Page 3 of More than Words Can Say

Which left Bachelor Number Three. Zacharias Hamilton. A man who met none of her qualifications save one—he was single.

Abigail finished straightening the scone tray and angled her attention discreetly toward the dark-haired man in the far corner. He always sat there, in the shadows, back against the wall, as far from the other patrons as he could get. He ordered the same thing every day: two sticky buns and black coffee. She’d taken to having it waiting for him at seven thirty each weekday before his shift started at Sinclair’s Lumberyard at eight. He’d come in, take off his hat, and look her way. She’d smile, walk the plate over to his corner table, and pour his coffee. He’d nod and take his seat. When finished, he’d leave the payment on the table along with a tip, stand, catch her eye, and nod his thanks as he fit his hat back onto his head and ambled out the door. No words required.

After attempting to make polite conversation with him and receiving little to no response when he first started coming in, like any savvy businesswoman, she’d noted her customer’s preference and made adjustments. They might not speak, but they were at ease in each other’s company, like old friends who knew what the other was thinking. At least when it came to breakfast. He was a complete mystery to her in every other regard. Yet when his gaze sought hers, either when arriving or departing, little flutters danced in her chest.

It was silly, she knew. Mr. Hamilton appreciated her sticky buns, not her person. Ruggedly handsome men didn’t seek out plain, plump dough slingers for anything other than baked goods. Nevertheless, those silly flutters had her adding the completely unbiddable, and therefore unsuitable, man to her list of matrimonial candidates.

Abigail’s younger sister materialized at her side. “Have you made your decision yet?” Coffeepot in one hand, teapot in the other, Rosalind Kemp paused behind the counter before heading out to refill their customers’ cups. “We’re running out of time.”

“I know.” Abigail rubbed an itchy spot on her nose before recalling the flour still on her hands. She’d been kneading the yeast dough that had risen overnight so she could separate it out into loaf pans for a second rise when she’d heard the Ormandys come in. Mrs. Ormandy’s demanding tones were impossible to mistake. Realizing all three of her bachelors had converged on her shop at once, she’d abandoned her loaves to take stock of the potential grooms on the other side of the counter.

“Here.” Rosalind set down the teapot and retrieved a lacy handkerchief from her skirt pocket. She made short work of wiping the flour from Abigail’s face, then, with a considering look, tugged a few wisps of hair free of Abigail’s bun and twisted each tendril around her finger—as if that would do any good. Abigail’s hair was as straight as a stick. Rosalind gave Abby’s cheeks a pinch before stepping back. “That’s better.” She smiled, true affection shining through. “Just flash those dimples, and whichever one you choose will be helpless to resist.”

“Right.” Abigail snorted softly.

Rosalind was the pretty one of the family. Curves in all the right places, thick golden waves of hair that looked gorgeous even when falling out of their pins, wide blue eyes framed by dark lashes, and delicate facial features that were purely angelic, much like the heart that beat beneath her beautiful exterior.

Abby also possessed her fair share of curves, only they centered around her belly and caboose instead of the areas known to draw a man’s eye. Her sturdy frame and independent spirit offered little enticement to the male population of Honey Grove, but that failed to signify. She didn’t plan on offering her meager charms as bait for the marriage hook. In fact, she much preferred a business arrangement that circumvented physical appetites altogether. Well, non-stomach-related appetites, anyway. She’d gladly use her baked goods as bribery.

“Don’t scoff,” Rosalind said, her brows dipping down to scrunch the skin above the bridge of her nose. Even her scowls were adorable. “You know I’ve always envied your dimples. When you smile, the entire room lights up. Any man who fails to see that beauty is a dolt. And really, you don’t want to saddle yourself with a dolt.”

Abigail chuckled. “I love you, Rosie.”

Her sister grinned. “I love you too.” She stepped back to Abigail’s side and scanned the handful of tables. “Now, who’s it going to be?”

“I don’t know.” Abigail sighed. “Who would you pick?”

“Mr. Hamilton, no question.”

Abigail’s gaze swung to the dark-haired man in black. “Because he’s the best-looking?”

“No.” Rosalind shook her head emphatically. “Because he’s the scariest.”

Abigail’s attention jerked to her sister. “Why would you want to marry someone who scares you?”

An odd look crossed Rosalind’s face, but it vanished before Abigail could interpret it. Then Rosie’s charm took over, and Abigail decided she must have imagined the tension.

“Oh, not scary to me.” Rosalind met her sister’s gaze. “Scary to the town council. If you’re going to win the fight to save our bakery, you need a warrior on your side. Elmer’s a cream puff—sweet and all, but hardly one to stand up to a challenge. And Clarence? Well, his mama could scare the starch out of the city council’s collars, but Clarence himself would fold at the first nudge. Mr. Hamilton might be a lone wolf, but he strikes me as the type who would defend his territory vigorously. Get him on your side, and the city council won’t stand a chance.”

The man in question scooted back his chair and stood, his height impressive, his shoulders broad, his movements panther-like in their grace as he collected his hat and slid his chair back under the small round table. Her sister might have a point. This wasn’t a man others dismissed. If he were her champion . . .

His gaze met hers, and those annoying flutters immediately lurched into chaotic flight, ricocheting off her ribs and ratcheting up her pulse. Zacharias Hamilton fit his hat to his head, then tipped the brim in her direction. Hers. Not Rosalind’s. How had she never noticed that before? He nodded politely to Rosie, of course—no gentleman would offend a lady by ignoring her completely—but his gaze had sought Abigail’s first.

If he had more appreciation for a well-made sticky bun than youthful beauty, Abigail’s prospects might not be quite as dire as she feared.

CHAPTER

3

Zach Hamilton strolled the two blocks between the bakery and Sinclair’s Lumberyard with a heavier step than usual. Something had been off with Miss Kemp today. Nothing he could put a finger on—the buns had melted in his mouth as always, the coffee scalded his gullet just the way he liked, she’d smiled at him as she did every day—but the atmosphere had felt . . . weighted.

He shook his head as he crossed Market Street, sidestepping a man on horseback and waving absently to Mr. Gordon, who was unlocking the corner hardware shop.

Miss Kemp and her weighted atmosphere were none of his concern. Zach’s days of getting involved in other people’s troubles were past. He’d done his duty. More than his duty. Now that he’d started carving out the freedom he’d craved his entire life, nothing would lure him off his path. Not even a pair of dimples and golden-brown eyes that matched his favorite breakfast food.

After thirty years of life, he was finally his own man, free to pursue his dreams, his goals. No harsh taskmaster of a grandfather working him into the ground, no orphanage matron dictating his every waking moment, no younger siblings depending on him for their survival. Not that he begrudged Evie or Seth the years he’d spent looking out for them. As families went, they were better than most. A little naggy from time to time, but they always had his back.

Even when he didn’t deserve it.