A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  After Abigail inspected Napoleon, they haggled a price and soon reached an agreement. Josephine would stay at the Wallace ranch for a few weeks. The fee was the same, whether she foaled or not, and Abigail handed over the velvet drawstring bag of her earnings, knowing how little remained in the bureau drawer back at the farm.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Calhoun.” Hiram passed the bag into his daughter’s hands. “I hope a year from now you have a healthy, pristine foal, but even more than that I hope your tale does nothing to tarnish Laurel’s memories of Jeremiah.”

  Abigail nodded. As long as she had his farm, she’d leave the memories for Laurel.

  April 1865

  St. Louis, Missouri

  The stench seeped from the wooden floors and brick walls of the third-floor prison hospital even though most of the patients had gone. Where they ultimately rested, the man didn’t want to imagine. He had enough trouble keeping up with those he was responsible for. Miles traveled, records searched, soldiers questioned, and he was no closer to an answer than at Westport when he last saw him.

  The nurse offered a chair. He refused, though the effort cost him. Putting the war behind him would be difficult when he bore the painful reminders of his involvement, but unless he wanted his mind to be as unsound as his body, he couldn’t dwell on all that had happened.

  “Here’s the register, sir. I looked for the dates you requested, but I didn’t find the name.” The nurse didn’t wear a uniform, but then again, neither did he. She held the book out to him, and noticing his situation she flattened it open on the desk. “Truthfully, our records got behind after ’64. Still, if you’d like to have a look yourself ”—her ragged fingernail pointed to the correct line—“start here and work your way down.”

  Whether the nurse stayed or left, the man didn’t notice. The names, stacked one on top of the other like corpses bound for a communal grave, burned into his memory.

  “Sherman, Matthew. Smythe, Thaddeus. Pettey, Oliver.”

  There was no order, no reason. He was not allowed the mercy of being able to bypass any of the names—several familiar, a few dear. No, he had to look at each one and endure the memories.

  “Stevens, Edwin. Grisham, Clement. Calhoun, Jeremiah.”

  The pit of his stomach grew cold. He blinked and bent closer to touch the register where the blotched ink spelled out the horrendous mistake. “Calhoun, Jeremiah. Died February 23, 1865.”

  His hand trembled. He fell against the desk, causing it to screech across the floor. The nurse appeared instantly.

  “Are you ill? Let me help you to a chair.”

  He waved her away, his eyes fastened to the register.

  Jeremiah Calhoun wasn’t the name he sought. It was a shock, but more important than a faulty record was finding the man he’d wronged.

  He prayed that he wasn’t too late.

  Hart County, Missouri

  Two Weeks Later

  Abigail read the rejection in Varina Helspeth’s sneer before she spoke.

  “I don’t care if she did marry Jeremiah, I don’t want no Yankee woman looking after my son.”

  The woman’s face was as plain as an empty paper sack and just as flat. A fine line of whiskers dusted her top lip. Abigail thought her mouth would sooner splinter than curve into a smile.

  Dr. Hopkins picked up his medical bag from her front step. “Come on, Mrs. Calhoun. They don’t need our services here.” He dropped his hat atop his thick shock of hair and spun his lanky frame.

  Another rejection. Abigail didn’t blame the woman. If her own mother didn’t trust her, why should a complete stranger?

  She had one foot on the bare dirt path when Varina grunted. “But you have to help him, Doctor. We have to get the shot out of his back.”

  “I don’t work without my nurse. If you don’t need her help, you don’t need mine.”

  Let her son die or allow Abigail in the house? The length of time it took the woman to decide proved once again how hated outsiders were in these woods.

  Without a word, Varina disappeared into the house, leaving Abigail and Dr. Hopkins outside. Was that a no? As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Hopkins leaned down and whispered, “She left the door open. You won’t get more of an invitation than that.”

  With a smile she followed the sharp-chinned doctor inside.

