“There’s a law,” she blurted. “A ridiculously archaic city ordinance that precludes women from owning businesses in Honey Grove. So after my father died, the city council gave me three months to grieve, then approached me with an ultimatum. If I don’t sell the business, I can either partner with a male financial backer by the end of the month or have the marshal close the bakery doors for me. Permanently.”
Zach frowned. That seemed a bit extreme, but he didn’t doubt her word. Plenty of men believed that women belonged in the home and nowhere else. And he wouldn’t put it past them to enforce their will by dusting off some outdated legislation.
“That’s unfortunate, but I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”
Her dimples appeared for the first time that afternoon as her lips curved in a triumphant grin. “You, my dear sir, are option number three.”
He raised a brow.
“I can’t sell Taste of Heaven. Even if I accepted Samson Gerard’s adequate offer for the bakery, it would take years to build up a clientele in another town. Starting from scratch would mean leaving our home and friends, all with no guarantee of success. And taking on a partner opens me up to all kinds of potential problems. First and foremost being that I’d have to share the profits. Just because someone in trousers was named on the deed.” She sliced her hand through the air. “Not a chance. I plan to keep all the Kemp profits within the Kemp family.”
Zach shifted his weight and leaned a hip against the workbench, interested in hearing how she planned to do that.
“Option three entails expanding my family. A husband will give me a male name to put on the deed while keeping all the profits within the family unit.” Something in her eyes changed as she looked at him. They softened a bit, her attention becoming more personal, less theoretical. “I know I’m not the grand beauty men typically favor, but if you were to marry me, Mr. Hamilton, you’d receive many other benefits.”
Great. Now she had him thinking about benefits again. This woman was going to be the death of him.
“First, I can offer financial benefits. You can move into our rooms above the bakery, thus no longer paying rent for your living quarters. Meals would be provided. Laundry and mending services, as well. In addition, I would not expect you to pay any of the bakery’s expenses with your earnings from the lumberyard. Our accounts and books would be kept separate. I’ve stipulated that in the contract.” She nodded to the forgotten papers in his right hand. “You would not be held liable for any financial difficulty the bakery might face—not that I anticipate any, but I wanted to make sure you were protected.”
Thoughtful. Smart, too. Showed foresight.
Also showed a bit of canniness. She might be talking about protecting his assets, but judging by the angle of her jaw, what she was really after was keeping her potential husband out of the workings of her bakery. Having his name on the deed might give him rights over the property itself, but Miss Kemp was obviously taking steps to ensure he had no control over the business. She had a brain behind those dimples. And the guts to forge her own path when the world tried to confine her to established roads.
He’d liked her well enough before as a talented baker who knew when to leave a man alone instead of yapping his ear off when he was trying to eat, but now true admiration stirred.
“With your living expenses reduced,” she continued, “you would enjoy increased profits from your own work. Plus, you’d have access to all the baked goods you could ever want, at no cost.”
She smiled again, and his gut clenched. It wasn’t fair for her to be all soft and sweet and tempting like that. It made a man forget all the reasons marriage was a bad idea.
Freedom. That was what he craved. More than baked goods. More than increased profits from his work. More even than the benefits he’d been picturing earlier. Benefits that, come to think of it, she’d made no reference to. She probably wanted one of them marriages of convenience with separate sleeping quarters. As if any red-blooded man could live in the same house with all those curves, knowing they were legally his to enjoy, and not go insane from the wanting.
No, thanks. He preferred to be of sound mind.
“Then there’s the intangibles,” she continued. “The marriage-minded mamas of the town will cease throwing their daughters in your path. I’ve, um, noticed how quickly you escape the churchyard when the females start flocking in your direction after services, and how you avoid most social events. Once you are off the market, the flocks will focus their attention elsewhere.”
