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He met her gaze. “This isn’t a joking matter.”
Abigail couldn’t agree more. Perhaps George Cummings had another side if he’d risked his life looking for a victim of the fire, but he hadn’t shown mercy in his business dealings with her father. Losing the farm had destroyed Frank Wilson and impacted all their lives. A day didn’t go by without thinking about the penalty the Wilsons paid for George Cummings’s greed. Nothing could make her spend time with that heartless man. “I wouldn’t look after your father,” she said, forcing the words between clenched teeth, “if it was the last job on earth.”
Unable to abide Wade’s presence a moment longer, she struggled to rise but caught a heel in her hem. He leaped to his feet and strode to her, reaching a hand of assistance, his eyes pleading, as if…
As if he needed her.
She backed away, avoiding his gaze. She wouldn’t be needed by a Cummings. Not by the father. Not by the son who’d tossed her aside as if she were unworthy of him. The only explanation for the abrupt, cruel way he’d broken off the relationship.
“Are you sure about that, Abby?”
At the use of such a personal nickname, she jerked up her head, about to take off his. But something in his gaze stopped her. Something dejected, even desperate, as if he believed she held the key to his future.
“Please. It’s only for a couple of months, three at the most. You’ll get the money you need. And I’ll be able to handle the obligations my father’s injuries have roped me into.” He met her gaze, his eyes soft with understanding. “You and I are in the same boat. We do what we must for the sake of our families.”
Was Wade’s life as weighted down as hers?
The idea seemed ludicrous. Still…
She glanced toward the table where her sister sat, wrapped in a shawl, barely recovered from delivering her baby, yet selling baked goods, doing what she could to help. Most women would still be confined to bed.
Tears stung the back of Abigail’s eyes. Lois had endured years of Joe’s gambling, yet lived each day with courage and faith. While steadfastly praying for her husband, she’d headed her family, determined to care for her sons. Now she had to endure the loss of her home, her possessions, along with an injured husband who couldn’t work.
With everything they owned destroyed, how would the Lessmans furnish the new house? This job offered a way to equip their home, exactly what Abigail had prayed for.
No matter how badly she wanted to refuse Wade’s offer, what choice did she have? She’d do whatever it took to bring a new beginning to her sister’s family.
The collar encircling her neck felt like a noose. And Wade Cummings had just tightened the rope.
Wade watched the wheels turn in Abby’s pretty head, now bowed as if burdened by the load of responsibility she carried. She’d take the job, no doubt about it, yet the air practically crackled with her resistance. Resistance evolving to assent as she recognized he spoke the truth.
She had no choice.
Not that she liked the decision.
Well, he didn’t either. After all the troubles between their families, one of which she laid at his feet, to ask Abby for help hadn’t been easy.
Though Wade felt certain she could handle his father, he had another reason why he wanted her to take the job. A reason he’d never explain to her, to anyone.
Nothing George said or did could make Abby’s bad opinion of his father sink lower. While someone else in the community, someone who held George Cummings in esteem, or at the very least respected his success, might resent his father’s bad temper and add fuel to the storm swirling around his family.
Weary from the scandal that started with his mother’s desertion, intensified with his father calling the Wilson loan, and pinnacled at Frank Wilson’s death, Wade craved peace.
He wanted a new beginning. To be a part of the community, not as a Cummings, but in his own right, to have the satisfaction of crafting beautiful furniture, a dream of his for years. To tell Abigail all that would make him vulnerable, an easy target for the Wilson archery.
She looked up at him, her eyes as chilly as blue-shadowed snow. “I’ll do it.”
Her expression, her tone, the stiff way she held her body told him she despised the decision. Yet he knew from the determined slant of her chin that she’d keep her word.
“Thank you,” he said, hoping she heard his gratitude.
“My father bad-mouthed George Cummings at every turn. You do know that hiring me will make your father angry.”
Frank Wilson had taken pleasure in launching barbed arrows at the Cummingses, hitting their bull’s-eye dead center. Anger was the armor Wade’s father wore. “Sometimes anger’s good for a man.”
