CHAPTER
35

Abigail had never been so happy to see another human being as she’d been the moment Zach charged into her kitchen. She needed his strength. His comfort. Needed him.

Their position on the floor was awkward, but when he took hold of her upper arms, she fisted his shirt in her hands and turned her face into his chest. He was here. Fierce, kind, wonderful Zach. She wasn’t alone. Thank God, she wasn’t alone.

His hands released her arms, shifting to circle her back and slip beneath her knees. In a single motion, he lifted her from the floor and settled her against his chest, then paced across the kitchen to the breakfast table, where he scooted out a chair with his foot and sat down, holding her on his lap.

He fidgeted for a moment, then urged her face upward with a gentle tug on her chin. When she looked up, he wiped the tears and soot from her face with his handkerchief. He took such care, brushing the damp stray hairs behind her ear with a gentle finger and running the handkerchief over her face with the same soft strokes one would use with a small child. Part of her was embarrassed to be coddled in such a way, but a much larger part craved the tenderness. Craved the chance to let someone else be the strong one. Just for a moment.

Once he’d cleaned her face to his satisfaction, he handed her the handkerchief. She sat up a bit, turned her face away, and blew her nose. She crumpled the handkerchief into her hand—she couldn’t exactly hand it back to him after soiling it in such a way—then sagged back against him and laid her head on his shoulder. For a blissful moment, she simply listened to him breathe. Deep. Steady. Her breaths started mimicking his pattern, and soon she found herself relaxing against him.

“What’s gone, Abby?” Her husband’s low rumble sharpened her mind and brought her back to the reality of her situation. Only this time, with him surrounding her, it didn’t feel quite so bleak. “Did the thief empty the till?”

If only the damage had been that minor. The bakery could survive a day of lost profits, even the biggest profit-bearing day of the year.

She shook her head. “No. At least, I don’t think so.” She straightened away from Zach, her brow wrinkling as she craned her neck to peer toward the shop. As if she could somehow see through the wall, beneath the counter, and inside the cashbox if she just squinted hard enough. “I haven’t actually checked.”

He rested a finger on her jaw and lightly turned her face back to him. “Then what’s gone? What happened?”

She told him about the boy, about the firecrackers, and about her beloved oven being gutted from the inside. She had to dab at her eyes a time or two, but anger built inside her as she recounted the tale, pushing her grief aside.

“Why would that child play such a horrible prank?” She tried to recall as many details about the boy as she could. He’d run her down so fast, most of the memories were a blur. He’d been a thin little thing. Cap pulled low on his head. Not too tall. He’d shoved at her when he barreled past, and his hands had jabbed into the lower section of her corset. “Do you think it was a dare of some kind?”

Zach’s face gave away none of his thoughts. “Doubt it.”

“Well, if it was just pure mischief, the little vandal should be locked up. I don’t care how young he is.”

Zach raised a brow at her.

Abigail huffed and slumped a bit. “All right. I care. But there needs to be consequences.” She straightened, indignation sparking to life once again. “No matter his age, his actions were criminal. Costly. He can’t be allowed to run amok, destroying people’s businesses. He probably thought it a harmless prank, but that act ruined me, Zach. Without my father’s oven, the Taste of Heaven will fail.”

“It won’t fail.” A muscle ticked in his jaw, and his arms tensed. “I won’t let it. I’ve got money put aside. Not a lot, but I could talk to Seth—”

“Absolutely not!” Abigail grabbed his arm. “I will not drag your family into my woes. That’s why we signed that agreement before we wed. You are not liable for any of the bakery’s financial troubles.”

Zach glared at her. “I don’t give a flying fig for that agreement, and you know it.”

Did she? She took in his fierce face, his square jaw clenching, his gorgeous midnight-blue eyes glimmering with intensity.

Yes, she supposed she did know. This marriage had ceased being a business arrangement weeks ago.

Softening against him, she laid her head back on his shoulder and reached up to stroke his jaw.

“You’re right. We’re in this together. You and I will deal with the ramifications of today’s destruction, but Seth and Christie are just getting started. As are Logan and Evie. I don’t want to burden them with these troubles. We’ll get through.”

