A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  “No, it’s been Abigail recently. She’s a much better hand than your ma or your sister. Hard worker, too.”

  If she was such a hard worker, why didn’t she earn herself a farm instead of trying to trick him out of his? “Calbert, I know nothing about that woman. I’ve never seen her before, and I sure as shooting didn’t marry her.”

  Calbert scratched his chest. “Abigail wouldn’t lie. I’ve spent a fair piece of time with her. . . . Well, it wouldn’t do any good to argue with you, I suppose. Still, you might want to reconsider your stance. You could do a lot worse.” Calbert noticed his leg, then looked away quickly. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  Jeremiah tightened his grip on his crutch. “I know you didn’t.”

  “Well, I was just headed to the barn. Tell Abigail I’m started on the chores.”

  “Thanks again for everything, Calbert. Ma couldn’t have made it without you.” Jeremiah took the two steps to the porch, cursing his crutch, and hobbled to the door. By the light of day, he could see the stacks of his mother’s journal clippings, her bell collection, and the spinning wheel all in their place. Perhaps less dust than he remembered, but memories tended to shift, given enough time.

  “It’s not like Jeremiah to sleep so late.” He heard Rachel through the kitchen door. “You didn’t keep him up last night did you, Abigail, claiming a wife’s privilege?”

  His stomach did an odd little flop.

  “Such a base imagination, Rachel.” Abigail’s voice was tight. “I’m astonished at you.”

  His mouth twisted. At least this Abigail was willing to stand up to Rachel. Then again, if she’d bowed up to him, who would she back down from?

  “Are you looking for me, Rachel?” He let the door swing closed behind him and held out an arm to greet his mother’s embrace. Abigail turned from cooking at the stove, her blue dress brighter than anything else in the drab kitchen . . . besides her eyes. He’d better just focus on his mother.

  “I’m never going to stop hugging you.” Ma sniffled.

  “I’ll give you a few days, Ma. After that you can’t keep crying on my shirt.” But he didn’t mean it. Let her shed the tears that seemed caught in his heart, and maybe he’d feel better, too.

  As if reading his mind, Abigail’s eyes softened. Her head tilted and her lips spread into a smile. Maybe she did really care for his mother—how could you not love the tenderhearted woman? Or maybe she was the consummate actress. And a liar. And definitely not his wife.

  With a last squeeze, Jeremiah released Ma.

  “Now sit a spell and tell us about this awful war,” she said. “The last I heard you were fighting near Marshall, and after that nothing. I suppose that’s when you got your leg hurt?”

  Jeremiah swung his leg out and eased into a chair. “I’m hungry, Ma. I don’t really feel like talking about all that just now.” And he probably never would.

  She smiled at him and patted his cheek. “Sit down, then, and help yourself to Abigail’s cooking. You did yourself good when you married her.”

  “Ma,” he warned as he accepted the plate of eggs and sausage. His mouth watered at the spicy scent. With the edge of his fork he burst open the sausage and watched the grease drip onto the plate. At the first bite he closed his eyes. Heaven.

  And when he opened them, there stood that beautiful angel who’d made it possible. Jeremiah nearly choked at his weakness. Esau, selling his birthright for a bowl of pottage. He could sympathize with the man.

  Taking another bite he plowed ahead. “How many bags did you bring, miss? Can you carry them back to the train station, or will you need to borrow the wagon?”

  “Jeremiah!” His ma slapped his arm. “Abigail isn’t going anywhere.”

  He shoveled in some egg. “Yes she is. I’m sorry that things haven’t worked like she’d hoped, but she can’t take advantage of us anymore.”

  Now the angel crackled with indignation. “I haven’t taken advantage of anyone. You should’ve seen this place before I got here. Ask Ma. No lady ever worked harder. But if I do go, you should know that I’ll not leave empty-handed.” She waved a sharp, two-pronged fork in his direction. “Last night you were too tired to talk, but we will discuss the matter of my colt.”

  “Exactly which colt would that be?”

  “The one I paid for. The one Josephine is carrying.”

  “Josephine’s been bred?” he sputtered. “By who?”

  “By Napoleon. I paid Hiram for his services with my own money.”

  “You bred her without my permission?”

