More Than Words Can Say

by Karen Witemeyer

  “Hey!” Abigail barely had time to register the fact that some little ruffian had broken into her bakery before a volley of muted gunshots firing inside her kitchen stalled her heart.

  CHAPTER

  34

  Abigail’s stomach tightened into a hard knot of dread as she scrambled to her feet. Her first thought was to run, but something about the gunfire inside struck her as odd. Sporadic. Some pops impossibly close together. Others delayed.

  Bracing a shaky hand against the doorframe, she inched closer. Then, after taking a breath that was far too shallow to have any calming effect whatsoever, she chanced a quick peek inside.

  No outlaws took shots from behind overturned worktables. No deputies returned fire from the stairwell. Her kitchen looked exactly as she’d left it.

  Abigail’s lungs finally began taking in sufficient air as she pressed her back to the wall of her shop. Not gunfire. Thank the Lord.

  Another series of pops exploded. What were they? The sound of the band competed with the muffled bangs inside her shop as the parade entered the square.

  The parade . . . the boy . . .

  Firecrackers.

  In her kitchen!

  Suddenly more afraid for her bakery than herself, Abigail rushed through the back door. She twisted her head from side to side, trying to ascertain where the loud popping was coming from. If that boy had set off firecrackers in her kitchen or shop, the sparks could start a fire. Yet she saw nothing. No chains of red poppers flashing and dancing across her floor. Slowly she pivoted in a circle, closing her eyes as she honed her ears. There. In the back.

  Her eyes opened. Horror tore through her chest. No!

  Abigail lunged forward and yanked open her bread oven door. Sparks erupted from the oven, spitting over her chest and hands. With a gasp she jerked backward, batting at the specks on her blouse even as she raced for the kitchen sink. She turned the spigot and set her hands beneath the flow, the cool water easing the tiny pinprick burns on her hands. She splashed water on her face, then dampened a towel, opened it wide, and splayed it across her chest.

  She gave herself a quick inspection to make sure she’d gotten them all, then dampened a second towel and ran back to the oven. She had to save it. Without an industrial oven, her business would fail.

  Sparks continued to shoot out of the behemoth’s mouth. She held the towels out in front of her like a shield, protecting her face as she inched closer. After tossing one of the towels over her shoulder to hang down across her front, she reached for the long-handled wooden peel she used for placing and removing her loaves from the oven. Keeping the second towel around her hand, she gripped the paddle-like tool and cautiously slipped it into the open oven.

  The dancing string of firecrackers popped and jerked and shot sparks, defending its territory with all its might. Abigail jumped and yelped and danced a bit herself as she dodged the sparks, but she kept advancing. She had to. She couldn’t lose her bakery. Not after all she’d done to save it.

  Gradually, the popping slowed, and Abigail found an opening. Sliding the peel beneath the hopping firecrackers, she pushed the shovel-like paddle deep into the oven until she managed to hook the string on the handle section. Angling the handle upward so the firecrackers wouldn’t slide down to hit her hands, she extracted them from the oven and let them dangle and dance on their string all the way to the sink, where she dropped them beneath the still-running spigot.

  The crackers sizzled and hissed in protest but eventually fell silent under the water’s onslaught. Abigail turned off the spigot, then slowly swiveled to face the victim. Her bread oven.

  The acrid odor of burned gunpowder filled the room. No comforting, homey aroma of fresh bread. No sweetness from the honey biscuits. Just the smell of battle, of destruction, of death.

  One foot after the other moved her across the room.

  Please let it be all right. Please let it be all right. The mantra matched the beat of her footsteps. Yet as much as Abigail tried to cling to hope, she knew in her heart that things weren’t all right. How could they be? A string of miniature bombs had just exploded inside her bread oven. An oven that had taken her father more than ten years to save up for.

  Dark gray smoke hovered at the mouth of the oven. Abigail cleared it with a wave of her hand, then bent at the waist and peered inside.

  Merciful heavens.

  Tears flooded her eyes and nausea swirled in her belly. Even with her vision obscured by lingering smoke, she couldn’t deny the truth.