  The young man’s wounds weren’t serious. He’d been peppered with bird shot in an innocent hunting accident. The injury would heal quickly if it was kept clean. Seeing that the Helspeths’ cabin was on the same mountain as the Calhouns’, it only made sense for Abigail to check his progress and leave Hopkins free for his more important daily duties—holding down the porch swing at the Wallace place, for example.

  “Have Calbert ride with you,” Dr. Hopkins suggested as they departed. “There are dangerous men lurking about. Our troubles started before the war began, and they aren’t ended just because it’s over.”

  It wasn’t difficult to believe the foreboding woods held hidden dangers. Even graced with the breathtaking dogwoods and cheery redbuds, their dark crevices covered secrets. If honest, hard-working people would snub her to her face, what were the outlaws capable of?

  Abigail shuddered. She didn’t need an imagination to know what evils men would commit—she’d seen them, both in battle wounds and in the care of the prisoners she’d worked with.

  “Did you serve with Jeremiah?” Abigail asked as the horses picked their way back to the Calhoun side of the mountain.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hopkins had the creaky voice of a much older man. “We joined the Missouri State Guard to protect our state from foreign invaders, but General Fremont declared us traitors. No surrenders, no prisoners. Men merely hung as common outlaws if captured in battle. Little by little as we found opportunity, our divisions enrolled with the Confederate Army, so we’d be treated as proper soldiers. In ’62 Jeremiah signed under Major General Price in the Army of the West. I stayed with Colonel McBride as he went to Arkansas.”

  “But you’ve been home—” Too late Abigail realized how her words could be heard as an accusation. “I don’t mean to pry.”

  His chin rose. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. I provided medical care with the army until ’64, when General McBride requested my services for himself. He’d been unwell and was headed further south, hoping warmer weather would rid him of the pneumonia that had afflicted him. By the time he died, I knew my chances of finding a unit to join were slim with Arkansas under Union control, so I decided to go home and help the families left behind.”

  Abigail couldn’t help but like the earnest young man who obviously cared more for healing than conquering.

  He continued. “Naturally I had no intention of falling in love with Laurel. It’s bothered me that I was enjoying her company while Jeremiah fought . . . and died. But you’re here now, and I thank you. Evidently even Jeremiah believed that four years was too long to wait.”

  He tugged his hat a bit lower on his head. At least someone was grateful for her—two people, counting Ma Calhoun. She didn’t have the heart to tell the doctor that Jeremiah never stopped loving Laurel. If she’d learned anything recently, it was that people often preferred not to know the whole truth, and that suited her just fine.

  Chapter 4

  May 1865

  Life at the Calhoun farm was settling into a pleasant routine. Before Abigail’s arrival, Rachel’s dependence on her mother meant that the housework had been abandoned, but Abigail soon had it set aright. Although the simple furnishings couldn’t compare to those of Abigail’s childhood home, she took pride in the cozy, tidy rooms. And every day after she completed her household chores and finished rounds with Dr. Hopkins, Abigail spent her afternoons grooming, feeding, and exercising the horses. In the beginning, they resisted being put through their paces, but they soon accepted their daily routine. If only Rachel would adjust to her care, as well.

  Rachel. Abigail tossed a bucket of oats into the trough. If her sister-in-law possessed the str
ength of an able-bodied woman, she’d be a nuisance indeed. But to be fair, if she weren’t sick she wouldn’t have been allowed to carry on so. Abigail balanced the bucket on the top rail of the fence and wiped her hands on her cotton everyday dress. If only she could find a way to break through Rachel’s harsh façade. Judging the severity of her symptoms, one more bout of the fever would be the end of her. Had Rachel considered the memories she’d be leaving behind?

  The horses were fed, but Ma wouldn’t have supper ready for another hour at least. The sun skimmed the tops of the trees at the back of the pasture. Another area she hadn’t explored. Not wanting to disrupt the horses’ dinner at the trough, Abigail set out on foot, pausing to inspect a thresher set against the fence, rusty with idleness.

  Yes, they would need to plow up a field and get some barley in soon. One foal a year wasn’t enough to live on. The farm was capable of producing more crops than Ma had scratched out during the war.

