Abigail swallowed. Was that what she was doing? Wasting moments? She and Zach had been married a month, and nothing significant had changed between them. They had settled into a routine. They told stories about their families. Shared their likes and dislikes. Their friendship was growing, but their courtship had hit a plateau. Flutters didn’t attack her belly every time she spied him across the room anymore. Not unless the room was her bedchamber, and Zach was approaching her doorway to claim his good-night kiss.
If it weren’t for those kisses, she might not know she was a married woman. Of course, she only had herself to blame for that predicament. Zach’s kisses promised deeper delights if she would only dig up the courage to welcome them.
Maybe tonight. Her pulse raced at the thought, filling her chest with those flutters she thought had abandoned her.
Could she really do it? Share his bed and become his wife in more than name? Did she want to?
Yes . . . and no.
Her feelings had certainly deepened. How could they not? Her husband had a kind streak she hadn’t expected from the gruff loner. He might never quote poetry like a lovesick swain, but he showed his care for her in other ways. Just last week, he’d snuck into her room one evening before dinner to confiscate her shoe and fix the heel that had come loose during the day. He’d returned it without a word, leaving her to find it the next morning. Not only was the gesture considerate, but it proved he paid attention to the smallest details about her. He cared enough to notice and actively sought ways to please her.
He made sure to keep all the hinges oiled and doors well-hung, as well. When she’d teased him about his clever attempt to keep her early morning movements from disturbing his sleep, he’d looked completely confused. He’d done it to protect her sleep. It was why he never wore his boots upstairs. He didn’t want to wake her. Now every morning when she went down to fire the bakery oven and saw his overlarge footgear standing against the kitchen wall by the stairwell, her heart stirred.
Yes, her heart desired greater intimacy with her husband, but uncertainties lingered. What if children came along before she was ready? Would Zach help out as much as he’d promised? Would she be able to handle motherhood and the bakery? Surely if the Lord gave her children, he’d also give her the strength to raise them well amid her other responsibilities. Wouldn’t he? Or would God expect her to sacrifice her career for her family? A shiver coursed over Abigail’s skin. She’d sworn not to lose herself like her mother had, becoming nothing more than a breeding machine for her husband.
Baking was her life. Her identity. But wasn’t wife part of her identity now too? The more time she spent with Zach, the more she wanted to be both—baker and wife. Her determination and passion for her culinary art had given her the strength to overcome opposition from first her father and now her community. Perhaps her passion for her husband could overcome obstacles as well. She wouldn’t know until she tried.
“Here I thought I needed to apologize for getting lost in my memories of Abe, but you’re just as distracted as I am, ain’t ya?” Lydia chuckled. “Having a good man will do that to you.”
The older woman winked, bringing a blush to Abigail’s cheeks, but even her embarrassment couldn’t stop her from noticing the wistful look in Lydia’s gaze as she smiled. Love still glowed within her for the husband who had been gone nearly a decade.
Would she and Zach ever share that level of devotion?
Not if she never found the courage to become a real wife to him.
Lydia gave Abigail a gentle nudge with her elbow. “Quit standin’ here yakkin’ with an old lady and get on home to that man of yours. Whip him up something special for dinner and tell that sister of yours to come pay me a call. She can help me with the quilt I’m workin’ on.”
“I–I couldn’t just foist her on you like that,” Abigail stammered. Had Lydia somehow figured out that she and Zach had yet to truly become man and wife? She hadn’t said anything, but maybe there was something about the way she talked or acted that gave her away.
“Sure you can!” The nudges became a little more forceful as Mrs. Putnam pushed Abigail toward the kitchen door. “I need the company and you don’t.”
Abby’s feet dragged as she shuffled forward against her will. “But I . . . I wouldn’t want Rosalind to have to walk home alone after dark.” There. That excuse sounded reasonable. Thoughtful even. Very big sister-ish.
