More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

  Climbing the stairs to her living quarters, her stomach swirled over what was to come. In two hours, she’d be standing before a preacher with a man any woman would covet. A man she’d bribed with sticky buns, a free place to live, and the possibility of relations.

  Good grief. What kind of foundation was she building for this marriage? Her steps stuttered, and she braced herself against the stairway wall. Doubts and second thoughts assailed her like an invisible maelstrom, churning her insides until she thought she might retch.

  Then a gentle whisper echoed above the storm. If I am the cornerstone, whatever you build will stand firm.

  A shiver passed through her, stilling her panic.

  Her eyes slid closed. Yes. Jesus must be the cornerstone. That was the only way this crazy, unconventional relationship would work.

  Help me, she prayed. Help me lean on you, not on myself. Not even on Zach. Only you are strong enough to make a marriage out of a business transaction. You’ve already performed one miracle by convincing Zach to wed me. Now I ask for another. Let friendship grow between us so we can be true partners. Teach me how to be a blessing to him instead of a ball and chain, and give me the courage to be the wife he needs.

  Friendship. She could be content with that. The little girl inside her might crave love and fairy-tale romance, but the grown woman living in the real world knew better than to set herself up for disappointment. Friendship would be lovely. Having a man she could depend on, one who would stand by her side and support her, one she would support in return. That was what she needed. What she wanted.

  Feeling more in control, Abigail straightened her posture and marched the final two steps to the landing and on to her bedroom. But when she walked through the open door and spied the bed, her confidence evaporated.

  Husbands and wives shared beds. It was the natural order of things. Her parents had shared this bed before her mother passed. It had seemed big then, from a child’s perspective. Now, as she stared at it, the wooden frame shrank before her eyes.

  Zach would never fit. He was a large man, tall and broad. And she . . . well, she was no slender willow branch. More like a solid chunk of oak. They’d be practically on top of each other.

  Abigail wagged her head back and forth, the motion growing more pronounced as reality set in. No. No, this would not do. They couldn’t share the bed, wedged together like biscuits in a pan. She’d never sleep. His presence disturbed her equilibrium when an entire dining room stood between them. With nothing but a thin nightdress and perhaps a blanket to separate them, she’d likely develop some kind of nervous disorder.

  “Abby, are you ready . . . oh.” Rosalind flounced into the room, took one look at Abigail’s face, and grasped her sister’s shoulders, quickly angling her away from the bed.

  Abigail tried to focus on her sister, but her mind remained in a fog of blankets and overlarge men.

  Rosalind gave her a strong shake. “Abby. It’s going to be fine.”

  At her sister’s firm statement, the last of the fog cleared. “I know. It’s just . . .” Her gaze shifted to the ceiling. “Everything’s hitting me all at once.” She sighed and tilted her chin back down to find refuge in Rosie’s kind eyes. “I thought I was prepared. I have a plan, after all. It’s not as if I didn’t know what was coming. But . . .”

  “But knowing in theory is different than knowing in experience.”

  “Precisely.” The tension in Abigail’s neck eased at her sister’s words. Rosalind understood. Maybe not all the details of the situation, but she understood the gush of uncertainty.

  Perhaps better than Abigail did. Abby was used to being in charge. Bending ingredients to her will, managing the business, running the family. But today, as soon as she conquered one obstacle, another appeared to lay her flat. Hadn’t she just been praying in the stairwell? Was her faith really so weak that she couldn’t hold on to her assurance for more than a minute? Thank God for Rosie.

  Abigail pulled her sister into an embrace. “I’d be lost without you.”

  Rosalind returned her hug, then stepped back with an expression that warned she was ready to lecture. “You’re the strongest woman I know, Abby. You’d be fine without me. Not that you’ll be getting rid of me anytime soon,” she hurried to clarify. “I plan to hang around long enough to make sure this new husband of yours behaves himself.”

