A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  The raw-boned youth had a scrape on his cheek, marring his scraggly attempt at a beard. His blond lashes rimmed red eyes that were desperately trying to disguise his sorrow. “Pa said we couldn’t trust you to bring good help.”

  Calbert jerked his pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at the boy. “She worked for the Federal Army, and if that ain’t good enough for you, I don’t know what is.”

  The boy looked over his shoulder into the cabin. He swallowed and turned back to them. “We sent for Dr. Hopkins and he’s as secesh as anyone, but Pa don’t want a lady playacting on him. He’d rather die with dignity.”

  If only she could persuade the boy—not for her own pride but for his father’s life. “Is it that bad, then?” she asked. “I want to help, and while I’m not as good as Dr. Hopkins, I do have some medical training.”

  The youth pulled the door closed behind him and with lowered voice said, “It’s bad. He’s in terrible pain and running hot. His breathing is all rattle-like. Some blood coming up, but not much.”

  “Does it look like he was shot in the lungs?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He turned at his name being called from inside and cracked the door open. “I’m sending her away.”

  Calbert scratched his head. “It’s a tough decision, son. Disobey your pa or take away his best chance at a miracle.”

  “Help is right here,” she said. “If I can save his life . . .”

  Abigail prayed as the boy weighed his decision. She’d known rejection—expected it even—but she didn’t want someone else to suffer because she’d been deemed unworthy.

  “Come on in,” he said at last. “If Pa survives, surely he’ll forgive me.”

  Calbert motioned her ahead, and she rushed past him, praying that the delay hadn’t cost Mr. Rankin his life.

  Sometimes he hated being right. Jeremiah had set out on the slim chance that he might see something pertaining to Rankin’s attack, and there it was. A plume of smoke on the back side of the mountain. He adjusted the pistol riding in his belt and wished once again he had two legs to fight on. But this was his home, and it was his duty to face the dangers that threatened it. Chicanery was afoot, but once the land was cleared of outliers, the womenfolk would be able to travel safely. Abigail could wander away from the house more, which would be good. Too much time with her made him tetchy, and goodness knew the last thing his house needed was another crabby apple rotting inside.

  Before he reached the ridge, Jeremiah could smell the fire, and it wasn’t no cook fire. His nose wrinkled at the familiar odor. A moonshine still. On his property. He followed the scent to a crevice hidden by thick bushes. He made a wide pass around the area first, looking for anyone hunkered down next to the awkward copper contraption, but it seemed recently abandoned. The fire beneath the boiler blazed and the mash bubbled, but no one sat with it.

  Jeremiah dismounted, furious at the proof that a stranger was using his land. They’d probably run off just as they saw him coming. He clumped to the still and, swinging his crutch, knocked it to its side. A few more hits and the copper chamber busted, leaking out the sickly sweet-smelling mash.

  He’d scared someone away, but the one who shot Rankin might be headed back there even now, and Jeremiah would be waiting for him. He tied Lancaster to the nearest tree and crept to the cave that overlooked the tight clearing. There could be someone hiding in there, he supposed, but once he slid behind the thick cedar that grew up against the opening, he saw it was empty.

  Or next to empty. Nestled between the limestone gills of the cave, a fire had been laid out, but if it weren’t for the presence of the still, Jeremiah would have no reason to believe anyone had been there for years.

  This spot had been a favorite hideout when he was small. He knew every lump and hollow of it. He squeezed into his favorite cubbyhole, much smaller than he remembered. True, if a shooting broke out, he’d be trapped, but it wasn’t as if he could run anyway. The shelf hid him from view, made a nice sniper’s nest if it weren’t for the dripping water. Still, it was a right smart place to lie in wait for someone to show himself.

  Once in place, he loosened his gun and stretched out, or tried to, but that lame leg of his remained tented up.

  If only. If only he could get his strength back. If only the hills were safe for decent folks. If only Laurel would settle down and marry him. If only Rachel were healed. Those were his foremost prayers. Beyond that he supposed he could spare a prayer for the Yankee nurse, that whatever problems she’d left behind would be solved. He’d sensed trouble in her terse attitude and vague answers. He’d pray that, seeing how she was a kindly person and hard worker, she’d find someone who’d do right by her. Otherwise he might find himself more worried about her than was seemly.

