Page 36 of More than Words Can Say

It probably wasn’t right to have favorites, but Lydia Putnam was such a little firecracker that Abigail always saved her for last on her widow bread delivery days.

Lydia raised a brow and pointed an accusing finger, one that tremored slightly with palsy. “I know your tricks, Abby Jane. Forcing your leftovers on a poor old lady who can’t defend herself.”

“Can’t defend yourself?” Abigail gave a snort of disbelief. “You could hold off a stampede with a cast-iron skillet and a hatpin.”

“Hoo! Now yer talkin’.” Lydia smacked her palm against the top of the pie safe that stood waiting for its new acquisitions. “If they’d a-had me at the Alamo, Elizabeth Crockett wouldn’t have ended up a widow.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Abigail smiled.

Lydia and her husband had helped settle Hood County decades ago, surviving Indian raids and harsh conditions, and meeting the famed Mrs. Crockett after she and her son claimed land in Acton. Lydia’s connection to the famous frontiersman’s wife was significant in this area, seeing as how Davy Crockett himself was responsible for naming Honey Grove. The story went that on his way to the Alamo, he set up camp in a copse of trees filled with honeybees and found the area so pleasing that he carved his name and the name Honey Grove into one of the trees, intending to return. Unfortunately, he didn’t survive the Alamo, but a few years later, a dear friend of his, Samuel Erwin, purchased land near Crockett’s camp and preserved the name. Honey Grove was born. Needless to say, Lydia was inordinately proud of her connection to the Crockett family and found a way to work Elizabeth Crockett into a conversation at least once per week.

“I can still shoot a squirrel in mid-leap, you know.”

A slightly terrifying thought, when one considered the way the dear lady’s hand shook, but Abigail couldn’t naysay her. Not when she’d enjoyed Lydia’s squirrel stew last week when she brought a pot by the shop as a belated wedding gift. It might have taken her three weeks to bag that squirrel, but she’d done it.

Lydia set the carefully wrapped sourdough in the pie safe, then reached for the dinner rolls. “Are these wheat?”

Abigail nodded. “With a touch of honey.”

“So not only are you trying to fatten me up, you’re trying to sweeten me up, too.” She tsked and wagged her head. “If you have your way, folks around here won’t know what name to put on my headstone when I finally turn up my toes.” But she accepted the rolls and added them to the pie safe. “How’re things going with that new husband of yours? Big strapping fella. Just like my Abe. Makes a woman feel safe, a man like that.” She patted Abigail’s arm as her teasing gaze turned serious. “Don’t waste a moment, girl. As much as we love ’em, they don’t live forever.”

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.