  “That’s good.” Abby smiled despite the momentary panic that had stabbed her heart at the thought of her sister leaving. It would happen one day, she knew. But today was not the day to ponder that eventuality.

  “Perhaps I should move back into your room for a while,” Abigail said, latching on to the notion as if it were a rope tossed to a drowning swimmer. “Zach and I need time to get comfortable with each other before we . . .” Her eyes said what her tongue couldn’t, focusing back on the bed.

  She and Rosie had shared a room until their father died three months ago. It would be a simple matter to resume that prior arrangement. Yet when Abigail looked to her sister for confirmation, she found reluctance instead of the automatic agreement she’d been expecting.

  “If you don’t want to give up your privacy,” Abigail said, “I’m sure I could figure out something else.”

  “Of course you’re welcome to bunk with me again,” Rosie assured her with a bright smile.

  Abigail’s big sister instincts flared. That smile had been a tad too bright. “Are you sure? I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.” She clasped her sister’s hand. “I’ve been so preoccupied lately—first with the city council, then with this crazy wedding—but I’m still your sister. Still here if you need me.”

  “It’s nothing to worry about,” Rosalind said with a wave of her hand. “I haven’t been sleeping particularly well, is all. I know how important it is for you to get a good night’s rest, getting up before dawn like you do. I don’t want to disturb you.”

  Abigail probed Rosie’s gaze. There was something more lingering beneath the surface, something her sister didn’t feel comfortable sharing. Because she didn’t want to add to Abigail’s current load? Or did her desire for secrecy stem from deeper motives?

  As much as Abigail wanted to press for answers, two hours before her wedding wasn’t the time. She’d have to revisit this later, after things had settled a bit. And in order for things to settle in a timely fashion, she really needed to ensure her new husband had his own quarters.

  “You won’t disturb me,” Abigail said, the tightness in her chest finally starting to loosen with the conception of a new plan. “I’ll be asleep before you come to bed. You could toss and turn, and I probably wouldn’t even notice.” She’d been sharing a bed with Rosalind nearly her entire life, after all. Knew the sound of her breathing, the way she tended to pull the covers when she rolled, even the little rocking motions she made when she had trouble falling asleep. None of that had the power to disturb her while she slept.

  But Zach? Everything about him had the power to disturb her.

  “I have a bath drawn for you in the washroom,” Rosalind said, gently changing the subject. “Go freshen up, and I’ll get your dress laid out for you.”

  Abigail complied, grateful to leave the room—and the bed—behind. Whether she was ready or not didn’t really matter at this point. She had an appointment with a preacher in less than two hours, and she wouldn’t allow a few qualms about sleeping arrangements to throw off her schedule. Two hours left barely enough time to bathe, dress, fashion her hair, and walk to the Sinclair home with the cake she’d made this morning. She might not be marrying for love, but no daughter of Edward Kemp could wed without a cake.

  Quit thinking and get moving, Abby.

  Preparation plus performance equaled prosperity. Her father had drilled that sentiment into her head since the first day he allowed her into his kitchen, and she’d taken it to heart. Staying busy kept her focused, kept her on track in accomplishing her goals. It was during the quiet moments when doubts and insecurities c
rept in to poison her thoughts. Productivity provided an antidote, so she dosed herself heavily, attacking her bath with a vigor that ensured no hint of uncleanliness lingered anywhere on her person. She brushed her still-dry hair with relentless precision, counting out one hundred strokes both to occupy her mind and add shine to her tresses. Then she marched back into her room, purposely stared down her enemy clothed in a quilted counterpane, and headed for the wardrobe to retrieve her best Sunday dress.

  Only her pale green walking costume with the puffed sleeves and ribbons at the hem was not hanging on the hook of the wardrobe door where she’d left it that morning to air. In its place was a confection of silk and satin in the palest pink. Silver embroidery decorated the skirt in a pattern Abigail instantly recognized.

