More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

  “I’ll go to the Sinclairs’ tonight. Get Reuben to help me put together a booth. Paint the signs. Ask Audrey about the kids and see if she has any flour I can buy from her. I’ll stop by the Longfellows’ house on my way, tell the mayor we accept his offer and collect the bunting so Rosalind can do the decorating. Then, tomorrow, I’ll get up with you, and you’ll put me to work.”

  Abigail’s brows arched. “But you can’t—”

  He cut off her protest with a shake of his head. “I sure enough can. I’ll fetch and carry whatever you need. You make the dough, I’ll cut out the rounds and slather ’em with the honey butter sauce. If I can use a jigsaw, I should be able to handle a biscuit cutter. And I got decent painting skills, so you don’t have to worry about me missing spots. Every top will be covered. Rosalind can run the shop with whatever goods you’ve already got on hand. Anything else people may want will just have to be listed as sold-out. Most folks’ll be home preparing for the day’s activities anyway. In the meantime, you and I will make so many biscuits, we’ll have to cart them around in a wagon bed.”

  His wife stared at him, her brown eyes wide. Then, without a word, she pushed her chair back, rose to her feet, and came to stand directly in front of him.

  A little worried he might have gotten himself in trouble by being too presumptuous—after all, his knowledge of running a professional kitchen wouldn’t cover a nailhead—he leaned back in his chair and braced himself for whatever she might dish out.

  Braced for anything except the kiss she planted on his mouth. At the dinner table. In full view of her sister. Her palms cupped his jaw as her lips touched his. By the time his dull wits processed what she was doing and urged him to respond, she had pulled away. But then she spoke.

  “I love you, Zacharias Hamilton.”

  His heart gave a donkey kick. She’d said the words. Again. On purpose. And in front of a witness.

  And again, his tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth. Only this time she didn’t seem to expect anything from him. Even if he could have managed to spit out a word or two, she didn’t give him the chance. Just started rattling off orders of her own, their kiss apparently galvanizing her practical nature back into working order.

  She straightened to her full height, and the affection in her gaze hardened into tactical alertness. “If Audrey agrees to let the children help with distributing the baked goods during the parade, I want you and Reuben flanking their movements at all times—one with each child. I don’t want any overeager spectators grabbing at their baskets or crowding them in any way. Their safety must be paramount.”

  Zach nodded. Couldn’t argue with good sense.

  “After the parade, you stick to her like glue.” Abigail pointed to her sister, the intensity in her face giving neither Zach nor Rosalind any room to quibble. “The square will be filled with wagons and folks milling around, most of them men. Rosalind is not to be left alone. Agreed?”

  “Abby . . .” Rosalind whined, but a sharp look from her sister cut off the complaint.

  Zach drew his wife’s attention by pushing to his feet. “Agreed.” He’d hoped to spend more of the holiday with Abigail than her sister, but he’d learned a long time ago that life didn’t always give you what you wanted. Watching out for Rosalind was the right thing to do. And the best way to support Abigail, which, after all, was his main concern.

  “Good.” Abigail nodded her satisfaction, then pivoted sharply back toward the table. “I’ll clear the dishes and prep the kitchen for tomorrow.”

  She started stacking plates in the crook of her arm, barely pausing long enough for Zach to scrape the last bite of potato from his before adding it to her collection. Her brown eyes danced with teasing light as she snatched his plate away before he could get his fork out of his mouth. The dimples he adored flashed, and the task before them suddenly felt much less daunting.

  “Rosalind, if Audrey has no flour to spare, you might ask Mrs. Putnam,” Abigail said as she piled dishes into the dumbwaiter that would lower them to the kitchen. “Be sure to pay her more than it’s worth, though. Or if she refuses money, take note of the amount so we can replenish her supply with interest. I won’t have dear Lydia going hungry because of my predicament.”

  “Don’t worry,” Rosalind said as she rose and reached for the serving dishes. “I’ll find the flour you need and generously compensate whoever donates.”