Lydia cackled and shook her head as if Abigail had just added salt instead of sugar to her cake batter. “Oh, Abby Jane. It don’t have to be dark outside for a woman to love her man. All you need is a little privacy, a spirit of adventure, and a heart full of love. I’ll supply the privacy. You supply the rest. And if Zacharias Hamilton is half the man I think he is, you’ll be thanking me the next time you bring bread.”
Good heavens! What was she supposed to say to that? Never would she have imagined she’d be discussing marital relations with an eighty-year-old woman on bread day.
“We’ll see,” Abigail hedged, suddenly very eager to reach the door. She twisted her lips into what she hoped would pass for a smile and darted out into the sunshine.
Escape the only thing on her mind—well, not the only thing; a growing part of her consciousness remained stuck on that spirit of adventure Lydia had alluded to—Abigail hastened down the road, head down, gaze fixed on making sure her legs continued placing one foot in front of the other. With her discombobulated state of mind, there was no guarantee her limbs would actually work properly.
As it was, she missed the turn onto Sixth Street from Main and had to do an about-face in front of Dora Patteson’s millinery shop. Hoping no one had noticed her awkward pivot, Abigail avoided making eye contact with the pair of women chatting at the corner, parcels in hand. However, today was apparently not the day for inconspicuosity, if that was even a word, for as soon as she rounded the corner, her name rang through the air. And in the voice Abigail least wanted to hear.
Biting back a groan, Abigail looked up to find Sophia Longfellow dragging a reluctant Mary Bowen across the street to intercept her.
“Tell her, Mary,” Sophia demanded, pushing the unfortunate woman at Abigail. “Tell her what you told me.”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t think . . .” She bit her lip.
Sophia waved her hesitation away as if it were a puff of insignificant vapor. “Nonsense. She needs to know. ‘Forewarned is forearmed,’ as they say. Not telling her would be the bigger sin.”
The only one forearmed in this conversation was Sophia. As usual. Abigail looked from one woman to the other, not liking what she saw. Guilt was etched into Mary’s face, satisfaction on Sophia’s. This didn’t bode well.
“They also say ‘ignorance is bliss,’” Abigail muttered as she tried to sidle past. Her rattled brain didn’t have the wits to do battle with Sophia this afternoon.
“Even when it has to do with your husband being seen in the arms of another woman?”
Abigail’s head jerked up as her stomach plummeted to her toes. Her gaze locked with Sophia’s.
“You don’t have to make it sound so tawdry,” Mary protested, though her voice lacked confidence. “The woman was her sister.”
Rosalind? Oh, thank heaven. Abigail managed a shallow breath, though her heart still pounded painfully against her breastbone.
“Even worse!” Sophia declared. “Betrayal by family, by a sister, cuts the deepest.”
The old hurt rose to slap Abigail across the face, the destruction of a friendship between two young girls who had sworn an oath binding them as sisters of the soul. But it was fear of a new hurt that pulverized her heart like a pestle in its mortar, breaking off bits from the whole and grinding them into dust.
She shook her head. “I’m sure there’s nothing to get so worked up about, Sophia.” Of course there wasn’t. Rosalind would never go behind her back. “It’s only natural for Rosalind and Zach to be seen in town together from time to time. They are related by marriage, after all. It
would be odder if they didn’t stop to speak to each other.”
“From what Mary tells me, there was very little speaking going on.” Sophia lifted her chin and raked Abigail with a pitying glance. “Your husband had his arm around little Rosie, clutching her tight against his side as the two of them marched down the street. Her head was tucked against his chest.”
Abigail worried her lip, desperately searching for a logical explanation. An innocent explanation. “Maybe she . . . turned her ankle and needed his support.”
Sophia snapped her focus to her friend. “Was Rosie limping, Mary?”
Abigail silently pleaded for an affirmative response, feeling only a twinge of guilt for wishing an injury upon her sister.