Her eyes widened, as if surprised by his statement, but then she nodded. “Sometimes anger is good for a woman.” She met his gaze boldly, daring him to disagree.
Had it been? Or had the cost of that anger imposed a steep price Abby still paid?
Whatever suffering that anger had brought, the brief time he’d spent with her today proved she wouldn’t back away from a fight. No doubt sparks would fly between her and his father.
“With you two in the same ring, I have to wonder who’ll be left standing when the bell sounds.”
“Comparing us to opponents in a boxing match isn’t farfetched.” She released a soft sigh. “I suspect we’ll go several rounds before we determine the winner.”
He smiled at her gumption—and at his victory. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do.
Before he’d gotten the first taste of satisfaction, disquiet took root in his mind. A quick glance at the woman in front of him affirmed the disturbing feeling.
If he wasn’t careful, Abigail might ignite something within him. As Cecil had said, a Wilson and Cummings were oil and water. A combination that could go up in flames, creating a blaze he couldn’t quench.
She took a step back. Had she sensed that attraction he felt? Alarming her as much as it did him?
“Just what are you paying me?” she said. “Whatever it is, it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.”
She didn’t say why, but it didn’t take a genius to guess. Being around him—and his father—demanded a price too high to pay. For the hundredth time, he wondered if his plan made perfect sense or if the venture would blow up in his face.
Chapter Three
In the bedroom she now shared with her mother, Abigail stood before the mirror, putting the finishing touches on her hair, then opened a bureau drawer in search of a handkerchief.
A scrap of pink caught her eye. Without her consent her hand sought the silky band, transporting her back through the years.
To the day Wade had given her the ribbon, a token, he’d said, of affection for his princess.
To the gentle grip of his hand on hers.
To the time when she’d been a frivolous young girl who’d believed in Prince Charming.
As if the satin seared her hand, she dropped it then slammed the drawer shut. On memories that brought a lump to her throat.
Swallowing hard, she pasted a smile on her face and strolled toward the kitchen. Hoping to eat breakfast and leave with no one questioning her plans. She wouldn’t tell her family about her job. Not yet. Not when she didn’t know if George Cummings would see her fired.
Painted a cheerful robin’s-egg blue and bedecked with little-boy drawings partially disguising dingy floorboards, cracked ceilings and chipped sink, the kitchen hummed with activity.
“Good morning,” she said, careful to let none of her misgivings about her day creep into her tone.
A chorus of “Morning” drifted back to her.
From the open shelves, Abigail grabbed a bowl, squeezed by her mother at the stove to help herself to the oatmeal, and then opened the icebox. The jug of milk was all but empty. She’d do without.
At the table she sat beside her oldest nephew, Peter, his dark-haired head bowed over his food, his spoon scraping the bowl as he shoveled oatmeal into his mouth.
Ma, her lean frame sheathed in a faded floor-length cotton wrapper, thick braid hanging midway down her back, poured coffee from the enamel pot, then handed a cup to Abigail. “You’re dressed early.”
Abigail thanked her then took a sip, avoiding her mother’s perceptive gaze. “Mmm, coffee’s good.”
Across the table, his broken leg elevated on a crate, the cast on his arm cradled in a makeshift sling, Joe hunched over his Bible. His flaxen hair still tousled from sleep, his boyish good looks belied his courage. Some would say his audacity that on the night of the fire, he’d dropped his family at the apartment, then had gone back to their burning house to save what he could. Instead he’d tumbled down the stairs, breaking bones.
Joe looked up and shot her a smile. “From the way you’re dressed, if I didn’t know better, Ab, I’d think school was in session.”
“Gracious, I must look a sight most summer mornings.”
Grinning, he shook his head. “I’m privileged to be surrounded by three of the prettiest females in New Harmony.” But he only had eyes for Lois sitting at his side, holding two-week-old Billy in the crook of her arm.
Fair skin rosy with the compliment, Lois gave her husband a teasing grin. “Me? Wearing this frayed robe, my hair a mass of tangles and puffed up with baby weight? You must need spectacles, Joseph Lessman.”
Joe leaned close and kissed Lois square on the lips. “You’ve never looked more beautiful, wife.”