That was the most compelling argument she’d made yet. Nothing wore down his patience faster than a gaggle of geese honking and cutting him off at every turn. He’d thought the attention would stop when the novelty of his being the new man in town wore off, but he’d been here over a year, and the problem had only grown worse. A few had given up or married elsewhere, but there always seemed to be a fresh batch waiting to whittle on him. Pretty soon he’d be worn so thin he’d snap. No telling what damage he’d cause then. Those same mamas who’d been so eager for him to tie the knot with their daughters would probably lead a campaign to run him out of town.
Wait. What was he thinking? He couldn’t protect his bachelorhood by getting married. That was about as oxymoronic as one could get.
No. His answer was still no.
Figuring she wouldn’t accept the papers from him since he’d made zero effort to read them, he reached for the strap on her satchel, tugged the bag toward him, and stuffed the contract inside.
“I’m sorry for the predicament you’re in, Miss Kemp. The council’s wrong for railroading you, for sure. But I’m not your man.”
Her face fell, though she firmed up her mouth in a quick attempt to hide it. Did she actually want to marry him? Surely not. He was just expedient, that was all. And really, he was doing her a favor. No woman as pleasant as Abigail Kemp deserved to be saddled with a grouchy bachelor with a shady past. All she knew of him was that he was punctual and liked sticky buns. If she knew the truth, she’d thank her lucky stars he’d turned her down.
He was doing her a favor.
“You should ride over to Bonham and appeal to a judge there,” he suggested, hating to leave her with no help whatsoever. “Maybe a ruling from the county seat would carry more weight with our local council.”
She shook her head. “Judge Hardcastle made it clear that I had no grounds for further appeal unless the ordinance was rescinded. Mayor Longfellow assured me the council had no intention of removing the law from the books at this time. Perhaps at some ambiguous future date . . .” She waved her hand dismissively. “But that would be too late to do me any good. I have to have a man in place in some capacity by the end of the month, or I lose my bakery.”
Five days. Actually, only three, as the month ended on a Sunday. Bankers and lawyers didn’t work on the weekend, and both would be needed to draw up whatever paperwork would be required to transfer ownership. She didn’t have many options.
But that wasn’t his problem.
Zach clenched his jaw and steeled his heart against any sympathy trying to worm its way inside. He was no one’s hero. Not anymore. Never should have been in the first place. As soon as a fellow like him tried to be a hero, he doomed himself, along with those he cared about.
Freedom. That was what he needed.
Unencumbered freedom.
“Well, I won’t waste any more of your time, Mr. Hamilton.” Her gaze dropped as she straightened the papers he’d rammed inside her satchel with his big oaf fingers. Her cheeks glowed pink, and she started backing away. Then her chin lifted, and a determined light sparked in the gold of her eyes. “I’ll be on my way. I have two more candidates to interview before nightfall. Good day.”
With that, she pivoted smartly and marched out of the shed. He watched her go, admiring her spirit as well as the sway of her walk. Regret tugged softly at him—not hard enough to make him modify his decision, but enough to make him wonder what he was missing out on by
refusing her offer.
Once she disappeared through the shed door, the fog in his brain cleared, and he turned back to the workbench and picked up his plane.
As his fingers connected with the wood, her parting words connected with his brain. Zach jerked his head up and took three long strides toward the doorway, the plane gripped so tightly in his right hand that his muscles began to cramp.
She was planning to proposition other men? What if they were cads or cruel or planned to take advantage of her business despite her documents? She’d be at their mercy.
Zach forced himself to stop, but his nostrils flared in protest.
Not my problem.
He repeated the words in his head five times before he managed to retreat to his workbench.
CHAPTER
6
She was not going to cry. Abigail held her head high as she strode away from the lumberyard. She might have to blink more than usual and press her lips together to keep them from trembling, but she was not going to cry.
She’d expected Mr. Hamilton to turn her down. Getting upset over the fact that he’d done precisely as she’d predicted was ridiculous. A man needed more than the promise of a few extra coins in the bank and free breakfast sweets to bribe him to the altar. Yet all the logic in the world couldn’t stop rejection’s sting. A small part of her had foolishly hoped for a storybook ending despite the warnings of her pragmatic nature, and the disappointment left her spirit bruised. She’d need to compose herself before she approached Mr. Beekman. It wouldn’t do to extend her proposal to her next potential groom with any less enthusiasm than she’d extended to her first.
