An Inconvenient Match. Janet Dean

       A look of disdain flashed across her face, quickly controlled but unmistakable, as exasperating as an account that wouldn’t balance.

       Every muscle in Wade’s body tensed. “Not just anyone can make the kind of furniture you see in this shop.” He swept his arm around the room. “The quality of my work takes practice, patience and respect for wood.”

       Her gaze traveled the buffet, the highboy, the table and chairs. “Your furniture is beautiful, but Seth is bright—”

       “What does that make me?” Wade ground out between clenched teeth.

       She took a step back. “I, ah…I don’t mean to be insulting. Obviously you’re intelligent. You graduated from Harvard, one of the finest colleges in the country. The very reason I’d think you’d understand my position. Education is the best assurance of happiness in this life.”

       “Are you happy, Abby?”

       A flicker of unease dimmed her eyes. “I’m concerned for Lois’s family but I’m content.”

       Whether she admitted it or not, Abby was far from happy. She served the community at church and in the classroom, she took care of her family, did all she could to make the lives of others better—even to the point of meddling—but inside she had a hollow spot that needed filling.

       He ought to know. He had the same.

       With a gust of air, he exhaled, releasing his frustration or trying to. “You mean well, but you don’t know Seth Collier—at all.”

       “I saw Seth every day in English class. And you see him, what? A couple times a week?”

       “What I know didn’t take long to understand. Seth won’t leave his father to go off to college somewhere.”

       “We’ll see about that. But first, he needs to finish high school. Surely you agree about the importance of that diploma.”

       “Of course, Seth should finish school. Today’s the first I’d heard of his plan to quit.”

       “Why not admit you’re using Seth?”

       She’d gone too far. Wade jabbed an index finger her way. “I’d never use that boy. I pay a wage for the work he does. I can’t pay much until I get the shop off the ground, but I’d never take advantage of him. Of anyone.”

       The cold chill of her eyes slithered through him. That chill told him she believed he’d taken advantage of her. Toyed with her affection. That’s what this was really about. What defense could he give without hurting her more?

       She took a step back. “You’re using Seth to accomplish what you can’t do alone. Well, this time you Cummingses won’t win.”

       She whirled toward the door. Before she crossed the threshold she looked back at him, eyes issuing a challenge. “I’ll see that Seth gets a college education if it’s the last thing I do.”

       Wade wouldn’t allow Abby to force her will on that boy. “If that’s not what Seth wants, then it looks like we’re going to be butting heads.” He motioned to the hat she wore. “I hope that chapeau of yours is lined with steel.”

       “I plan on using my brain, not brawn. You might want to give that a try,” she said, smiling sweetly. Then with that last jab to his pride, she flounced out the door.

       Leaving him to grapple with the truth. Abby wanted to save Seth from the fate of being just like him. That she held him and his dream in contempt knotted in Wade’s stomach.

       No matter what she thought of him, how little she held him and his vocation in esteem, Abigail Wilson would soon learn she’d thrown down the gauntlet to exactly the wrong man.

      Chapter Six

      Abigail stalked off the Cummings property, every muscle in her body rigid. To deal with George Cummings was bad enough. He’d ruined her father, killing him as surely as if he’d driven a stake through his heart.

       But to learn Wade tried to tie Seth, her most promising student, to the youngster’s hand-to-mouth existence lit the wick of temper lurking inside her.

       How could Wade take advantage of a boy struggling for the necessities of life?

       She could understand that Seth would see an apprenticeship as a solution to his problems. That thinking was shortsighted. How likely was it that Wade’s new venture would succeed? Few people in town could afford expensive furniture. Seth would abandon a high school education for a risky undertaking, losing the chance to attend college.

       Heat slid through her veins. She wouldn’t allow such foolishness. Yet what could she do to stop it?

       Talking to Seth’s father, a loner who never allowed anyone on his property, was impossible. She’d talk to Seth. But what if the boy wouldn’t listen? He’d shown no sign of wanting to hear her out. Instead he’d dashed out of the shop, avoiding her eyes, avoiding her guidance. As much as she wanted to track Seth down and convince him that she had his true welfare at heart, he’d probably gone home. She couldn’t do anything tonight.

       With everything bottled up inside, if Abigail didn’t talk to someone, she’d explode. Her family would take her side but even admitting she’d spent a single day under the Cummingses’ roof would open wounds.

       The Fisher house came into view. This morning, Abigail had promised to stop at Rachel’s. Her best friend would understand.

       At Abigail’s knock, Rachel opened the door, a welcoming smile on her face. “I thought you’d never get here.” Mouthwatering aromas from the kitchen permeated the house, pulling Abigail in as surely as her friend’s tugging hands. “Can you stay for supper? Papa’s already eaten and off framing houses.”

       Was he working on Lois’s house? After a hard day at work, Mr. Fisher had to be tired. Once her father had lost the farm, he hadn’t possessed the energy to come to the table much less help someone in need. “You’ve got a great dad, Rachel.”

       Nodding, Rachel smiled. “Please say you’ll stay.”

       That morning, Abigail had mentioned she planned to stop at Rachel’s. Her mother wouldn’t worry. “I’d love to.”

       As they walked to the kitchen, they passed the homey parlor Abigail could describe with her eyes closed. Not one knickknack or furnishing had been changed since Lily Fisher’s death.

       The kitchen’s butter-yellow walls, white curtains, oak icebox, table and cupboards invited visitors to linger. A bone china teapot, a reminder of Rachel’s mother’s English ancestry, presided over the round oak table. Her bibbed floral apron hung on a hook, an apron Rachel had grown into.