  “As your widow, I didn’t need your permission.”

  “But you aren’t—” He tightened his lips. Did his farm somehow attract unreasonable females, or did they become that way after they arrived? “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got to get to Laurel before she hears about me from someone else.” He scraped the last forkful of eggs from the plate.

  “You can’t go to the Wallaces’ without a warning.” His mother passed him the bread basket. “You need to prepare Laurel. Poor girl thinks you’re dead.”

  “Then it’s time to turn her mourning into dancing,” he said between bites.

  What was Ma’s worry? Didn’t she understand how much he and Laurel had missed each other?

  “Let him go.” Rachel pressed her napkin to her lips. “Jeremiah doesn’t need our advice.”

  Then Abigail chimed in. “You should listen to your mother. She only wants to protect you.”

  “Protect me from Laurel? She wouldn’t squish a spider.” He drained his coffee cup and thunked it on the table. Didn’t these women realize the dangers he’d faced? Didn’t they understand the men he’d had under his command? Why did they think they could tell him what to do?

  Using his crutch for balance, Jeremiah stood and departed. After four years of war, he didn’t need them looking out for him. The sooner he saw Laurel, the sooner he could start living again.

  Jeremiah saddled the old mare he’d come in on. Laurel wouldn’t be impressed with his mount, but he hoped the fact that he still had a pulse would make up for his simple arrival. Jeremiah wished now that he’d written. After his old leg got shot up, he just couldn’t bring himself to write home. He didn’t know what kind of life he’d have, if any. Besides, the family that hid him had no business risking their lives for a letter. An envelope written in a strange hand might cause the local postmaster to ask uncomfortable questions about their guest. And he hadn’t been their only visitor.

  Jeremiah slapped his thigh, letting the sharp jolt remind him he wasn’t dreaming. He was really riding to the place he’d longed for. He’d imagined it so often that he feared he’d wake and find himself on a mat in a dark cellar again. He filled his lungs with the clean morning air, catching the sharp scent of cedar. Never again. He’d face whatever came, but never again would he hide from trouble.

  Riding the familiar trail reminded him of the autumn days when he and Alan took the crops to market. They’d put on their Sunday clothes, comb in some hair tonic, and go to dazzle their neighbors’ daughters with their charm and wit. He’d stolen kisses behind the post office and brokered deals over a barrel lid. Then he and Alan would share tales of their adventures all the way home.

  Life had been so simple, and the only part that remained unchanged was Laurel.

  The road to town curled up to the Wallace farm. Smoke puffed lazily from the chimney of the white clapboard house. What would Laurel think of his leg? He’d picked out his nicest britches that morning, but they couldn’t hide his crutch. He reined the horse toward the barn. He could manage on the ground and on horseback, but the in-between time still troubled him something awful. Better to dismount when no one was watching.

  He looped the old nag’s reins over the fence. Laughter lit on his ears like the daintiest butterfly. He cleared his throat, smoothed down his hair, and started toward the tantalizing sound.

  Laurel stepped out of her front door. She stood, smile as wide as a sycamore trunk,
with her hands on her hips. The ruffle on her pink-and-white skirt fluttered in the wind. He could almost smell the scent of her rose perfume drifting to him. Jeremiah halted, waiting for her to respond to his presence, but she spun around with a laugh and ran back into the house.

  Had she gone to tell her pa? Poor girl was probably out of her mind. At least she’d laughed, so he’d not frightened her. Jeremiah continued to the front steps. Couldn’t guess how he might act under the circumstances, so he shouldn’t judge.

  The front door stood ajar and Laurel couldn’t have gone far. She might be suffering vapors just around the corner. He wasn’t going to wait any longer to find out.

  Jeremiah pushed the door open.

  Laurel squealed, just out of sight. “No fair. You were supposed to hide it while I was out.”

  Jeremiah frowned. Had she not seen him? He glanced down at his suit, his boots, his hated crutch. He wasn’t invisible, was he?

  “It’s hidden. You still haven’t taken the prize.” A man’s voice. Now Jeremiah’s frown deepened until it was like to furrow his jaw.

  “I’ll find it.” She laughed as Jeremiah stepped through the parlor doorway.

