Page 69 of More than Words Can Say

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.