The apologetic, slightly embarrassed shake of Mary’s head broke Abigail’s dam of hope, though, and released a flood of insecurities.
“Not only were they seen walking together in an intimate fashion,” Sophia announced, “but they disappeared into the stable at the wagonyard and remained inside . . . alone together . . . for ages.”
There was an explanation. There had to be. Abigail turned an imploring gaze on Mary, begging her to refute Sophia’s story.
“I’m sorry.” Mary couldn’t meet Abigail’s gaze. “My brother works at the stable, and he said the two of them were in one of the back stalls together for at least twenty minutes. Maybe longer.”
Abigail’s heart shriveled in her chest like a plum left out in the sun, leaving nothing but a wrinkled black prune in its place.
“I told you, you should have sold the bakery,” Sophia declared. “If you were free to devote your time to your husband, his head wouldn’t have been turned by your sister. Rosie’s always been the pretty one. You know that. Yet, like a fool, you just kept on working those horrendous hours. Neglecting the man you married.” She gave a disparaging click of her tongue. “For all you know, they’ve been carrying on right under your nose in the evenings after you retire.”
“Stop it!” Abigail shook her head and backed away. “Zach is a good man. An honorable man. And Rosie is my sister. She’d never betray me like that. You’re a cruel woman to even suggest such a thing.”
She turned and raced toward the bakery. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Rosie would never hurt her that way.
Then again, Rosalind was the pretty one. Men had always preferred her.
No! She wouldn’t let her mind travel that path.
Yet as she ran home, her thoughts kept turning down that road again and again. What had Rosalind and Zach been doing for twenty minutes in that stable?
She tried to silence the suspicious whispers, truly she did. She set about making dinner, ordering her mind to attend only to the task in front of her. But as she chopped the sausages Rosalind had purchased at the butcher’s shop and dropped them into the pan to sauté with some potato and onion, the whispers grew too loud to ignore. So when her sister came into the kitchen to retrieve a crock of butter, Abigail seized the opportunity.
“I heard you ran into Zach today while you were running errands.”
Rosalind’s head jerked up, but her gaze darted away. In guilt? “Yes, I, uh, ran into a bit of a–a situation . . . and Zach helped me out.” She shrugged. “Nothing of consequence.”
Nothing of consequence? Nothing of consequence had her cuddling up to Abigail’s husband in the broad light of day and disappearing into a stable for twenty minutes?
“What kind of situation?” Abigail struggled to keep her voice light and her tone merely curious, even as her grip on the spoon handle tightened until pain radiated up her arm.
Butter crock in hand, Rosalind traipsed back toward the stairwell, obviously eager to make her escape. “Oh, there was just some stranger in town who got a little too friendly toward me. Zach happened to witness the scene and stepped in to scare the fellow off. No harm done. I promise.” She backed into the stairwell. “Nothing to concern you.”
Rosalind smiled, spun around, and flew up the stairs. Too bad that smile was the same one she always used when trying to talk her way out of trouble.
Abigail’s heart throbbed. The spoon loosened in her grasp and knocked against the side of the skillet, splattering grease onto her hand. With a hiss, she yanked her hand away from the pan and rubbed it against the front of her apron. Rosalind was hiding something from her.
Abigail said little through dinner, opting to watch her companions instead. The guilty little glances Rosie shot at Zach when she thought Abigail wouldn’t notice. The pointed looks he jabbed back. Not exactly lover-like, but they hinted at something between them. A shared secret.
Something about stables, no doubt.
Abigail lurched to her feet. Rosie exuded a small gasp at her abrupt movement. Zach halted his fork halfway to his mouth and raised a brow. Abby could feel the heat of their eyes on her, but she didn’t care. She needed to get away. Now.
“I’m not feeling well,” she said, her untouched plate adding credence to her statement. “I’m going to bed.”
“It’s not even seven yet,” Rosie protested.
“I know, I’m just . . . tired.”
