A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  She wanted to slap him again, just for the memories his touch resurrected. “Me? Not in the least.”

  “If you get tired, I’ll spell you.” His hand dropped from her arm. “I really thought that louse would’ve relented by now.”

  So he was only being nice? Abigail smoothed her muslin bodice. “Not going well, is it?”

  “I spent the first two miles avoiding Hopkins’s questions about you spanking me in the barn.”

  She choked down a shocked giggle. “The Huckabee kids?”

  “Naturally.” He looked over his shoulder at the couple by the wagon. “But please ride closer to me. I don’t want you to get picked off by a bushwhacker.”

  “You don’t?” Abigail raised an eyebrow.

  “Well, you are riding my horse.”

  She caught a splinter of his smile and chuckled. After everyone had a drink, they loaded up and soon were pulling around a bend into the small community of Pine Gap. Evidently one store, a post office, and a dozen or so dogs was enough to be considered a town. Well, that wasn’t exactly accurate. Through the trees she could make out houses dotting the hillside, and beneath the framework of new construction, rough pews were being assembled for a church building. If Abigail’s sense of direction served her correctly, the train station was probably just over the ridge, but from the isolated setting, you’d never know it.

  Jeremiah found a shady spot, which wasn’t difficult considering the forest surrounding the little clearing was merely waiting to reclaim the land that’d been stolen from it. Mules, horses, carts, and wagons boxed in the buildings, with people wandering from wagon to wagon, seeing what they might barter.

  Abigail looped the horse’s reins around a wagon spoke and pulled them firm. A few tufts of grass poked out between the rocks, and there was hay scattered about, dropped from farmers coming to exchange their pasture’s produce for some people food. It was enough to keep the horse satisfied for the afternoon.

  Jeremiah and Dr. Hopkins jostled to take Laurel’s arm. Abigail adjusted her lace collar. Since they were occupied, she’d have to go around by herself. Although not shy, Abigail hesitated. Was she imagining the cold stares? Or had these people formed their opinions of her already?

  Jangling the coins in her pocket, she headed toward a rack of lace displayed over the back of a wagon bed. A toothless granny licked her lips. “Where you from?” she asked, bright eyes peering from a face withered like a dried apple.

  “Me? I’m from Ohio. I’m staying with Mrs. Calhoun.”

  The woman spit a brown stream into the gravel. “You don’t say! The Calhouns?” Her head drew back. Abigail followed her gaze to a displeased Jeremiah bearing down on her.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “I’m making friends. Even considering purchasing a new lace collar.”

  “Come on.” He spun around and marched toward the wagon where Dr. Hopkins and Laurel were sharing a stick of horehound candy.

  “We just got here.” Abigail hopped a few steps to catch up as he hurried away, barely relying on his crutch at all.

  “You can’t go to that wagon. We don’t trade with them. The McLouds are Union sympathizers.”

  Abigail planted her feet. Jeremiah had traveled the length of a six-horse pulling team before realizing she wasn’t with him.

  “Union sympathizers? What if they were full-out Union supporters? A soldier or nurse, for instance?”

  “They were. Their son fought for General Lyon at Springfield. They’ve done enough damage, and now so have you. How can I pay any attention to Laurel when I have to keep you out of trouble?”

  Laurel sure didn’t look like she lacked for attention with Dr. Hopkins leaning toward her like a lovesick puppy. She waved gleefully, her bonnet hanging by its ribbons around her neck and a daisy stuck behind her ear.

  “The war is over, and I disagree with this division,” Abigail said.

  “Fine. Varina’s by the post office if you want to jump into the fire.”

  Abigail bit her lip. “It wouldn’t hurt me to inquire after her horse.”

  “You’d do that?” Jeremiah frowned. “I wouldn’t suggest—”

  “But it might clear the air. At least she should know I don’t hold a grudge.” Abigail took out before she lost her nerve. She wanted Jeremiah’s trust in her to be justified. She wanted the issue settled so he could see that he’d been right to defend her. She turned the corner of the tiny post office and nearly ran straight over Varina.

  “What do you want?” At Varina’s startle the crate of chicks beneath her chirped in alarm.

