The best of enemies

His family destroyed hers. But Wade Cummings’s job offer—to care for his recuperating father—is impossible to decline. Schoolteacher Abigail Wilson can swallow her pride for the sake of a summer paycheck that will help her sister. And when Abigail’s employment ends, old loyalties will separate the feuding families once more.

If there’s anyone in town stubborn enough to deal with Wade’s cantankerous father, it’s Abigail. It’s just a business arrangement—and a temporary one, at that. Her good opinion shouldn’t matter a lick to Wade. Yet their different backgrounds belie a surprising kinship. Perhaps unexpected love will be their reward for the summer’s inconvenient match.

“My father badmouthed George Cummings at every turn. You do know that hiring me will make your father angry.”

“Sometimes anger is good for a man,” Wade replied.

Abby’s eyes widened, as if she were surprised by his statement, but then she nodded. “Sometimes anger is good for a woman.” She met his gaze boldly, daring him to disagree.

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.

He’d achieved what he’d set out to do. But before he’d gotten the first sense of satisfaction, disquiet took root in his mind. A quick glance at the woman in front of him affirmed the feeling. If he wasn’t careful, Abigail Wilson might ignite something within him. A Wilson and Cummings might be oil and water, but that combination could ignite a blaze.

Had Abby sensed that attraction he felt? Did it alarm her as much as it did him?

JANET DEAN

grew up in a family that cherished the past and had a strong creative streak. Her father recounted wonderful stories, like his father before him. The tales they told instilled in Janet a love of history and the desire to write. She married her college sweetheart and taught first grade before leaving to rear two daughters. As her daughters grew, they watched Little House on the Prairie, reawakening Janet’s love of American history and the stories of strong men and women of faith who built this country. Janet eagerly turned to inspirational historical romance, and she loves spinning stories for Love Inspired Historical. When she isn’t writing, Janet stamps greeting cards, plays golf and bridge, and is never without a book to read. The Deans love to travel and to spend time with family.

An Inconvenient Match

Janet Dean

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Love Inspired!

2012 is a very special year for us. It marks the fifteenth anniversary of Love Inspired Books. Hard to believe that fifteen years ago, we first began publishing our warm and wonderful inspirational romances.

Back in 1997, we offered readers three books a month. Since then we’ve expanded quite a bit! In addition to the heartwarming contemporary romances of Love Inspired, we have the exciting romantic suspenses of Love Inspired Suspense, and the adventurous historical romances of Love Inspired Historical. Whatever your reading preference, we’ve got fourteen books a month for you to choose from now!

Throughout the year we’ll be celebrating in several different ways. Look for books by bestselling authors who’ve been writing for us since the beginning, stories by brand-new authors you won’t want to miss, special miniseries in all three lines, reissues of top authors, and much, much more.

This is our way of thanking you for reading Love Inspired books. We know our uplifting stories of hope, faith and love touch your hearts as much as they touch ours.

Join us in celebrating fifteen amazing years of inspirational romance!

Blessings,

Melissa Endlich and Tina James

Senior Editors of Love Inspired Books

To teachers everywhere, those in the classroom and those in the home, who instruct, not only from textbooks, but by word and deed. God bless you.

* * *

The Lord is my strength and my shield, my heart trusts in him and I am helped.

—Psalm 28:7

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Chapter One

New Harmony, Iowa, 1901

One glance at the rogue across the way curled Abigail Wilson’s gloved hands into a stranglehold on her skirts. She couldn’t dispute that Wade Cummings was handsome, rugged—

Her heart stuttered in her chest. And, a ladies’ man who took pleasure in toying with a woman’s affections.

Abigail should warn that bevy of giggling young females surrounding him, all vying for his attention. Not that they’d believe falling for the Cummings heir entailed a risk. No doubt each hoped he would bid on her box lunch and spend the afternoon, better yet, a lifetime, plastered to her side. Their plan for the future—a wedding ring.

She’d seen how well that worked out in the best of circumstances, but tied to a Cummings that would be a jail sentence without end.

She turned away from her nemesis and joined the throng pouring into the small park bordering Main Street. Inside the park’s gazebo a table held dozens of gaily wrapped box lunches. She handed hers to Oscar Moore, the fundraiser’s auctioneer.

Oscar doffed his straw hat. “Afternoon, Miss Abigail.”

Donned in his usual garb of a plaid flannel shirt and bib overalls even on this warm Saturday in May, Oscar lined her box up with the others on display, a colorful mix of paper, silk flowers and ribbon.

“I’d give Leon a run for his money and bid on your lunch exceptin’ I make it a point to never come between lovebirds.”

Abigail bit back a grin. Lovebirds hardly described her and Leon.

A sudden grimace marred Oscar’s placid plump face. “Land’s sake, they’re at it again.”

Up ahead, young people circled a commotion. Abigail rose on her tiptoes. Why, inside that ring, two of her students hunched, clenched hands reared back, ready to strike a blow. Within seconds bystanders took sides, egging them on, as if they needed encouragement. Paul was a hothead, but Seth normally had a level head on his shoulders. What had happened?

Abigail strode toward the ruckus, using her collapsed parasol to clear a path, and pushed her way between the two glowering teenagers. Not wise considering each stood a head taller than her, and outweighed her by a good fifty pounds.

“She’s mine, you hear!”

“Like you own her!”

“You two are behaving like tantrum-throwing toddlers,” Abigail said. Chests heaving, eyes sparking, knuckles white, neither boy appeared to hear. “Seth! Paul! Unfold those fists!”

Looking slightly dazed, both boys lowered their arms and took a step back.

Seth Collier, his dark hair curling with perspiration, dropped a sheepish gaze to his feet.

Paul Roger’s face was contorted in anger and as red as his hair, his icy-blue eyes shooting daggers. He reached around Abigail and shoved a palm into Seth’s shoulder. Seth staggered, almost losing his balance.

Abigail slapped her parasol against Paul’s forearm. “Stop that!” Finally both boys turned toward her. “What’s this about?”

“Seth’s going to bid on Betty Jo’s lunch. Everyone knows she’s my girl.”

“Then outbid him. The box social is about raising money.”

Snarling, Paul took a threatening step toward Seth. “No one bids on Betty Jo’s lunch but me.”

“If sharing a meal with another boy will damage your friendship with Betty Jo, then face the truth, Paul, you don’t mean much to her in the first place.”

Betty Jo Weaver, the object of the boys’ hostility, sashayed over, dainty hands planted on hips, lips flattened in a disapproving line. “I wouldn’t share my lunch with either of you blockheads, not for all the tea in China!” She spun away, petticoats and blond curls flying.

“As you can see, gentlemen, the way to a lady’s heart isn’t through your fists.”

“Now look what you’ve gone and done,” Paul groused to Seth then took off at a run. “Betty Jo, wait up!”

With the fight over before it started, bystanders lost interest and dispersed.

Abigail took in Seth’s familiar faded shirt, the elbow she’d patched one afternoon after school. Motherless with a father who drank, the boy didn’t have an easy life.

“You need to watch what you say to Paul. You know his temper.” She smiled to soften her words. “Plenty of other girls would like to share their lunch with you.”

“Maybe,” Seth said but didn’t look convinced.

Did he really care about Betty Jo? If so, he was bound to get hurt. Betty Jo Weaver had bigger pickings in mind. Already she’d joined the circle of Wade Cummings’s ardent admirers.

Foolish girl.

Off to the side, face downcast, Paul stood watching. Young love hurt, she knew, but dismissed the thought and turned away from such silliness.

“Seth, the school board agreed to pay someone to stoke the schoolhouse stove this winter. Would you like the job?”

His eyes lit. “Yes, ma’am, I sure would.”

“It’ll mean getting up early.”

“I can manage.”

“I know you can. Now have a good time today. And no fighting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said then trotted off.

Seth was a good kid. A bright kid. And weighted down with responsibility. With a father who saw any act of kindness toward him and his son as interference. The best way to help Seth was to get him out from under his father’s influence and into college next year.

“This box social reminds me of a meal we once shared.”

At the sound of his voice and the implication in that tone, the hair on the back of Abigail’s neck rose. She whirled to face the speaker, tripping on her skirts, and stared into the eyes of Wade Cummings.

He steadied her, his touch firm and warm through her sleeve. A lazy grin rode his chiseled features, as if he found her reaction amusing. When he knew perfectly well she wouldn’t share a meal with him if he were the last person on earth.

She jutted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Are you saying you’ve forgotten the school picnic? I’ll never forget the strawberry pie you brought.”

A flash of memory of Wade capturing a speck of filling with his tongue, then declaring the pie the best he’d ever eaten as her stomach had roiled. Not from the dessert, but that he’d spoken to her at all, considering the trouble between their families. Worse when he’d asked to join her on the blanket, she’d nodded, unable to refuse the allure of those deep-set indigo eyes. That afternoon they’d strolled through the park, talked for hours. For weeks they’d spent every minute together they could. Not easy when her family adamantly refused to let Wade come calling.

That had been a long time ago. Before Wade dumped her like a sack of rotten potatoes. Before Pa died. Before she fully grasped the Cummings family treachery and suffered the consequences. She dealt with them still.

As she pivoted on her heel to avoid him and the heartache those memories awakened, Wade stopped her with a gentle hand on hers. “Did you make strawberry pie for today’s lunch?”

