Page 83 of More than Words Can Say

“Speaking of biscuits,” Reuben said, gallantly retrieving Zach’s hat, then ruining the kindness of the gesture by smashing it down on his partner’s head so far that Zach couldn’t see anything above his friend’s knees, “isn’t it about time for your wife to stop by with your lunch?”

“Yep.” Zach adjusted his hat, his heart giving an extra thump as his mind drifted to Abigail.

“I want to hear you sing in church.”

Those words had lingered in his mind ever since she’d uttered them. And truth be told, they’d brought him to his knees. She’d chosen him over her bakery. Shown him what it meant to trust God with her future instead of trying to shape her fate herself. It had humbled him. And challenged him.

He and the Almighty had been chatting regularly since that night and had finally come to an understanding this morning while Zach was driving out to one of the ranches north of town to deliver an order of fence posts. The quiet had provided plenty of thinking space, and after wrestling and rationalizing for nearly an hour, he finally admitted that the logic he’d gripped so tightly through the years was flawed. He had had a choice all those years ago, and he’d made the wrong one.

He hadn’t trusted the Lord to take care of Seth and Evie. He’d only trusted himself. And that fear-driven arrogance had taken him down a path that led to a man’s death and damaged his own soul in the process. He’d told himself that the end justified the means. But that had been a lie, one he’d swallowed so fast he hadn’t even noticed the bitter aftertaste of brimstone. He’d noticed it today, though, when he finally released his grip and let God yank it from where it had burrowed into his gut. It burned all the way out, but peace had rushed in to fill the hole. A much friendlier traveling companion than guilt.

Zach would never admit it out loud, but when he’d made his confession from that wagon seat earlier today, he swore he heard angels rejoicing. Probably just the wind playing tricks on his ears, but that song had taken residence in his head with such stubbornness that he’d started whistling without even being aware of it until Reuben came in and harassed him.

“You think she’ll have some of them lemon scones with her again?” Reuben asked, a dreamy look in his eyes. “I could eat a dozen of those things.”

“Doubt it.” Zach stepped away from his workbench and slapped Reuben on the back. “I told her you prefer bran muffins.”

“You didn’t!”

Zach chuckled at the horror on his partner’s face. Reuben had proven a true friend. After Charlie Evans denied Zach’s request for a loan as Reuben had predicted, Zach’s partner offered him an advance on his wages. Zach had turned him down, of course. He’d never do anything to put the welfare of the Sinclair brood at risk, no matter how many assurances their hardheaded father gave him that they could afford it. The fact that the offer had been made at all was gift enough.

Reuben suddenly straightened, shifting his attention to the doorway. “Speak of the lady, and she appears.”

Zach spun around and drank in the sight of his wife sashaying into the lumberyard, basket on her arm and smile on her lips. A smile aimed directly at him. Now, that was an invitation he couldn’t refuse. He sidestepped Reuben and wrapped Abigail in an enthusiastic embrace that lifted her feet straight off the ground.

She giggled, then swatted his shoulder and ordered that he put her down.

He chuckled, slow to obey due to the joy spiraling through him. He’d expected that making peace with God would help him feel closer to the Almighty. He hadn’t expected that it would make him feel closer to his wife as well. But it had. Holding her had always been a pleasure, but never this keen, never this . . . pure.

Never this . . . public. Maybe he should put her down. Reuben was their only audience, but still. A wife as precious as Abigail should be treated with the utmost respect and decorum. That was hard to do, though, when her brown eyes danced with the same excitement that spun like a whirligig in his own chest. It made a man want to take his woman home and lock out the rest of the world for the afternoon.

Swallowing a sigh, he set her on her feet, trying not to be offended when she left him behind to totter over to Reuben. The line she took was riddled with zigzags, though, proof that his attentions had left her unsteady. A fact he found immensely satisfying.

“I’ve come to bribe you, Mr. Sinclair,” Abigail said. Zach followed, intent on claiming his place at her side.

Reuben held a hand over his heart. “I’m a man of integrity, my lady,” he pronounced with great pomp. “No amount of bran muffins will persuade me to compromise my principles.”

Abby flashed her dimples and pulled back the cover on her basket. “How about a stack of lemon scones?”

“Lemon scones?” Reuben made a grab for the basket. “Consider me bribed.”

“Wonderful! So I can borrow my husband for about thirty minutes?”

Reuben held the scones up to his nose and inhaled. “Thirty minutes? For lemon scones, madam, you can have him for the entire afternoon.”

The entire afternoon? Zach’s pulse ratcheted up three levels, nearly causing him to miss the knowing wink his partner threw his way.

“I only need thirty—ooh!”

Zach snaked an arm around her waist and spun her toward the exit. “Don’t argue with the man, wife.”

Reuben’s chuckle echoed behind them as they ducked into the office. Zach grabbed his coat off the hook by the door without pause and steered Abigail out onto the street.

“You can kidnap me first,” Zach murmured as he slid his arms into his coat sleeves. “Take me wherever you like. I’ll do whatever you need me to do. But after . . .” He smoldered a glance her way, making no effort to hide his thoughts. “I get to kidnap you.”

Roses bloomed in her cheeks, and her feet stumbled over a wagon rut in the road. Zach took her arm as much for his pleasure as her support. He did love touching her.

“Zacharias Hamilton,” she scolded even as she leaned into him, “behave yourself. We’re on our way to Lydia Putnam’s house. She and the other widows wish to give us something, and I won’t have you distracting me with such . . . suggestive talk.”