  “I just wondered if you’d found your horse.” Abigail smiled at the jowly woman knitting next to Varina. Her mother perhaps? With the back of her hand, the woman wiped a stream of tobacco from her mouth and continued knitting.

  “I didn’t misplace the horse.” Varina’s thin whiskers twitched like a mouse’s. “It’s gone.”

  “I realize that. I just thought maybe you’d caught someone with it. I’d hoped, anyway.”

  “I haven’t.” The squeaking chicks quieted. Varina continued to stare, without interest but perhaps without malice.

  Abigail picked at the neat tucks adorning the waist of her bodice. “Well, please let me know if you do. I’d be relieved on your account.”

  She’d done her best. As she made her way toward the hitching post, she heard the old woman ask, “Who was that?”

  Varina answered, “She’s a friend of the Calhouns. Decent nurse, if you’re in need of one.”

  A small victory, but she’d take it. With a quick prayer of thanks Abigail approached a crowd that was gathered around an arena of sort. Maybe she’d be welcome there. A gray-haired man stood on a makeshift platform consisting of raw lumber nailed over three large barrels.

  The man’s words shot out like a volley from sharpshooters. Sometimes singing, sometimes yelping, the auctioneer’s cadence brought whoops and hollers from the crowd. Straining over the shoulder of a man clad only in his flannels, floppy hat, and trousers, Abigail caught sight of a gaggle of geese. Bids flew until the geese found a new home. Money exchanged hands and two handsome mules were brought forward to be the next items for sale.

  Abigail drifted away until she spotted a woman with sewing notions. Thimbles, needles, and scissors brought Ma to mind. If Abigail was correct about Rachel’s prognosis, Ma may soon have many hours to sit silent and wish for time to speed by. New needles would probably be appreciated.

  She approached the little table next to the woman. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the handiwork on Abigail’s dress. “That’s fine stitching,” she said finally. “Someone from around here make it?”

  “No. I brought it with me.”

  The woman leaned forward. “You talk funny.” She traced her fingers over the handle of a Bowie knife strapped to her side like a holster.

  “I’m from the East.”

  A man appeared out of nowhere. Or that’s what Abigail thought when he sat up in the back of a wagon and pulled at his beard. “Northeast or South?”

  Where was Jeremiah when she needed him? Now might be a good time to see his scowling face. “I’m a guest of the Calhouns.” And that’s all she said. If those credentials wouldn’t hold, then she had nothing better to offer.

  “Is that so?” The man climbed out of the wagon, exposing a pair of britches patched on the backside. “Are the Calhouns here?”

  “Jeremiah is.” She motioned toward the unhappy man holding a bag of cotton on his shoulder. He tried to ignore her summons, but when the man split the air with his whistle, Jeremiah dropped the cotton next to Laurel, bent to make his excuses, and stalked to them.

  “Peter.” Jeremiah’s mouth flattened in a grim line. “Is there a problem?”

  “This Yankee gal claims to know you.”

  Before she could protest over the man’s doubting her word, Jeremiah held up a hand silencing her.

  “She does. Miss Stuart is a nurse and she’s caring for
my sister.”

  “A nurse, you say?” Abigail’s skin crawled at the way he leered at her. “And where would you be meeting a Yankee nurse?”

  Jeremiah’s chest expanded. “I reckon that’s none of your business.”

  The man sized him up. “Perhaps not. Does make me curious though. Especially when you disappeared after Westport, but here you are alive. I’d think you’d be eager to clear your name and explain the difference between you and a deserter.”

  Abigail gasped. Jeremiah stepped toe-to-toe with the man. “I don’t owe you an explanation, but I’m not ashamed of my service for my state. I was injured during the battle, as you might have noticed, and was unable to keep up with the retreat. I got stranded behind enemy lines.”

  “And there was no way to rejoin your troops. What a pity.” A sneer crossed his bristly face.

  “Let’s go.” Once again Jeremiah dragged her away. “It was a mistake bringing you.”

  “The problem isn’t me. It’s you . . . all of you. Half the town won’t talk to the other half. People on your own side question your loyalty. You can’t get along with anyone past your own mountain. You can’t even get along with people in your own house.”