“No.” She shook off his touch, grateful she spoke the truth, but if she had prepared his favorite dessert, she’d never admit as much to Wade. “Leave me alone.”

Oscar Moore’s brother Cecil, self-proclaimed mayor of New Harmony, sidled up beside her. Long-faced and tall, the exact opposite of his rotund brother, Cecil lifted a brow. “From the looks of it you two could use a referee. My rheumatism’s been acting up but I ain’t too feeble to handle the job.”

“No need, Cecil. Mr. Cummings was just leaving,” Abigail said with a finality Wade couldn’t miss. And from the stubborn set of his jaw, he hadn’t.

“Well, in that case I’ll mosey on back to my post.” Cecil shook his head. “Too bad you two mix about like oil and water. Cause you look right well together. Better’n Pastor Ted’s matched team of Percherons.”

With a jaunty wave, he hobbled off, leaving Abigail with flushed cheeks.

Wade chuckled. “Hope you don’t mind being compared to a horse. In Cecil’s view there’s no higher compliment.”

“He’s mistaken. Nothing about us matches.”

“Sometimes an unlikely pair works well as one.” Wade’s gaze drilled into her. “I noticed how you stood up to those young troublemakers looking for a fight. I’d like to discuss—”

“We have nothing to say to each other.”

“Please, hear me out.”

“Why should I? Hasn’t your family done enough damage?”

Wade gave Abby a long lingering look, letting his eyes roam her blond hair, the color of honey, worn in a pouf around her face in what he’d heard called the Gibson Girl look. Her dewy peaches-and-cream complexion, flawless except for a pale birthmark near her left ear, flushed with anger. At his perusal she lowered her gaze, the sweep of her dark lashes leaving shadows on her cheeks.

For a short time that face had occupied his dreams.

Truth be told, he’d never managed to purge her from his mind. “Can we get past the trouble between our families even for a moment?”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Under slim brows, her arresting eyes, a luminous blue, blazed with antagonism, no doubt the same look that had halted those hot-tempered adolescents in their tracks.

Abby had spunk.

Clearly, she despised him.

What difference did it make? Wade didn’t seek a relationship with Abigail Wilson. Or anyone for that matter.

But after witnessing the feisty schoolmarm rebuke Seth and the Rogers’ kid, even whack Paul with her parasol, Wade knew he’d found the perfect candidate for the job. If he could get her to listen to anything he said.

Well, he wouldn’t create a scene by insisting, not with everyone gawking. He tipped his hat. “You look mighty pretty in blue.”

Though her eyes narrowed, her hand sought her hair, fiddling with a strand near her ear. Whether she’d admit it or not, he affected her.

As he sauntered off, those within earshot put their heads together, no doubt wondering why a Wilson and a Cummings had exchanged words.

How could he make his offer if she wouldn’t talk to him?

The solution came. A solution so simple he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

A soft chuckle rumbled inside him. He wasn’t a schoolboy she could intimidate. She didn’t know it yet, but Miss Abigail Wilson had met her match.

Heart-pounding memories tore through Abigail. Memories of Wade sitting beside her in Sunday school, walking her home from class, always parting before they reached Cummings State Bank and the Wilson apartment overhead. One day he’d given her a pink hair ribbon, a memento of his affection, he’d said.

Why had she believed him?

Refusing to give the scoundrel another thought, Abigail moved through the park, pulling into her lungs a faint whiff of smoke. The acrid odor sparked memories of the fire that had swept through New Harmony two weeks earlier, leaving behind destruction and suffering.

As she recalled the unbearable heat, the thick smoke, the terror of that night, her stomach knotted. But then the underlying scent of fresh lumber reached her nostrils and its promise of new beginnings eased the tension inside of her.

Thank you, God, no one lost their life or would be permanently disabled.

A miracle or so it seemed to Abigail.

With a thankful heart, she greeted friends and neighbors in the crowd milling around the gazebo. An amazingly festive crowd considering the town had gathered to raise money for her sister’s family and five other households who’d lost everything in that fire.

Mother Nature smiled upon today’s festivities, bestowing glorious sunshine, puffy clouds and a gentle breeze, belying her earlier tirade—the lightning strike that turned a thunderstorm into a one-block inferno.

Up ahead, Rachel Fisher waved, a straw boater tilted at a coquettish angle on her raven hair.

Rachel reached Abigail’s side and slid an arm through hers. “Papa said if no one bids on my lunch, he would.” Her brow puckered. “I’ll die of mortification.”

“Wearing that pretty dress and hat—why, you’ll have loads of admirers clamoring to share your lunch.”

“You say the sweetest things. No wonder you’re my best friend in the world.” Rachel leaned closer. “Speaking of admirers, did you see the girls fawning over Wade Cummings earlier?”

Against her better judgment, Abigail turned toward her foe. He met her gaze, and then had the audacity to tip his hat, but not her world. Five years ago, the gesture would’ve quivered in her stomach. No more. She was done with that man.

“With all the eager contenders for the position, why isn’t he courting anyone? Do you suppose he feels too good for us?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Too bad.” Rachel sighed. “Wade’s handsome and rich and—”

“A Cummings,” Abigail said, hoping to put an end to where the conversation led.

Abigail’s hand sought the slender chain around her neck that held the tiny gold ring Pa had bought the day she was born. He’d called her his baby girl…until everything changed. Pa most of all.

Rachel rose on her tiptoes and searched the park. “Is Leon at the bank?”

“He’ll be here before the bidding starts.”

“Guaranteeing your lunch will be snapped up,” Rachel moaned. “I’ve got to find Papa before he humiliates me.” She gave Abigail a hug then scurried off in search of her father.

Mr. Fisher adored his daughter. Rachel didn’t appreciate what she had. But then, Abigail hadn’t either until she’d lost it.

Oscar Moore motioned her over to the gazebo. “What triggered that scrap between the Roger and Collier boys?”

“Betty Jo Weaver.”

“Should’a known.” His face crinkled in a grin. “You gotta be grateful school’s out and you’re free as a bird.”

In reality, Abigail had eight mouths to feed. The fire made her search for a job difficult, as those who’d lost everything scrambled for additional income, all vying for the few available openings. “This bird is looking for a summer cage. If you hear of a job, let me know.”

“Reckon something’ll turn up iffen you pray about it.”

She’d prayed about it, but wouldn’t sit idly by when God had given her a good brain and the education to help herself.

“Well, time to get this here show on the road.” Oscar lumbered up the gazebo steps, slipped two fingers in his mouth, releasing a shrill whistle that quieted the crowd. “Reckon you all know why we’re here,” he called out. “Let’s plan on going home with full bellies and empty wallets. Show those folks, who lost everything, that we not only care, we share.” He pumped a pudgy fist. “Are you ready?”

A cheer rose from the throng. A huge grin spread across Oscar’s plump face, swallowing up his eyes.

The community had pitched in to help, exactly as Abigail would expect. Single women put up their box lunches to the highest bidder while married ladies handled the bake sale, offering pies, cakes and cookies, along with iced tea and lemonade, at tables already lined with buyers.

After explaining the rules, the auction began. Oscar accepted a bid made by the blushing box owner’s beaming suitor who opened his wallet and withdrew bills. “The best money I ever spent,” he said, handing the cash to Oscar.

At his side, his young love giggled. “I’m a terrible cook.”

“When I can feast my eyes on you, Lora Lee, I don’t care what I eat,” he vowed, taking the box and offering his arm.

“You’ll change your mind about that, sonny, when your belly meets your backbone,” someone quipped.

Those within hearing distance chuckled. The suitor merely gave a goofy grin. Abigail couldn’t remember seeing such adoration in anyone’s eyes. Not that she wanted what they appeared to have. Her teaching contract forbade her to marry. Fine with her—especially now. She desperately needed that job.

As Oscar held up another offering, this one wrapped in toile and covered with tiny silk flowers, Abigail’s gaze traveled down the block to where six empty lots left a cavernous gap on the tree-lined street, as unsightly as missing incisors in a mouth full of teeth.

Her sister Lois’s family had crowded into the apartment over the bank with Abigail and her mother. Cozy hardly described four adults, four active boys and a newborn baby crammed into four tiny rooms.

Laid up with a broken leg and arm, injuries Joe sustained falling down the stairs while escaping the fire, her brother-in-law could barely get around, much less work.

Oscar raised a beribboned package to his nose. “A whiff of this lunch suggests roast beef with horseradish. Who’ll give five dollars?” A hand shot up. “Yip! I’ve got five. Who’ll give six?”

A nod.

“Yip!” Oscar turned back to the first bidder. “Do I hear seven?”

If this spirited bidding continued, the auction would raise enough money to purchase the building supplies. Every able-bodied man in town had volunteered their labor. They’d cleared the debris. But with none of the modest houses insured, the burned-out homeowners needed assistance.

One man could handle the loss with a mere nod of his head, but George Cummings did nothing unless he benefited. What else could she expect from the ruthless banker who’d brought about her father’s death?

A nudge of conscience reminded her that the senior Cummings had burned his hands fighting the fire and no doubt suffered. But then, hadn’t he brought suffering to others often enough?

Leon Fitch stepped to Abigail’s side. Tall and thin, a thatch of russet hair parted in the middle, Leon rested gentle hazel eyes on hers. Not like the intense, unsettling eyes of that rogue across the way.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said slightly out of breath. “Right before closing time folks lined up to withdraw money for the auction. I haven’t missed your lunch, have I?”