  Her oven—her livelihood—had been utterly destroyed.

  Zach cleared his throat and scowled at a lanky teen who was trying to sneak a second biscuit out of Simeon’s basket.

  The youth jerked a guilty look toward Zach and pulled his hand back as if he’d been slapped. Then a mulish look came over his face, and he jutted out his chin. “It’s for my sister.”

  Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t. When Zach had been this kid’s age, he would have been doing all he could to snitch an extra biscuit for Seth and Evie. Of course, before he had siblings to worry about, he would’ve lied through his teeth to fill his own belly.

  Zach slowed his step and eased into the edge of the crowd to get close to the belligerent kid. “We’re gonna set up a booth at the north end of the square after the parade. Help us set it up and earn an extra biscuit for your sister. Spend the next couple hours drumming up business for us, and you’ll earn a half-dozen biscuits along with enough ham to fill each of ’em.”

  The boy’s eyes widened in his thin face. “Ya mean it?”

  Zach raised a brow. “I don’t say things I don’t mean. You work, you eat.”

  “I’ll be there, mister.” The boy stood a little taller, his sleeves pulling up to expose his bony wrists.

  “Good.” Zach nodded at him, his chest tightening. He hoped the boy showed up. The kid could use a good meal. If he proved to be a hard worker, maybe Abigail could be convinced to let him help out at the shop a few hours a week. Run errands, carry wood, sweep. Surely there’d be something he could do. They could pay him in bread if she didn’t want to spend the coin. The kid seemed more than satisfied with the payment Zach had offered for today’s tasks.

  They locked gazes for a moment, an unspoken promise passing between them. Then, in a blink, the kid disappeared into the crowd. That was Zach’s cue to get back to his own job. Thankfully, the parade moved so slowly that he caught up to Simeon in a handful of lengthened strides. His gaze darted over to Rosalind. She was still smiling and waving, though her grin was starting to look a mite tuckered. It drooped a little around the edges and didn’t really touch her eyes, but Ash and Zeb made up for her waning energy. They waved their flags in wide arcs, and whenever Rosalind called out, “Try the best honey biscuit in Honey Grove. It’s a taste of heaven!” the boys zipped from one side of the wagon bed to the other. It seemed to be a race to see who could reach the opposite side the fastest. Thankfully, there’d only been one collision so far and no blood. Reuben had checked.

  The float finally reached the south end of the square and made the turn to head back up Sixth Street, in front of Abigail’s shop. Zach stretched tall to see over the crowd swarming the boardwalks. He’d purposely chosen to work the right side of the wagon in order to be closer to his wife, and he’d been looking forward to the wave she’d promised him.

  However, as they rounded the corner, the anticipatory smile creeping onto Zach’s face slipped into a frown. Something was wrong.

  The shop door was closed. Abigail was nowhere to be seen.

  Maybe she was busy setting things up inside and didn’t realize the parade had arrived. But how could she miss it? The band had just marched past her door.

  He took a step toward the bakery, then checked himself. He’d promised to watch over Rosalind. Simeon too. She wouldn’t thank him if he left his post. Yet when they crawled past the shop and there continued to be no sight of her, the unease inside him deepened.

  Zach jogged over to the w
agon and called out to Rosalind, “Can you see Abby?” She had a higher vantage point from inside the wagon bed and should be able to see over the heads of the people packing the boardwalk.

  Lines etched her forehead as she peered at the shop window. She shook her head. “No. There’s no movement in the shop at all.”

  “She’s probably in the kitchen,” Zach said, forcing a smile to his face that he didn’t feel. No need to get Rosalind worried. She had enough on her mind already. “I’ll go by and check on her when the parade’s done,” he said without really looking at Rosalind. Better that no one else knew of their concern. “You can stay with Reuben and start setting up the booth. I hired a kid to help.”

  “You did?” Rosalind’s waving hand dropped momentarily before she picked it up and resumed her Queen Bee stance.

  “Told him he could have a second biscuit if he helped set up the booth. More if he drummed up business for us.” Zach met her eyes for a brief moment. “The kid seemed hungry.”

