CHAPTER
5

Zach picked up the steel square edge from his workbench, but instead of testing the board he’d been planing for perpendicularity like he normally would, he fiddled with the L-shaped tool while he stared at the woman before him.

She’d changed her clothes since that morning. Why he should notice that insignificant detail, he couldn’t imagine, but he had. She looked different without her apron. And without the flour that more often than not dusted some part of her face. Looking for the telltale streak each morning proved entertaining, not that he’d ever admit that he enjoyed examining her face. Someone might get the wrong idea.

But her countenance at the moment provoked no entertainment whatsoever. Her brown eyes glowed with purpose, and her chin angled upward in a manner that reminded Zach of his little sister when she was in the mood to lecture him.

What kind of proposal could Miss Kemp possibly have for him? If she needed shelves for the bakery, surely she would have included Reuben in the discussion, yet she’d looked relieved when he and Simeon had left.

And now her cheeks were growing pink. Probably because he was just standing here staring at her like an idiot instead of saying something.

Tightening his grip on the square, he cleared his throat. “What kind of proposition?”

She thrust a set of papers at him, the sheets crinkling as the corners bent against his chest. “A business proposition. A rather, um, unconventional one, but one I believe will prove beneficial to both of us if you’ll look past the first hurdle.”

He reached for the papers. “That hurdle being?”

She straightened her posture, which was an impressive trick of engineering, since she was already standing as stiff as the board he’d been working on moments ago. Then she met his gaze, and something grabbed at his gut. “Marriage,” she said. “To me.”

A cough exploded in his throat. He ducked his chin and turned aside, the choking sensation worsening to the point that he had to brace his arms against the workbench as he struggled to control the spasms. He’d always wondered how his brother Seth felt when an asthma attack hit. Now he knew.

“It might appear to be a beggar’s bargain on the surface,” she said from behind him, “but I promise there are benefits.”

At the word benefits, images jumped immediately to Zach’s mind. Vivid images. Of bedsheets and unpinned hair. Of luscious curves, dimpled smiles, and welcoming glances.

His throat constricted further. Not even a cough could escape now.

“To start with, you can have all the sticky buns you like free of charge. For life.”

Breakfast. She was talking about breakfast.

A bit of air seeped into his lungs, allowing him to wrestle his unruly thoughts into submission as he turned to face Miss Kemp. He leaned back against the workbench, not yet trusting his knees to hold him up on their own, and forced himself to meet her gaze.

He thrust the crumpled papers back at her. “I ain’t lookin’ for a wife.”

She made no move to take the documents. “Well, I wasn’t looking for a husband either, until Judge Hardcastle backed me into a corner.”

Zach jerked upright. That randy old goat had assaulted her? Was she pregnant? What else could have set her on this desperate course? “Did he hurt you?” he growled through clenched teeth.

Her brow scrunched. “Who? Judge Hardcastle? No. Why would you . . . ?” Her face cleared as comprehension dawned. “Oh. No. Sorry.” Flustered, she stumbled over her words, making it even more difficult for him to follow. “I can see how you might have thought—with the whole marriage thing . . . it was a proverbial corner he backed me into, not a literal . . .” The explanation died beneath a heavy sigh. “Heavens, but I’m making a mess of this.”

Zach relaxed. The judge hadn’t accosted her. Thank God. The thought of someone as sweet as Abigail Kemp being ill-treated in such a despicable fashion made him want to tear whoever dared touch her limb from limb. But if she wasn’t with child, why was she proposing marriage? And why to him? Surely there were other men in town more suitable, more . . . worthy.

“There’s a law,” she blurted. “A ridiculously archaic city ordinance that precludes women from owning businesses in Honey Grove. So after my father died, the city council gave me three months to grieve, then approached me with an ultimatum. If I don’t sell the business, I can either partner with a male financial backer by the end of the month or have the marshal close the bakery doors for me. Permanently.”

Zach frowned. That seemed a bit extreme, but he didn’t doubt her word. Plenty of men believed that women belonged in the home and nowhere else. And he wouldn’t put it past them to enforce their will by dusting off some outdated legislation.

“That’s unfortunate, but I still don’t see what this has to do with me.”

Her dimples appeared for the first time that afternoon as her lips curved in a triumphant grin. “You, my dear sir, are option number three.”

He raised a brow.

“I can’t sell Taste of Heaven. Even if I accepted Samson Gerard’s adequate offer for the bakery, it would take years to build up a clientele in another town. Starting from scratch would mean leaving our home and friends, all with no guarantee of success. And taking on a partner opens me up to all kinds of potential problems. First and foremost being that I’d have to share the profits. Just because someone in trousers was named on the deed.” She sliced her hand through the air. “Not a chance. I plan to keep all the Kemp profits within the Kemp family.”

Zach shifted his weight and leaned a hip against the workbench, interested in hearing how she planned to do that.

“Option three entails expanding my family. A husband will give me a male name to put on the deed while keeping all the profits within the family unit.” Something in her eyes changed as she looked at him. They softened a bit, her attention becoming more personal, less theoretical. “I know I’m not the grand beauty men typically favor, but if you were to marry me, Mr. Hamilton, you’d receive many other benefits.”