Somehow.

Some of the tension drained from Zach’s body. He cradled her close and rubbed loose fingers over her sleeve. With her husband’s presence to combat the despair that had dragged her to her knees earlier, Abigail’s mind slowly started to spin again. She didn’t have time to worry about how to handle the oven issue right now. Didn’t scripture teach that tomorrow had enough trouble of its own? She wouldn’t borrow any. She’d focus on today and what she could do with what she had.

What she had was a fully functioning shop stocked with delicious loaves and rolls. Not to mention the biscuit booth Rosalind would—

Abigail bolted upright. “You’re supposed to be with Rosalind.” She pushed away from her husband and scrambled awkwardly off his lap.

Zach stood more slowly. Deliberately. “Reuben’s with her. I stayed by her side until the parade was over.”

Abigail gasped. “The parade’s over? Of course it’s over. I need to open the shop. We need whatever profits we can bring in.” She dashed toward the door that connected the bakery to the kitchen.

But Zach ran her down and snagged her around the waist. He spun her around to face him.

“What are you doing? I have to go!”

“I’ll open the shop. You might want to change your, ah . . .” He gestured to her chest, a touch of red staining his swarthy cheeks.

Abigail glanced down and sucked in a breath. Good heavens. She was a mess. Tiny charred spots across her chest, damp fabric clinging to her curves. And there was no telling what her face and hair looked like. She’d scare off the customers before they could even get a look at her bread.

But Zach couldn’t open the shop. He knew nothing about prices or running the till. He couldn’t make recommendations or answer questions about ingredients.

As if he’d read her mind, he raised a brow in slight offense. “I was a professional gambler, Abby. I can run numbers in my head and keep track of multiple pieces of information at one time. Rosalind told me she keeps a price list in the cashbox. I might not do things exactly as you would, but I can make do for the ten minutes it’ll take you to change.”

Of course he could. He was the most capable man she’d ever met. She shouldn’t have doubted him. Not even for a moment.

“You’re right.” She smiled an apology, then kissed his cheek. “Thank you, Zach. For everything.”

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. But she was coming to understand his nods and grunts. This one warmed her heart. He understood that her thanks extended to more than his opening of her shop. Perhaps he felt a touch of gratitude too for the fact that they had each other, for better or worse. They might be facing the worse right now, but the fact that they could lean on each other in the midst of it moved it into the better category.

“I’ll be back down in a trice,” she promised as she scurried to the stairwell.

As soon as she spied herself in the mirror above Rosalind’s dresser, she mentally thanked her husband again for not letting her open the shop in her current state. Gracious, she looked like she’d been sucked up into a twister. As she worked the buttons at her throat, she noticed that the odor of smoke had infused her clothing. No one wanted to buy baked goods from someone who smelled burnt. It killed one’s credibility.

Would the acrid odor of spent firecrackers seep from the kitchen into her shop? Abigail’s hands paused in tugging her bodice from her skirt. With a sigh, she shrugged off the answer. She couldn’t control where aromas wafted. She’d closed the oven door. The back window had been broken out, so maybe that would help the smoke dissipate. God had been known to bring beauty from ashes. Maybe he would direct the smoke into the alley instead of her shop. Maybe not. Either way, it was out of her control, and she couldn’t spare the energy to worry about things she had no power to change.

After stripping down to her chemise, corset, and drawers, she scrubbed her face clean at the washstand and examined her hair. She didn’t have time to redo the fancy braid and ribbon that Rosalind had fashioned for her, so she settled for smoothing back the loose strands and adding some extra pins. Thoughts of her sister urged her to hurry. Mr. Sinclair was a good man, but he had his children to watch out for. Rosalind needed Zach with her.

Abigail grabbed serviceable clothing from the wardrobe, no longer caring about festivity. The brown twill would work just fine. She’d dress it up a bit with her ivory calico shirtwaist with the tiny maroon flowers. It might clash with the red ribbon in her hair, but she couldn’t be bothered with that. Rosalind needed Zach, and Abigail needed to sell bread. Who knew how long today’s profits would have to last them?