A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  His mother’s smile faltered. She wiped her face and stepped back. Hesitated. “Laurel is well. She will be surprised to see you, of course . . . and so will Rachel.”

  “Will she?” His mother had yet to notice the crutch hanging from his arm or how he was using her to keep from keeling over. “The last letter I received from her was none too civil. I hope her outlook has improved.”

  “She needs grace, just like the rest of us. You’ve been gone for four years. It might take some time to get reacquainted.”

  “I doubt he’s changed at all.” Rachel stepped outdoors.

  Jeremiah straightened, ready to wrap her up in a hug if she’d allow it. How he ached to put their differences behind them, but she came no closer.

  “Is Alan here? Have you heard from him?” he asked.

  “He’s not with you?”

  At that moment Jeremiah would’ve given anything—his farm, his life, his other leg—to have his best friend at his side. “I tried, Rachel. I’ve been searching all over for him. That’s why it took me so long to get home.”

  Whatever life had flickered in her eyes was extinguished. Her arms dropped to her side, only then showing how bony she’d become. “So you’ll manage to keep Alan and me apart for a bit longer while you have a joyful reunion with Abigail?”

  Abigail? Their mother stepped between them. “Both my children home safe. If only your father . . . but let’s be content to celebrate Jeremiah’s return. All my family finally gathered under one roof.”

  “Speaking of family,” Jeremiah said, “I met a woman coming out of the grove. A lunatic from the sound of her. I suppose she’s your guest, but please keep her away from me. All I want tonight is a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.”

  Rachel raised an eyebrow. “She wouldn’t begrudge you that as long as you don’t snore. She’s staying in your room, after all.”

  Her smug look hadn’t changed since he was nine years old and she caught him stealing sugar cubes, but this time he was innocent.

  “There are other rooms.”

  “But your wife will expect to share yours.”

  “My wife?” Jeremiah thrust his crutch to the floor. What were they talking about? Was this Rachel’s doing?

  “Oh, dear! What happened to your leg?” His ma clutched his arm.

  But he didn’t want to talk about his leg. “I don’t know who that woman is, but I’m marrying Laurel, not some stranger.”

  “Abigail is a nice girl, Jeremiah,” his mother said. “She’s been very helpful.”

  “And according to her, you’re already hitched,” Rachel said.

  They had to be fooling. But no, Rachel’s smirk had all the markings of the genuine article. And this Abigail woman was almost upon them, cutting through the lawn from behind the house. In vain he thought back to every woman he’d met since leaving, but with her tall frame and slender neck she would’ve been difficult to forget no matter what the circumstances. That left only one possibility.

  And she’d called him a liar.

  All eyes turned as she approached the porch.

  “I’m sorry, Ma,” she said. “I tried to stop him. I’ll summon Calbert and we’ll be rid of him directly.”

  “Ma?! You call her Ma?” Jeremiah asked.

  Rachel smiled. “Why would you get Calbert, Abigail dear?”

  Abigail paused. Clearly she didn’t trust Rachel, but she seemed to be searching for a sign from his mother. Could she really be confused?

  “As you can see, miss, my family is satisfied with my return,” he said.

  “You don’t recognize Abigail?” His mother’s face turned as gray as her hair. “But she was with you at the prison.”

  “This isn’t the man I knew. Jeremiah injured his arm, not his leg. This isn’t your son.”

  His arms tensed. His hands squeezed into fists.

  “Consider, Jeremiah, before you say anything harsh.” His mother’s hand lay gently on his arm. “It could be an honest mistake.”

  Judging from Rachel’s unladylike snort, they agreed on at least one thing.

  The woman took the lantern from Rachel and thrust it in his face. “I know you want to believe he’s returned, but look at him. He’s an impostor.”

  Here he was on his own porch, being run off like a stray dog. Jeremiah shoved the lantern away. “Don’t you think my own mother knows me?”

  His mother frowned. “Oh, dear. There’s going to be trouble. Why don’t we go inside?”

  “I’ll be there,” he growled, “as soon as I see to the horse.”

