More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

  Rosalind’s gaze darted from him to her sister, the light in her eyes glinting as she pieced together what she’d interrupted. “I think I’ll, uh, take these decorations upstairs,” she said as she crossed to the worktable and started piling fabric and streamers into the crook of her arm.

  That sounded like a good plan to him. Unfortunately, his bride disagreed.

  Abigail dashed over to her sister’s side and laid a staying hand on her arm. “No, that can wait. We need to get supper started. Zach’s bound to be hungry.”

  Yep. Though what he hungered for most wouldn’t be found in any pot.

  “No need to go to any trouble,” he said, casually stalking his wife until he stood a mere foot from her position. She shot a look his way, and her teeth peeked out to nibble on her bottom lip. “We live in a bakery. I’m not gonna starve. Just slice up some of that ham from last night, and we can make sandwiches.”

  “But you had that for your lunch today.”

  He shrugged. “Filled my belly then. Imagine it’ll do the same now.”

  Something flared in her gaze. Interest? Appreciation? Whatever it was, it had him itching to get her in his arms again.

  “Why don’t you go wash up?” she suggested as she turned to retrieve some bread from the cabinet that held their personal stores. The bread was a day old—all fresh baked goods went to paying customers—but it was still some of the best Zach had ever tasted. “I’ll throw together some sandwiches and meet you upstairs.”

  “I’ll just take mine to my room,” Rosalind said, mischief dancing in her eyes as she shot him a conspirator’s smile. “That way I can baste this bunting on the Singer machine before you turn in for the evening, Abby. Get an early start on all that gathering.”

  “There’s no rush.” Abigail glanced over her shoulder, her brow furrowed. “It’ll keep until tomorrow when you have more daylight.”

  “I don’t mind. Besides, it’ll do the two of you good to have some time alone together without me hanging around like a third wheel.”

  Zach had to give the girl points for directness. Abigail would have a hard time wiggling out of that one.

  “You’re not a third wheel, Rosie. You’re family.”

  Apparently not a hard enough time. Zach bit back a sigh. Was she still nervous to be alone with him? Or was she just trying to be a good sister and not allow her sibling to feel excluded? He thought he had seen something in her gaze earlier, something that seemed more open to physical closeness, but maybe it had been his own desire reflecting back at him, showing him what he wanted to see.

  “I know,” Rosalind said, turning to her sister. Something passed between them that Zach couldn’t quite decipher. “But I could use a little time alone tonight anyway. To sort my thoughts.”

  Abigail touched Rosalind’s arm, her gaze never leaving her sister’s face. Then she nodded, and everything was decided.

  It looked like he’d get his wife all to himself after all.

  With a little extra pep in his step, Zach headed for the stairs, barely pausing long enough to yank his boots from his feet. “Guess I’ll go wash, then.”

  Neither of the sisters paid him any mind, but that didn’t matter. He had an engagement with his wife to prepare for and a good two hours of her company to enjoy before she retired. He aimed to make the most of it.

  After hustling up the stairs, Zach pushed open the door to his room and crossed to the wardrobe, his fingers working shirt buttons through their holes. A clean shirt was in order. One smelling more of soap than sawdust and sweat. A man who intended to sit close to his wife on the settee while she read aloud after supper needed a clean shirt. Maybe a shave as well.

  Nah. That’d be too obvious. He could practically see her mind whirring as she tried to figure out the implications of a clean-shaven jaw in the evening. Better not get ahead of himself. He’d save that for the abduction.

  Zach grinned. Wooing one’s wife might require more effort than he’d originally anticipated, but the hunt invigorated him. He might have to continue the abduction tradition even after she was fully his. Keep things interesting.

  Not paying much attention, he yanked open the wardrobe door with one hand while shrugging his other shoulder out from under his suspender. As the strap fell away, his gaze caught on a foreign object on the top shelf. Two objects, as a matter of fact. The horrid floral basin and ewer that normally adorned his washstand. Why would they be in his wardrobe?