Elmer Beekman was a good man. So what if flutters failed to dance in her midsection when she encountered him? Infatuation and physical attraction faded over time. Mutual respect and kindness made a much stronger foundation for a lifelong commitment. Besides, he’d be easier to bend to her will than Zacharias Hamilton. Rosalind had a valid point about Hamilton being more likely to stand up to the council, but if Abigail gave the council what they wanted—a man at the helm of her business, at least on paper—she shouldn’t have any need of a warrior to fight battles on her behalf.
Unless a new obstacle cropped up.
Like a peacock thrusting itself into her path.
“Abigail!” A stylish brunette in a vibrant blue walking dress and a hat sporting not only a peacock feather but a pair of dyed ostrich plumes swept out of the milliner’s shop and linked her arm through Abigail’s as if the two of them were fast friends.
They had been once, but that was a long time ago.
Abigail forced her teeth to unclench. “Sophia.”
She tried to extricate her arm, but Mrs. Chester Longfellow wasn’t ready to let go. And no one gainsaid the mayor’s wife when she was on a mission. Abigail just wished she wasn’t the mission.
First Samson Gerard had accosted her with his bid for her storefront, and now Sophia had cornered her with who knew what agenda. The streets of Honey Grove were becoming downright treacherous to traverse these days.
Sophia smiled that diplomatic smile of hers that had gotten her husband elected to office—everyone knew who the true political animal of the Longfellow family was—but when her gaze met Abigail’s, her brow crinkled slightly.
“Whatever is the matter, dear?” She dragged Abigail to a halt in the middle of the boardwalk. “You look on the verge of tears.”
It was really quite impressive how Sophia could jab at one’s weakness while disguising her barb as friendly concern.
Abigail lifted her chin. The little girl inside her might mourn the best friend who’d once shared all her secrets, but the independent woman she’d become wouldn’t allow old sentiment to soften her resilience. “It’s nothing.”
Sophia clucked her tongue. “It’s this terrible business with the bakery, isn’t it? Such a shame.”
Of course Sophia knew about the city council’s ruling. Sophia knew everything that happened in town.
“Things will work out,” Abigail assured her with more confidence than she actually felt. “They always do.”
Sophia’s mask of amiability vanished at the flippant statement, and her gaze stabbed into Abigail. “Not always.”
Abigail ducked her head. “No. Not always.” And apparently she’d never stop paying for the time they hadn’t.
In a blink, Sophia’s political charisma reappeared. She patted Abigail’s arm. “In this case, I’m sure you’re right, though. Just think how much leisure time you’ll have once you sell the bakery. No more getting up before the sun to slave away in that dreadful kitchen. You’ll have enough ready money to tide you over until Rosalind can make a match. She’s such a beauty, I’m sure she’ll snag a man who can keep the both of you in style.” Another pat.
Abigail bristled at the implication that her own snagging of a husband was so unlikely a prospect as not to factor into the equation at all. A particularly painful gibe on the heels of Mr. Hamilton’s rejection.
Thankfully, there was no way Sophia could know about that particular humiliation. She simply spoke in generalizations. Unflattering ones. As if Abigail would ever insinuate herself into her sister’s marriage like an awkward third wheel. She was the eldest. It was her responsibility to provide for Rosie, not the other way around.
And if Sophia patted her arm one more time . . .
Abigail smiled through gritted teeth. “I’m not selling the bakery.”
“Oh, then you’ve found a partner? Good for you.” Pat, pat, pat.
Abigail snatched her arm out of Sophia’s grip with enough force to cause the other woman’s eyes to widen in surprise. Then a sparkle of triumph flashed. Abigail bit the inside of her cheek. Drat it all. She’d let Sophia goad her into losing her temper. She knew better.