Abigail assured him he hadn’t.

For several months, Leon had escorted her to an occasional dance and church social. Not that she’d call their outings courting. Leon was far too deliberate to take such a momentous step in haste. Their companionable relationship suited her. She wasn’t looking for love.

As they watched, two more boxes sold, one for eight dollars, the other for ten. Rachel’s lunch came next.

Across the way, Abigail’s friend stood beside her father, her hand rested on his arm as if to ensure he wouldn’t bid. Rachel needn’t have worried. Two men vied for the privilege of sharing her lunch. Jeremy Owens, the owner of the livery, and Harrison Carder, the new lawyer in town, a Harvard friend of Wade Cummings.

One glance at Wade and her heart lost its rhythm. A sudden longing rose up inside of her. Refusing to ponder the absurd reaction, she forced her attention back to the bidding.

The attorney won the bid at nine dollars. Rachel beamed while her father looked bewildered, as if he couldn’t fathom his little girl stirring the interest of a man.

Oscar held aloft a box she recognized as hers by the blue-and-white checked cloth and red bow. She’d packed a hearty lunch for two of crispy fried chicken, golden biscuits, bread-and-butter pickles, potato salad, deviled eggs and slabs of blackberry cobbler, all Leon’s favorites.

And not a single bite of strawberry pie.

Oscar inhaled. “Just take a whiff of this, gents. I’d say whoever wins the bid is in for a feast of fried chicken. Who’ll give me five?”

“Is that yours?” Leon whispered. “It’s red, white and blue like you said.”

At her nod, Leon raised his hand, fingers spread wide.

Oscar pointed at Leon, taking his bid.

Abigail shot him a smile. Not the highest bid today but generous. Especially for a man who kept a firm grip on every dollar.

A smug expression on his face, Leon leaned back on his heels. “I know the contents will be worth the cost.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

With a grin, he patted his flat abdomen. “That too, but at the moment, my stomach wins hands down.”

“Who’ll give six?” Oscar called.

“Ten dollars!”

Abigail spun to the speaker, her heart slamming into her throat then plunging to the pit of her stomach with the weight of a boulder.

Wade leaned against a gaslight lamppost, loose limbed, his expression unreadable on his Stetson-shadowed face.

A face she’d like to slap.

How dare he ridicule her in front of the entire town? Why did he bid? What did he want?

Oscar whirled to Leon, seeking a raise in the bid.

Beside her, Leon huffed. “Eleven dollars,” he said in a voice that croaked, as if he might do the same.

Wade straightened, his gaze pinning Leon as if he were a frog in a science experiment. “Twenty-five.”

“Well, praise be!” Oscar hooted. “If that ain’t a bid that’d curl a pig’s tail.”

Around her folks murmured, a few chuckled nervously, aware no Cummings and Wilson shared a conversation, much less a meal.

Ever. Well, almost ever.

Abigail folded her arms across her torso and glared at Wade. Surely he had no intention of actually eating the food she’d prepared.

With her.

Not when their families had been at loggerheads for eons. Not when they’d never communicated more than a look in years. Until today.

“Leon, this here’s your chance to be one of them knights in shining armor. Are you going to twenty-six?”

Abigail met Leon’s baffled gaze. Why didn’t he raise the bid? Surely he could see the entreaty in her eyes. Would he turn her over to Wade?

Leon shoved his hat down and kept his mouth nailed shut. Obviously she wasn’t worth such an exorbitant sum. Her heart skipped a beat. Not to him.

Or perhaps Leon feared losing his job. The Cummingses owned much of the town, including the bank where Leon worked. Heat filled her veins. She wouldn’t put such malice past a Cummings.

“I’ve got twenty-five. Do I hear twenty-six? Twenty-six?” Oscar chanted, scanning the throng. As if anyone else in town had the wherewithal to match the bid. “Going, going, gone. Sold!” Oscar beamed. “Wade Cummings paid twenty-five dollars for the privilege of sharing lunch with the young lady who prepared it. Reckon with Leon bidding we all know that’s Abigail Wilson.”

Around her a few people clapped but far more spoke behind their hands. Everyone was aware of the feud and did what they could to keep the Wilsons and Cummingses apart. Agnes sat them in opposite corners of her café like prize fighters in a ring. Tellers at the bank opened a new window rather than let Wade and Abigail wait in the same line. At church the families occupied pews on far sides of the sanctuary.

Before Abigail had left the one-room schoolhouse for a position in the high school and Wade’s sister Regina and her husband had moved away, rumor had it George Cummings would refuse to let his future grandchildren sit in Abigail’s class.

As if she’d take out the bad blood between their families on innocent children, real or imaginary.

She gulped. Wade was no child, far from innocent and nowhere close to imaginary.

He took out his billfold and handed the money over to Elizabeth Logan, the pastor’s wife and president of New Harmony’s Ladies’ Club, the woman responsible for organizing the fundraiser and pretty much everything else in town. Whatever Elizabeth got involved in flourished. The feisty blonde had made a huge difference since she’d arrived at the depot two years ago to marry Ted Logan, a total stranger.

Abigail admired Elizabeth and wanted to help her sister’s family and the others who’d lost everything in the fire. But nothing could make her eat one bite of food with that man.

With long strides Wade sauntered to the gazebo, took the box Oscar handed down, his bicep bulging beneath the white shirt he wore, then strode toward her, his eyes locking with hers. Her insides quaked like the leaves on an aspen tree, but she lifted her chin, refusing to look away.

Leon slinked off, leaving her to fend for herself. Not that she needed him—or anyone—to fight her battles.

But as Wade moved closer, she recalled from history that retreat was sometimes the best strategy in battle.

Determined to escape, she held up her skirts and dashed toward the park’s entrance. The sound of footsteps propelled her on, raising the hair on her neck and drawing laughter from the onlookers.

She’d never outrun him.

Chapter Two

One glance over Abigail’s shoulder confirmed Wade’s long legs had swallowed the distance between them. Apparently this skirmish required hand-to-hand combat. She whipped around and faced him.

Wade swept the Stetson off his head, his brown sun-streaked hair gleaming. “I paid a princely sum for the privilege of sharing your lunch. Surely you don’t mean to refuse my bid.”

Her hands knotted at her sides. The urge to throw a punch slid through her. Gracious, she was conducting herself like Seth and Paul. Lord, help me hold the reins on my temper.

Composed, she met Wade’s gaze, a gaze sparkling with humor. She shot up her chin. If he found this standoff amusing, she’d use the tone reserved for disorderly students. That is, if she consented to speak at all.

“A sum that will benefit your family, I might add.” His indigo eyes issued a challenge. “Mrs. Logan won’t take kindly to reneging on your word.”

“Elizabeth will understand I couldn’t possibly share my lunch with a Cummings.”

“Is the prospect of joining me for one meal in the comfort of a shade tree that terrible? When your sister’s family and five others in town will benefit?”

Her gaze darted to the six empty lots. Wade knew exactly how to manipulate her, had from the beginning, roping her in with his phony interest then discarding her with the malice of a cold-blooded rattler.

Cecil Moore, his knobby hands looped around his red suspenders, edged between them. “You ain’t looking none too happy about these here proceedings, Miss Abigail. Reckon you know putting your box up for auction is same as promising to eat with the highest bidder.” He jerked a thumb, strap and all, toward her nemesis. “That means Wade here. Don’t you worry none. I’ll keep an eye peeled. See he treats you proper.”

Abigail sighed. What choice did she have? Cecil was right. Hadn’t she said much the same to Seth and Paul? That the highest bidder deserved to share Betty Jo’s lunch. She’d go through the motions, but wouldn’t surrender, wouldn’t eat a bite with the enemy.

She thanked Cecil, assuring him she didn’t need his protection. Then cheeks burning, she marched past smiling onlookers toward a cluster of trees, Wade bringing up the rear.

Once she reached a shady spot, she removed her hat and gloves, an attempt to cool herself and her temper. While he tossed his hat aside and sat leaning against the tree, one booted foot stretching within inches of her skirts. She un-wrapped the lunch, laying out the contents on the checkered cloth, ignoring, or trying to, his long-legged presence. With trembling fingers she loaded his plate then shoved it into his hand.

“Thanks. Looks delicious.” He had the audacity to pat the spot beside him. “Join me.” He scooted over, as if she’d consent.

“You’ll enjoy your own company far better than mine.”

“You underestimate yourself.” He laid his plate aside, rose and filled the other, then handed it to her. “I insist.” That stubborn look in his eye said he wouldn’t tolerate refusal.

Glaring at him, she accepted the food and then sat on the far side of the checkered cloth, as if that scrap of material could provide a barrier between them.

“I hope you get indigestion,” she said, ramming a fork into the mound of potato salad on her plate.

He chuckled. “You’ve changed.”

The accusation scorched her cheeks. If she had changed, the fault could be laid at Cummings’s feet. “Why would you bid on my lunch when half a dozen young ladies would’ve swooned over the privilege of dining with New Harmony’s most eligible bachelor?” She’d laced her tone with sarcasm though her meaning probably had bounced off his inflated ego.

The corners of his mouth slanted up. “Maybe I wanted to save you from that timid beau of yours.”

“Leon is not my beau.” She shot him a blistering look, surely hot enough to ignite green, water-soaked timber. He didn’t flinch.