  Dr. Hopkins stood with his hands hidden behind his back. His cheeks fell when he saw Jeremiah, and his eyes bugged out like they were being pulled by fishing hooks. Laurel couldn’t see Jeremiah on account of her being too busy reaching around the doctor, almost as if she were hugging him.

  Immediately she drew back. “What’s wrong?” Then she turned slowly, following the doctor’s horrified stare.

  “Jeremiah? It can’t be.” Instead of rushing toward him, Laurel clutched the doctor’s arm. Instead of turning white with shock, she blushed. Instead of lighting up with happy surprise, she looked to the ground.

  Maybe he should’ve listened to his mother and sent word ahead of time.

  “You’re alive?” She looked to the doctor again, gave a half smile, and then finally acted like she ought.

  She fainted dead away.

  He knelt at her side and cradled his beloved Laurel in his arms. Finally his homecoming was shaping up the way he’d expected. If only that pesky doctor would make himself scarce. What business did he have pushing his way into their reunion?

  “She only fainted. She doesn’t need a doctor.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Laurel stirred. Both men ducked forward, crashing their foreheads together.

  “Don’t you know anyone else ailing?” Jeremiah asked.

  “Jeremiah?” Laurel touched his face.

  “I’m here, sugar.”

  She smiled softly . . . before her jet-black eyebrows drew together over snapping eyes. “You are not here, Jeremiah Calhoun. You are dead. Dead, and don’t you try to prove otherwise.” She slugged him in the chest.

  He laughed. “I’m very much alive, Laurel, and thinking of you is what kept me that way.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking of you as deceased, so you shouldn’t be too all-fired up expecting me to . . . to . . .” Her eyes widened. “I just remembered. You’re married. You married Abigail.” She slugged him again and pushed out of his arms, falling to the floor. “You didn’t have time to write me, but you had time to get hitched to some nurse?”

  “I’m not married. That’s a misunderstanding.”

  “So you claim . . . just as you claim to be alive. I-I don’t know what to believe.” She pressed her hand to her forehead and turned to the doctor. “Newton, I feel faint again. I might need your assistance.”

  In Jeremiah’s uninformed opinion, a doctor should know not to snatch one recovering from a fainting spell away so quickly.

  “It’s been a dreadful shock, my dear. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

  “Dreadful? Me being alive is dreadful?” Jeremiah pulled himself up on his crutch, too angry to take issue with the pitying look it got from Laurel. “And did you call her your dear?”

  “Please, Jeremiah,” Laurel begged. “I don’t mean to be cruel, but seeing you again wasn’t expected. You’ve been assumed dead for months. When the prison in St. Louis sent the notice to your family, we knew it for a fact. And then Abigail—”

  “Oh yes. Abigail. Well, I don’t know her.”

  Laurel raised an eyebrow.

  “I swear. She’s a complete stranger.”

  “But the point of the matter is that I thought you were dead. And while I’m very, very glad to see you alive . . .” Her eyes darted to the doctor again.

  “Jeremiah,” he said. “Miss Wallace appreciates you coming to share your news, but maybe it’d be better to give her some time to consider.”

  “Consider what?” When had she taken the doctor on as watchdog? Jeremiah never knew Hopkins to be an interfering type of fellow.

  Then, like a chimney tumbling down on him, awareness crushed Jeremiah. Dr. Hopkins and Laurel—

  “How could you?”

  Laurel wrung her hands. “Please, Jeremiah. You’ve been gone so long.”

  “Not long enough to forget you.”

  “What was I supposed to do? You were dead and then Abigail came and said that you’d married.”

  “And you believed her? Don’t you know me better than that, Laurel? I would never—”

  “That’s enough.” Hopkins stepped in front of Laurel. “I understand how you must feel, but you have to stop. After she’s had time to consider, then you can talk. Until then, please leave her alone.”

  Jeremiah looked down on the scrawny man and felt another of his few remaining supports crumbling away. He turned to Laurel. “Is that what you want?”

  Her chin quivered. She couldn’t meet his eyes. In fact, she could look no higher than his permanently crippled leg. “I’m glad to see you, Jeremiah, but please go, just for now.”

