A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  The soldier in the picture held a saber, while his pistol was tucked into his belt. His thick mustache curled handsomely above a kind mouth that didn’t look accustomed to remaining stern, even for the length of a daguerreotype exposure. His eyes begged Abigail not to look away. Stay until she understood his message. Stay until she recognized—

  Abigail covered her mouth.

  “What is it?” Rachel frowned at Abigail, then drew Laurel near to peer at the picture. “What’s the matter?”

  Abigail’s tongue swelled up, and her throat stuck shut like an empty sausage casing. She shook her head. Romeo never mentioned his love’s true name. Only at the end did he mention he had a sister. Abigail clasped her hands together and closed her eyes. She was willing to wager that Romeo’s love for Rachel was anything but brotherly.

  And Rachel’s missing beau would never come home.

  Chapter 7

  “He probably reminds her of her fella back home.” Laurel’s eyes misted as she latched the picture closed. “I should’ve guessed you’d lost a loved one, too. Didn’t everyone?”

  Abigail forced her lips into a smile. She nodded and picked up the tray.

  Alan White. The name didn’t want to stick to the image she’d seen. Jeremiah Calhoun fit better. Romeo, better still.

  But why would he marry her? Was he trying to break Rachel’s heart?

  Somehow she made it to the kitchen, her thoughts jumbled. Malice couldn’t have been his aim. She wouldn’t believe it of him. If he truly loved Rachel, why would he pose as her brother? The faucet dripped. Abigail caught the droplets in her palm. They sparkled as they followed the creases of her skin to pool in the hollow of her hand.

  Love. Perhaps he hadn’t lied about his motivation. He’d wanted Rachel to be cared for, but he was dying. If he’d married Abigail as Alan White, what would he have profited? Instead he took on Jeremiah’s identity—Jeremiah, whom he’d probably seen shot and believed to be dead. As Jeremiah’s wife she’d be tied to the property, tied to the farm, and obligated to look after Rachel.

  Abigail cranked down on the pump handle. Poor, poor Romeo. He never got to be with his Juliet, but his last thoughts were of her.

  But how would Rachel respond when she learned Alan wasn’t returning and that his last moments had been spent binding his life to Abigail?

  “Oh, Romeo . . . Alan . . . whatever your name was,” Abigail whispered to the window. “Your plan would have worked beautifully if Jeremiah had stayed dead.”

  “What’s that?”

  Abigail spun. Jeremiah balled his hand into a fist. His voice quavered. “Your plan would have worked if I stayed dead?” He pointed to the door. “Get out.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I didn’t want to accuse you right out, but I had my suspicions. Your story didn’t make sense from the beginning, and I’m done waiting for you to concoct a better tale. You’re finished here.” He closed the distance between them, leaving the back door as Abigail’s only way of escape.

  She stopped him with a hand on his chest. “I know who the soldier was. I know who married me.”

  He caught her wrist in a powerful grip. “I’ll gather up your things and throw them outside to you.”

  “I’m sure now. It all makes sense.” Her fingers splayed on his shirt.

  “Don’t stand under the window. You might get hit.”

  “Alan. Rachel’s beau. Your friend Alan.”

  His eyes flashed dangerously between anger and vulnerability as he weighed whether he’d let her speak again. Beneath her palm, his heart pounded. “You’re lying.”

  “I just saw his photograph in Rachel’s room. That’s the soldier I was assigned to at Gratiot Prison. He called himself Romeo and told me stories of Juliet, his fiancée, back in Hart County.” As she spoke, the pieces fell together with more certainty. “It wasn’t until after he realized his case was fatal that he gave me the name Jeremiah Calhoun. He told me that he was willing to abandon his fiancée in order to see that his sister was taken care of. Who else would go to such lengths to protect Rachel?”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “What do I have to gain? I only want to know the truth.”

  He searched her face as though not wanting it to be true. Finally, he could deny it no longer. “Romeo. Star-crossed lovers.” Jeremiah’s grip on her wrist lessened and then dropped altogether. “Alan was the one who lost his arm . . . and then died?”