“I see him squiring you around town. What do you call him then?”

Why did timid ring true?

“It’s none of your business.”

He munched on the chicken leg then licked his fingers like a mannerless child. Yet the sheer power of those broad shoulders, the length of his legs, the sinewy forearms made it abundantly clear, Wade was no child.

“Delicious,” he said then cocked his head, studying her. “I suspect I’m lucky you didn’t know you were cooking for me, instead of Mr. Timid.”

“You know perfectly well that his name is Leon Fitch. He works for the Cummings State Bank.” She arched a brow. “But you’re right about one thing. If I had known you would share my lunch, I’d have been tempted to season the food with a laxative.”

Eyes alight with amusement, even approval, he chuckled. The absurdity of her claim even had her giggling. “That spunky attitude of yours is exactly why I want to talk to you,” he said.

Abigail had no idea what he meant, but whatever Wade Cummings wanted she was having no part of it.

The chuckle died in Wade’s throat. Too much hinged on Abby’s answer. The resentment he read in her eyes and knew he’d caused socked him in the gut. “To answer your question—I had to bid on your lunch to get you to talk to me.”

As he watched, the truth of his words flitted across her face, a most attractive face even dappled with patterns of sunlight and shade. His fingers itched to free her hair, to see her fair tresses cascade over those slender shoulders as they had the day of the school picnic.

Expression wary, she fiddled with a delicate chain she wore. “What on earth would you want to talk to me about?”

This feminine female possessed a forceful attitude—exactly why he required her assistance. “I’m in a bind.”

She gave a snort. A flush climbed her neck, no doubt reacting to what she’d see as unladylike behavior. “As if a Cummings doesn’t have everything he could possibly desire.”

Her erroneous claim gnawed at him. Wade could think of many things in his life he’d like to change, but he merely shrugged. “I’m not the only one in a predicament. To be blunt, your family’s mired in trouble.”

“Yes, along with five other families. The reason for this fundraiser.”

“The fire isn’t your only problem. Everyone in town knows Joe’s up to his neck in gambling debts.”

The sudden flash in her eyes promised she’d support her brother-in-law with her last breath.

“Joe found the Lord and turned his life around. I couldn’t be prouder of anyone.”

Family loyalty, they were both drowning in it.

“So I heard. But his faith in God hasn’t solved his financial mess, has it?”

Her gaze dropped to her hands. “If he had an education, Joe could pay off his debts faster, but all he knows is farming.”

“Joe’s a hard worker. If he were able-bodied, he’d climb out from under that mountain of debt eventually. But he’s banged up and unable to work for what…weeks, maybe months? Add the loss of everything in the fire and money’s got to be a problem.”

Eyes sparking with fresh indignation, she scrambled to her feet. “Do you get some perverse pleasure out of enumerating my family’s troubles?”

In an attempt to point out the gravity of her situation, he’d gone too far and ruffled her feathers. Not an approach that would gain her cooperation. “I couldn’t be happier that Joe’s turned his life around.” He laid his plate aside, his appetite gone. “I’m not the villain you make me out to be.”

Those crystal-blue eyes hardened until they glittered like multifaceted diamonds. “You and your family have—”

“Does everything have to come back to that?”

Her hands fisted on her hips as she bent toward him. “Pretend you’re faultless if you want. Pretend nothing stands between us if you want. Pretend the feud between our families is juvenile if you want. But that doesn’t change the truth.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t care about our relationship. But I do care what your father’s done to my family. Thanks to George Cummings calling our loan we lost our farm, land that had been in my mother’s family for two generations.” Her voice broke. “Losing the farm destroyed my father.”

Abby’s allegations gnawed at Wade. His father maintained he’d done nothing illegal, nothing any good banker wouldn’t have done. Wade had been at the bank long enough to believe his father spoke the truth, but Abigail saw smart business decisions as treachery. To make things worse, she hadn’t forgiven him for breaking off their brief courtship years before.

Whether Abby realized it or not, he’d done her a favor. Not that he could ever explain.

“I’m sorry you lost your farm,” he said, “but I can’t undo the past. None of us can.” Wade plowed a hand through his hair, seeking some way to get past the feud. “Will you sit down and hear me out? Please?”

Her mouth narrowed into an uncompromising line, but then she gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Once she’d plopped down as far from him as she could get, he said, “The night of the fire my father entered a burning house trying to save someone trapped inside.”

By the startled look on Abby’s face, she was as surprised as he’d been that George Cummings would risk his life trying to save another’s. How well did he know his father?

“I assumed he’d been injured fighting the fire.”

“Turned out he was mistaken. The house was empty. But during the search, he burned his hands and inhaled smoke that damaged his lungs. He’s getting his strength back and dealing with the pain. But he can’t feed himself, can’t hold a book, can’t do anything but stare out the window. The lack of activity is driving him crazy.” He let out a sigh. “Along with what little staff we had. Our housekeeper comes once a week but refuses to enter his sickroom. Cora got so upset with his behavior that she left and won’t return.”

Everyone in town loved the Cummingses’ cook, Cora. If she couldn’t abide the man after years in his employ, who could?

“So hire a nurse.”

“We did. She quit.”

“Take care of him yourself.”

“I’m overseeing operations at the bank and other holdings in town. He needs more attention than I can give.”

“If he wasn’t such a—” She sighed. “I’m sorry. The fire and Joe’s injuries have me as jittery as a new teacher on the first day of school. What your father did was heroic.” She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “Why not ask the Moore brothers? They’re footloose.”

“My father would prefer a beating over their homilies.”

“Pastor Ted might know someone.”

“Actually, I have someone in mind.”

“Who?”

In her eyes he saw no sign of awareness. She had no idea, even yet, what he wanted.

“I’m looking at her.”

Abigail’s jaw dropped. Wade wanted her to nurse the man who’d destroyed her father? “That’s ridiculous.”

“Think about it. School’s out until September. You need money to help your sister’s family. I’ve got money to pay you.” He leaned toward her. “What do you have to lose?”

Everything. Her family’s approval, her sense of loyalty to those she loved, her certainty that working for the Cummings would fuel town gossip—

Shouldn’t Wade share the same concern? Why did he want her of all people? She couldn’t stomach the idea of being in George Cummings’s presence and knew he’d feel the same. “I’m the last person your father would want in his sickroom.”

“Perhaps, but I know you can handle him. I saw you walk between those hotheads about to throw a fist. From what I’ve heard, you managed the one-room schoolhouse with students of every age and temperament and tolerated no sass. And you’re equally proficient in your classroom at the high school.”

Apparently Wade had kept tabs on her. Why not be honest, her ears perked up whenever his name was mentioned. Not that she cared. He wasn’t a man she could trust.

“That makes you the perfect companion for my father.”

At the prospect of overseeing George Cummings’s needs, she gave a derisive laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

Frustration rode his face. Closing his eyes, he battled for control until his features softened, as if he’d corralled them to do his bidding. Had he counted to ten or higher, as she’d trained herself to do in the classroom?

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.”

Abigail wouldn’t wait on God to provide. She plopped her straw hat in place, then jabbed the crown with a hatpin.

Peter wrinkled his nose, lightly sprinkled with freckles from time in the sun. “A pile of bills is a bad thing.”

The boy had seen that early on.

“Don’t worry, son. God created us with an amazing ability to heal. Why, I’m better already. Won’t be long till I can race you down the stairs,” Joe said.

“I’ll beat you, Pa!”

A tingle of gratitude ran through Abigail. Thank You, God, for healing Joe’s broken bones.

Her breath caught. With that power to heal, how long before George Cummings would no longer need her assistance and she’d lose that income? Even if Joe could work, the Lessmans’ needs exceeded his potential earnings.

On the floor Sam and Gary mooed, clucked and baaed at the top of their lungs.

Lois raised a finger to her lips. “We can’t hear ourselves think.”

“Animals don’t know to be quiet, Ma,” Gary said.

“In that case, why don’t you take them outside?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Their smiles revealing missing teeth, the twins scooped up their flocks and herds and plopped them in the box.

“Play on the back steps,” Lois reminded them.

Donnie popped his thumb out of his mouth. “I wanna go. Can I, Mama? Can I go too?”

“Sweet lamb, you can’t go outside without an adult.”

Donnie let out a shriek of protest.

Joe waggled a finger at him. “That’s enough, Donald William.”

“I want my yard,” Donnie wailed, tears welling in his crystal-blue eyes.

With her free arm, Lois scooped her son close. “Shh, you’ll make Billy cry,” she said, though the baby continued to sleep peacefully. Lois’s eyes glistened. “We’ll get our yard back, Donnie. House too. In time.”

Abigail heard the wobble in her sister’s voice. Joe patted Lois’s arm. She looked pale, wrung out, no doubt exhausted and concerned about their future. The fire had left them all shaken.

She hoped nothing happened to tempt Joe to return to the poker tables.

God, I don’t understand why things have only gotten worse for Joe after turning away from gambling and claiming You Lord of his life.

“I’ve meant to ask, Ab.” Lois’s gaze met hers. “Why did Wade Cummings bid on your box lunch yesterday?”

Ethel whirled toward Abigail. “You shared a meal with a Cummings?”

“He won the bid, Ma. I had no choice.”

“Isn’t that just like that family, using their money to force others to bend to their will.”

Joe frowned. “Didn’t Leon bid?”