Great. Now she had him thinking about benefits again. This woman was going to be the death of him.

“First, I can offer financial benefits. You can move into our rooms above the bakery, thus no longer paying rent for your living quarters. Meals would be provided. Laundry and mending services, as well. In addition, I would not expect you to pay any of the bakery’s expenses with your earnings from the lumberyard. Our accounts and books would be kept separate. I’ve stipulated that in the contract.” She nodded to the forgotten papers in his right hand. “You would not be held liable for any financial difficulty the bakery might face—not that I anticipate any, but I wanted to make sure you were protected.”

Thoughtful. Smart, too. Showed foresight.

Also showed a bit of canniness. She might be talking about protecting his assets, but judging by the angle of her jaw, what she was really after was keeping her potential husband out of the workings of her bakery. Having his name on the deed might give him rights over the property itself, but Miss Kemp was obviously taking steps to ensure he had no control over the business. She had a brain behind those dimples. And the guts to forge her own path when the world tried to confine her to established roads.

He’d liked her well enough before as a talented baker who knew when to leave a man alone instead of yapping his ear off when he was trying to eat, but now true admiration stirred.

“With your living expenses reduced,” she continued, “you would enjoy increased profits from your own work. Plus, you’d have access to all the baked goods you could ever want, at no cost.”

She smiled again, and his gut clenched. It wasn’t fair for her to be all soft and sweet and tempting like that. It made a man forget all the reasons marriage was a bad idea.

Freedom. That was what he craved. More than baked goods. More than increased profits from his work. More even than the benefits he’d been picturing earlier. Benefits that, come to think of it, she’d made no reference to. She probably wanted one of them marriages of convenience with separate sleeping quarters. As if any red-blooded man could live in the same house with all those curves, knowing they were legally his to enjoy, and not go insane from the wanting.

No, thanks. He preferred to be of sound mind.

“Then there’s the intangibles,” she continued. “The marriage-minded mamas of the town will cease throwing their daughters in your path. I’ve, um, noticed how quickly you escape the churchyard when the females start flocking in your direction after services, and how you avoid most social events. Once you are off the market, the flocks will focus their attention elsewhere.”

That was the most compelling argument she’d made yet. Nothing wore down his patience faster than a gaggle of geese honking and cutting him off at every turn. He’d thought the attention would stop when the novelty of his being the new man in town wore off, but he’d been here over a year, and the problem had only grown worse. A few had given up or married elsewhere, but there always seemed to be a fresh batch waiting to whittle on him. Pretty soon he’d be worn so thin he’d snap. No telling what damage he’d cause then. Those same mamas who’d been so eager for him to tie the knot with their daughters would probably lead a campaign to run him out of town.

Wait. What was he thinking? He couldn’t protect his bachelorhood by getting married. That was about as oxymoronic as one could get.

No. His answer was still no.

Figuring she wouldn’t accept the papers from him since he’d made zero effort to read them, he reached for the strap on her satchel, tugged the bag toward him, and stuffed the contract inside.

“I’m sorry for the predicament you’re in, Miss Kemp. The council’s wrong for railroading you, for sure. But I’m not your man.”

Her face fell, though she firmed up her mouth in a quick attempt to hide it. Did she actually want to marry him? Surely not. He was just expedient, that was all. And really, he was doing her a favor. No woman as pleasant as Abigail Kemp deserved to be saddled with a grouchy bachelor with a shady past. All she knew of him was that he was punctual and liked sticky buns. If she knew the truth, she’d thank her lucky stars he’d turned her down.

He was doing her a favor.

“You should ride over to Bonham and appeal to a judge there,” he suggested, hating to leave her with no help whatsoever. “Maybe a ruling from the county seat would carry more weight with our local council.”

She shook her head. “Judge Hardcastle made it clear that I had no grounds for further appeal unless the ordinance was rescinded. Mayor Longfellow assured me the council had no intention of removing the law from the books at this time. Perhaps at some ambiguous future date . . .” She waved her hand dismissively. “But that would be too late to do me any good. I have to have a man in place in some capacity by the end of the month, or I lose my bakery.”

Five days. Actually, only three, as the month ended on a Sunday. Bankers and lawyers didn’t work on the weekend, and both would be needed to draw up whatever paperwork would be required to transfer ownership. She didn’t have many options.

But that wasn’t his problem.

Zach clenched his jaw and steeled his heart against any sympathy trying to worm its way inside. He was no one’s hero. Not anymore. Never should have been in the first place. As soon as a fellow like him tried to be a hero, he doomed himself, along with those he cared about.

Freedom. That was what he needed.

Unencumbered freedom.

“Well, I won’t waste any more of your time, Mr. Hamilton.” Her gaze dropped as she straightened the papers he’d rammed inside her satchel with his big oaf fingers. Her cheeks glowed pink, and she started backing away. Then her chin lifted, and a determined light sparked in the gold of her eyes. “I’ll be on my way. I have two more candidates to interview before nightfall. Good day.”

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.