  Zach freed himself from the second suspender and leaned back to see around the wardrobe door. There on his washstand stood a white china ewer and basin set with nothing but a band of dark blue to break up the plain display. No fluted edges or decorative handle. Just a straightforward, simple design without a single flower in sight.

  He rubbed at an itchy place on his chest that just happened to be directly over his heart.

  She’d thought of him. Fondly, apparently. The itch deepened into an ache. His practical wife had spent her hard-earned money on something completely unnecessary. The old wash set had been functional. Ugly, but functional. Yet she’d purchased a new one simply to please him.

  His pulse ratcheted up to high speed even as he warned himself not to read too much into the gift. It didn’t mean she’d developed feelings for him, although the thrill that surged through his blood at the thought had his hands fumbling as he tugged his shirttails free of his waistband.

  Leaving the wardrobe door open, Zach moved to the washstand and fit his palm to the ewer handle. He poured a stream of tepid water over his other hand into the basin, enjoying the experience far more than the act warranted. Setting the ewer on the stand, he dried his wet hand on his trousers, then stripped out of his work shirt. He wadded it into a ball and tossed it at the basket on the far side of the wardrobe. It fell dead center, which only enriched Zach’s good mood. Lathering his hands with a cake of soap, he washed his face, arms, and torso, then toweled dry.

  Soft voices in the hall told him the women were finished in the kitchen, which meant Abigail would be waiting for him in the small sitting room off the parlor that served as their dining room. Alone.

  Zach grabbed the first clean shirt he came to and threw it over his head. As he stuffed his shirttails into his trousers, his gaze caught on the corner of the leather case that hung over the edge of the top shelf.

  His hands stilled.

  She’d found his cards. Not that he’d been trying to hide them from her, but the thought of her touching that tainted part of his past brought the acrid taste of bile to the back of his throat. He wanted to erase that bit of history, scrub it away as he had the sweat and dirt from his hands, so that it wouldn’t defile her. But it was a part of him. A part she deserved to know about. But when? They were just starting to gain their footing in this marriage. Surely it’d be wise to fortify the foundation before he started shaking the walls.

  Zach tucked in the remainder of his shirt with more deliberate motions, the frenetic edge of his energy dissipating beneath the sober turn of his thoughts. As he buttoned the shirt placket and stretched his suspenders over his shoulders, he knocked the rust off his spirit and sought wisdom directly from the source.

  “I know you and me got unfinished business between us,” he murmured in a low voice that barely wiggled the air, “but Evie’s always sayin’ as how the Bible teaches that if a man wants wisdom, he needs to ask for it. So, that’s what I’m doin’. I’ve got a good thing goin’ here with Abigail, and I don’t want to ruin it. Don’t want to lose her good opinion and affection before they have a chance to put down roots. Yet we vowed there’d be no secrets between us. And there are. Big ones. So what do I do? When is the right time to crack the lid on this can of sardines?” Zach reached for the leather card case and with one finger, pushed it back from the shelf edge until he could no longer see it. “Any recommendations you have to offer would be appreciated.” He rapped his knuckle twice on the shelf edge. “Thanks.”

  Feeling a tad better now that someone much smarter
than him was on the job, Zach closed the wardrobe door and gave himself one more check in the mirror above the washstand. He gave his hair a quick comb with his fingers, frowning at the chunk that insisted on falling over his forehead. Then, after making sure his turndown collar lay straight, he firmed his abdominal muscles against the sudden surge of nerves hot-footing it inside his gut and made his way to the sitting room . . . and his wife.

  CHAPTER

  25

  Abigail found it difficult to eat much of her sandwich, what with the intense looks her husband kept shooting at her from across the table. He didn’t seem to suffer the same affliction, polishing off two ham sandwiches, the majority of the watermelon salad she’d tossed together, and the largest of the cinnamon buns she’d saved for his dessert.