  Abigail snapped off a head of Queen Anne’s lace as she made her way up the ridge. Stopping where it crested, she looked down on the valley below. She hadn’t realized that the road she walked in on curved around the back of the property. Not that she was surprised. The Ozark wagon trails wormed through the hollows as crookedly as a greedy quartermaster. Twirling the stem of Queen Anne’s lace, she made her way down the steep hill, cautious of the loose rocks that tumbled before her.

  No wonder this area hadn’t been cleared. It was too sharp to ride on, too sheer to farm. Its only benefit was that it provided a protective barrier between the road and the farm. Unless those bushwhackers and jayhawkers she kept hearing about rode billy goats, they wouldn’t sneak up on the house from the back.

  Taking advantage of her height and the privacy, Abigail hitched up her skirt and scaled the split-rail fence, sliding the last few feet down to the road that cut through the narrow valley. If she figured correctly, the walk around to the front gate wasn’t far—easier to tackle than trudging over the ridge on the rough side. Besides, she could inspect the fence more carefully and see if there were any gaps or more farm equipment rusting outside the barn.

  In the valley the late afternoon sun was too weak to throw honest-to-goodness shadows. Instead, everything appeared hazy, making it unclear where undergrowth ended and where darkness began. Abigail caught herself straining to peer into deep crevices, wondering if they were truly caves or merely overhangs. There could be any number of eyes watching from the craggy dens—animals or men. She remembered Dr. Hopkins’s warning. She shouldn’t stray too far from home.

  The road swerved around a boulder. The passage narrowed, a dangerous turn for a buggy. Abigail was just thinking how she’d have to remember to slow here when she stepped into the sight of a man standing in the road.

  With one hand on his pommel and one hand grasping the back of his saddle, he froze when he saw her. The horse shifted toward him, and he did an odd hop backwards to keep from being bumped. Turning back to his horse he tried to pull himself up by the pommel without putting his foot in the stirrup. Uncomfortable with the off-center weight, the horse stumbled to the side again, causing him to slide back down.

  He landed easily on one foot, but the other never touched the ground. Obviously he was favoring it. Abigail saw his difficulty. His leg had drawn up short and wouldn’t hold his weight. The horse would have to stand still for him to mount.

  Was he dangerous? Possibly, but as of yet the fabled bushwhackers and jayhawkers sounded more like the bogeymen of her youth. This man showed no interest in her, wasn’t mounted, and definitely couldn’t run. She approached cautiously, compassion overriding her fear.

  “I’ll hold her for you.” She smiled to ease his embarrassment.

  He dipped his head, only showing her the top of his hat. “If she’d stand still I could do it myself. I just wanted to test my leg before I got home. My family doesn’t know . . .”

  Abigail snagged the reins and rubbed the nag’s nose. How many of her patients were still on the road home, heading to a future fraught with similar difficulties? “Your horse looks tired—like she’s traveled hard. No doubt you could both use a stretch after being on the road all day.” Once she had control of the horse, she nodded to him. This attempt was successful, graceful even. His chest filled once he was in place, the embarrassment of his condition vanishing on horseback. Had she not seen his struggle, she would’ve never guessed that he’d dealt with any weakness—besides pride, perhaps.

  “Thank you for your help.” Only seated would he face her, his strong features direct and honest, if not necessarily patient. His dark brows framed piercing eyes. His nose—well, if she was being kind she’d call it senatorial.

  He shook the reins, reminding her to release them and stop staring at him. She felt her face warm. Had she been in the mountains so long she’d forgotten how to act around a gentleman? Without a word she stepped aside, allowing him to move forward. After a few steps he turned.

  “It’s getting dark. How far a piece do you have to go?”

  Abigail touched her hair, suddenly wishing she had it up properly instead of hanging down in a braid. “Not far at all. This is my home.” She gestured to the mountain wall on her left.

  He looked around as if to assure himself of his surroundings, and then his penetrating gaze settled on her again.

  This time his voice was rough. “Do the Calhouns not live here anymore?”