“Mercy, Abigail. Are you quite all right? Perhaps you should schedule a visit with Dr. Sellers to see about that twitch. That can’t be healthy.”
How could Sophia sound so genuinely solicitous while throwing verbal daggers? She was an artist. Too bad Abigail’s hide was her favorite canvas.
“Thank you for your concern.” Abigail took full advantage of her freedom and stepped off the boardwalk into the street. Sophia hated to soil her hems, so she’d be unlikely to follow. The mayor’s wife might know Abigail’s insecurities, but Abby knew Sophia’s foibles too and wasn’t afraid to use them to her advantage when necessary.
“Sorry I can’t stay and chat,” Abigail said as she gauged the distance between herself and the plodding farm wagon making its way toward her, “but I have an appointment. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.” Sophia’s condescending expression clearly communicated her understanding. She had Abigail on the run. And while she might be disappointed at having her fun in jabbing needles into her favorite pincushion cut short, she still derived satisfaction from displaying her dominance in a game Abigail had never been interested in playing.
Mostly because she tended to come out on the losing end.
As she crossed in front of the farm wagon and mounted the boardwalk on the opposite side of the street, Abigail fought for composure. She couldn’t afford to doubt herself. Too much depended on her success. Yet as she made her way to the Taste of Heaven Bakery, she couldn’t seem to focus on anything but doubts.
Why would any man willingly chain himself to her? Too fat, too bossy, too busy with the bakery to feather a nest. She had nothing to offer. Zacharias Hamilton had recognized the truth and all but run in the opposite direction. Could she blame him?
Abigail pushed open the back door to the bakery and nearly stumbled over her sister, who had apparently been lying in wait.
Rosalind jumped up from the chair by the kitchen workbench and set aside the issue of The Delineator she’d been perusing. She took one look at Abigail, and the hopeful smile that had started to bloom across her face withered. “He said no?”
Abigail nodded, unable to voice her failure. Then she met her sister’s gaze, and the
tears she’d valiantly held at bay leaked past her defenses.
“Oh, Abby.” Rosalind was at her side in an instant, wrapping her arms around her. “Men can be such dunderheads.”
A giggle broke through Abigail’s tears. Leave it to Rosie to find the right thing to say.
Abigail sniffed and wiped her cheeks even as a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. “It wasn’t as bad as all that,” she insisted as she pulled back from her sister’s embrace.
She did take Rosie’s hand, though, and held it tight. She might be the eldest, but Rosie was the strongest. No inner demons to weaken her spirit. Just an anchor of loyalty and support.
“Mr. Hamilton was kind. He didn’t laugh or anything.” Abigail took some measure of comfort in the fact that she’d managed to hold on to her dignity throughout the entire ordeal. It could have gone much worse. “I’m sure my pulling a proposal out of thin air stunned him. I’ll try to refine my presentation before I visit Mr. Beekman. Of course, running into Sophia afterward didn’t help matters.”
Rosalind squeezed Abigail’s hand, a fierce light in her eyes. “What did that shrew say to you? No. Don’t tell me. I’m sure it’s not worth repeating. Whatever she said was nonsense. You will ignore it.”
Abigail grinned. “I love you, Rosie.”
“I love you too, and whichever man is lucky enough to marry you will love you as well. He won’t be able to help himself.”
Well, that was probably taking things a bit too far, but Abigail appreciated the sentiment. Heaven knew her fragile ego could use a bit of shoring up before she tried to barter herself to the next man on her list.
“Now, I want you to go upstairs,” Rosalind ordered, “fix yourself a cup of tea, and pamper yourself for at least thirty minutes. Read over that contract again. Remind yourself of all you have to offer. Then list at least ten things you offer that are not in that document. I’ll even give you three to start with: you’re smart, hard-working, and sweeter than the day is long. You’re a catch, Abigail Kemp. But you have to believe it yourself before anyone else will. So take some time to get in the proper frame of mind.”
More Than Words Can Say Page 4