  “I see to the horses here.” The woman took the reins, gentle with the mare even though she bristled like a porcupine. Shooting him a last confused look, she trudged to the barn.

  By thunder, did she think him incapable of walking, too? Stupid leg. Jeremiah turned to his mother, who rubbed her brow.

  “There’s got to be a logical explanation,” she said.

  Rachel piped up. “There is. She lied to steal our farm. Motive enough.”

  “Don’t be so quick to judge. Abigail is my guest until we figure this out. Besides, can’t we just be happy that Jeremiah came home? Let’s not ruin it by turning out an innocent young woman.”

  He wouldn’t be able to deal with her as long as his sympathetic mother was a witness. “I’ll get this sorted.” Jeremiah stumped across the drive to the barn.

  Despite the annoyance, it was good to be home. Good to be giving orders instead of taking them. Good to stand in an open field and not worry about having his head split in two by a bullet. Good to have control over his life.

  Sort of.

  He stepped into the familiar barn, immediately struck by the empty stalls and pens. Of course. Ma would’ve sold off or butchered some stock. Her letters had described how they’d scrimped to survive, but still the missing animals shocked him.

  The woman had hung the lantern on the hook and had taken up the brush. How she could have missed his approach when he was bristling like a razorback boar, he couldn’t fathom. He hadn’t tried to be quiet, but there she stood, deep in thought while brushing that dreadful bag of bones that had carried him home.

  She looked the part. Pretty enough to pull off a heist, confident enough to think she could get away with it. Even now she was probably concocting a story or devising a plan to bamboozle him. His mother might be easy to fool, but he wasn’t. Good thing he came home when he did.

  “Planning to steal my horse?”

  She didn’t look up. Her calm strokes continued uninterrupted. “If so, I wouldn’t take this one, although she’s not without value.” She combed her long fingers through the mane. “Combine her girth with Lancaster’s strength, and you’d get a good pulling horse. She wouldn’t produce a Saturday racer, but people need to pull up rocks and tree stumps more than winning a bet.”

  Jeremiah blinked. She knew horses. Whatever her strategy, he hadn’t expected that approach.

  She turned and unabashedly stared at his hands with eyes too cunning for her gentle face. “A man in prison little resembles the man on the street. I wouldn’t expect to recognize Jeremiah Calhoun dressed, groomed, and presentable, but I would expect him to recognize me. And I’d expect him to be missing an arm.”

  “I’m sorry. Would you like me to lop one off for you? If I’d known that I’d ruin your game, I would’ve been more considerate and stayed dead like I was supposed to.”

  Her lips pursed. “This isn’t a game. I came because of my promise to a dying man. He told me about his sister, Rachel, and his horse farm. He sent me here. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

  “Fortunately, I’m not the least bit curious. Nice story. I applaud your efforts, but it’s over. Perhaps you can follow the Union troops out west and find another victim to—”

  The woman took the lantern and marched out of the barn into the darkening evening. The lights from the rock house across the span of yard winked at him. His home. How he wanted to just rest—forget supper, forget catching up—to ju
st lie down somewhere safe for a night. But he had one more obstacle to remove before his home was secure.

  “Where are you going?” he called to her back.

  “To my room.”

  “That’s not your room. It’s mine.” Jeremiah hobbled to catch her.

  “I have nowhere else to go, and I’m tired. I got up early to go to the Wallaces’ this morning, and—”

  “The Wallaces’?” Jeremiah stumbled. “What were you doing there?”

  She didn’t slow down. The raw end of the crutch had a tendency to slide on gravel, but Jeremiah had to risk it to catch her.

  Her words were as brisk as her steps. “I had to talk to Dr. Hopkins about one of his cases, and I knew I could find him there.”

  Dr. Hopkins at the Wallaces’? Was Hiram sick? Before he could ask, she continued.

  “I really like Laurel, by the way. We’re getting on splendidly.”

  Jeremiah stopped again. The woman should be horsewhipped. He gritted his teeth. The thought of Laurel believing her lies liked to kill him. He wouldn’t allow this impostor to stay a moment longer than necessary.

