Page 75 of More than Words Can Say

“He stopped to talk to the marshal,” her sister said. “Wanted to report the vandalism.” Rosalind crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms around Abigail. “Oh, Abby. I’m so sorry.”

Abigail slid the cashbox out from under her arm, dropped it onto the countertop by the sink, then embraced her sister more fully. Ordering herself not to turn into a watering pot for the second time that day, she patted Rosalind’s back and eased from her hold. “Things might be tight for a while, but we’ll manage.”

They’d manage as a family. Zach would see to that. And while her independent spirit chafed at depending on a man for her livelihood, her heart knew that were the situation reversed—if Zach had been injured or sick and unable to work—she’d want him to accept her provision with grace, not grow embittered by dented pride. So if the worst happened and the Taste of Heaven closed, resentment would not sour her marriage. She’d count her blessings and move forward.

If she’d learned anything from her escalating troubles with Sophia, it was that dwelling on past pain and injustice poisoned one’s soul. That was not a path she wanted to walk.

“By the way, we’ll have two more for dinner.” Rosalind grinned and moved to the icebox, where she pulled out the sliced ham they’d made sandwiches from earlier in the week. “Zach hired a young man to help set up the booth and drum up business. He did everything we asked of him without complaint. Quite mature for one so young. I doubt he’s even fifteen yet. And, Abby . . .” Rosalind turned a sorrowful look on her sister. “You should see how thin he is. That boy hasn’t had a good meal in months. I’m sure of it. And what I wouldn’t give to get hold of his clothes. His arms and legs have outgrown his sleeves and trousers by a good two inches. Any fabric lingering in those hems needs to be let out.”

Abigail couldn’t say with any great honesty that she was excited by the news of guests. This day had been trying in the extreme, and all she wanted to do was sit on the sofa with her husband and let him cuddle her cares away. Yet as soon as that selfish thought caught a foothold, her mother’s voice floated through her mind, and in an instant, Abigail was a ten-year-old girl again, walking hand-in-hand with her mother as they made afternoon deliveries.

“Do you know why we deliver leftover bread to the widows, Abby?”

“Because the Bible says to care for those who are in need?”

“Yes. But there’s another reason, one that benefits us.”

“We don’t have to try to sell day-old bread?”

Her mother chuckled. “No, you little goose. It reminds us that no matter how hard things get or how many disappointments we face, there is always someone who is facing an even more difficult path. Therefore we should count our blessings and remember that the best way to take our minds off our own troubles is to help someone else with theirs.”

Abigail blinked back the moisture gathering in her eyes, spawned not by her own troubles this time, but by the realization of what her mother must have gone through. All those lost babies. A ravaged and failing body. Her mother had suffered more tragedy and disappointment than anyone of Abigail’s acquaintance. Yet she’d given of herself again and again—to the widows, to her husband, to her daughters—and Abigail had arrogantly looked down on her for being weak. For losing her identity and becoming nothing more than a breeding vessel for her husband. But Abigail was starting to think that her mother had been stronger than all of them. Like the widow with the two mites, she’d given everything—physical, emotional, even spiritual as she tried to instruct a hard-hearted daughter in the ways of kindness and gratitude.

I’m sorry, Mama. You never deserved my contempt.

And from this moment on, Abigail would do more than protect her father’s baking legacy, she’d ensure her mother’s legacy lived on as well—a generosity of spirit that would not be quelled by hardship or loss.

“Well, I’m glad Zach put him to work, and I’m happy to feed him,” Abby declared, making the words true in her heart even as she spoke them aloud. Zach was proving to be a lamb in wolf’s clothing. All tough and gruff on the outside and soft as bread pudding on the inside.

“Nate’s bringing his sister too,” Rosalind said as she set the ham on the counter and reached for a skillet. “I haven’t met her yet, but I know she’s younger. Not sure by how much.”

A young boy providing for a sister? No wonder Zach wanted to help him. They were kindred spirits.

“We might have to stretch the ham a bit,” Abigail said, frowning as she judged how many portions they could get out of the small slab they had left. “I’ll get a pot of water on to boil and start peeling potatoes. Maybe we can do some roasted carrots as well. What do you think?”

Rosalind nodded. “That along with the day-old rolls in the pie safe should be plenty.”

“I think I have enough peaches in the cellar to throw together a cobbler too. Kids love sweets.” As did grown men with big hearts.

They worked in tandem, and in less than an hour, the lingering gunpowder smell in the kitchen had been replaced with that of sizzling ham, roasted carrots, and buttery mashed potatoes.

Forgetting those things which are behind, and reaching forth unto those things which are before.

The verse rang in Abigail’s mind and filled her with sweet satisfaction. It was amazing how much more hope one could feel when looking forward instead of back.

Zach stepped through the kitchen door just as Abigail pulled the carrots from the oven and slid the cobbler into the vacancy. Hearing the heavy tread of his boots, she spun to face him, a smile stretching her cheeks wide.

“You’re home!”

He paused midstep, his forehead scrunching. “You’re more cheerful that I expected.”

“And you look worn to a frazzle.” Abigail crossed the room, planted her hands on his shoulders, and lifted up to plant a kiss on his whiskery jaw. “Lack of sleep on top of all the excitement of the day have taken their toll. Why don’t you head upstairs—”

“I ain’t headin’ upstairs, woman.” He swatted her hands away when she tried to steer him toward the stairwell. “I wanna be here when the kid comes by.” His scowl melted into an expression that tipped a little toward sheepish. “Rosalind tell you ’bout Nate?”

Abigail fought back a smile. Bread pudding, indeed. “She did.”

“I plan to hire him to help you out around here.” He held up a hand to ward off her arguments even though she wasn’t making any. “I know things are a bit . . . unsettled at the moment, but you’ll have more time to bake if he takes care of all the other jobs. I’ll pay him out of my own funds, so don’t worry about that.” His eyes pled with her. “The kid needs a job, Abby. Honest money before he gets desperate enough to try for the dishonest kind.”