Abigail by Jill Smith

Nabal had treated her since, of the beating and the humiliation . . . If she had learned to curb her tongue sooner, had realized that a man’s ego was a fragile thing . . .
    She blinked, forcing her attention to the baskets of parched corn before her. The memories were best held close enough to rein in her actions and her words, but far enough not to wound her again. The physical scars were reminder enough.
    She jotted a few markings on the tablet and allowed herself to feel a small moment of pleasure. Despite her disappointing marriage, Nabal had become almost manageable since the day he had so wounded her, almost as if he regretted his actions, though his caustic tongue told her otherwise. While his attitudes were often deplorable, her husband was not unattractive, though he came close the mornings after he’d drunk too much—his breath alone could skin a coney. But at other times, especially in the early days when she’d blotted out the things that troubled her most about him, she had actually dreamed of love. Now she dreamed only of peace and did all in her power to make sure it didn’t elude her.
    She scratched her temple with the end of the reed as she walked toward a row of corn and turned to the one with pressed date cakes, then went on to count the row of raisin cakes and figs. The sheepshearing feast would begin at sundown, when Nabal returned with his shearers after the last of the three thousand sheep had finally been shorn. Rowdy men would fill the house and courtyards, and wine would spill in abundance from silver goblets to bearded lips. Nabal would be drunk each night. His unpredictable wrath was the one variable she struggled to understand, to appease, to vainly hope to control. If only she could find a way to rid these storehouses of the wine . . .
    She shook her head, trying to clear it of the troubling thoughts. So many emotions warred within her, threatening her sense of well-being and her fragile peace. If she could just keep things running smoothly, keep everyone fed and safe . . .
    She ran through her mental checklist again, glanced at the tablet, and added the markings in her head. Everything was in order here. She had spared no expense, considered no detail too inconsequential. Perfect.
    Satisfied with her calculations, she placed the tablet on a low table near the door and stepped into the sunlight. The expansive courtyard spread out before her, where harpists and flutists and a drummer practiced for tonight’s entertainment.
    Please, Adonai, let everything go well.
    She skirted the edge of the courtyard, smiled in quick acknowledgment at the servant who was arranging flowers and cones of incense around the court’s perimeter, and moved to the back of the house, where the smoke from twelve roasting and dressed sheep rose to meet her. The scent tantalized her empty stomach, reminding her that she needed to hurry inside to oversee the rest of the supper preparations. Sheepshearers came in growling like she-lions from all the hard work.
    She lifted her robe from her ankles as she stepped nearer the open pits spitting fat from the lambs. The slow roasting, smoking, and salt would help preserve the meat for the days to come. Nabal’s feasts tended to last at least a week, two if he was in an unusually generous mood.
    Three young boys stood watch over the spits. She smiled and nodded to them as she walked among the rows, checking to make sure the lambs didn’t burn on one side. When all looked as it should, she walked across the yard toward the kitchens. Zahara met her at the ovens, where several female servants were taking the third batch of bread from the heat and placing it on the stones to cool.
    “There you are,” Zahara said, wiping her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Jakim is looking for you.” She wiped flour-coated hands on a piece of soft linen, her expression worried.
    “What does he want? What’s wrong?” The young shepherd had arranged the one meeting she’d had with