  Abigail nodded, collected the glasses and the few miscellaneous items remaining on the table, then signaled her sister to lower the dumbwaiter and left to meet it downstairs in the kitchen.

  As Rosalind worked the pulley, her gaze zeroed in on Zach.

  “Be careful with her heart,” she said in a low voice. “Abby might be a practical-minded businesswoman, but her heart has taken a lot of abuse through the years. It’s bruised and battered, but it’s still a priceless treasure.” Her blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Treat it as such.”

  Zach held her gaze without flinching. “I will.”

  He knew the value of the gift Abigail had given him. Knew he didn’t deserve it. Yet he vowed to guard her heart with every ounce of his strength and do everything in his power to shore up those bruised places and keep from adding any new damage. A challenging task for a rough fellow who knew next to nothing about healthy relationships, but one he’d endeavor to accomplish nonetheless.

  Rosalind held his gaze for a long, measuring moment before giving a nod. “Then let’s go to the Sinclairs’. Abby needs that flour, and we need to make that float something she’d be proud to have carry the bakery’s name.”

  Once they were out of the house and on their way, Zach gave his sister-in-law a considering stare. “You sure you’re all right with the whole Queen Bee thing?”

  Rosalind didn’t break stride, just rolled her shoulders as she marched down the street. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, exactly, but I can bear a little discomfort for Abby’s sake. She’s been making sacrifices for me for years.”

  The girl had grit.

  “Keep your eyes peeled when you’re on that float,” he cautioned. “I can’t help but think Sophia Longfellow’s got some kind of trick up her sleeve with this last-minute addition.”

  He’d already pictured several unpleasant possibilities. Spooking the float horses. Recruiting delinquents to throw rotten vegetables. Sabotaging a wheel or axle. Humiliation seemed the most likely goal, based on past experience.

  Rosalind’s brow crinkled. “You might be right, but I don’t think she intends any harm toward me. She always aims her vitriol directly at Abby. I wouldn’t put it past her to try to discredit the bakery in some way, though.”

  A horrible thought jumped into his mind, and he pulled up short.

  Rosalind slowed and turned a perplexed look on him. “What?”

  “You don’t think she found out about those photo cards, do you? Even if Sophia hasn’t attacked you in the past, instigating a large scandal with ties to the bakery could be an effective way to destroy the business.”

  Rosalind paled. “I-I don’t think she knows.” She shook her head, her gaze dropping to the street. “I’ve only ever been approached by out-of-town men. No one local.” She inhaled a breath and lifted her chin. “Sophia and Chester run in elevated circles, well separated from the rail hands and cowboys who drift in to visit the saloons.” A touch of color returned to her face along with a determined glint in her eyes. “If Sophia planned to start a scandal, I don’t think she would have named me Honey Grove’s Queen Bee. That associates me with the town, and more directly, with the council, including her husband.”

  Zach nodded, the knot in his gut loosening a smidgeon. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said, offering a smile he hoped looked brighter than it felt.

  Rosalind’s logic was sound, but revenge had a tendency to warp a person’s mind when allowed to fester for long periods of time. One couldn’t trust logic to win out over vengeance.

  He’d be keeping a close eye on Mrs. Longfellow.<
br />
  “Whatever that woman has in mind, we’ll just have to beat her to the punch. Take away her opportunities to cause mischief. You and me will see to the wagon decoratin’. I’m not letting Sophia Longfellow anywhere near that float until the parade is over.” The more elements he controlled, the more protection he could offer his family.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t control everything. And the variables dangling out of reach made him nervous.

  CHAPTER

  32

  Abigail rose earlier than usual the following morning, her bedside clock registering ten minutes before four o’clock. Thankful for the nervous energy that had made sleep elusive despite her weariness, she drew back the covers and crawled out of bed, taking care not to disturb her sister.

  It had been after eleven last night when Rosalind finally came to bed. Even later for Zach, Abigail imagined. Her husband didn’t seem the type to take his rest before his work had been completed, and he’d set himself a mountain of tasks. Building a booth, painting signs, decorating a wagon for the parade. As Abigail splashed water on her face, she considered letting him sleep. Surely he was exhausted.

