off to join his brother, who now had a head start climbing the stairsteps of wood planks.
A grin tugged at Zach’s mouth. Kids might be a hassle and crimp a man’s freedom, but seeing them laugh and play without a single care stirred satisfaction in his crusty soul. This was what childhood was supposed to be like. Not the mishmash of tragedy and hardship he’d been forced to endure.
“You’re good with them,” Reuben said without turning to look at Zach. He knew better than to take his eyes off his energetic brood. “It’s the reason I chose you from the other applicants I had last year.”
Shock vibrated through Zach. Him? Good with kids? Ha! He did all he could to avoid the little monsters.
Reuben chuckled softly. “You might grumble and grouse about them, but you let them climb all over you. You even took little Tali when Audrey shoved her at you that first day. Remember?”
How could Zach forget? Tali hadn’t even been a year old. He and Reuben had been in the midst of a discussion about buying into the business when Mrs. Sinclair had thrown open the office door, letting a flood of miniature invaders inside. The twins had rushed their father, immediately monopolizing his lap, so she had thrust baby Tali at Zach with some excuse about Simeon, the oldest Sinclair boy, having bloodied his nose and her needing to tend to him while Dinah, the eldest girl, minded the stove. In a blink, Audrey disappeared, leaving a fussy
babe in a stranger’s arms and a toddler roaming the floor where he could get into all sorts of mischief.
Zach had zero experience with babies, but he’d raised a little sister from the time she was four, so he figured as long as he didn’t have to change any diapers, he should be all right. A few bounces on his knee had settled Tali, and a quick snatch of Ephraim as he rolled toward the corner edge of the desk had averted disaster until the missus blew back in five minutes later and shuffled the children out with a half-hearted apology for the interruption.
“Audrey wanted me to partner with a family man,” Reuben explained. “Someone established, with a wife and children of his own. She worried a bachelor wouldn’t be dependable in the long run without a family to anchor him to the community. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that you were the one God meant for me to bring into the business. So we arranged a test.”
“That whole bloody nose fiasco was a test?” Zach shook his head.
Reuben slapped him on the back, finally meeting his gaze. “One you passed with flying colors, my friend. Audrey gave your selection her full endorsement after she saw the way the children took to you. She assures me kids have a sense about people.”
Reuben quickstepped to the side to take a dead beetle out of Tali’s little fist before she could get it into her mouth. After tossing the bug into a far corner of the lumber shed, Reuben turned a teasing glance back on Zach.
“Now she wants me to find you a wife so you can start becoming the family man she intended you to be in the first place.”
“Not gonna happen,” Zach grumbled. Family didn’t fit into his plans. Freedom did. A married man wasn’t free. He was tied to responsibilities, demands, expectations. Expectations that could ruin a man when he failed to live up to them. He’d tried the family thing once, only to hurt those he cared about most. He wouldn’t fall into that trap again.
“Here you are.” A feminine voice echoed from the shed entrance.
More Than Words Can Say Page 2