  “Do you like it?” Rosalind asked from the doorway.

  Her eyes misting faster than she could blink the moisture away, Abigail turned to face her sister. “You remade Mama’s wedding gown? When?”

  “In the evenings after you went to bed. I’ve been working on it every night since you came up with this crazy scheme.” Rosalind winked and strolled into the room. “It’s a good thing you go to bed so early. I never would have finished otherwise.”

  “It’s beautiful!” Abigail exclaimed as she turned back to the dress and stroked the soft fabric. “But you shouldn’t have. Mama’s dress was to be yours.”

  For a bride who was marrying for love. She didn’t say the words, but they hung in the air between the sisters. Their mother might have been weak-spirited, but not even Abigail could deny that she’d loved her husband. She had literally sacrificed her life for him, and amid all the grief of dead babies and physical exhaustion, she never said an unkind word about the man she married. She was true to him to the end.

  It wasn’t right for Abigail to wear Mama’s dress. Not when her own marriage was based on business. Besides, her mother had been slender like Rosalind. There was no way her big-boned plumpness would ever fit into it. Unless it had been drastically altered.

  “Don’t be silly,” Rosalind said as she swept past Abigail and gently took the dress down from where it hung on the open wardrobe door. “Every bride deserves a beautiful dress.” Her sister’s gaze bored into Abigail’s. “You only marry once, Abby, and there should be no regrets. You might be getting married in a parlor instead of a church and with a handful of witnesses instead of the packed pews you deserve, but you will have flowers and a dress and a handsome groom. Everything you need to create memories that will warm your heart twenty years from now when you look back on this day.”

  The sweetness of the picture Rosalind painted so overwhelmed Abigail that she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine her wedding as anything other than a practical arrangement. But now—she sniffed and rubbed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand—now she just might have a new picture to paint.

  “Let’s try it on,” Rosalind said, undoing the closures at the back and bunching up the skirt to fit over Abigail’s head. “I made it to your measurements, but since I didn’t fit it to you, there might be a few places to adjust.”

  The gown, of course, was perfect. No one turned a needle like Rosalind. Abigail backed up to see more of herself in the mirror above the bureau. Her sister had cleverly opened up the bodice, removing all of the material through the chest and arms that never would have contained Abigail’s bounty. She’d replaced it with soft ruched silk that looked like a cloud at sunrise. Short, puffed sleeves. A scooped neckline. Plenty of gathers to cover her bosom in a way that flattered instead of making her look like a cow in need of milking.

  Since their mother had been a few inches taller than her oldest daughter, Rosalind had managed to let out the waist and lift it to fit just beneath Abigail’s breasts, allowing the skirt to fall in graceful lines and hide the roundness of her belly and hips. The hem didn’t quite reach the floor, but that would actually be a blessing, since she’d be walking to the Sinclairs’.

  Rosalind stepped back and examined the dress from top to bottom with a critical eye. “It’s a little short and could use a tuck beneath the arms. Maybe a—”

  “Stop.” Abigail laughed in delight. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve never worn a dress so fine.”

  Rosalind grinned. “You do look beautiful, sis.”

  “Thanks to your genius with a needle.”

  “No,” Rosalind argued, “it’s all you. I just provided the frame.”

  Determined not to cry a second time, Abigail took refuge once again in tackling what needed to be done. “Let’s get to work on my hair.”

  Forty-five minutes later, with a coat covering her beautiful dress and enough pins in her hair to hold her tresses steady even in a gale-force wind, Abigail stepped out into the alley behind the bakery with her cake box in hand and her sister at her side.

  A masculine throat cleared nearby. Abigail looked sharply to her right and found Reuben Sinclair standing near the bakery’s back wall.

  He doffed his hat and made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Your carriage awaits, milady.”

  A roughhewn buckboard stood in the street at the end of the alley. Tall, sturdy, and built to carry loads of lumber, not brides in fancy gowns. But to Abigail, it couldn’t have looked finer had it been gilded with gold.

