An Inconvenient Match (4 page)

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

I
n 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.