  Dropping her napkin over her unfinished supper, she stood, collected her plate, and reached for the salad bowl. “I’ll just clear these away, then join you in the parlor.”

  Zach rose to his feet. “Leave ’em.” His fingers traced the curved table edge as he came toward her. “I’ll clean up after you go to bed.”

  A man volunteering to do women’s work? Her father had never washed a dish in his life, as far as Abigail knew.

  Her astonishment must have shown on her face, for Zach chuckled softly, the rich sound dancing along her nape and causing her skin to tingle. “I lived alone for nigh on a year before we hitched up. I ain’t allergic to dishwater.”

  “But . . .” She couldn’t make herself put the plate down. It just felt wrong somehow. Irresponsible.

  Then he took the plate from her and removed her only excuse to stall. Though why she felt the urge to stall, she couldn’t figure out. She wanted to spend time with him. Hadn’t she been planning that very thing? Apparently spending time alone with one’s husband was more easily accomplished in theory than in reality. Nerves and insecurities barely existed in the hypothetical world, but here in the sitting room, they swarmed around her head like angry bees with stingers poised.

  “Join me in the parlor?” Zach extended his arm.

  Her belly fluttered, and some of the bees dispersed. How could she resist such a gallant invitation?

  Nodding, she placed her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her from the room. When they entered the parlor, she tried to slip free in order to fetch the Kemp family Bible that she usually read from after dinner, but Zach captured her fingers and tugged them back into place on his forearm. He gave them a little pat, a silent instruction not to stray again, then picked up the Bible himself from the bookcase and promenaded her over to the settee.

  She usually sat in the rocker by the lamp where the light was better, but not tonight. Tonight her husband had different plans. Plans that included the two of them on the settee, his large frame taking up most of the room. Not that she minded. She enjoyed the close quarters, her limbs pressed up against his. Though how she was supposed to find the breath needed for reading aloud was a mystery yet to unfold.

  Zach handed the Bible to her, the thick tome thumping down onto her lap. Then he did the oddest thing. He pivoted in his seat. Away from her.

  Maybe he wasn’t as keen on getting close as she’d thought.

  Abigail tried to scoot closer to the arm on her end of the settee, but he glared at her.

  “Wrong way.”

  “I thought you needed more room.” Her hips were rather wide, after all. Even she and Rosalind had little elbow room when they shared this small sofa.

  “Nope.”

  He bent toward her and dragged her against his side, fitting her hips quite snugly between the back cushions and the outer edge of his thigh. His arm came around her shoulders, securing her position while at the same time comfortably supporting her neck. One of his legs remained firmly planted on the floor, but the other stretched out, his calf coming to rest on the settee’s opposite arm. She followed his example and balanced her ankles as well. Shoes didn’t belong on the furniture anyway.

  Little by precarious little, Abigail relaxed against her husband. He smelled good. Like soap and something a little musky. He gave no further instructions. Offered no topic of conversation. He just sat there, breathing. As if he’d accomplished everything on his list.

  Get wife into parlor—check. Snuggle close on settee—check.

  Let wife make next move . . .

  He might be waiting awhile on that one, since his wife had no idea what kind of move she should be making. The only thing she was sure about was that she liked being close to him. Feeling wanted. Accepted. No performance required. No expectations to meet.

  She’d spent her whole life trying to prove herself worthy in her father’s eyes, to earn his approval and thereby justify her existence. An impossible task when he only found value in sons. Yet toward the end, he’d depended on her more and more. He’d never gone so far as to verbalize pride in her ability to run the business, but the criticisms had faded, and she’d convinced herself that was almost the same thing as praise.

  As much as she enjoyed simply sharing Zach’s company, however, the idleness ate away at her peace of mind. She needed to do something. The mending basket sat across the room out of reach, and Zach had declared the dishes off-limits. So unless she wanted to start picking lint off the sofa upholstery, she had one option. Start reading.

