Janet Dean - An Inconvenient Match

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.”