  She’d been dreading the walk, dreading the chance of being stopped and questioned. A keen observer would note the unusual style of her hair and could easily spy the hem of her dress beneath her coat. Most people would probably be more concerned with their own business than that of a random passerby, but if Sophia Longfellow caught sight of her, Abigail would be sunk. Reuben Sinclair had just removed that possibility.

  “How kind of you, sir.” Abigail smiled with genuine delight. “A ride in your carriage sounds lovely.”

  The lumberman gave her a sheepish look as he took the cake box from her and offered his arm. “My wife insisted.”

  “Your wife is a wise woman,” Rosalind said as the three of them made their way to the buckboard.

  “That she is.” Reuben carefully set the cake box in the back, then handed Rosalind up first, allowing Abigail to sit on the outside, where her dress would be less likely to be crushed.

  The ride to the Sinclair home took barely five minutes, yet it felt like days. Abigail had trouble gauging their progress, since she kept her gaze downcast to avoid making eye contact with anyone milling about town, and every time she glanced up, she was amazed at how little ground they’d covered. They eventually arrived at their destination, however, and Audrey Sinclair greeted her at the door. She showered Abigail with smiles and compliments as she ushered her into the parlor. At their entrance, the two men seated inside rose to their feet. She knew the older one must be Brother Samuelson, the minister, but she couldn’t pull her gaze away from Zach to verify.

  His gaze had melded with hers the instant she crossed the threshold, and for a moment, Abigail forgot to breathe. He was dressed in a black suit coat and trousers, a white shirt visible at his neck above a black vest. Whiskers from a day’s growth of beard shadowed his jawline, giving him a rugged appearance.

  He didn’t say a word. Just stared at her. Yet his attention didn’t make her feel self-conscious. All she felt was warm.

  Of course, the warmth might be due to the fact that she was still wearing her coat.

  Her hands moved to the buttons, and her lashes dipped to veil her eyes from his. She worked the first button free, then the second, but a commotion from outside stalled her progress. A loud knocking. Persistent. Pounding.

  “Zach!” a muffled voice called. A female voice. “Zach, are you in there?”

  A groan echoed from the man across the room, but Abigail was more concerned with who was outside. The woman seemed awfully determined. As if she had some prior claim to Abigail’s groom. A knot twisted in Abigail’s belly, and her hands fell away from her coat. Turning her back on Zach, she stepped into the hall in time to see Audrey Sinclair open the front door.

 
; A beautiful auburn-haired woman thrust her way inside, took one look at the people gathered in their finery, and threw her arms wide. “Stop the wedding!”

  CHAPTER

  12

  Zach stalked out of the parlor and into the hall to confront his sister. This was exactly why he hadn’t wired her until this morning about the wedding. Well, this and the fact that he wasn’t completely sure the ceremony would actually take place. But when Abigail gave no indication at breakfast that she planned to back out, he’d sent the telegram. Evie never would have forgiven him if he’d kept such information to himself, and she’d already forgiven him for more than he deserved, so he wasn’t about to press his luck.

  Evie wrote to him every week, keeping him up-to-date on family matters and pestering him about writing more often. He made a point to write once a month, not that he had much to say. His letters rarely contained more than a paragraph or two. Lumber work just wasn’t that riveting, and it wasn’t as if he had a social life to report on. Usually he spent the majority of his letter talking about Reuben and his brood. He guessed that would change once he gained a wife and sister-in-law. Maybe, if he was really lucky, he could convince Abigail to take over the correspondence for him. Females were better at that sort of thing, anyway. ’Course, most females didn’t run a bakery on their own. He probably shouldn’t ask for that favor just yet.

  “Quit causin’ a scene, Evie,” he groused as he wove between the spectators to reach his sister. He braced himself for either a hug or a swat, both reactions equally likely to occur. The swat came first.