  Abigail fingered the Bible’s cover as she snuck a sideways glance at her husband. His attention seemed to be focused on a spot on either her neck or shoulder. She couldn’t tell which, but he seemed quite absorbed. Hopefully his attention was based on admiration and not on a spot of dirt or a sandwich crumb that had become lodged in the pleats of her blouse. Ordering herself not to investigate the misplaced crumb theory—she’d barely eaten enough to create crumbs in the first place—she tightened her grip on the Bible and turned her thoughts in a more pious direction.

  She thumbed through the pages until she found her place in Romans where she’d left off the evening before, but as she smoothed the page, her heart tugged her toward a story that had come to mind earlier today. Failing to recall exactly where it was located, she flipped through Luke until she found the passage she sought in chapter ten.

  Not quite willing to jump straight into the section that pricked her heart, she began reading aloud at verse twenty-five, the parable of the Good Samaritan.

  The coziness of their position made her modulate her voice to a soft timbre appropriate for such intimacy. As she read, Zach stroked her arm. Then her neck. Then the tendrils of hair behind her ear. By the time she reached the story her heart had led her to, she was pretty sure he had ceased listening. She’d nearly ceased listening herself, what with all those distracting, tingle-inducing caresses, but as she began verse thirty-eight, her concentration sharpened.

  “Now it came to pass, as they went, that he entered into a certain village: and a certain woman named Martha received him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, which also sat at Jesus’ feet, and heard his word. But Martha was cumbered about much serving, and came to him, and said, Lord, dost thou not care that my sister hath left me to serve alone? Bid her therefore that she help me. And Jesus answered and said unto her, Martha, Martha, thou art careful and troubled about many things: But one thing is needful: and Mary hath chosen that good part, which shall not be taken away from her.”

  Abigail fell quiet. She stared at the words on the page without really seeing them. She didn’t need to see them. They throbbed in her chest, convicting her, rebuking her.

  “I’m Martha,” she admitted quietly.

  Zach’s fingers stilled at her nape, but they didn’t pull away. They simply came to rest, their warmth continuing to radiate against her skin. “Yep, you are. You work hard, aren’t afraid to take charge, and value practicality. All good qualities.”

  “Not when all that work blinds me to what is truly important.” She brought her chin around to look into his face. “I let Rosalind down, Zach. I was so focused on making the bakery a success that I left her to deal with our father�
��s illness on her own. Worse, I never noticed the strain it was putting on her, nor the attention that scoundrel Julius paid her. If I hadn’t been so consumed with work, she might not have felt so alone. I would have noticed . . . could have talked her out of . . .”

  The tears she’d worked so hard to hold at bay during her conversation with Rosalind finally found their freedom with Zach, as if his strength gave her permission to let down her guard.

  “Hey. Come here.” Zach shifted positions, scooping her up and setting her across his lap. He ran the pad of his thumb over her cheek to wipe away the moisture. “None of that.”

  He did look a bit panicked, now that she got a closer look at his eyes. Adorable man. Her lips twitched in the beginning of a grin.

  “That’s better.” His heartfelt relief added another layer of balm to her soul. “We can’t change the past,” he said, stroking the side of her face. “All we can do is strive not to make the same mistakes in the future.”

  “You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.”

  “Yep.”

  She waited for him to elaborate, and for a moment she thought he would. But then he gently guided her head to lie in the crook of his shoulder. It was a comfortable spot, one that could easily lull her into not caring that he was holding something back from her. Curiosity begged her to ask questions, but caution kept her lips sealed. Zach had been waiting patiently for her to open up to him physically. She supposed she owed him the same courtesy regarding emotional intimacy.

  After all, she harbored a secret or two of her own.

  Zach resumed his stroking, this time focusing his attentions on her arm. He did love his touching, and my, but she was quickly becoming addicted to his caresses.

  “I’m glad Rosalind told you about the photographs,” he finally said, breaking the silence and changing the subject in a rather neat maneuver.