An Inconvenient Match. Janet Dean

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      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.