  He watched her stride toward the house, jealous of her ability to cover ground. Well, she wouldn’t walk all over him. For years he’d dreamt of the moment when he’d return to claim Laurel for his own. He wasn’t about to let a tricky Yankee get in his way.

  Abigail slammed the bedroom door behind her and fell against it. Who was he? She unbuttoned her collar, fighting for air. According to Ma and Rachel, the man whose voice she could hear lecturing her through the door was Jeremiah. But whom had she married? Who was Romeo?

  Her head throbbed. How many times had the descriptions of judgmental Jeremiah failed to correspond with jovial Romeo? The man’s hazel eyes, his square jaw, even the hawkish nose were family traits she now recognized. How could she have ignored all the inconsistencies?

  Only after she heard Ma’s gentle voice trying to control her son did Abigail relinquish her post at the door.

  If anyone was at fault, it was she. She tried to imagine herself in his situation, returning home after four years, injured, weary, only to be called a liar and told he was supposed to be dead. Abigail sank onto the bed and covered her face. What a welcome she’d given him. As if Ma and Rachel didn’t recognize their own son and brother! She had to make things right. She owed him an apology.

  Abigail poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on her nightstand. The water sloshed as she fought to steady her hands. If he was Jeremiah, then she had no right to be there. The horses, the farm, the cozy rock house—she’d never see any of it again. And what about Ma? How could Abigail abandon her adopted family? Leaving her home the first time had ripped her heart in two. She couldn’t do it again. Not when she’d finally found people who needed her. Surely she could reason with Captain Calhoun. Surely she could prove to him that she was an asset.

  From the tone of his voice outside the door, he hadn’t relinquished his rights to his bedroom yet. She set down the glass and opened the door to find a glowering man still pleading with his mother to expel her.

  “Captain Calhoun,” she said. “May I have a word with you?”

  His eyes pierced her. “Don’t make me regret it.”

  Abigail stepped back into the room to allow him entrance. He rapped the doorframe with his crutch.

  “You are not my wife. Don’t think that I’ll be hornswoggled into saving your reputation. I wouldn’t hesitate to have you run out of town.”

  “This isn’t a trick. Anything said in the parlor can be heard upstairs, and I’d like a private word if you don’t mind.”

  Jeremiah looked to his mother for permission. Abigail rolled her eyes. As if she had designs on his virtue. Honestly.

  Evidently Ma thought he was safe, for he entered. His eyes scanned the room greedily. Realizing he hadn’t seen his room for years, Abigail gave him a moment to take it in. He nodded as if pleased to find it as he remembered, until his eyes caught her emerald taffeta wrapper hanging on a hook. With that his pleasure vanished.

  “Captain Calhoun, I want to apologize. I no longer doubt your word that you are Jeremiah.”

  “There’s progress.”

  “But we owe it to your family to figure out who sent me. The man I married at Gratiot Street gave me specific instructions—”

  “Really, miss . . . what is your proper name?”

  “Everyone here calls me Mrs. Calhoun, but I suppose you should call me Abigail.”

  He looked like he’d just as soon put on skirts and perform “The Merry Widow Waltz.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two months.”

  “You’ve had two months to go about telling your tale, spinning your windies, telling everyone you’re my wife?”

  “I don’t know if I’ve met everyone—”

  He threw his hat on the dresser. “If you’ve lived here for two months, then word’s got out. How are you going to fix this mess?”

  He had every right to be angry, she reminded herself. She couldn’t blame him, although she could wish he wasn’t standing so close, glowering at her. Abigail tried to take a step back, but her knees were already pressed against her bed.

  His bed.

  And even as tall as she was, her eyes only came up to his mouth. A rather nice mouth, if it wasn’t so busy frowning at her.

  “I understand how confusing this must be for you,” she said. “I’m confused, too. I don’t know how I could’ve made such a mistake, but maybe there’s an explanation. The Jeremiah Calhoun I met claimed to have a head injury and didn’t give us his name until the very end. We thought he was bluffing, but maybe we were wrong. Maybe his memories got confused. I can’t explain it. All I can say is that I mean you and your family no harm. We’ll figure this out soon.”