  That brought a dash of fire to her eyes. “I’ll see he gets ample payment if you’re not back yet.”

  He hoped he’d be back. Hoped whatever was going on with Abby was a minor hiccup and nothing serious. A stabbing fear jabbed his heart. What if she was hurt?

  Tension radiated through him, lengthening Zach’s stride. When he sped past Simeon, though, he realized his error, turned around, and marched back into position. He modulated his steps, his legs feeling as if they’d been shackled in heavy irons. This plodding pace was going to kill him.

  Take care of her until I can get there, Lord. Send someone else if need be. Just . . . take care of her. Please.

  It seemed like an eternity before the float made it to the ending point at the churchyard. The moment the alderman pulled the wagon to a stop, Zach had his hands around Rosalind’s waist, lifting her over the side.

  “Reuben, I’ve got to check on Abigail,” he said after setting Rosalind down. “Something’s not right at the shop.”

  His partner, who had hunkered down to congratulate his daughter on a job well done, shot Zach a look and immediately straightened. “Go. I’ll set up the booth.”

  Zach paused long enough to place a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He lowered his voice to a barely audible rumble. “I need you to guard Rosalind too.”

  Reuben raised a brow. “Guard her?” he asked in equally hushed tones.

  “Just watch out for fellas who get too friendly or treat her disrespectfully. She’s had some problems lately.” He couldn’t say more without violating Rosalind’s privacy, but Reuben didn’t need any additional explanation. His eyes had already gone hard.

  “No harm will come to her.”

  The words were a vow, and Zach found he trusted them as much as if they’d come from Seth or Logan. He trusted Reuben completely. He couldn’t fill one hand with the number of men he could say that about.

  Feeling a thickness start to clog his throat, Zach cleared it away and squeezed Reuben’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

  Reuben nodded. “As soon as Audrey collects the twins, the rest of us will get started on the booth. I won’t leave Rosalind’s side. You have my word.”

  “You’re a good friend, Reuben Sinclair.”

  “As are you.” Reuben cleared his own throat, then slapped Zach on the back. “Now go. See about your wife.”

  Zach turned to go, then recalled the boy he’d hired to help with the booth. “There’s a kid—”

  “I’ll fill him in,” Rosalind interrupted. “Go.”

  Deciding it was rather nice to have people other than himself to rely on, Zach lifted a hand in thanks, then took off for the bakery. His run slowed to a jog then a walk the closer he got to the square. The crowds were thick and milling every which way, making it hard for a big man to maneuver. Once he managed to get into the alley, though, his path cleared.

  He noticed two things immediately. Glass had been broken out of the back windowpane, and the back door stood slightly ajar.

  “Abby!” Terror seized him as he bounded through the back door. Had she interrupted a robbery? Been attacked by a thief who had used the parade as cover?

  His hands balled into fists, ready to fight whatever threat awaited. But then a flash of blue caught in his peripheral vision. He turned his head just as Abigail lifted hers from where she lay crumpled on the floor. Red-rimmed eyes met his. Tears had left streaks in the soot and smoke stains on her face. Gray scorch marks marred her white shirtwaist, and the stench of gunpowder filled his nostrils.

  Zach dropped to his knees and grabbed her arms. “Are you all right?” His voice cracked, but then, his heart was hammering against his ribs so hard that he was amazed he managed to form any words at all.

  New tears filled her eyes, and tremors coursed through her as she shook her head. “It’s gone, Zach. It’s all gone.”

  CHAPTER

  35

  Abigail had never been so happy to see another human being as she’d been the moment Zach charged into her kitchen. She needed his strength. His comfort. Needed him.

  Their position on the floor was awkward, but when he took hold of her upper arms, she fisted his shirt in her hands and turned her face into his chest. He was here. Fierce, kind, wonderful Zach. She wasn’t alone. Thank God, she wasn’t alone.

  His hands released her arms, shifting to circle her back and slip beneath her knees. In a single motion, he lifted her from the floor and settled her against his chest, then paced across the kitchen to the breakfast table, where he scooted out a chair with his foot and sat down, holding her on his lap.

