Page 9 of More than Words Can Say

With that, she pivoted smartly and marched out of the shed. He watched her go, admiring her spirit as well as the sway of her walk. Regret tugged softly at him—not hard enough to make him modify his decision, but enough to make him wonder what he was missing out on by refusing her offer.

Once she disappeared through the shed door, the fog in his brain cleared, and he turned back to the workbench and picked up his plane.

As his fingers connected with the wood, her parting words connected with his brain. Zach jerked his head up and took three long strides toward the doorway, the plane gripped so tightly in his right hand that his muscles began to cramp.

She was planning to proposition other men? What if they were cads or cruel or planned to take advantage of her business despite her documents? She’d be at their mercy.

Zach forced himself to stop, but his nostrils flared in protest.

Not my problem.

He repeated the words in his head five times before he managed to retreat to his workbench.

CHAPTER

6

She was not going to cry. Abigail held her head high as she strode away from the lumberyard. She might have to blink more than usual and press her lips together to keep them from trembling, but she was not going to cry.

She’d expected Mr. Hamilton to turn her down. Getting upset over the fact that he’d done precisely as she’d predicted was ridiculous. A man needed more than the promise of a few extra coins in the bank and free breakfast sweets to bribe him to the altar. Yet all the logic in the world couldn’t stop rejection’s sting. A small part of her had foolishly hoped for a storybook ending despite the warnings of her pragmatic nature, and the disappointment left her spirit bruised. She’d need to compose herself before she approached Mr. Beekman. It wouldn’t do to extend her proposal to her next potential groom with any less enthusiasm than she’d extended to her first.

Elmer Beekman was a good man. So what if flutters failed to dance in her midsection when she encountered him? Infatuation and physical attraction faded over time. Mutual respect and kindness made a much stronger foundation for a lifelong commitment. Besides, he’d be easier to bend to her will than Zacharias Hamilton. Rosalind had a valid point about Hamilton being more likely to stand up to the council, but if Abigail gave the council what they wanted—a man at the helm of her business, at least on paper—she shouldn’t have any need of a warrior to fight battles on her behalf.

Unless a new obstacle cropped up.

Like a peacock thrusting itself into her path.

“Abigail!” A stylish brunette in a vibrant blue walking dress and a hat sporting not only a peacock feather but a pair of dyed ostrich plumes swept out of the milliner’s shop and linked her arm through Abigail’s as if the two of them were fast friends.

They had been once, but that was a long time ago.

Abigail forced her teeth to unclench. “Sophia.”

She tried to extricate her arm, but Mrs. Chester Longfellow wasn’t ready to let go. And no one gainsaid the mayor’s wife when she was on a mission. Abigail just wished she wasn’t the mission.

First Samson Gerard had accosted her with his bid for her storefront, and now Sophia had cornered her with who knew what agenda. The streets of Honey Grove were becoming downright treacherous to traverse these days.

Sophia smiled that diplomatic smile of hers that had gotten her husband elected to office—everyone knew who the true political animal of the Longfellow family was—but when her gaze met Abigail’s, her brow crinkled slightly.

“Whatever is the matter, dear?” She dragged Abigail to a halt in the middle of the boardwalk. “You look on the verge of tears.”

It was really quite impressive how Sophia could jab at one’s weakness while disguising her barb as friendly concern.

Abigail lifted her chin. The little girl inside her might mourn the best friend who’d once shared all her secrets, but the independent woman she’d become wouldn’t allow old sentiment to soften her resilience. “It’s nothing.”

Sophia clucked her tongue. “It’s this terrible business with the bakery, isn’t it? Such a shame.”

Of course Sophia knew about the city council’s ruling. Sophia knew everything that happened in town.

“Things will work out,” Abigail assured her with more confidence than she actually felt. “They always do.”

Sophia’s mask of amiability vanished at the flippant statement, and her gaze stabbed into Abigail. “Not always.”

Abigail ducked her head. “No. Not always.” And apparently she’d never stop paying for the time they hadn’t.

In a blink, Sophia’s political charisma reappeared. She patted Abigail’s arm. “In this case, I’m sure you’re right, though. Just think how much leisure time you’ll have once you sell the bakery. No more getting up before the sun to slave away in that dreadful kitchen. You’ll have enough ready money to tide you over until Rosalind can make a match. She’s such a beauty, I’m sure she’ll snag a man who can keep the both of you in style.” Another pat.

Abigail bristled at the implication that her own snagging of a husband was so unlikely a prospect as not to factor into the equation at all. A particularly painful gibe on the heels of Mr. Hamilton’s rejection.