  Minutes passed. A quarter of an hour. Plenty of time for him to imagine his future—horses to sell, fields full of orchard grass and red clover, golden-haired children playing on the porch.

  Jeremiah scrunched his nose. Golden? How in thunder could he and Laurel have blond children? He rubbed his eyes. He’d been sitting there so long, he couldn’t even daydream worth a hoot.

  No one was there and probably no one was coming. Only after listening closely did Jeremiah leave his hiding place. He couldn’t outrun a child, but his senses had been honed over the years so that nothing escaped his notice. Somehow rustling leaves, the birds, and even the scent of the dirt told him that no one was near. He parted the bushes and ducked under the growth to find Lancaster patiently awaiting his return.

  “Nothing, huh?” he asked his old friend. “No one messed with you?”

  Lancaster blinked slowly at him, a droll expression on his face. Stepping around the busted still, Jeremiah untied the reins and slid his crutch across Lancaster’s withers. If he kept working, soon he’d be able to lift himself in the stirrup. No more scrambling up like a boy climbing wet rocks.

  He grasped the saddle horn and Lancaster stumbled sideways.

  “Not you, too. I expect that old nag to be unsteady, but you can hold me.”

  Jeremiah pulled again. This time Lancaster took two steps forward, leaving Jeremiah hopping to keep up with him.

  “Whoa, boy.” What was wrong with the horse? Suddenly Lancaster’s stomach tightened and his back stretched. Lancaster’s head dropped and he released a satisfying belch. Only then did Jeremiah fully appreciate the condition of the still.

  The copper pot had been nosed away from the fire and emptied. The stones, which had been splashed with mash, were now licked clean. Jeremiah turned to stare at his horse. Lancaster, like any guilty boy, kept his head down.

  Sugar, cornmeal, yeast—no wonder the animal couldn’t resist lapping it up. But how to get him home? Once he stepped out of these bushes, Jeremiah was a target. He couldn’t hobble down the mountain leading an intoxicated equine.

  “I don’t care how bad you feel, you’ve got to carry me home.” Jeremiah stopped short of the “let this be a lesson to you” lecture his own pa had delivered him the first time he’d found a still. Instead, he dragged Lancaster to a tree trunk. He wrapped the reins around it for leverage. This time Lancaster kept his hooves beneath him as Jeremiah mounted. Jeremiah wanted to ease downhill, walk slowly and quietly, but the mountain was too steep. Lancaster stiffened his legs and tried to resist, but his inebriated condition left him no match for gravity. Stumbling and skidding, the horse crashed through branches, picking up speed as they descended. Jeremiah tugged on the reins, but Lancaster couldn’t help himself. It was all Jeremiah could do to duck branches and stay in the saddle.

  Fortunately there weren’t any bad guys to see them as they barreled out of their hiding place, but they would’ve been a tough shot the way they were weaving from side to side.

  Giving up on sneaking anywhere, Jeremiah would settle on making it home. Poor Lancaster. The mash had so impaired his sight that he would’ve run himself smack dab into a tree if Jeremiah had let him. Of course he didn’t, but a tug on a rein that should’ve corrected
his path instead sent him careening toward another obstacle, swaying first one way, then the other.

  If they did run into trouble, Jeremiah dearly hoped they’d just shoot the horse.

  The ground leveled. Lancaster stopped to pant. Jeremiah pried his knuckles off the reins. Never in the cavalry had he experienced such a harrowing charge. More gently now, he urged Lancaster forward. His head drooped and he lagged as if pushing himself each step. And who should be there to note their arrival but Abigail and Calbert walking out of the barn. She halted midstep to stare. Her voice carried to Calbert, his mother, everyone to witness his disgrace.

  “Come on, Lancaster. Try to get home without embarrassing us both.”

  But Lancaster had done give out. He sank on his haunches and sat like a mule.

  Now even his mother had made it outside. Abigail was running toward him, Calbert hurrying just behind.

  “Get up, you worthless piece of horsehide,” he mumbled. “Come on, get up.”