  “That’s enough.” The veins in his temple bulged. “You’re not eager to go home, either, so before you point your finger at me, you might take a look in the mirror.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Is it? Don’t think I haven’t noticed your aversion to talking about your past. You want to keep secrets? Fine. Until then, I have a lady who is missing my company.”

  Abigail stepped back. What did he know? He suspected something. Cautiously she continued. “Aren’t we here to get some help with the man who set the traps? Why aren’t you asking about him?”

  “Chances are, he’s kin to someone, so it’d be foolhardy to announce I’m hunting him. Out here information comes forth bit by bit. You can’t rush people, and you can’t make them talk. So please don’t wave me down again. You aren’t exactly helping my case.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll do my best to carry on without you.”

  He turned toward Laurel and Hopkins. “Everyone else seems to be coping just fine,” he said and stalked off.

  Nowhere to go, nothing to do, but now the small gatherings made sense. Once the hostile glances that flew from group to group had been translated for her, she realized she was traipsing through a dangerous no-man’s-land still under dispute. The wagons represented stakes in the ground. Territory had been established, and the only neutral area appeared to be the auction taking place just uphill of the general store.

  Abigail brushed past the curious stares, wondering at the hostility. If they hated their neighbors so, why did they all stay there? Stubborn might describe more than the mules of Missouri.

  Barefoot children darted between the adults, chasing grasshoppers, begging for a treat from the store, tattling on siblings. Yelps sounded over the crowd as men bid on the steer being led around the circle. The bids slowed, the auctioneer’s cadence repeated, repeated, repeated until he yelled, “Sold!” and smacked a peach crate with his elaborate gavel.

  The owner of the steer led it outside the ring to the winning bidder. Abigail watched as the new owner passed a gold piece to him. They shook hands and then parted, going to their opposite sides of the road, presumably to glare at each other again once their business had been completed. Abigail shooed a persistent fly away. At least they could trade animals without a blood feud breaking out.

  The auctioneer called for the next offering, and the crowd parted. A thin young man wearing the blue trousers of the Federals led a horse into the ring, and Abigail’s heart stopped.

  Impossible. Unbidden, her hand sought the penny she always carried.

  Never in her grandest dreams had she expected to see one of her father’s horses again. Abigail pushed past a stately old-timer and a grizzly trapper and stumbled into the ring with the chestnut mare. Together, she and her father had chosen this horse’s parents, delivered her, and began her training once she’d grown, but her father hadn’t lived long enough to see it completed. Pulling her hand out of her pocket, Abigail ran it along the cheek of the mare. It pushed its nose into her hand. A swish of the tail. The knowing spark in her giant liquid eyes. Ladymare recognized her. Abigail’s voice quavered. “You came to me, didn’t you? Even hidden here in this Philistine land you found me.”

  “Is there a problem, ma’am?” The auctioneer mopped his brow with his bandanna.

  “This is my horse. You can look on her belly. She has a scar on her underside.”

  “Now, looky here.” The young soldier stepped forward. “This horse was commissioned to me back in Ohio. If you’re calling me a—”

  “I’m not calling you anything.” Abigail pressed her cheek against the horse’s neck. “She was sold to the army, not stolen. I’m just surprised to see her so far from home.”

  “Then if there are no objections, we’re going to sell this animal.”

  Sell her? Abigail took quick inventory of her condition. Ladymare’s hips jutted out, evidence of poor provisions, much like the soldier who had brought her. To look at her, no one would suspect her smooth gait, and even more valuable, the bloodline that she’d pass on during the many fruitful years she still had in her.

  She couldn’t let her go. This horse represented her father’s and her grandfather’s toils and dreams. They’d carefully planned and chosen their stock to produce this horse. She wasn’t about to let her get away.

  The soldier led the horse around the circle. Men stepped forward to inspect her as he opened her mouth to display her teeth.

  Abigail darted through the crowd, forgetting any shred of dignity as she raced for the wagon, but Jeremiah wasn’t there. The log where he’d sat with Laurel and Dr. Hopkins was empty. She bounded up the steps to the tiny store and burst inside. Hopkins jumped.