“He went as high as eleven dollars before he stopped.” Abigail cleared the table and carried dirty dishes to the sink. “He was probably afraid of losing his job at the bank.”

Face flushed, Ma scrubbed the oatmeal pot, sending suds flying. “I wouldn’t put it past a Cummings to fire someone for crossing them. Nothing that family does would surprise me.”

“Wade jumped the bid to twenty-five dollars,” Lois said. “No one else in this town has that kind of money.”

“Stay away from that man, Abigail. Like father, like son. Wade Cummings will bring you nothing but trouble. Most likely would enjoy it too.” Ma took the dishtowel from Abigail’s hands. “You’ll ruin your nice clothes.”

“Not sure God approves of this feud,” Joe said, voice low, almost as if he was talking to himself. Since Joe found God and turned his life around, his perspective on everything had changed.

Ethel’s wounded expression conveyed her displeasure. “I can’t believe you’d take a Cummings’s side, after what they did to Frank.”

Joe dropped his gaze. “You know whose side I’m on, Ma.”

Changing the subject, Abigail said, “Peter, don’t forget to practice your reading. You too, Gary and Sam.”

“I’ll see that they do.” Lois turned to Abigail. “I’ll pray you find a job, sis.”

Her conscience pinching like ill-fitting shoes, Abigail thanked her sister. “Ma, I may visit Rachel so don’t worry if I miss dinner.”

No point in telling her family about working for the Cummingses and getting them riled up, when most likely she’d be fired before the day ended.

A shiver slid through her. What had she let herself in for?

Wade rapped on the bedroom door, steeling himself for the confrontation sure to come once his father knew he’d hired a Wilson for his companion.

A cough, then “Who is it?”

“Wade.” He waited but heard nothing, then opened the door and entered the bedroom. Spotless, organized with nothing frivolous, nothing personal, not a picture, trinket or toiletry in sight. The decor was stark, shades of brown and black, dismal.

Like the man.

The one exception to the barren room—the ancient hound sprawled at the foot of his father’s bed. Lazy, sad-eyed, long ears drooping, attached to his father with a steadfast loyalty Wade admired. With a welcoming wag of his tail, Blue raised his head for the expected scratch behind his ears.

George Cummings, face etched with pain, sat propped up in bed, his white hair blending with the pillowcase, his bandaged hands resting palms up on the sheet.

Wade’s gaze settled on those motionless hands. Those hands normally darted and swooped, punctuating his father’s words.

“How was your night?”

His father shrugged.

“You know Doctor Simmons left a bottle of laudanum to help you sleep.”

“And end up addicted? No thanks.”

At forty-nine, his father was lean, muscular, a man with energy that came from vibrant health. That is until the fire left him with a cough and short of breath. Doc said in time his lungs would heal. How long?

Like every able-bodied man in town, Wade and his father had fought the fire. He hadn’t seen George enter a burning house. Not surprising with the thick smoke and the extent of the blaze. With herculean effort they’d been able to save the next block from destruction, not much comfort for those less fortunate.

“Before I leave for the bank, would you like to sit near the window?”

“I can manage.” His claim ended on a wheeze. “Question is—can you manage things at the bank?” his father said, his lack of confidence in Wade grating on every nerve.

“I’m taking care of things.”

“My son, the craftsman, happiest surrounded by wood shavings and sawdust.”

Wade didn’t answer, merely held his father’s gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. George delighted in starting an argument, as if only then did he feel alive. Yet the knowledge his father held him in disdain bored into Wade’s confidence like an oversize auger. He blurted, “A craftsman for a son must grate against the family image you take such pride in.”

“I couldn’t care less about impressing anyone. Enjoy your little hobby—as long as you have time to handle the Cummings holdings.”

Once his father’s body healed, Wade would reveal his plan to craft one-of-a-kind furnishings, to turn a pastime into a dream. George would despise the decision. Not that Wade needed approval.

He bit back a sigh. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, underneath he wanted his father’s support. Support he’d never give.

George glanced at the clock. “Shouldn’t you get going?”

Where was Abigail? “I’ve hired someone to keep you company. Fetch what you need. Prepare your meals.”

“A man would think his daughter could handle that job, but at the first excuse Regina skedaddled. Your sister is cut from the same cloth as her mother.”

Wade’s stomach twisted. What did it say about a man that his daughter fled his sickroom in tears and refused to return?

What did it say about a man that his wife left him for the stage years before?

His heart stuttered in his chest. What did it say about a woman that she hadn’t taken her children with her?

“Please tell me you didn’t hire one of the Moore brothers.”

“What?” Wade forced his thoughts back to the present as his father’s words penetrated his mind. “I didn’t.”

“Thank you for sparing me that.” His father rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Nothing could be worse than spending my days listening to their countrified homilies.”

The Moore brothers might be rough around the edges, but they were good men who cared about everyone in the community, even someone on the fringe.

Would Abby suit his father’s persnickety taste in caregivers?

George studied Wade’s face. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re heading to your own hanging.”

Perhaps he was.

How would he manage having Abby in and out of the house day after day? When he’d seen her foil that fight, she’d seemed like the perfect choice, but now—

Now he wondered if her presence would bring more trouble than it solved.

“For Pete’s sake, spit it out. Who’d you hire?”

“Abigail Wilson.”

“If that’s your idea of a joke, I’m not laughing.”

Wade met his father’s gaze. Their eyes locked. George’s filled with comprehension. “You’re not kidding.”

“No, sir, I’m not. You’ve already chased off the only nurse in town. Most of the staff has found employment elsewhere. No one is eager for the job—”

“Except someone desperate, someone with a family member up to his eyeballs in debt, and no doubt, like all the Wilsons, blaming me.” He chuckled. “Well, well, Frank Wilson’s daughter is going to wait on me. That should make life a lot more interesting.” He snorted. “She won’t last a day.”

Wade knew what his father didn’t. Abigail Wilson was made of stronger stuff than that.

A coughing fit seized him. As George struggled to catch his breath, Blue scrambled to his feet and waddled to his master’s side, then plopped down, draping his head over George’s chest.

Wade gave his father a sip of water, then grabbed a towel to mop up dribble that ran down his chin.

“Frank condemned me for calling his loan, yet he signed the papers,” George said as soon as he could speak. “Knew what he’d signed too. Trouble with people like Frank Wilson—they don’t own up to their responsibility. Lay the blame on others for their own failure.”

“No point sullying the name of a dead man.”

“He didn’t hesitate to besmirch my name. Instead of finding a job to earn money that would’ve taken care of his family, Wilson did nothing except bad-mouth me, turning public opinion against us, the big, bad Cummingses gobbling up the Wilsons’ eighty acres. The Panic of 1893 would’ve ruined the bank had I not called the Wilson loan and others like it. Everything was legal and within my rights.”

“Legal, but was it ethical? You bought the Wilson farm then made a huge profit from selling a part of their land a few months later to the Illinois Central Railroad.”

His father glanced at his bandaged hands. “The railroad’s interest in the land had nothing to do with calling that loan. Time you understood that this family wouldn’t be where we are today if I hadn’t paid attention to earnings. If I’d extended charity to those who couldn’t pay, I’d have gone down in the same sinking ship.”

Countless times his father had drummed into Wade the importance of making tough choices to ensure a profit, emphasizing that the debits and credits on a balance sheet determined if a man lost everything or emerged a winner.

Wade wondered what his father had won.

That fortune he prided himself on accumulating hadn’t given him happiness. His father’s bad temper kept others at arm’s length, even his own family. Valuing money more than human beings made a man hard. So hard that a son couldn’t get close.

He hoped Abby fared better.

Chapter Four

Abigail shot up her parasol, angling it against the morning sun then strode up the block, her skirts swishing at her ankles.

The Cummingses’ mansion wasn’t far in distance, but as far from her life as she could get here in New Harmony. She wouldn’t be welcome there.

“Abby! Wait up.” Holding on to her hat with one hand, Rachel bustled across the street to Abigail’s side. “I’m on my way to look after the Logan children. Elizabeth wants to divvy up the money from yesterday’s auction in peace. But, quick, tell me about your lunch with Wade.”

“There’s nothing to tell, really.”

Rachel’s eyes glittered with excitement. “Of course there is! Why did he buy your box lunch when you two barely speak?”

“I’ll tell if you promise not to try to change my mind.”

Rachel lifted her right hand as if taking an oath on the witness stand. “I promise.”

By the time Abigail finished the explanation, Rachel’s eyes were the size of silver dollars. “What did your mother say about working for a Cummings?”

“She doesn’t know.” Abigail tightened her grip on her parasol. “I may be fired before noon. No point in telling my family until I see if I’m keeping the job.”

“How can you work for George Cummings after what he did to your father?”

If only she had another way. “I want to help Joe and Lois. The auction should supply the lumber, maybe even the building materials, but nothing else. Right now, neither of them can work.”

“You’re brave to do this. Everyone in town stands in awe of Mr. Cummings.” She gave Abigail’s arm a squeeze. “I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you. Something tells me I’ll need it.”

“Stop at my house on the way home. I want to hear all about your day.”

As they exchanged a quick hug, Abigail promised she would. Rachel turned toward the parsonage while Abigail moved toward she knew not what. But she had the intelligence and backbone to handle whatever guff George Cummings threw at her.