  She dressed in her navy blue work dress and pinned her hair in a simple braided wreath around the back of her head, then picked up her shoes and eased the door open. She tiptoed into the hall, but her efforts were for naught. Zach had taken his own measures to ensure he wasn’t excluded from this morning’s activities.

  His door gaped wide, and the moment she clicked hers shut, rustling echoed from his bed. The rope supports creaked and drew her gaze as he swung his legs over the edge of the mattress. As she watched, unable to look away, Zach stood, yawned, and stretched. And heavens, what a stretch. He slept without a shirt, giving her a spectacular view of muscles, swarthy skin a few shades lighter on his chest than his neck and forearms, and a smattering of dark hair that her fingers itched to explore.

  Rumpled and eyes half-lidded, he prowled toward her. Abigail’s mouth dried in an instant. She’d always found her husband attractive, but gracious. He was magnificent.

  His gaze caught on the shoes she carried. He raised a sleepy brow to notify her that she’d been caught, then slanted her a slow, cocky grin, obviously proud of himself for outsmarting her. Not a single iota of disappointment manifested in her over her defeat. How could it when she had such a vision to feast her eyes upon? And even better was the evidence of the heart of the man before her. Selfless, dedicated, committed. She doubted he’d had more than four hours’ sleep, yet here he stood, ready to do biscuit battle on her behalf. No wife could ask for a better champion.

  “I’ll be down as soon as I throw a shirt on,” he said, his voice thick with the rasp of sleep.

  Words failed her, but she managed a nod, thinking all the while that a shirt would be a shame.

  “Abby?”

  “Hmm?” Slowly, she dragged her gaze away from his chest to find his eyes. His extremely fierce, suddenly wide-awake eyes.

  That cocky grin slid back into place a heartbeat before he grabbed her waist and pulled her tight against him. Her shoes dropped to the floor, and her palms flattened against the muscular expanse that had so mesmerized her.

  “Mornin’.” Then his lips captured hers. Passionate yet gentle, the kiss ended far too soon to her way of thinking. But then, they did have a couple hundred biscuits to bake.

  Was it too late to change her mind about the float? Spending the day with her husband in non-baking pursuits suddenly seemed a much better use of her time.

  Thankfully, Zach possessed more sense. He brought his hands up to cup her shoulders and planted a kiss on her forehead. Then he bent to retrieve her shoes, handed them to her, spun her around, and gave her a little push toward the stairwell.

  She wobbled forward, casting a glance at him over her shoulder as she went. Something warmed his eyes. Something deeper than passion. More intimate than the teasing quirk of his smile. Something that had her heart swelling to near painful proportions.

  Love. Oh, please let that be love. But how would she know? She had zero experience with suitors and knew nothing about interpreting a man’s romantic regard.

  Her feet stumbled, and she jerked her attention forward. If only he would say something.

  “Careful,” Zach called softly.

  Not exactly the something she’d had in mind, but she supposed it would do. For now.

  It took more than the couple minutes he’d needed to dress before Zach was ready to make an appearance in the kitchen. Not because he wasn’t hurrying. He’d thrown on his clothes in record time, forfeited the comb for a quick run of his fingers through his hair, and ignored his razor completely. They had too much to accomplish this morning to waste time with superfluous niceties.

  Yet it was that very need for efficiency that had him pausing at his door and reaching for the Bible on his dresser.

  His mind had completely derailed when Abigail stood mute before him, staring as if he were a well-baked cake she wanted to devour. It had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed—which had been precious little while still in the hazy, post-dream realm that favored fantasies over reality—not to sweep her off her feet and carry her to his bed. He’d settled for a quick kiss and the glorious torture of her hands upon his skin. Not even scrubbing the cotton of his shirt over his chest had erased her touch.

  This morning is about Abigail and the bakery, not about you. Get it together.

  Inhaling a deep breath, he flipped open the pages of his Bible. A few thou shalts and thou shalt nots should straighten him out. Not really caring where he ended up, he thumbed to a spot near the back of the book. He jabbed his finger at a verse and read, “. . . for it is better to marry than to burn.”