  “They do. Are you a neighbor?”

  His laugh was mirthless. “I’m no neighbor. I’m Jeremiah Calhoun, and I’d like to know what claim you have on my farm.”

  He’d never met her before, that was certain. Jeremiah wouldn’t have forgotten the willowy blonde frowning at him. She kept staring, but this time instead of gazing at his face, she looked at his hands. Squaring her shoulders she seemed to come to a conclusion.

  “You are a liar.” Her voice echoed off the stony bluff. “Jeremiah Calhoun is dead.”

  Jeremiah’s throat tightened. Ever since he’d seen his name listed with the casualties in the prison register, he’d wondered who would be surprised by his appearance, but still the words made the hair on his arms stand on end.

  “My family might think that, but they’ll be plumb excited to hear they were wrong.”

  “The gall!” Her lean body shook as she marched closer. Her eyes narrowed into blue crescents. “You dare toy with a grieving family? You’ll immediately be exposed as a charlatan. I knew Jeremiah for only a few weeks, but it’s clear that you are not him.”

  Jeremiah’s gratitude for her assistance vanished. “I don’t need a stranger to tell me who I am.”

  “I’m not a stranger, just ask Ma. Everyone knows me, even Laurel.”

  His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t heard her name spoken since he’d lost Alan.

  “Laurel.” Was it irreverent that he breathed the word like a prayer? Every dawn brought the question of whether he’d live to see nightfall. Every evening ended with the question if he’d live to see his love again. “You’ve seen Laurel?” But he stopped himself. He’d wasted enough time on this woman who stood with her hands on her hips, her nostrils flared like a horse’s smelling fire.

  “Thanks for your help,” he said, “but my family’s waiting.”

  With a mighty huff, she marched off the road, gathered her skirts, and hopped the fence. Petticoats flashed—fancier petticoats than any he’d ever seen, not that he’d spent much time noticing such things. It wasn’t until she’d climbed halfway up the bluff that he realized his mouth was hanging open. She would beat him to the house if he didn’t get to moving.

  He spurred the nag for a last short jaunt and tried to forget her. He was home. Of all the devastation he had seen, of all the waste of human life, limb, and property, Jeremiah had feared the worst for his own estate. Stories of bushwhackers razing homesteads and ambushing innocents had reached him. But now, as he rode through the gates of his farm, an indescribable weight was removed. Besides some unwelcome saplings, normal wear o
n the barn, and an irate woman trudging up the back hill, everything looked as he’d left it.

  Jeremiah eased himself to the ground, pulled out his crutch, and hopped his way up the porch. While he knew he’d get a warm welcome from his mother, he dreaded seeing his sister. How many letters had he begun, only to crumple the paper and toss it into the fire? He was sorry she was sick, sorry she couldn’t carry on like other young ladies her age, but he was still convinced she had no business getting married.

  But maybe Alan had beat him home. For all he knew Alan and Rachel might be happily married already.

  He heard footsteps approaching the door and then nothing. Was Rachel looking out her window, wondering whose old horse stood at the post? Was his mother trying to sneak to the parlor so she could catch sight of their visitor? He banged on the door again. “Ma, open the door. It’s me—Jeremiah.”

  A scream pierced the air. The door shook as she fumbled with the lock and cursed the key, the knob, and anything else that stood between her and her only son.

  With the light at her back, Jeremiah couldn’t see her face, but from her swift launch into his arms, he assumed that the years had been kinder to his mother than to him.

  “Jeremiah! Jeremiah! It’s a miracle.” Tears rolled, making her face a wet mess. “You’re alive. Praise God!” She kissed him on both cheeks, patted him, hugged him, and kissed him again.

  He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her, pleased to have caused happiness for once. Pleased to have a promising beginning.

  “I thought I’d never make it back alive,” he said.

  “Well, I’m not letting you leave again.” Her arms tightened around him. “I won’t let you out of my sight.”

  Jeremiah almost laughed. “I suspect Laurel will have other plans. How is she?”