Tired of pretending nothing was wrong. Tired of being on the wrong end of family secrets. Tired of not being the woman men preferred.
Leaving her dishes on the table, she fled the room, only to be stopped by a warm hand on her arm just outside her bedroom.
“Abby?” he said, his voice rich, rumbly, and setting off newfound flutters in her belly when he had absolutely no right to have that kind of effect on her. Not when he was keeping secrets from her. “Are you all right?”
No, she wasn’t all right. Two hours ago she was seriously considering sending Rosalind to visit Lydia and inviting herself into her husband’s bed. Now she couldn’t even manage to look him in the eyes.
He must have noticed, for he cupped her chin with his hand and drew her face around. “Abby?”
Her lashes shuttered her gaze from him. “Please, Zach, I just want to go to sleep.”
“All right.”
But he didn’t release her. Instead his free hand came up to cup the other side of her face. He lifted her toward him. His breath fanned across her cheek.
No. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t pretend their courtship was real.
Just as Zach’s lips lowered to hers, she twisted her face away.
CHAPTER
20
When Zach’s lips skittered off the edge of Abigail’s jaw, hurt hit him square in the chest. Followed by confusion. Then a spark of anger.
Straightening, his hands fell away from her face. “You’re upset.”
She offered no comment, just spun around and made for the doorway.
Not so fast, chickadee.
Zach clasped her wrist and halted her escape. She glared at him over her shoulder and gave a tug on her arm, but he held firm.
“Let me go.” Defiance flared hot in her golden eyes as she tugged a second time.
He stepped closer so her tugs wouldn’t strain her arm, but he didn’t release his grip. “Why didn’t you let me kiss you?”
In answer, she jerked her arm again, harder this time. He opened his hand, not wanting to hurt her.
Abigail darted into her room and flung the door at the jamb with enough force to splinter wood—or injure a man’s foot, if he happened to be fool enough to stick it in the way. Zach bit back a groan as the door ricocheted off the side of his stocking-clad foot. Wishing he hadn’t left his boots downstairs tonight, he tried to ignore the throbbing, but his clenched jaw must have given him away, for when his wife yanked the door open to glare at him for interrupting her grand exit, a flash of regret crossed her face. It only lasted a moment, but at least he knew she cared a little about his well-being.
“Remove your foot from my door,” she demanded.
He shook his head. “Not until you explain.”
Chest thrust forward, eyes flashing, chin proudly erect—she was beautiful. Full of fire and spice. He wanted to snatch her o
ff her feet and carry her to his bed to see what else they could set aflame. Too bad the passion she displayed at the moment most likely leaned toward bashing his skull with a bread tin.
“The physical truly is all you care about, isn’t it?” she said.
Zach gave a guilty start. Had she read his mind?
“Fine. A bargain’s a bargain. You want a kiss every night? Have a kiss.” Anger laced her words, but not so much that he failed to hear the sorrow in the crack of her voice.
Before he could blink, she jabbed her face at him and poked his cheek with all the finesse of a woodpecker drilling for worms. Thankfully, the reaction time of his arms was faster than his brain, for the instant she attacked, he grabbed her about the waist. Her palm splatted against his chest as she caught her balance, and a quiet sob squeezed out of her.
That sob scraped his heart raw. But he couldn’t let this wound fester. Especially if he was the cause. Which he must be, even if he didn’t understand what he’d done.
Their marriage might not be conventional, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care how it fared. How she fared. He’d vowed to cherish her, and judging by her obvious dissatisfaction with him at the moment, he’d missed that mark by a pretty wide margin today. He needed to adjust his aim, but until he could figure out which way the wind blew, he risked making things worse.
She no longer fought him, but her tucked chin hid her face, making it impossible to gain clues from her expression. He had a sneaking suspicion there might be tears. He hated tears. Never knew what to do to make them stop. He steeled himself for dripping eyes and set his jaw.
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