  With a heave and another burp, Lancaster rose to his unsteady feet. Abigail swung the barn gate open for him.

  “What happened? Is he shot?”

  Ma scurried toward him. “Shot? You’re shot?”

  “No one’s shot.” Jeremiah tried to direct Lancaster into the barn, but Abigail caught his bridle and started her own inspection.

  “What’s that smell?” She leaned close to his side. Jeremiah held motionless as her upturned nose twitched. “Whiskey? You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

  His mother cried out and covered her mouth. Calbert removed his hat and scratched his head, looking like he wanted a place to hide.

  “No, I haven’t been drinking. It’s this miserable horse. I found a still up on the ridge, and he helped himself to the sour mash while I took a look around.”

  “The horse is tipsy?” Calbert asked. “If that don’t beat all.”

  “You should try riding a skunked horse down a mountain,” Jeremiah said.

  “The way he’s belching, I think he might want some fresh air. Let me unsaddle him and get him to water.” Noticing the slight pout to her lips, Jeremiah had to guess that Abigail’s visit hadn’t gone as planned. With one last stroke she led the horse to the barn.

  “Don’t be scaring me like that, Jeremiah. I thought you were hurt.” Ma lifted the hem of her black skirt and ambled back to the house.

  “A still, you say?” Calbert squinted toward the mountain. “Did you see anyone?”

  “No, but someone had been keeping the fire until they saw me coming up.” Jeremiah looked over his shoulder. “How’s Rankin?”

  Calbert shook his head. “By the time we got there, he was too far gone. We stayed until his last breath.”

  “And Abigail?”

  “She’s taking it hard. They didn’t want to let her help and after they did, he died anyway.” Calbert dusted his knee. “I’d best get home. Don’t want Mrs. Huckabee to be alone with the babies if there’s a killer out.”

  Calbert climbed aboard his mule as Jeremiah made his way back to the barn and found Abigail combing her fingers through Lancaster’s mane.

  “Calbert told me about Rankin,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I did everything I could. No one could’ve saved him.” Her fingers glided over the horse’s neck. Lancaster stood transfixed.

  “I’m sure they realize that. They have no reason to question your skill.”

  “They will now. And it doesn’t help any that you’ve already denounced me.”

  “Me? I’ve never said anything to the Rankins about your nursing.”

  Forgetting the horse, she spun to face him. “But just you being here calls my honesty into question, especially after I told everyone I’m your wife and you said that we’d never met.”

  A familiar warmth crept over him—the same warmth that appeared every time the subject of their marriage came up. “I have to tell the truth. We aren’t married.”

  “I know, but it’s very inconvenient.”

  “You have no idea.” He shifted his crutch before his underarm got sore. Losing a patient would hurt. Almost like losing one of your men. Next thing you knew, you were questioning your abilities, your calling. He’d been there, and the only way to get over it was to move on until you reached another victory.

  “Come on,” he said. “Our morning appointment was interrupted, but there’s no reason we can’t start now.”

  “Really?” The slightest smile from her could coax a badger out of his sett. “I would like that.”

  “So what do I do?”

  She found Calbert’s missing rag and brushed the goat droppings off the old table. “This table will work. Move it so only the narrow end is against the wall.”

  Not easy while holding the crutch, but possible. He grasped the end of the table and swung it away from the stone wall. Then with two swinging moves of his crutch, he was at the head. He lifted and pushed it into place, leaving enough room for Abigail to make her way around it.

  She inspected the table, paying particular attention to a wobbly leg. “I don’t imagine it’ll overturn. Climb on up.”

  Was he really going through with this? He had to remember that besides encouraging Abigail, his true motivation was Laurel. She deserved a husband who could walk and work, who could help her up and down stairs instead of needing assistance himself. If submitting to Abigail’s insane theories could help him win Laurel, then it was worth it.

  Tossing the crutch aside, Jeremiah lifted himself and slid onto the table until his back was against the wall as Abigail directed.

  “Straighten both legs as much as you can.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it?” One leg lay flat. The other had enough space beneath his knee for a raccoon to pass. “It won’t stretch.”

