A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  “Only one you’ve met. We can’t know who is lurking about nowadays. I’ll tell you what, if Abigail has a horse hidden here, I’m bound to find it. If I do, I’ll turn her over to you and the law. What happens next will be out of my hands. Does that satisfy?”

  Abigail clasped her hands before her, looking like some kind of Swedish martyr. Varina narrowed her eyes and studied her. “I reckon I ought give her the benefit of the doubt. After all, she doctored my boy.”

  “That’s mighty fine of you.” Jeremiah went to the door and held it open. “And I promise, if I see or hear of anything, I’ll let you know. You have my word.”

  With a last withering glance, Varina made her departure. As the door clicked shut Ma sank into the sofa and Rachel called out from upstairs, “Should’ve seen that coming.” But Abigail didn’t move an inch.

  What had brought on the accusation, and why had Abigail stopped defending herself? Instead of fuming, she had cowered. Why?

  Jeremiah took her arm and propelled her to the kitchen. She stopped where he left her and didn’t move again until he’d pushed a cup of water into her hand. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

  Were those tears she was blinking back? “You believe me? You think I’m innocent?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you aren’t going to run me off?” She set her cup on the table.

  “Did you steal her horse?”

  “No.” She sniffed.

  “Then that’s all I need to know.”

  “Just like that? That’s all it takes for you to believe me?” Her face went all blotchy.

  Something was awry with her response. “How’d Varina get you so upset?” he asked. “When I got mad at you, you laughed in my face. You called me a liar.”

  “I thought you were upset because I called you my husband.” She smiled even as her voice cracked.

  Smiling and crying at the same time? Women! But as always, mention of the husband talk irked him. “Still, I was mad and you stood up to me. So why do you care what Varina thinks?”

  “I’m not crying because of Varina, you imbecile. I’m crying because of you.” She dabbed at unspilt tears, her confidence restored.

  He crossed his arms. “It’s my fault again. I can’t win.”

  Her face broke into a grin. With a last swipe at her eyes, she turned to the basin where a pile of potatoes wanted peeling.

  “Go on,” she said. “You’ve got work to do.” And she hummed as she picked up the paring knife.

  He scratched his head. All women were a puzzlement, but this one . . . well, there were pieces of her puzzle she was hiding, and he aimed to find out why.

  Chapter 11

  July 1865

  Abigail sat on the porch with a bowl of fresh green beans on her lap and watched as Jeremiah gathered the livestock into the barn for the night. After a month of their morning exercises, he could steady himself on his bad leg. His heel came just short of reaching the ground, but he was making progress, and with each ounce of progress his impatience grew a pound.

  And so did her regard for him.

  She snapped another bean, drawing a breath of the fresh earthy scent. Despite what Jeremiah thought, her emotions hadn’t arisen from Varina’s accusation. Varina’s opinion had no sway over Abigail. Instead, her tears had come from Jeremiah’s defense. Even though her decision to stay had inconvenienced him, Jeremiah had sided with her over a neighbor.

  He left his crutch resting against the fence, choosing instead to balance himself on the gate as he closed and latched it. Abigail smiled. A more determined patient she’d never had. If only Rachel cared half as much.

  As if on cue, the door behind her opened. Ma motioned Rachel out before her. “Well, isn’t it a nice night? I told Rachel she’d be more comfortable out here than in that hot upstairs. She’d enjoy the airish evening temperatures.”

  Abigail abandoned her rocker for Rachel and moved to the steps. “I don’t mind,” she answered to Ma’s protests. Ma took the old chair that rested against the wall behind her where she could keep an eye on them all.

  They sat in peaceable silence, listening to the bullfrogs down at the river, watching the lightning bugs dazzle the deep, dark woods. The kind of night she wished could last forever.

  With the last chicken in the coop and the last hog in the pen, Jeremiah made his way to them, a stalwart figure against the moonlight, if it weren’t for the one flawed limb.

