An Inconvenient Match

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.”