  “I was with him when he passed. I paid for a burial and a headstone out of my wages. In St. Louis there’s a tombstone with your name . . .”

  He swayed toward her. Again her hand went to his chest, but this time to steady him.

  “I searched for him,” he said. “Rachel won’t believe me, but I did. I could’ve made it home months earlier, but I didn’t want to return without him.”

  He covered her hand with his own, obviously lost in thoughts too bleak to share. But he needed someone to share them with, didn’t he?

  “Jeremiah?” Laurel had glided into the room unheard.

  Abigail snatched away her hand as Jeremiah straightened, and the pain in his eyes turned into something more hopeful.

  She had come to him. There Laurel stood in all her dewy freshness, smack dab in his kitchen. Her dark, black-rimmed eyes drew him to a time before the world had been set aslant. She had come to find him, and that was a miracle worth celebrating.

  He didn’t want to move, standing as motionless as a skittish buck. “I’m glad you’re here.” It didn’t matter why. Just the chance to see her again was bullion worth hoarding.

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Still dazed, he followed Laurel into the parlor, wishing he could spill his heart to her and tell her his awful news, but Rachel had to hear first. His stomach twisted as he forced thoughts of Alan behind him. If anyone could comfort him through the times ahead, it’d be Laurel. He needed her with him, now and forever.

  She walked slowly, probably worried that he couldn’t keep up. What wouldn’t Jeremiah give to never see the hated crutch again? A lifetime of hunting? Every horse in his stable? Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to bargain with. He sat on the sofa next to her. A mite crowded, but she’d never complained before. She tucked her skirt beneath her, leaving a definite canal between them.

  “I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.” She fiddled with a wooden button on her dress.

  Jeremiah braced himself. Whatever she had to say couldn’t be worse than what he’d heard already. “Go on.”

  “While you were away and I thought you were dead, I might have fallen in love with Dr. Hopkins.”

  Jeremiah winced. “But you don’t know if you love him?”

  She picked at her fingernails. “That’s the problem. If you hadn’t returned, my feelings would’ve been certain. Now you’re here.” She took a deep breath and peeked up through her thick eyelashes. “I don’t want to tell him good-bye, but I’m happy you’re back.”

  He’d heard clearer declarations of love from hound dogs, but knowing the conversation with Rachel that loomed, Jeremiah was desperate for some encouragement. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

  “I was gone a long spell, so I guess it’s understandable that you’d be confused, but you’re doing the right thing in coming here. We’ll get this set straight.”

  Her chin lifted. “I’m not sure I want it set straight. That’s what I’m saying. I was content to be Newton’s girl, and I might be yet. I don’t mind you coming around, but please don’t rile your feelings up. If you have any doubts about me, then you’re free to go. I won’t hold you to any promises.”

  As if she had the right to cancel a promise he’d made. “I want to marry you. If I have to win you again, I will.” She turned her rosebud lips up toward him. Normally he’d think about kissing them, but he had more serious matters on his mind. “When you become my wife, I want you to know there’s no one else. Take your time and think it
over. You’ll begin to see clearly again.”

  And she would. God had been good to keep her from marrying when she’d learned of his disappearance. He’d kept her safe for Jeremiah and brought Jeremiah home in one piece, even if not all of those pieces functioned properly. Compared to everything else he’d gone through and what still lay ahead, waiting on Laurel was the least of his worries.

  Taking a wet rag, Abigail scrubbed at a scuff on the kitchen wallpaper. The only way out was through the parlor, and she’d rather not interrupt Laurel and Jeremiah. Still reeling from her discovery, Abigail crouched as the tiny floral print blurred before her eyes. All this time Rachel had been waiting, watching, listening for any sign that Alan would return. All this time he was lying in a grave, and Abigail had seen him buried.

  How tragic to wait and not know. Did her mother spend more than a passing thought on her? Probably not. She’d allowed her new husband to run Abigail off, after all. Besides, her mother had all but forgotten her while they still lived under the same roof. Unlike Abigail, who loved fiercely and forever, her mother had decided she no longer needed her daughter.