  He jerked his gaze toward the ceiling, his hands thrown out in incredulity. “Really?”

  Zach had never thought of God as having a sense of humor, but the Big Man must be elbowing the angels right now and guffawing with the heavenly host over the fool mortal who’d done the marrying part yet was still combusting over a pair of dimples.

  Fine. Next time Zach and Abigail stood at the threshold of consummation, he wouldn’t wait for her to take the first step. He’d take the reins and drive her straight to his bedroom. Where she belonged.

  Oddly enough, that resolution restored a bit of his control and allowed him to bank passion’s flames down to manageable embers. Those embers would be free to blaze later when he and Abigail didn’t have a mountain of biscuits to bake.

  Maybe the Big Man was doing more than laughing it up with the seraphim, after all.

  Zach traipsed down the stairs, stopped long enough to put his shoes on, then entered his wife’s domain. A long white bib apron covered the dark blue of her dress. With her sleeves rolled to her elbows, she worked biscuit dough in a giant bowl.

  Zach strode over to the worktable. “Where do you want me?”

  Pink colored her cheeks, shooting ideas through his head that threatened to bring his carefully banked embers back to life. He hadn’t intended anything intimate by the question, but he couldn’t help but be pleased that his wife’s mind had veered that direction. It was nice to know he wasn’t the only one battling the heat.

  Abigail lifted her wrist to her forehead to rub at an itch, leaving a white flour mark on her skin. “I measured out butter and honey last night,” she said, pointing with her elbow toward the stove that stood against the south-facing wall. “The butter’s melting on low heat. Give it a stir every now and then, and when it’s completely melted, add the honey from that small bowl and stir it into the butter for the glaze. I should have the first batch of dough ready for you to cut out by then.”

  “Got it.”

  Wanting to see one more blush before getting down to work, Zach came up behind Abigail, wrapped his arms around her middle, and planted a kiss on her cheek. He was rewarded by blooming pink roses creased with dimples. And a vigorous shooing of dough-encrusted fingers.

  “You’re supposed to be helping, not hind
ering,” Abigail scolded, though her smile took all the sting out of her words.

  “Right.” All business now, Zach crossed to the stove, picked up the wooden spoon lying on the cabinet top, and gave the half-melted butter a stir.

  Abigail scattered flour on the worktable and plopped a sticky mass of goo into the center of it. She kneaded it with the heel of her hand, folded it, kneaded again, added flour, rolled it around, then kneaded again. Her movements were elegant in their efficiency. If he’d tried to wrangle that sticky mess, he’d end up looking like he’d just crawled out of a paste jar, but she commanded the dough like a master potter working clay. She glanced up, caught him staring, and smiled before turning back to her dough wrangling.

  Helping a woman make biscuits should not make a fellow this happy. But when the woman was the fellow’s wife, and she smiled at him as if he were the noblest hero of her acquaintance—well, it couldn’t be helped.

  Zach shook his head at his rapidly deteriorating cynicism. Much more of this, and he’d be in danger of taking up his little sister’s habit of breaking into song at random intervals. A snort escaped him at the thought.

  “What?” Abby aimed a quizzical look in his direction.

  “Nothing,” he muttered, waving a hand to clear the air of ridiculous notions. Though to be honest, the more time he spent in Abby’s company, the less ridiculous singing seemed. He’d probably croak like a toad after nearly a decade of no practice, but he couldn’t deny that the urge to try had emerged from a long-enforced hibernation.

  Cutting off a rumble in his throat that some might interpret as a hum, Zach focused on stirring butter and making the glaze.

  After an hour, he and Abby had perfected a rhythm. Mix dough, cut biscuits, bake, baste, cool, repeat. The moment a batch came out of the large industrial bread oven that stood against the east wall, Abigail had a biscuit-laden sheet pan ready to take its place. Zach’s hands felt like they were encased in gloves made of flypaper thanks to all the honey, but at least he didn’t have to worry about dropping the basting brush.