  He lowered himself to the step next to her and just sat. Abigail threaded her fingers through her bowl, feeling for longer beans to snap, but couldn’t keep working with the same focus. Not when the night seemed so alive—buzzing, humming, croaking. Here they sat near their tiny refuge built against all the critters that ran, crawled, and flew out there. They called this their land, but the overpowering screeches of the cicadas challenged that assertion.

  “What was your home like?” Ma asked from her seat by the wall.

  Abigail’s chin dipped. Home. She didn’t have a home anymore. Nowhere that would claim her. “We have hills, too, but they are tamer than this. They invite you to explore instead of erecting impossible barriers to keep you out.”

  Jeremiah picked a piece of clover and spun it between his fingers. If he noticed how she avoided a personal answer, he didn’t mention it. “That’s why we love these mountains. They’re barriers to discourage people from entering.”

  “But it didn’t work.” Rachel’s skirt rustled against the rocker. “We minded our own business, but violence still found us.”

  Abigail wasn’t looking for a fight, but neither could she allow them to malign the men from her home who’d given their lives to preserve the Union. Their sacrifice should be honored. “Those soldiers didn’t want to fight you, but what choice did they have when your region was in rebellion to the federal government?”

  “Rebellion?” Jeremiah spoke the word carefully. “Is it rebellion to protect your house? To keep your family safe? Jayhawkers raised havoc through here, claiming it was because of some action in Kansas, but none of my folks raided Kansas.” He shook his head. “When the war started, those same men were made official soldiers, and defending my property against them would make me a bushwhacker—a common highwayman—to be hung on sight. No trial, no truce, no courtesies afforded to prisoners of war.”

  Ma’s chair scooted forward. “Then they made a proclamation that every able-bodied man was to report to Springfield to serve. Those people who claimed to believe in freedom told our sons to report or be shot.”

  Jeremiah tossed the clover away. “Miles from here, there might be noble men with fine motives, but somehow that honor was spread thin by the time it reached these mountains.”

  Abigail had a hard time reconciling their bitterness with the stirring speeches she’d heard about freedom and God’s will. Since she’d arrived in the Ozarks she hadn’t seen any evidence of the slavery these people were supposedly fighting to protect. She didn’t like this feeling of uncertainty. Easier to think one side was good and pure and vilify everyone who opposed them.

  “There, there.” Ma reached forward to pat her on the shoulder. “We don’t mean to blame you, not when you were busy taking care of our wounded men.”

  Jeremiah tensed next to her at the mention of Alan, but here was one sorrow they held in common.

  “I met many fine men,” she said, “and all were devastated that the conflict was so costly.”

  “What you must’ve seen,” said Ma. “So much suffering.”

  Abigail felt a lump forming in her throat. “They joined so confident, thinking they were invincible, only to have their lives cut short.”

  Rachel strained her words between clenched teeth. “It’s not just soldiers who live with certain death. Their war is over and they can live now. They’ve been pardoned.”

  And no such pardon was coming for Rachel. Her fate was certain.

  A possum waddled across the field, its gray humped back swaying in the bright light of the full m
oon. Abigail closed her eyes and thought of Romeo. What would he want her to say to his Juliet? She prayed for guidance as she spoke.

  “I’ve been at the bedside of many who died, Rachel, including Alan. Do you know what I’ve observed? When death approaches, we weak humans finally drop our pretenses. We see more clearly what God had placed us on earth for. Maybe our purpose was to fight, maybe it was to proclaim truth, or to protect, but no one passes without trying to complete his task. Preparing for death is part of living. The tragedy is that we wait so late to begin.”

  Abigail had meant to encourage Rachel, but now she wondered about her own purpose. Had coming here been God’s plan all along? What about her family? If she were to die tonight, would she feel she’d left anything undone? Should she try to reach her mother again? Her conscience pricked at her.

  “I’m going to bed.” Rachel stood, her breath coming shallow. “Enough of your cheer for one night.”

  Ma rose without a word and followed her in, the door clicking shut behind them.

  Abigail stood and set the bowl of beans on the empty chair. The dark forest beckoned her—a much better place to ponder than caught inside the stifling stone walls. “I’m going on a stroll,” she said.

