Page 72 of More than Words Can Say

But Zach ran her down and snagged her around the waist. He spun her around to face him.

“What are you doing? I have to go!”

“I’ll open the shop. You might want to change your, ah . . .” He gestured to her chest, a touch of red staining his swarthy cheeks.

Abigail glanced down and sucked in a breath. Good heavens. She was a mess. Tiny charred spots across her chest, damp fabric clinging to her curves. And there was no telling what her face and hair looked like. She’d scare off the customers before they could even get a look at her bread.

But Zach couldn’t open the shop. He knew nothing about prices or running the till. He couldn’t make recommendations or answer questions about ingredients.

As if he’d read her mind, he raised a brow in slight offense. “I was a professional gambler, Abby. I can run numbers in my head and keep track of multiple pieces of information at one time. Rosalind told me she keeps a price list in the cashbox. I might not do things exactly as you would, but I can make do for the ten minutes it’ll take you to change.”

Of course he could. He was the most capable man she’d ever met. She shouldn’t have doubted him. Not even for a moment.

“You’re right.” She smiled an apology, then kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Zach. For everything.”

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. But she was coming to understand his nods and grunts. This one warmed her heart. He understood that her thanks extended to more than his opening of her shop. Perhaps he felt a touch of gratitude too for the fact that they had each other, for better or worse. They might be facing the worse right now, but the fact that they could lean on each other in the midst of it moved it into the better category.

“I’ll be back down in a trice,” she promised as she scurried to the stairwell.

As soon as she spied herself in the mirror above Rosalind’s dresser, she mentally thanked her husband again for not letting her open the shop in her current state. Gracious, she looked like she’d been sucked up into a twister. As she worked the buttons at her throat, she noticed that the odor of smoke had infused her clothing. No one wanted to buy baked goods from someone who smelled burnt. It killed one’s credibility.

Would the acrid odor of spent firecrackers seep from the kitchen into her shop? Abigail’s hands paused in tugging her bodice from her skirt. With a sigh, she shrugged off the answer. She couldn’t control where aromas wafted. She’d closed the oven door. The back window had been broken out, so maybe that would help the smoke dissipate. God had been known to bring beauty from ashes. Maybe he would direct the smoke into the alley instead of her shop. Maybe not. Either way, it was out of her control, and she couldn’t spare the energy to worry about things she had no power to change.

After stripping down to her chemise, corset, and drawers, she scrubbed her face clean at the washstand and examined her hair. She didn’t have time to redo the fancy braid and ribbon that Rosalind had fashioned for her, so she settled for smoothing back the loose strands and adding some extra pins. Thoughts of her sister urged her to hurry. Mr. Sinclair was a good man, but he had his children to watch out for. Rosalind needed Zach with her.

Abigail grabbed serviceable clothing from the wardrobe, no longer caring about festivity. The brown twill would work just fine. She’d dress it up a bit with her ivory calico shirtwaist with the tiny maroon flowers. It might clash with the red ribbon in her hair, but she couldn’t be bothered with that. Rosalind needed Zach, and Abigail needed to sell bread. Who knew how long today’s profits would have to last them?

CHAPTER

36

Zach might have oversold his abilities just a tad. Once he’d unlocked the front door, he gave a holler to let those within earshot know the bakery was open for business. He’d expected a trickle of people to wander in, not a gushing flood. All right, so twenty people wasn’t really a flood, but for a man who had no idea what he was doing, it seemed like feeding a multitude of biblical proportions.

Thankfully, folks were in good spirits from the parade, and after he cracked a joke about having mercy on the ignorant husband until his wife arrived to take over, the patrons seemed more than happy to point to what they wanted in the display cabinet. Which—thank the Lord—was labeled on his side, so he could match the type of bread to the price list. After about ten sales, he started getting the hang of things.

“Hey, Zach!” one of the builders he and Reuben supplied lumber to called out from the back of the line, his booming voice carrying over the buzz of conversation.

Zach glanced up from wrapping a sourdough loaf in butcher paper. “Yeah?”

“She got you wearing an apron?”

Chuckles rippled through the crowd.

“Nah.” A fellow from the sawmill who stood second in line called back the answer. “I can still see his trousers. But I want to know if he had anything to do with the baking. I prefer my bread made with flour, not sawdust. Get enough of that at the mill.”

More laughter broke out, especially among the male patrons. Zach just grinned and held up a hand. “You got nothing to worry ’bout, Jenkins. Abigail made everything you see here.”

“Good,” an older lady said as she looked up from the display case, “because no one makes yeast rolls like Abigail Kemp.”

“That’s Abigail Hamilton now, ma’am,” Zach corrected, satisfaction lacing his tone.

She eyed him as if taking his measure. “So it is.”

Zach turned his attention back to the sourdough and let the rest of the conversation ramble on without him. His ears pricked every time a regular Taste of Heaven customer bragged to a newcomer about the outstanding quality of Abigail’s baked goods and shared recommendations of their favorite items.

It made a man right proud to hear his wife praised so highly. It also made a man determined to ensure that his talented wife had whatever she needed to continue her business. As well as seeing that whoever was responsible for the vandalism was brought to justice. And not just the kid with the firecrackers, but whoever hired him to do his damage.

A kid pulling a prank might break a window and toss a chain of lit firecrackers into a random business and then run for the hills. But no youngster would break into a business, take the time to locate the most expensive piece of equipment inside, then sabotage that equipment. It was too deliberate. Required too much time. Entailed too much risk of getting caught with zero personal reward. Zach had checked the till. All the funds were accounted for, which meant the motivation to do the deed was being supplied by someone else. Someone paying and giving strict instructions on where the vandalism should be focused. Only one person had the motivation to single out Abigail and attack her with such calculated malice—Sophia Longfellow.