  He blinked as though she’d thrown sand in his eyes. He’d expected to gaze at her, to memorize every detail of her dress, her smile, compare the real Laurel to the dream picture he’d carted around. He hadn’t thought that his study would end so soon.

  Jeremiah limped out alone, wishing he could shatter his crutch against the wall and march off without it. He pulled himself into the saddle, no longer caring who saw his awkward efforts. After he’d been shot, he had wondered what kind of life he’d have. If it weren’t for knowing that Laurel waited, would he have tried so hard to survive? But maybe she was only surprised. Who knew what kind of pressure the doctor had put on her? He spurred the horse into a trot. She’d come back to him once she had her wits about her. Once she got used to idea that he was home, nevermore to leave, she’d figure it straight. And he’d do all he could to help her along.

  Chapter 6

  Ma hadn’t asked Abigail to wash Jeremiah’s clothes, but after his long journey, goodness knew they’d offend a skunk. While he was off sparking Laurel, Abigail ducked into the room to gather his dirty laundry piled in the corner. Fully grateful for the laundry basket that kept her from hugging the clothing against herself, Abigail headed toward the cauldron with water already steaming.

  The road from the house dipped slightly before rising again and disappearing into the woods. Out of those woods stepped two barefoot urchins—Calbert’s children on one of their frequent visits. They spotted her immediately and, after a whispered conference, set out toward her. Before coming here, Abigail had never seen such dirty children. They looked more like grubworms than humans, and she suspected that the deprivations of war weren’t completely responsible for their condition.

  They came to stand by her basket, the girl digging her grimy toe into the soft soil.

  “Good morning, Josiah and Betsy,” Abigail said. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing, ma’am.” But Abigail didn’t miss the warning Josiah shot his sister. “We just thought we’d be neighborly and see what you’uns are doing.”

  Abigail motioned around her. “Laundry.”

  Betsy pointed to the basket of Jeremiah’s clothes next to her. “These clean or dirty?”

&n
bsp; “Dirty, of course. Just look at how brown the cuffs are.”

  “They goodness me,” Betsy exclaimed as she rifled through them. “Ma would call these good enough for Sabbath.”

  The boy knelt for his own inspection. “Mrs. Calhoun must be just as finicky as Miss Rachel if she means for you to wash these.”

  Abigail bit her lip. From the way they were standing, these two were right pleased at their accomplishment, but what had they done? More than likely the basket would answer her question.

  The top shirt looked harmless enough. With a quick movement Abigail snatched it off the pile to expose a black and yellow garter snake.

  Her hand flew to her throat as she jumped back. The children squealed in laughter at her performance.

  “Shame on you!” Abigail tried to scold. “Scaring me like that!”

  Josiah held his side with one hand and pointed with the other. “You should’ve seen your face. Your eyes got as big as walnuts.”

  Betsy’s little nose wrinkled. “It was funny, ma’am. I hope you’re not holding a grudge over it.”

  “I most certainly am. Just think what might have happened had I picked up this whole load at once.”

  “Aw, that little snake wouldn’t hurt you,” Josiah said.

  Suppressing a smile had never been more work. Abigail knelt at the basket’s rim. “If I didn’t find him, then I could’ve thrown the poor thing into the boiling water. You wouldn’t want your snake hurt, would you?”

  Before the children knew what was happening, she snatched up the snake and threw him toward the mischievous pair. With shrieks, they ducked and covered their heads.

  “Your eyes got as big as walnuts.” Abigail laughed.

  New respect twinkled in Josiah’s eyes. “You’re a rum one, young Mrs. Calhoun. You are that.”

  Across the way, the barn door closed. Abigail pulled a tendril of hair out of her face to watch Jeremiah exit. At breakfast she’d noticed that he’d cleaned up since last night. He’d made use of the going-to-meeting clothes that she’d spotted in his bureau, and his broad shoulders looked capable of handling any crisis. Fatten him up a bit and he’d cut a fine figure, but then he leaned into his crutch and the effect faded. Abigail’s pulse slowed. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to see him whole, to make him the man he’d been before. Although she’d always been a sucker for lost causes, there might be hope for him. Because of inadequate nutrition and lack of sanitation, she’d never been able to see Dr. Jonson’s techniques work at the prison, but now she had a chance. If only Jeremiah would allow it.