  “Abigail, could you come here, please?”

  It was Jeremiah. Abigail stood, tossed the rag into the sink, and located the penny in her pocket.

  Ma was helping Rachel to the sofa as Jeremiah tapped his crutch impatiently.

  “My, it’s so late. We need to get the evening chores done—”

  “Ma, have a seat,” he said. “We’ve got something to tell you.”

  Abigail’s heart hammered. She hugged her arms around her stomach, knowing she would be called upon to testify. With solemn eyes Jeremiah directed her to the rocker.

  “What happened?” The dark pools beneath Rachel’s eyes looked like bruises. “Did you hear from Alan?”

  “Rachel”—his sister bristled at his voice—“Abigail figured something out today that might be hard to believe, even harder to accept.”

  Rachel’s lip curled. Her eyes narrowed. “So Abigail has uncovered secret information that pertains to me? How fascinating.”

  There was no placating her, but Abigail recognized the sarcasm as Rachel’s only defense.

  “Had I known, I would’ve told you immediately,” Abigail said, “but it wasn’t until I saw Alan’s picture in your room that I figured it out. After Alan White was injured at Westport he was captured. They brought him to the prison where I worked.”

  Rachel leaned forward, her eyes alight. “He was injured and captured? Well, if he’s in prison that would explain why he hasn’t made it home.”

  Abigail looked to Jeremiah. Sadness etched his face, but he nodded for her to continue.

  “When he was captured he refused to give his identity. We called him Romeo because he spoke only of his love back home.”

  Mrs. Calhoun sniffed and took Rachel’s hand, but Rachel shook her off. “And?”

  “He lost his arm in the battle, and by the time he came to us, he was beyond our abilities. The doctors did their best, but gangrene set in.” Rachel’s face hardened. Abigail continued. “He knew the end was coming. That’s when he told me his name was Jeremiah Calhoun. He asked me to marry him so I could care for his sister. He promised me the farm if I’d look after you.”

  Rachel sprang to her feet, wobbling forward to clutch the center table. “You have no conscience. First you claim to be Jeremiah’s wife, and when you’re caught in that lie, you tarnish the name of my . . . of the only man . . .” She swayed. Jeremiah took her by the shoulders and guided her back to the sofa.

  She jabbed her finger toward Abigail. “Do you see what she is? She’s a Lucifer, accusing, twisting a knife in our most guarded hurts. She’ll change her story again when Alan comes home. She can’t stay here—”

  “She’s staying.”

  Jeremiah said that? Abigail bit her lip and studied her hands, unable to watch the anger on Rachel’s face any longer.

  “She’s staying because we need her,” he said. “She’ll leave after the colt is born. And I don’t think she’s lying. What would she gain by saying she married Alan?”

  “She would hurt me.”

  Ma wiped the tears from her cheek. “Rachel, Abigail doesn’t want to hurt you. Just think of all the good she’s done for us.”

  Still kneeling beside Rachel’s couch, Jeremiah took her hand. “I’m sorry, Rachel. Alan was my best friend, but I don’t pretend to miss him as much as you do. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t have got between you. I wouldn’t have discouraged him.”

  Rachel pulled her hand free. With dry eyes and a face of stone she turned from her brother. “Some friend. Some brother. If this is true then there’s no way for you to fix it. You stole my last chance for happiness, and I don’t think I’ll live long enough to forgive you.”

  Jeremiah flinched. But with the same stubbornness Abigail had come to recognize as his family’s legacy, his mouth hardened.

  “I said I was sorry and there’s nothing else I can say. You won’t hear me speak of him again. If you need me, I’ll be here, taking care of my family. That’s all I wanted to do in the first place.” And he trudged to the door, his crutch clicking against the wood floor.

  Chapter 8

  June 1865

  He’d heard that hard work caused a woman’s beauty to fade, that bearing a heavy burden dulled her youth until she became stooped, wrinkled, and grew as brown as a pecan.

  So far hard work hadn’t hurt Abigail any.