  “Where’s Jeremiah? I have to see him.” Her hands braced against each side of the doorframe. “Hurry. I don’t have time.”

  Dr. Hopkins pounded his fist against a barrel top. “He and Laurel disappeared and if you find him, you better tell me. I’ve got a thing or two to say—”

  She didn’t wait for him to finish, running outside instead. She didn’t have the money to buy Ladymare, but she wouldn’t let her disappear. She wouldn’t let her go to some farmer and be bred by a donkey. She wouldn’t waste the best bloodlines in Chillicothe on some bag of bones. At the very least, Jeremiah should have her. He’d appreciate her. Lancaster would make the perfect sire, and thus her bloodlines would be preserved.

  But how could she stop the sale?

  One more scan of the area, but no Jeremiah. Well, she wished him luck with Laurel, but she couldn’t wait on him to return. He knew horses. He’d understand.

  She reached Jeremiah’s gelding and ripped his reins free from the wagon wheel. “Come on, come on,” she urged as she pulled him toward the crowd. The auction had already begun. Ladymare’s ears perked when Abigail neared. The auctioneer stopped.

  “Do you have a bid?”

  Feeling every cold stare, Abigail straightened her shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money. All I have is this horse to offer in trade.”

  The soldier frowned. “I don’t want another horse. I need the cash money.”

  The auctioneer tapped his gavel lightly. “Do you want to sell your horse first?”

  But what if it didn’t work out the way she wanted? What if she lost Jeremiah’s horse and still couldn’t afford Ladymare?

  “No, I need to trade straight up. Is anyone willing to be a go-between?”

  Stony faces met her question. Murmurs rumbled behind hands. Was no one going to help her?

  The crowd parted and Dr. Hopkins stepped forward. “Come on, you’uns. This lady needs help. This here horse is Calhoun’s. You know it’s good stock. You know it’s a working horse, well trained. Someone here can use this horse.”

  With his hands
in his pockets he strolled around the circle, his gaze challenging those he thought could help. He hailed a man at the back. Abigail’s eyes widened in recognition. “Mr. Parrow, even if you don’t need a horse, I know you can trade up on this gelding. He’s worth two of the mare.”

  Caesar Parrow. Abigail remembered tending him for a burn. The man slung his sack over his shoulder and took the gelding by the chin. He cracked his mouth open, then nodded. “I’ll bid on the mare, but if I win, we trade even.”

  Abigail nodded. Caesar blurted his bid, picking up where the last bidder left off. Abigail waited breathlessly as bidders dropped out, leaving only the trapper and one other. Finally, with a dip of his chin, the man stepped back into the crowd.

  “Last chance on this fine mare. Going . . . going . . . gone!”

  The gavel fell. The air whooshed out of the soldier. “That’s more than I expected to get for her.”

  Caesar gave him the required gold as he unbuckled the saddle from Ladymare’s back. “I wouldn’t have paid so much for her, but I got this fine horse. He’s a high-dollar specimen if I ever seen one.”

  Abigail helped switch out the saddles and bridles, her hand shaking with uncontainable excitement. She ruffled Ladymare’s mane with every pass. A treasure, unexpected, unforeseen, but truly a gift from God when she least expected it. Even if she left the mare behind with Jeremiah, seeing her again soothed her heart. Knowing that she was in capable hands gave Abigail a sense of continuity. Her father’s legacy would live here, blended with the sure feet and endurance of the Calhouns’ stock.

  It was more than she’d hoped for.

  Chapter 15

  He’d hoped for more.

  While sitting on the log watching Hopkins entertain Laurel, Jeremiah dearly wished for a plague or an epidemic to break out that would keep the man too busy for socializing. When finally a dysentery sufferer appeared and insisted on Hopkins’s undiluted attention, Jeremiah spirited Laurel away. Taking her by the hand, he dragged her, giggling, into the forest and through a dale, barely relying on his crutch. He stumbled, but she threw her arms around his waist to steady him, marking the first time he was thankful for his injury.