  “It doesn’t want to stretch,” Abigail said. “Our job is to make it.”

  He had tried. Didn’t she realize how hard he’d tried? Evidently not. Taking a milking stool, she placed it near the table and stepped up to sit at his side.

  Too close for his conscience. He scooted to the far edge to keep space between them, but she stopped him.

  “I’m trying to get close to you. Don’t run off.”

  He could feel his face growing warm. “What if Calbert comes back? He’ll know for sure something funny’s going on.”

  “Don’t worry, by the time I’m done you’ll hurt so bad, you’ll despise me.”

  Jeremiah swallowed. “Let’s hope.”

  Twisting so she faced him, Abigail placed one hand beneath his knee and one above it. “I’m going to put some weight here. Tell me when it hurts.”

  He watched her long fingers against his trouser leg. He was trying to help her forget the death of a patient, but how far was he willing to go? A woman really shouldn’t act so familiar. It could give a man the wrong idea, but then pain shot up his back. He gritted his teeth and forgot any attraction she held.

  “I’m going to hold it here for a ten count,” she said. “Try to release the muscles.”

  He grunted.

  “Breathe, Jeremiah. Unclench your fists. You’re fighting the pain.”

  “But I’m winning.” His back felt clammy against his shirt. Sweating without even moving. She let go.

  “I told you to tell me when it hurt.” She reached her hand beneath his leg and touched his hamstring.

  He grabbed her wrist as his pulse sped. There were limits—for her own safety as well as his. “Don’t you get frisky.”

  She glared at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  Unfortunately, his dreams most likely would contain some part of this encounter. A lock of blond hair brushed against his sleeve, the curl catching and separating on his rough homespun shirt. He closed his eyes as she probed the back side of his leg. “Please get back to the hurting part,” he rasped.

  She kneaded the hard knot of his scar. “Feel that? That Minie ball tore all this muscle when it passed through. It grew back together just like God intended, but it
drew up short.”

  “Considering my foot barely reaches the floor, I’d say I guessed as much.” He didn’t know where to look, not with her sitting so close.

  Reaching to his ankle she slid his foot forward until it resisted. This time she leaned the underside of her arm against his knee. The warmth of her body washed through his pant leg.

  “Thank you for letting me do this,” she said. “I’d like to think I accomplished something positive today . . . besides making you uncomfortable.”

  With her hands all over him he was beyond uncomfortable. He’d welcome pain if it chased away temptations. But more than the pain was the fear that his muscle would tear. He could imagine it snapping, detaching, and recoiling like a broken spring. His elbows tightened against his torso, his back arched.

  “It hurts.” The words made him feel defeated, like he was giving in.

  “Good. Stop fighting it. Breathe.” She continued to lean on his leg, but put a hand on his chest. “Release this. Let it rest. Your shoulders. Make them soft.”

  She ran her hand across his arms, her light touch sending chills down his spine. Good thing Laurel never touched him like this. It was hard enough to ignore this stranger. Better to focus on his leg, which, to his surprise, had lowered a hair more. A new wave of pain caused his gut to tighten, but with effort he willed his body to submit.

  “I bet you didn’t do this to Alan. Else he wouldn’t have married you.”

  She finished the count, then rose off him. “I couldn’t rehabilitate a limb that was gone. You have more to work with.”

  He drew his knee up and shook out the burning. “I don’t know what I expected, but that wasn’t it.”

  Abigail smiled and patted his leg in a gesture that was surprisingly comforting, considering his confusion seconds ago.

  He pulled his left leg up to bend it at the same angle and compared the two, the strong versus the withered. If he could straighten the leg, he could strengthen it. Maybe there was hope after all.

  “Let’s do it again,” he said.

  Chapter 10

  Abigail pulled off her slat bonnet and fanned herself as she walked to the house. Having already put the horses through their morning exercises, she turned her attention again toward her patients—two of them now. Truly she hadn’t expected Captain Calhoun to submit to her instructions with such dedication. Yesterday it’d taken her a quarter of an hour to convince him that there was a limit to what they could accomplish in one appointment. Thankfully he’d finally believed her, or else they’d still be in that barn—and then what would Calbert think?