  “But you’re sticking to your story? You’re not hiding anything?”

  Abigail would never tell anyone about her stepfather’s accusations or her mother’s betrayal—no use in stirring up more suspicion. Maybe that qualified as hiding something, so she settled with saying, “I’m telling you the truth.” So far.

  He picked up the timepiece off the nightstand and turned it over in his hands. With his head bowed he reminded her of a little boy examining a treasure. “I’m so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of enemies. I wanted to come home and find some peace, but if there’s none to be found, then I’ll keep striving. Fighting might be all I’m fit for anymore.”

  “The war is over, sir.”

  “Is it? Are my family and farm safe?” He narrowed his eyes and did a perfunctory account of her from head to toe. “Mother said you’re welcome to sleep in her room—at least for one night. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have the energy to throw you out properly.”

  Abigail recognized a hint of satisfaction in his last words. He stumped past her and collapsed on the bed while she gathered her nightclothes from the wardrobe. By the time she’d removed her robe from the hook, he was snoring softly.

  “Only one night?” Abigail folded her clothes over her arm. She’d determined to stay on this farm, but the appearance of the real Jeremiah Calhoun had thrown her plans awry. Regardless, she had invested in his property, and she wouldn’t leave empty-handed. Tomorrow they’d talk and perhaps she could work out a deal with him. But if Captain Calhoun planned to run her off, he’d better be prepared for one last battle.

  Chapter 5

  Home. He’d thought of it for years while digging trenches, sleeping in his saddle and eating wormy hardtack. Home where his loved ones waited on him. Home where he could bend his efforts toward healing, strive to mend instead of destroy. But now he was here, and he didn’t know what to do. With his bad leg curled up, Jeremiah sat on the stone steps leading up to the house and watched the sun rise over the ridge.

  The Lord is my rock, and my fortress . . . my strength, in whom I will trust. And he’d need a heap of strength now that he was a cripple. Was God’s offer of help still good even if Jeremiah had
much to account for?

  He had blood on his hands, but God allowed for soldiers. The Old Testament was full of them. Only problem was he hadn’t been fighting pagan Canaanites or blasphemous Romans. How exactly did God judge between His children?

  And then there was Rachel and Alan, although God didn’t need to chastise him for that. Jeremiah already felt whipped, and just in case he was too easy on himself, it looked like Rachel would continue with the punishment.

  So whether or not he and God were good, he couldn’t guess. All he could do was to thank Him for getting him home and for taking care of his mother, his sister, and Laurel while he was gone. And pray that they heard from Alan soon.

  As far as his tasks, planting was behind. His mother had set a garden, but much smaller than they’d had before the war. Would he be able to plow the field? Reckon he had no choice. Rachel couldn’t, and Jeremiah couldn’t imagine his mother behind the plow. Where was Alan when he needed him?

  Where was Alan?

  A shadow in the trees moved. Likely a deer, but would he ever stop feeling the urge to shout an alarm when he saw someone approach? The codger broke through the trees, took one look at Jeremiah, and then stumbled backwards.

  Jeremiah smiled. “Come on, Calbert. You ain’t seeing a ghost.”

  Calbert snatched his hat off and scratched his head. “Somehow I knew you’d be back. I just couldn’t imagine that you were really gone for good.” He lumbered up the drive while Jeremiah got his crutch situated in time to give the man the bear hug he’d come after. Ever since Jeremiah’s father’s death, Calbert Huckabee had stepped into the void and done his best to see that none of Jeremiah’s raisings was neglected. Jeremiah owed him much, and as he considered the farm it was obvious that Calbert had continued his care while Jeremiah was gone.

  “The place doesn’t look half bad,” Jeremiah said, “and I know it’s on account of you.”

  Still smiling up at him with shining eyes, Calbert waved away his praise. “Your ma kept it middlin’. She just needed a hand now and then.”

  “Like the milking every morning? I should’ve known Ma didn’t do that.”