An Inconvenient Match (2 page)

“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.