  Jeremiah stood. “Not by yourself, you aren’t.”

  Drawn to the leafy roof of the forest, she sauntered with him at her side.

  “I didn’t think anyone else ever thought like that,” he said. “I mean, really ponder what God gave you breath for. Most of our suffering means nothing. What are we striving for? To make ourselves more comfortable? To add prestige or honor to our reputation? But then you find something—a cause, a person—worth dying for, and you realize that’s the best gift God can give you, because until you know what you’d die for, you don’t know what you’re living for.”

  His efforts to use his bad leg slowed him. Abigail paused so he could stay next to her. “To hear you talk, to see what it’s like here, makes me wonder how we can know a worthy cause,” she said. “How much has been excused in the name of justice?”

  Now in the trees, Abigail stopped. She held her hand out waiting . . . waiting . . . and then with a quick scoop, caught a lightning bug. Through her fingers it blinked patiently.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She looked up. His eyes caught hers and held them as he’d never dared before. “You’re from the North. You knew people who fought against me, but thank you for not believing that we all wanted this.”

  Abigail stammered, shaken by his honesty, by his sincerity. “I never considered what it must be like for you. I mean, I’m not sorry that emancipation occurred. That needed to happen. It’s just a pity that it cost so much . . . on both sides.”

  The lightning bug floated out of her open hand and landed on Jeremiah’s shirt. Its small bulb illuminated a circle above his heart.

  “After I was shot, those Quakers hid me in a cellar hidden by a trap door. It took weeks before I realized that the colored people caring for me weren’t the farmer’s slaves but runaways he was helping escape.”

  “The underground railroad?”

  “I hadn’t really been around colored folk before, but there I was, depending on them for my life. And to hear them talk about their hopes for freedom and their families, well, I understood. I had the same hopes. It just doesn’t make sense that the same people who wanted to help them had to destroy my life to do it.”

  This was his plea, his defense. She could tell he desperately wanted her to understand that he hadn’t meant the harm he’d caused. He hadn’t wanted to kill, but bound by his sense of duty he had no choice. Now she stood here, a representative of every daughter, mother, and wife who’d lost their loved ones, and Captain Calhoun wanted her to know he wished he hadn’t been involved.

  Abigail caught the lightning bug, her fingers brushing against his chest. “I don’t judge you, Jeremiah. Only you know your intentions, but even if they were wrong, God is merciful. He offers grace even when our hearts have deceived us.”

  The trapped lightning bug shone through her fingers, reflecting its gentle fire off Jeremiah’s face and illuminating his anguish. “I promised my family that I’d protect them. How could that be wrong?”

  “And I promised a man I’d take care of his sister, even though fulfilling that promise has brought havoc to the family I wanted to help.”

  “We need you.” He took her hand and held it open, allowing the firefly to walk unrestrained. The pulsing light glowed on their entwined fingers. “I can’t imagine where we’d be without you.” His eyes rested on her lips.

  Alarms sounded in her heart. He wasn’t safe. He wasn’t hers.

  But he must have heard the warnings, too.

  Jeremiah turned toward the house. Abigail followed his gaze to the moonlit rock structure. The crazy-quilt stonework gleamed in the light of a lone lantern that had been left on the porch for them.

  “I’ve got a promise to keep, as well.” He dropped her hand and straightened his shoulders. “Tomorrow I’m having dinner with the Wallaces. I’m beholden to more than just my own family.”

  Laurel. It was only right he should think of her. They both needed the reminder of what they were working to accomplish. “You’re leaving for the noon meal? Then we need to get our chores done early.”

  “And the most important chore is to work on this leg. Once I can walk, I’ll be better able to keep my promises . . . all of them.”

  And not one of those promises had been made to her.

  Ground taken in war had to be held, guarded, protected. Advance, retreat, regroup, and advance again. Sometimes blood was spilt over the same few feet repeatedly, but here he could make progress. Here, Jeremiah would hold on like the snapping turtles that wouldn’t let go until lightning struck.