Outside the Cummings gate, wrought of iron, tall and imposing and all but shouting Keep Out, Abigail gulped, lifting her eyes to the three-story structure looming over her. Brick exterior, wood cornices and brackets supported the eaves. A boxy cupola with windows rose above the roof, a watchtower of sorts.

Abigail had never been inside the mansion, for surely no other word described this commanding house. Yet nothing about the structure was pretentious. The house reflected George Cummings, a man with the money to build a solid house that never let down its guard. Never let others near.

She unlatched the gate that swung open on well-oiled hinges, then refastened it and marched up the lane circling the front of the house. At the top of the porch steps, she ran a gloved hand along the iron rail. The letter C had been carved into the lower panel of the solid oak door. Above the entrance, the transom’s stained glass sparkled in the morning sun.

Everything was in perfect condition. Unlike the apartment they rented from the man. Obviously the Cummings put their money where they would benefit.

To build and maintain this grand house required a great deal of money. Some of that money had come at her family’s expense. How did the man sleep at night?

Since moving to town as a child, Abigail had attended the same church as George Cummings, walked the same streets, yet she’d never exchanged more than two words with the financier.

Now she would be his paid companion.

If not so appalling, the idea would be laughable.

Yet the money she’d earn would help her sister’s family furnish their home and purchase clothing. No laughing matter. Perhaps even help pay some of the gambling debts crippling them.

Lord, I need this job. Give me courage.

She’d handled bullies before, at least of the school-age variety. She hoped George Cummings was up to her presence.

Pulling in a deep breath, she lifted the lion’s-head knocker and dropped it against the metal plate.

The door opened, putting her opposite of Wade. At the sight of him, her heart scampered then tumbled. In a tailored black suit with vest, a tie matching his indigo eyes, he looked leaner, taller and more broad shouldered than the day before.

From his attire, Abigail assumed Wade was on his way out, probably headed to the bank. Nothing could please her more. The less time she spent around the rogue the better.

So why was a bevy of butterflies dancing low in her belly?

His dark gaze swept over her hat, gloves, the simple skirt and frilly high-necked blouse she wore in the classroom. The intensity of his regard rippled through her. Her attire wouldn’t compare to the fancy garb of the female students at Harvard.

Not that she cared.

He stood staring at her, as if transfixed. “Good morning, Abby,” he said finally.

Abby was what he’d called her during the days she’d hung on his every word, memorized his every gesture. She couldn’t abide hearing the pet name on his lips. “I prefer Abigail.”

He opened his mouth but then clamped it shut and stepped aside to let her enter. “Right this way, Abigail.”

She hadn’t missed his displeasure, but gave no sign of noticing.

With a no-nonsense nod, she stepped into a marble entry and a world like no other. More reception hall than foyer, a huge marble fireplace dominated the room. A thick wool rug, silent and soft underfoot, covered gleaming parquet floors bordered with a braided design in darker wood. Imagine the craftsmanship needed to produce the intricate inlay. And the cost.

In the apartment over the bank, planks sagged and squeaked. Gaps between boards collected dust. Over the years Ma had braided scraps of fabric and sewn them together into colorful rugs. She’d quilted coverings for the beds, knitted an afghan for the sofa—done what she could to make the rooms cozier. Last summer Abigail had put a fresh coat of paint on all the walls.

Their apartment wasn’t stylish, but not all that different from Rachel’s home.

But this…

At her sides, Abigail’s hands trembled. Her family had lost everything. The Cummingses lived like kings.

A crystal chandelier glittered overhead, lit even on this sunny morning. Sconces added to the ambience, throwing patterns of light on the walls. At home, kerosene lamps enabled them to read the newspaper or stitch a hem but would never illuminate this enormous space. Nor leave a ceiling free of traces of soot.

Lace curtains covered the large curved window on the landing of a grand staircase. Suddenly aware Wade was watching her, her face heated. She’d been standing there, mouth gaping like a kid at a candy counter.

The money used to furnish this house could’ve helped those in need. Those who’d lost everything in the fire. When had George Cummings given a dime to help anyone?

As she followed Wade to the stairs and climbed, they passed bucolic landscapes painted in oils, prints of ships sailing the high seas, watercolors of botanicals—all in gilt frames hanging from the picture rail by dainty chains.

Few pictures adorned their apartment walls—an image of their family taken by a traveling photographer mere months before Papa died, a sampler Grandma Wilson stitched as a young woman, a Currier & Ives print of a steam-driven paddleboat.

This house made Abigail feel small, out of her depth, flailing for footing in a world so unlike her own.

No wonder Wade had broken off their relationship. He’d understood what she hadn’t…until now.

She didn’t fit in his world.

Well, she might not have much in material things but she had a good mind and an education enabling her to provide for her family at no one’s expense.

Lord, I’ve never cared that much about material things. Yet this grandeur hurts. Forgive me for my anger and jealousy.

Aware that Wade waited for her, she hurried up the stairs. Even on the second floor, pictures and furnishings lined the walls. An elegant mahogany highboy, rose damask loveseat with tufted back, tiger maple sideboard flanked by carved armchairs. Why, more furniture graced this wide corridor than they had in their entire apartment.

She followed Wade to the far end of the hall. Wade knocked then opened the door into an enormous paneled bedroom. She looked in on the man himself as he sat in a wheelchair in front of the window, his back to them.

No drapes graced the windows. The dark walls were void of artwork and knickknacks, and heavy furniture, grand in scale, made the room intimidating.

“Dad, Miss Abigail is here.”

George Cummings said nothing, not even acknowledging his son’s presence. Yet she knew he’d heard, could feel his intensity, see it in his rigid posture. She clenched her trembling hands in front of her and threw back her shoulders.

A hound lay stretched in a patch of sunshine, emitting a loud yawn that ended on a squawk, either too tired or too indifferent to investigate a newcomer.

“Well, I’m off to the bank.” Wade turned to her, his eyes remote. As their gazes held, she saw something else, an apology, perhaps. Or some hurt that never went away.

Abigail thought of her family. They might not have a grand house but laughter and chatter filled their rooms. Yes, an occasional disagreement too, but she’d never experienced the stilted impasse that she felt between Wade and his father. What had happened to put that wall of animosity between them?

“The kitchen is stocked with whatever you might need to prepare lunch and dinner for you and Dad.”

That Cora had quit and Wade’s sister Regina refused to oversee her father’s recuperation didn’t bode well for Abigail’s day.

“Don’t hesitate to summon Doc Simmons if my father’s breathing alarms you.”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“Ah, she speaks” came from the chair, as it whirled on casters and she faced the man who had destroyed her father.

Handsome, with a full head of snow-white hair and a commanding bearing, George Cummings watched her as if seeing her for the first time. The fire in his eyes, eyes the exact color of his son’s, promised trouble. She had an urge to look away, yet held his gaze. Never show a bully you’re intimidated.

Closer inspection revealed lines of pain etched in his face. A prickle of sympathy ran through her. A man who’d run a bank and a host of businesses must be frustrated at finding himself an invalid. Frustration he took out on others. Her stomach lurched. And no doubt would on her.

Wade glanced at his father. “I’ll check on you at lunch.”

“Don’t bother. You’ve done quite enough.”

Nothing in Wade’s father’s derisive tone held affection. Abigail had been raised on the importance of family. How could he speak that way to his son, especially in front of a Wilson?

Her hand found the chain at her neck as images flitted through her mind—her father bouncing her on his knee, giving her piggyback rides, playfully tugging on her braids. The father she’d adored. He’d called her his baby girl. Before he’d faded away, becoming a shadow of his former self, a man who’d barely functioned.

This man had caused that change in her father.

Wade motioned for her to follow then led her into the hall. “Except for the housekeeper coming in on Fridays, you’re alone in the house.”

Even good wages weren’t enough incentive for his staff to remain on the job. Was his bad-tempered demeanor a façade meant to hold others away? Including his son? If so, why?

“I’ll stop in at noon.” Wade’s forehead creased as if he worried about her survival. “Make sure you’re okay.”

“It might help if you didn’t.”

His frown vanished, replaced by a stiff smile. “As you wish.”

Without a backward glance he strode off, leaving her to deal with his father alone.

If not for Lois and Joe’s desperate need for a new beginning, no amount of money would make her deal with George Cummings.

Yet as much as the man had ruined her father’s life and his presence reminded her of all the suffering he’d brought her family, she’d earn her wage. Make him as comfortable as she could, help him pass the time, prepare his meals. Work as if working for the Lord.

She breathed a quick prayer for strength and stepped into the room.

Mr. Cummings observed her with shrewd eyes, evaluating her as he would a business rival. “My son picked a puny gal to handle his old man.”

“God chose a shepherd boy to handle Goliath.”

He snorted. “You think highly of yourself, young lady, but just so you know, I’m not about to lose.”

“This is a sickroom, not a battlefield.” She leaned toward him. “But just so you know, I’m not in the habit of losing.”

“Well, that’s about to change.” He gave a cold smile. “You’re fired, Miss Wilson.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “The only person who can fire me is the person who hired me.”

“This is my house. I’m ordering you to leave.”

“In good time, but for now, you’ll have to put up with me.”

He shot up, sending the chair careening against the wall and him into a fit of coughing. As he gasped for air, his face turned blotchy, then purple.

Abigail rushed to his side on limbs hot with panic. His hound dog beat her there, stationing himself at his owner’s feet, whining as if his heart would break.