The love between Joe and Lois didn’t mean Abigail had forgotten the years her sister’s marriage had kept Abigail awake at night. “He’s right, you know,” she said to Lois. “You look wonderful.”
Survivors of his gambling addiction and of the fire, Lois and Joe had learned what was important. God had given them a new start. She prayed nothing would happen to bring them harm.
Her mother glanced at Abigail’s bowl. “Are we out of milk?”
“The boys need it.”
Lois tucked the blanket around baby Billy’s exposed toes. “They’ve eaten. Help yourself, sis.”
“Nursing the baby, you need milk more than I do.”
Abigail said a silent prayer then dug into the bowl. When she’d finished, she poured the last of the milk in a glass and took it to Lois. Trailing an index finger down the sleeping baby’s velvety cheek, Abigail relived the night when the panic of the fire sent Lois into labor. With Doc tied up caring for the injured, Ma and Abigail delivered this precious baby. An incredible moment Abigail would never forget. “I only heard Billy cry twice last night.”
Lois kissed the newborn’s forehead. “He’s a good baby. At this rate, in a few weeks, he’ll be sleeping through the night.”
Abigail had barely slept herself, trying to think of a way to help Lois’s family and handle the expense of feeding eight mouths that didn’t involve working for a Cummings.
But no idea had come.
Huddled close to his mother, four-year-old Donnie sucked his thumb. Something he’d reverted to since the fire. Or perhaps his new baby brother was to blame. Abigail kissed the top of Donnie’s fair head. “Love you.”
Donnie popped out his thumb. “Luv you, Auntie Abby,” he said then stuck his wrinkled thumb between sweet rosebud lips.
She knelt beside six-year-old twins Gary and Sam stretched out on the floor wearing their rumpled nightshirts, playing with metal farm animals. Survivors of Abigail and Lois’s childhood, their paint was chipped and worn. “How’s the livestock this morning?”
Sam’s soft brown eyes twinkled. “Dogs got into the chicken house.”
“Oh, no. Did you lose many?”
Though he tried not to smile, a dimple appeared in his cheek. “Six.”
“So sorry.”
“I’m feeding the cows,” Gary said.
“And they appreciate it.”
“The chickens didn’t die, Aunt Abby,” Gary whispered. “Sam made that up.”
“Did not!”
“Did so.”
She tousled both blond heads. “Making things up is part of the fun, Gary,” she said, then carried her bowl toward the sink.
“If you boys are going to be farmers, you’ll need to build secure chicken coops so dogs and foxes can’t get at them,” Joe said.
“When they grow up, I hope they’ll further their education, prepare themselves for another line of work.”
“Nothing wrong with farming,” Joe said in a sharp tone.
“Of course there isn’t,” Abigail hurried to say. “But we’ve seen that land can disappear.”
Joe harrumphed. “Can’t live life expecting the worst.”
She hadn’t meant to offend her brother-in-law, but when they’d lost the farm, Joe’d lost his job too. His gambling started not long afterward.
At the sink, Ma poured hot water from the teakettle then worked up some suds. “I’ve been thinking about asking Martha Manning for a job clerking at the Mercantile.”
Her mother didn’t have the energy to handle a job and oversee her grandchildren. “Lois needs your help with the boys. I’m going to spend the day checking possibilities.”
Not exactly the truth, but not a lie either. If she was fired, she’d look for something else.
“I talked to Agnes about waitressing in the café,” Lois said. “She doesn’t need more help.”
“You’ve no business working with a two-week-old baby,” Joe said, his brow furrowed. “I thought I’d ask the Moore brothers if I could clean their house.”
Lois shook her head. “How would you handle the work with a broken leg and arm?”
“I’d be slow, sure, but I’d manage.”
“To sweep and mop floors? Burn the trash? Wash windows? Doc said to stay off that leg so it can heal.”
Eyes bleak, back rigid, Joe closed the Bible then glared at the crutch propped in the corner. “I can’t sit idle while bills pile up.”
Lois patted her husband’s arm. “God will take care of us.”
“I know He will.”