  He fidgeted for a moment, then urged her face upward with a gentle tug on her chin. When she looked up, he wiped the tears and soot from her face with his handkerchief. He took such care, brushing the damp stray hairs behind her ear with a gentle finger and running the handkerchief over her face with the same soft strokes one would use with a small child. Part of her was embarrassed to be coddled in such a way, but a much larger part craved the tenderness. Craved the chance to let someone else be the strong one. Just for a moment.

  Once he’d cleaned her face to his satisfaction, he handed her the handkerchief. She sat up a bit, turned her face away, and blew her nose. She crumpled the handkerchief into her hand—she couldn’t exactly hand it back to him after soiling it in such a way—then sagged back against him and laid her head on his shoulder. For a blissful moment, she simply listened to him breathe. Deep. Steady. Her breaths started mimicking his pattern, and soon she found herself relaxing against him.

  “What’s gone, Abby?” Her husband’s low rumble sharpened her mind and brought her back to the reality of her situation. Only this time, with him surrounding her, it didn’t feel quite so bleak. “Did the thief empty the till?”

  If only the damage had been that minor. The bakery could survive a day of lost profits, even the biggest profit-bearing day of the year.

  She shook her head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.” She straightened away from Zach, her brow wrinkling as she craned her neck to peer toward the shop. As if she could somehow see through the wall, beneath the counter, and inside the cashbox if she just squinted hard enough. “I haven’t actually checked.”

  He rested a finger on her jaw and lightly turned her face back to him. “Then what’s gone? What happened?”

  She told him about the boy, about the firecrackers, and about her beloved oven being gutted from the inside. She had to dab at her eyes a time or two, but anger built inside her as she recounted the tale, pushing her grief aside.

  “Why would that child play such a horrible prank?” She tried to recall as many details about the boy as she could. He’d run her down so fast, most of the memories were a blur. He’d been a thin little thing. Cap pulled low on his head. Not too tall. He’d shoved at her when he barreled past, and his hands had jabbed into the lower section of her corset. “Do you think it was a dare of some kind?”

  Zach’s face gave away none of his thoughts. “Doubt it.”

&nbs
p; “Well, if it was just pure mischief, the little vandal should be locked up. I don’t care how young he is.”

  Zach raised a brow at her.

  Abigail huffed and slumped a bit. “All right. I care. But there needs to be consequences.” She straightened, indignation sparking to life once again. “No matter his age, his actions were criminal. Costly. He can’t be allowed to run amok, destroying people’s businesses. He probably thought it a harmless prank, but that act ruined me, Zach. Without my father’s oven, the Taste of Heaven will fail.”

  “It won’t fail.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his arms tensed. “I won’t let it. I’ve got money put aside. Not a lot, but I could talk to Seth—”

  “Absolutely not!” Abigail grabbed his arm. “I will not drag your family into my woes. That’s why we signed that agreement before we wed. You are not liable for any of the bakery’s financial troubles.”

  Zach glared at her. “I don’t give a flying fig for that agreement, and you know it.”

  Did she? She took in his fierce face, his square jaw clenching, his gorgeous midnight-blue eyes glimmering with intensity.

  Yes, she supposed she did know. This marriage had ceased being a business arrangement weeks ago.

  Softening against him, she laid her head back on his shoulder and reached up to stroke his jaw.

  “You’re right. We’re in this together. You and I will deal with the ramifications of today’s destruction, but Seth and Christie are just getting started. As are Logan and Evie. I don’t want to burden them with these troubles. We’ll get through.”

  Somehow.

  Some of the tension drained from Zach’s body. He cradled her close and rubbed loose fingers over her sleeve. With her husband’s presence to combat the despair that had dragged her to her knees earlier, Abigail’s mind slowly started to spin again. She didn’t have time to worry about how to handle the oven issue right now. Didn’t scripture teach that tomorrow had enough trouble of its own? She wouldn’t borrow any. She’d focus on today and what she could do with what she had.