Abigail caught his coat.
“Not today.”
He looked at her.
She whispered:
“We have a bakery to search.”
That redirected him efficiently.
They left the church to a mixture of silence, whispers, and reluctant congratulations.
Bell followed them onto the steps.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
Abigail stopped.
The name felt strange.
Bell smiled.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
“Caleb.”
“Bell.”
The banker’s gaze moved between them.
“I assume you’ll leave for Black Ridge after the reception?”
Abigail watched carefully.
“Yes.”
Relief.
Tiny.
There.
Bell hid it quickly.
“You’ll find mountain life quiet.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Very far from town.”
“I know.”
Bell’s smile widened.
Abigail smiled back.
“That sounds exactly like what I need.”
Bell relaxed.
Caleb looked at her.
She gave the smallest shake of her head.
Play along.
He understood.
“We’ll leave before dark.”
Bell nodded.
“Good.”
That single word told Abigail more than a speech.
He wanted her gone.
The reception lasted forty-seven minutes.
Abigail knew because she watched the clock.
Cake.
Coffee.
Cold ham.
People staring.
One woman complimented Abigail’s dress and then immediately asked whether Caleb had commissioned a special wagon.
Another asked whether she planned to reduce “for health” now that she had a husband.
Abigail replied:
“I just acquired one hundred eighty pounds of man. I believe the household has grown enough.”
Caleb nearly choked on coffee.
By three, they slipped out the side door.
Not toward Black Ridge.
Toward Turner Bakery.
The bakery had been closed since Thomas Turner’s death.
Abigail still carried the key.
Inside, stale flour and old cinnamon lingered in the air.
Her father’s apron hung from a hook.
Seeing it almost destroyed her.
She touched the cloth.
Caleb remained near the door.
“I’ll wait outside if you want.”
“No.”
Her voice broke.
“Stay.”
He did.
Abigail walked behind the counter.
Every object contained him.
Wooden rolling pin.
Tin measuring cups.
The burn mark where he once set a hot pan directly on the counter and Abigail shouted so loudly a customer fled.
She smiled through tears.
Then remembered the letter.
Where no banker would look because bankers rarely knead dough.
“The flour room.”
Caleb followed.
Six barrels lined the storeroom.
Four nearly empty.
One sealed.
One used for rye.
Abigail examined each.
Nothing.
Caleb tapped the floor.
“Could mean underneath.”
Abigail looked down.
Floorboards.
Years of flour had whitened every crack.