Page 50 of More than Words Can Say

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.