Unsure what to do, Abigail pounded on his back with her fist then steered him to the open window, praying the breeze enabled him to catch his breath. Finally the coughing eased then stopped, leaving an eerie quiet almost as unnerving.

With shaking hands she filled a glass with water and held it to his lips. He drank deeply, then dropped into the wheelchair she’d shoved near, leaning back, eyes closed, appearing exhausted. Yet the tone of his skin looked good.

“Are you okay?”

“For a schoolmarm you ask stupid questions,” he ground out. “You’re trying to kill me with that sassy tongue.”

“Your temper is to blame for that coughing spell, not me.”

“I suppose you’d point the finger at a man for dying, too.”

“You might faint from coughing, but you won’t die.” At least she’d never heard of such a thing, but she’d ask Doc Simmons to be certain.

“In that case, I may keep you on merely to relieve the monotony. But don’t get the idea you’re a giant-slayer.”

“Whatever you say,” she said with enough sweetness to make sour cherries appetizing.

He frowned. Obviously disappointed she hadn’t gone on the attack. Not an auspicious beginning. She might need to get a slingshot and start practicing. If she hoped to keep this job, she had to gain George Cummings’s respect. That meant giving him a dose of his own medicine. She wouldn’t allow an aging, ailing Goliath to ride roughshod over her.

Chapter Five

Silence greeted Wade as he opened the front door and entered the entrance hall. Smiling, he removed his suit jacket and hat and tossed them on a chair. Apparently God had answered his prayers for a truce between Abby and his father. Or did the eerie quiet mean they’d knocked each other out cold? He grimaced. A joke, but somehow not that funny.

The entire day he’d struggled to concentrate, wondering how Abigail was getting along with his father, not an easy man anytime, but especially now. He’d left the bank early. Early enough that he hoped to find time to work in his shop before Abby left for the day.

But first he’d see how she’d managed. He took the steps two at a time and strode down the hall toward his father’s room.

Abby appeared in the doorway. Only then did he admit he hadn’t expected her to last the day. Feared his father would kick her out or she’d make a run for it.

This woman had grit as he’d predicted. But what toll had a day with his father taken on her?

She held a forefinger to her lips then moved toward him. He took in the spring of her step, the tilt of her chin. She didn’t look worse for wear. Her regal beauty surpassed the splendor of her surroundings. That Abby graced his home socked him in the gut. Five years earlier he’d pictured her here, but held no such delusions now.

“Your father’s napping,” she said when she reached him.

Upon closer inspection he noted the weariness in her soft blue eyes, as if spending time with his father had sapped her energy and strained every nerve. As he’d assumed, her day hadn’t been an easy one.

“Pain has kept him from sleeping well.”

“Perhaps that explains some of his crankiness.”

What did a man say to that? No, cranky is the norm?

“To get his mind off his troubles, I offered to read several books from your library, but he had no interest. I persevered and selected The Red Badge of Courage. I’d read only a few pages when he fell asleep.” The corners of her lips turned up but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I suspect he prefers doing battle himself rather than listening to a fictional account.”

“Dad thrives on verbal sparring and relaxes with balance sheets. Fiction holds little appeal for him.”

“I can’t imagine life without novels.”

Evidently she appreciated a good book as much as he prized a fine piece of wood. “I suspect most teachers would concur.”

Her eyes lit with the glow of an activist. “Books open us to adventure, revealing a host of ideas and cultures to explore, bringing romance—” She cut herself off, pink tingeing her cheeks. “I thought reading might enlarge your father’s interests.” She sighed, the sound laden with frustration. “He’s like some of my bullheaded students who don’t welcome my efforts to expand their minds and aspirations.”

“He does share the traits of a stubborn adolescent.” He grinned. “Find a way to mature him and I’ll increase your pay.”

An infectious twinkle danced in her eyes, as if they shared a private joke. “I’ll work on that,” she promised with a giggle.

Imagine, someone who wasn’t intimidated by George Cummings.

“I suspect my father is too set in his ways to change, but hopefully your students can.”

“If only they could understand that education is the path to a good life.”

Education had merely postponed his plans. But for some, education opened the door to opportunities.

Clearly Abby cared about her students’ futures and took an interest in all facets of their lives. “They’re lucky to have you,” he said and meant every word. A startled look flitted across her face. Not surprising with their history. “My father is fortunate too.”

She shook her head. “He wouldn’t agree.”

“You’re not planning on quitting, are you?” he said in a rush of words.

“I never run from a commitment.”

Despite her claim, she hadn’t met his gaze. Would she keep the job? The prospect of not seeing her each day slammed into him. Absurd. His concern about her quitting had to do with his father.

She glanced down the hall. “I’d better check on him.”

Well, at least she’d last the day. He removed his pocket watch from his vest. With a touch of a finger, sprang the lid. “Would you mind if I head out to the carriage house? I’d like to work in my shop.”

“As we agreed, I’m here until six.” She raised a slender brow and nailed him with a steely stare. “Not a minute more.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, feigning a salute.

Carrying her grin with him, he trotted down the stairs then made his way to the workshop built onto the back of the carriage house. The prospect of returning to his passion after a two-week absence lightened his steps. Without a piece of wood under his palms he’d felt less somehow, not whole.

He left the door ajar to catch the afternoon breeze and walked inside. In this shop he felt at peace, in charge of his realm. His gaze roamed the tools of his trade—hammers, miter boxes, levels, a host of planes and saws, his lathe, emery cloth, sandpaper, everything spotless and in its place. A broom rested in the corner, ready to sweep up sawdust and shavings, anything that might mar a damp finish.

As a young boy he’d watched Grandpa Brooks’s rheumy eyes shine as he’d talked about the satiny feel of polished wood under his palms. Something Wade understood.

Surrounded by the scent of wood, he donned the leather apron and reached for fine grit sandpaper. With each stroke, the last bit of tension eased from his neck and shoulders cramped from hours hunched over paperwork on his desk.

As he ran the sandpaper along the grain, he admired the beauty, the solid strength of the cherry buffet. A piece that would give years of service—could be passed down through the future owner’s family, a treasured heirloom.

Once his father got back on his feet, Wade would create furniture full-time. The empty warehouse they owned off Main Street would be a perfect location for his cabinetmaker shop. Soon he’d produce functional unique pieces.

Everything would be perfect except—

He had no one to share his dream with.

His thoughts flitted to Abigail but he quickly tamped down the notion of sharing his life with her. He’d seen how a dream could evolve into a nightmare. Surely his parents had once been united in their goals. What had happened to destroy the accord of earlier days?

A knock on the door frame startled Wade out of his reverie. Seth Collier stood on the threshold.

Wade smiled. “Afternoon, Seth.”

In need of a haircut, the hem of his pants barely reaching his ankles, his shirt rumpled, the lad could use a mother’s touch. Yet shabbily clad or not, Seth carried himself with a dignity Wade found remarkable considering the boy’s upbringing.

“I could use a break. Want to take over?”

A fierce longing crossed Seth’s face. “You sure?”

“You’ve sanded enough boards to handle this buffet. You know where to find the emery cloth.”

“Yes, sir.” Seth moved toward the supply cabinet, a smile softening his angular face.

“The Johnsons have selected this piece for a wedding gift for their daughter. Once the finish is smooth I’ll apply the last coat of varnish.”

Seth bent to the job. He had a light touch. A gentle way with the wood, as if he found contentment reshaping boards into a thing of function and beauty.

In that, Seth Collier reminded Wade of himself. But the comparison ended there. Seth lived with burdens Wade could only imagine. “How’s your dad?”

The boy’s hand slowed. “Tolerable.”

Giving way more information than he probably intended, the response twisted in Wade’s gut. Seth never complained, but in the months he’d been coming by the shop, Wade had pieced together a picture of his life. A boy without a mother, though Seth’s had died, not deserted her family as Wade’s had. More often than not Seth’s father lived in a moonshine-induced haze, leaving cooking, chores and the responsibility for eking out a meager existence on their farm to his seventeen-year-old son.

Compared to Seth Collier, Wade had lived a life of ease. He tried to relieve some of the financial burden by paying Seth for his help in the shop, but Wade wanted to do more.

Knowing what to do was the difficulty. Rafe Collier wouldn’t take a handout, would as soon turn a shotgun on anyone coming on his property to—as he saw it—interfere with how he raised his son. While in reality Seth raised himself.

“Want me to talk to your father?”

“No, sir.”

An uncomfortable quiet settled between them.

“I’ve been thinking—we could use a stable hand. The pay is good.” He studied Seth’s face. “The job would mean living above the carriage house.”

Seth shook his head. “Can’t leave my pa.”

Loyal to his father—a man who barely functioned and surely didn’t appreciate what he had in this boy. “The offer stands if you change your mind.”

Seth straightened and met Wade’s gaze. “Would you make me your apprentice? Teach me to be a cabinetmaker?” Words poured out of the boy with the force of an underground spring. “I know I’m asking a lot since I’ve got no money to pay you.”

At the prospect of teaching Seth the trade, of sharing what he’d learned with someone captivated with woodworking, a spark of excitement took hold of Wade. What better way to help the boy?

“That’s a great idea. I plan to open a shop. Not a factory per se since no two pieces would be alike. I’d create the design and handle detailed work like inlays, veneers and carving. I’d teach you to handle basic construction and finishes. Then later you could try your hand at more intricate work.” His voice rose with excitement. “You’d be a big help. I’d pay you.”

