Bell insisted he had described her honestly.
“Very large woman,” he said with a small smile.
“Capable.”
“Strong.”
“Not young enough to be foolish.”
Abigail asked:
“Did he see a photograph?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him exactly how large?”
“I told him enough.”
“What did he say?”
Bell’s smile widened.
“He said he needed a wife, not an ornament.”
Abigail hated the wording.
Still, she agreed to meet him.
Then, somehow, the meeting became a wedding plan in less than forty-eight hours.
Cedar Hollow accelerated drama efficiently.
The clipping beneath her door arrived afterward.
And now she was dressed.
Mrs. Whitcomb placed both hands on Abigail’s shoulders.
“You want my opinion?”
“No.”
“Good. I’ll give it anyway.”
Abigail sighed.
Mrs. Whitcomb looked at her in the mirror.
“If Caleb Mercer wanted to hurt you, he had easier options than paying Reverend Shaw and buying a marriage license.”
“That is an extremely low standard.”
“True.”
“Also,” Mrs. Whitcomb added, “he came in yesterday.”
Abigail turned.
“What?”
“He ordered fabric.”
“For what?”
“Curtains.”
Abigail stared.
Mrs. Whitcomb shrugged.
“Said the room you’d use had old ones.”
Something unexpectedly tender moved through Abigail.
She crushed it.
Curtains did not absolve murder.
She stood.
The floor creaked.
Mrs. Whitcomb held out Abigail’s shawl.
Abigail did not take it.
“It’s warm.”
“You’ll want it outside.”
“No.”
She looked at herself one last time.
The dress neckline exposed more of her upper chest than she usually allowed.
Nathaniel Vale, her first husband, would have made a joke.
Too much woman spilling out of too little dress.
She could hear him.
He had been dead to her for years even though he still lived comfortably in Topeka.
Abigail lifted her chin.
“No shawl.”
Mrs. Whitcomb smiled slightly.
“Good.”
The church bell began ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Abigail’s stomach tightened.
Downstairs, the dry-goods shop had emptied.
Everyone was already at the church.
Of course.
Mrs. Whitcomb offered one arm.
“You ready?”
“No.”
“That’s the first sensible bride answer I’ve heard.”
They descended.
Outside, Cedar Hollow glittered beneath a hard late-summer sun.
The church stood halfway down Main Street.
People crowded the porch.
Others stood outside because the pews were full.
Abigail heard the whisper move through them when she appeared.
There she is.
Good Lord.
That dress.
Look at the size of her.
Abigail kept walking.
One step.
Then another.
Shame had a strange physical sensation.
Heat across the face.
Tightness behind the throat.
A desire to fold inward even when the body could not.
Abigail had spent years trying.
Smaller dresses.
Quiet voice.