  It’d been two weeks since Jeremiah had made his decision to let Abigail stay, and he’d had ample opportunity to regret it. Every time the blond braid she wrapped around her head like a Swedish crown caught the sun, every time she bent over the oven, every time she dozed in the rocker exhausted from a hard day in the field, Jeremiah reminded himself that she wasn’t staying. She didn’t belong at his farm.

  Of all the inconvenient women, why had Alan sent this one his way? Had Alan spared a thought for the tangle he’d created for him? If so, had his friend smiled at the conundrum? Jeremiah buckled the low sled to the horse’s harness. He’d said he wouldn’t speak of Alan, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t think of him. And now at least he could stop imagining Alan dying alone in a field churned with death. Better that Alan’s last days were spent with a compassionate, competent nurse at his side—one he evidently trusted to do right by Rachel, impossible though it seemed.

  And that’s why Alan had sent Abigail. Because she was the perfect nurse for Rachel. Tough enough to take her abuse while patient enough to care about her, and also right handy when it came to the farm. He sighed. He’d just finished the spring planting and it was already June. Too much time had passed without a chance to make it back to the Wallaces’ and commence courting in earnest. Besides, tales of missing cattle, noises in the night, and strange tracks still found their way through the forest to him. Everyone was staying near their hearth. Only problem was that his hearth had a beautiful woman sitting at it.

  Jeremiah hawed to the horse. The old nag leaned into the harness and pulled the load of split rails to the fence where Abigail waited. Her collar flapped open where the first two buttons had sprung loose, exposing her glistening neck. Jeremiah swiped his forehead with his sleeve. Funny how sweat looked like something fancy on her, all shiny like Christmas ornaments. Why would God tempt him so?

  Then again, maybe there was a benefit. He’d promised Abigail board for eight more months. After Josephine had her colt, he’d have to show Abigail the door, but kicking her out would be like putting the tea back into the leaves. That is to say, impossible where his mother was concerned. If he was ever to be shut of her, he needed to find a place for her to go. The most likely solution was to get her married off. As far as that matter, her appearance didn’t hurt her none.

  “You gonna stay on that horse all day, or are you going to climb down and help me?” she asked with a grin.

  Good thing she was pretty. Abigail spoke directly even when a little wandering might be apprecia
ted.

  Jeremiah slung his poor leg over the saddle and put what weight he could on it until he could get his good foot on the ground. He jammed his crutch into his underarm before she had time to comment and met her at the back of the sled. She bent at the waist and grasped a rail with both hands. He could only use one, but was equal to the task. Slowly, so as not to lose his grip, he hobbled to the fence and helped her lift the rail into place. He wished Abigail didn’t have to walk backwards, but he couldn’t manage with his crutch.

  “Is your leg going to get any better?” she asked.

  “It’s a sight better than it was last winter.”

  “I know you got shot at Westport, but what happened then? You didn’t come to one of our hospitals, or we would’ve had a record, and I would’ve never married you.”

  His head snapped up. She corrected, “Married Alan, rather.”

  Unlike his mother and Laurel, Abigail had an inkling of the horrors of war. He didn’t need to tell her everything, but she could take the truth. Jeremiah carried another rail before he answered.

  “My horse got hit and when it went down I got caught beneath. I was crawling out when the back of my leg got shot.”

  “Your hamstrings?”

  He nodded. “Passed through from left to right. We were in retreat by then, but I couldn’t run and I had no horse, so I did what I could with the rest of my ammunition and then I hid.” He’d always wonder if he’d done right by hiding. Something about it seemed cowardly, but on the other hand, surrendering as a prisoner wasn’t particularly brave, either.

  Abigail dusted her hands off after placing the rail. “What about Alan?”

  “He stopped for me. I knew I’d go no farther that day, but he had to make it out. I owed Rachel that.” At Rachel’s name, he looked toward the stone house nestled in the valley. Dissatisfaction twisted his gut, and he turned back toward the field, leaning against the partially finished fence. “I fell. I told him to go on. He refused, so I let on like I was finished. Gut shot. Told him I had my pistol, to let me die fighting.”