A wide smile took over Seth’s face. “I’ll be your first employee. I’ll quit school. Work full-time—”

“What gibberish are you planting in this boy’s head?” Abby stood in the open door, eyes steely, cold and turned on Wade. “Hasn’t your family destroyed enough lives?” Her fisted hands tangled in her skirts as if the fabric were the neck of a chicken about to be wrung. “I won’t let you destroy Seth’s.”

Heat sizzled through Wade’s veins. A Wilson couldn’t have a rational reaction to any idea stamped with a Cummings’s approval. “How can you accuse me of trying to harm this boy?”

Eyes downcast, Seth dropped the emery cloth and stepped away from the buffet. “I need to get home,” he mumbled then sped past his teacher.

As soon as he fled the shop, Abigail reeled on Wade. “Now look what you’ve done!”

“Look at what I’ve done? You’re the one upsetting that boy with that ridiculous claim I’m trying to harm him.” Wade’s long strides swallowed the distance between them. He stopped mere inches from her skirts, catching the scent of roses, feminine, delicate—at odds with this strong-minded female. “Anyone can plainly see I’m trying to help him.”

“By suggesting he quit school?”

“That’s his idea, not mine. I don’t condone—”

“Surely you can see this apprenticeship would be a mistake.”

“Mistake? To learn a trade with good pay and a promising future? Hardly.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her.

Slapping hands on hips, she leaned closer until they were inches apart. He’d never noticed the little flecks of gray in her eyes before. Gunmetal gray. Shooting him down. Or trying to.

“You’re luring one of my best students away from getting his high school diploma and a chance for higher education.”

“I’m doing no such thing. Seth helps out after school a few afternoons a week. He’s shown the interest and aptitude of a craftsman.”

“With your family’s wealth behind you, you can risk a new venture. But Seth has no resources to ensure his future other than an excellent mind. I won’t let you waste his potential.”

Wade’s pulse hammered in his temples to an unrelenting beat. “Are you insinuating woodworking is squandering one’s intelligence?”

She glanced away. “Well, no, but Seth’s really smart. Capable of much more than—”

“Than what?” Wade tried to tamp down the frustration roiling inside him and failed. “Working with his hands!” He raised his palms. “Do these calluses disgust you? Are you so biased toward education you have no respect for physical labor? No respect for a skilled craftsman?”

She stood mute, face flushed, eyes shimmering like sparklers on the Fourth of July. She’d never been more infuriating. Or looked more beautiful.

Every drop of his anger evaporated, leaving him with a sudden insight he couldn’t stomach. This woman he’d cared about, this lovely, intelligent, capable woman was…exactly like his father. “Well, God has given some of us the desire—the gift—to create something beautiful, yet functional.”

“You can’t see the forest for the trees. No one job can provide security. I can’t imagine what would have become of my family if a teacher hadn’t encouraged me to pursue higher education. Seth needs to get out of that house. College will prepare him for whatever the future brings.”

“Attending college isn’t a solution for Seth. He needs to make money, not put his life on hold while he gets a degree.”

“That he needs money is Rafe’s fault. Once Seth escapes his father’s influence, he’ll make a good life for himself. Iowa State College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts trains students in engineering, veterinary medicine. The University of Iowa provides instruction for lawyers, doctors—many professions.”

“How do you suggest Seth pay college expenses?”

“Well, he couldn’t go to Harvard like you did,” she sputtered, “but state residents don’t pay tuition.”

“What about money for clothing, travel home and textbooks?”

“He can work in the summer as I did. If money’s available to help students from impoverished families, I’ll find it.”

“Have you chosen his wife?”

Her nostrils flared. “What are you talking about?”

“Appears to me you’ve laid out Seth’s entire life. Might as well pick his bride.”

Splotches of red stained her cheeks. “I’ve done no such thing. I just want to do what’s best for Seth.”

“You think you know that boy and what’s best for him. Seth loves working with wood as much as I do.”

A look of disdain flashed across her face, quickly controlled but unmistakable, as exasperating as an account that wouldn’t balance.

Every muscle in Wade’s body tensed. “Not just anyone can make the kind of furniture you see in this shop.” He swept his arm around the room. “The quality of my work takes practice, patience and respect for wood.”

Her gaze traveled the buffet, the highboy, the table and chairs. “Your furniture is beautiful, but Seth is bright—”

“What does that make me?” Wade ground out between clenched teeth.

She took a step back. “I, ah…I don’t mean to be insulting. Obviously you’re intelligent. You graduated from Harvard, one of the finest colleges in the country. The very reason I’d think you’d understand my position. Education is the best assurance of happiness in this life.”

“Are you happy, Abby?”

A flicker of unease dimmed her eyes. “I’m concerned for Lois’s family but I’m content.”

Whether she admitted it or not, Abby was far from happy. She served the community at church and in the classroom, she took care of her family, did all she could to make the lives of others better—even to the point of meddling—but inside she had a hollow spot that needed filling.

He ought to know. He had the same.

With a gust of air, he exhaled, releasing his frustration or trying to. “You mean well, but you don’t know Seth Collier—at all.”

“I saw Seth every day in English class. And you see him, what? A couple times a week?”

“What I know didn’t take long to understand. Seth won’t leave his father to go off to college somewhere.”

“We’ll see about that. But first, he needs to finish high school. Surely you agree about the importance of that diploma.”

“Of course, Seth should finish school. Today’s the first I’d heard of his plan to quit.”

“Why not admit you’re using Seth?”

She’d gone too far. Wade jabbed an index finger her way. “I’d never use that boy. I pay a wage for the work he does. I can’t pay much until I get the shop off the ground, but I’d never take advantage of him. Of anyone.”

The cold chill of her eyes slithered through him. That chill told him she believed he’d taken advantage of her. Toyed with her affection. That’s what this was really about. What defense could he give without hurting her more?

She took a step back. “You’re using Seth to accomplish what you can’t do alone. Well, this time you Cummingses won’t win.”

She whirled toward the door. Before she crossed the threshold she looked back at him, eyes issuing a challenge. “I’ll see that Seth gets a college education if it’s the last thing I do.”

Wade wouldn’t allow Abby to force her will on that boy. “If that’s not what Seth wants, then it looks like we’re going to be butting heads.” He motioned to the hat she wore. “I hope that chapeau of yours is lined with steel.”

“I plan on using my brain, not brawn. You might want to give that a try,” she said, smiling sweetly. Then with that last jab to his pride, she flounced out the door.

Leaving him to grapple with the truth. Abby wanted to save Seth from the fate of being just like him. That she held him and his dream in contempt knotted in Wade’s stomach.

No matter what she thought of him, how little she held him and his vocation in esteem, Abigail Wilson would soon learn she’d thrown down the gauntlet to exactly the wrong man.

Chapter Six

Abigail stalked off the Cummings property, every muscle in her body rigid. To deal with George Cummings was bad enough. He’d ruined her father, killing him as surely as if he’d driven a stake through his heart.

But to learn Wade tried to tie Seth, her most promising student, to the youngster’s hand-to-mouth existence lit the wick of temper lurking inside her.

How could Wade take advantage of a boy struggling for the necessities of life?

She could understand that Seth would see an apprenticeship as a solution to his problems. That thinking was shortsighted. How likely was it that Wade’s new venture would succeed? Few people in town could afford expensive furniture. Seth would abandon a high school education for a risky undertaking, losing the chance to attend college.

Heat slid through her veins. She wouldn’t allow such foolishness. Yet what could she do to stop it?

Talking to Seth’s father, a loner who never allowed anyone on his property, was impossible. She’d talk to Seth. But what if the boy wouldn’t listen? He’d shown no sign of wanting to hear her out. Instead he’d dashed out of the shop, avoiding her eyes, avoiding her guidance. As much as she wanted to track Seth down and convince him that she had his true welfare at heart, he’d probably gone home. She couldn’t do anything tonight.

With everything bottled up inside, if Abigail didn’t talk to someone, she’d explode. Her family would take her side but even admitting she’d spent a single day under the Cummingses’ roof would open wounds.

The Fisher house came into view. This morning, Abigail had promised to stop at Rachel’s. Her best friend would understand.

At Abigail’s knock, Rachel opened the door, a welcoming smile on her face. “I thought you’d never get here.” Mouthwatering aromas from the kitchen permeated the house, pulling Abigail in as surely as her friend’s tugging hands. “Can you stay for supper? Papa’s already eaten and off framing houses.”

Was he working on Lois’s house? After a hard day at work, Mr. Fisher had to be tired. Once her father had lost the farm, he hadn’t possessed the energy to come to the table much less help someone in need. “You’ve got a great dad, Rachel.”

Nodding, Rachel smiled. “Please say you’ll stay.”

That morning, Abigail had mentioned she planned to stop at Rachel’s. Her mother wouldn’t worry. “I’d love to.”

As they walked to the kitchen, they passed the homey parlor Abigail could describe with her eyes closed. Not one knickknack or furnishing had been changed since Lily Fisher’s death.

The kitchen’s butter-yellow walls, white curtains, oak icebox, table and cupboards invited visitors to linger. A bone china teapot, a reminder of Rachel’s mother’s English ancestry, presided over the round oak table. Her bibbed floral apron hung on a hook, an apron Rachel had grown into.

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