  These were his thoughts as he bore down on the sack of feed, shoving it before him. Sweat trickled down his brow until it soaked into his collarless shirt. Finally his foot moved with purpose. His leg still wobbled like a newborn colt’s when he put weight on it, but he’d taken it prisoner. It would serve him and he wouldn’t let it go again.

  If only he could tame his desires with the same force of will. He thought he knew himself. He thought he could share his time with Abigail and leave his emotions and attraction for Laurel. Evidently he was wrong, and why had him flummoxed. He knew everything about Laurel—barring the few years they’d been separated. On the other hand, Abigail’s past was blurry. No one could verify her story. No one could bridge her vague descriptions of her past with where she was now. Yet the unknown only whetted his curiosity and made him want to know everything.

  He jumped when the door swung open.

  “It’s only me.” Abigail’s cheeks pinked from the July morning’s heat. With thick kitchen rags, she carried the copper kettle from the stove.

  Jeremiah’s heart sank as he once again noticed her slender form. Why’d she have to be so beautiful? Why couldn’t she be built like a Shorthorn cow?

  “What’s the kettle for?” he asked.

  “Thought we’d try something new.” Loose straw on the barn floor stirred as she passed. With her forearm she swept bits of straw and dust off the table to make room for the kettle and a bowl she carried beneath her arm.

  Jeremiah rolled to his knees and stood. With a half hop he reached the table and pulled himself up.

  “I reckon you want me here?”

  “Yes, sir. Let’s see how far we can get that leg today.” Gathering her skirt, she climbed up next to him.

  Jeremiah’s chest tightened. He knew what to expect. He knew that her attentions meant no more than when she brushed Josephine’s growing belly. Less even. When she cared for Josephine, she sang a sweet little lullaby. No singing occurred while she had her hands on him. Her actions were kind, her intentions generous, but whether he was man, woman, or beast made no matter to her.

  And that’s how he preferred it.

  So when she slid her hand beneath his knee and found the knot of muscle,
he could honestly say that her nearness had no bearing on his feelings for Laurel. The smell of lavender water in her hair only reminded him that he needed a wife like a fiddle needed strings. Nothing personal in the attraction at all.

  “You’re not breathing.” She caught her bottom lip between white teeth. “Am I hurting you?”

  He swallowed. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. Jeremiah looked away.

  She straightened and tented his knee to release the pressure. “Should I stop?” Her warm hand scuffed against his chin as she gripped it and turned his face to her. “Cat got your tongue?”

  No, it was definitely in there and about to make him choke. He cleared his throat. “You caught me woolgathering.”

  She nodded. All business. “Going to Laurel’s today, aren’t you? No wonder you’re diverted. We can quit. I’m sure you’re anxious—”

  “No. This is the most important part of my day. I mean . . . only because I want to walk. Not because, well, time with my mother and sister are more important, of course.” He was jabbering like a fool.

  “Of course.” Her eyebrow cocked. “Well, I brought a warm compress. I thought I’d apply it to your injury and see if we could get it to loosen any further today. You’ll need a dry pair of pants when we’re finished.”

  “I think I can manage.” This conversation must end before any recollection of his long drawers occurred.

  “Then roll over.” She took the thick folded rag and dropped it into the ceramic bowl. Jeremiah lay on his stomach and watched the steam curl up as she tipped the kettle over the bowl. He swung his heels toward his backside and back again, noticing how far he had to go before he’d have the full range of motion. She wrung the rag out, then slapped it heavily against his leg. The heat soaked through his pant leg, easing the tension he’d worked up. He expelled the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

  “That feels good and I don’t mind saying it.”

  She took his boot heel and drew it further toward him. The stretch was satisfying. She hummed as she eased his foot down to the table and let his own weight pull it straighter. Jeremiah wrapped his palms around the legs of the table. He must’ve lain like this when the Quaker farmer checked for the bullet fragments and packed his wound. Mercifully, he didn’t remember it. Someday when he looked back on this injury he’d much rather remember lying here with the warmth soaking through layers of flesh that hadn’t felt anything but pain for months now. He’d rather remember the anticipation of seeing Laurel again, of the beautiful summer morning . . .