A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  Once again she was his wood sprite, her laughter trilling through the forest as he gathered a bouquet of wildflowers for her. Once again they were young, with no thought of hardships or sorrow, assuming the sun would remain high overhead forever, and they’d never get tired, or old, or hungry.

  He picked wild strawberries as she demonstrated the latest dance steps, and he wondered who he missed more—Laurel or the Jeremiah he used to know. The strawberries mushed in his mouth. Already past their prime, they coated his tongue with an unpleasant flavor. Only with Laurel was he ever this carefree, but his carefree days were over. Would she understand the burdens he shouldered? Had she changed?

  Sensing his darker thoughts, Laurel dropped to her knees beside him and spread her skirt primly.

  “We should be getting back. Newton won’t be happy.”

  Trouble etched across her little face. How she hated to cause pain. Maybe that’s why he loved her so.

  He smiled his consent. Laurel took his hand in both of hers and pulled him to his feet. The sun had moved, after all. The worries hadn’t disappeared. They’d merely bide their time, waiting for him to shoulder them again.

  Their steps sped as they neared town, both anxious to forget all they’d lost. Laurel’s skirt caught on a blackberry bush and ripped in her haste to pull free from its grasp.

  “We should finish our trading, then head home,” Jeremiah said. “Don’t want to be out after dark.”

  “I’ll see how Newton’s fared.” She measured the two sides of her ripped skirt against each other and frowned.

  They reached the wagon, but neither Newton nor Abigail was anywhere to be seen. His horse was gone, too. Jeremiah scratched his chin. Had Hopkins and Abigail headed home without them? What if the two of them formed an attachment?

  When he saw them approach he could almost believe they had, and it didn’t leave him as satisfied as he’d expected. Abigail beamed like she’d just discovered a whole troop of injured men needing her assistance, and Newton looked as smug as a blacksmith in a horseshoe throwing contest.

  Laurel rushed to meet the doctor. She looped her arm through Hopkins’s and batted her eyes. Any anger Hopkins felt at her disappearance had to disappear at such a welcome. Any comfort Jeremiah had found melted at the same rate.

  And then there was Abigail. Once he got over her goofy smile, he noticed the horse she led behind her. The thin nag had more spirit than flesh. Perhaps she’d been a beauty at one time, but like the rest of them, the war had stolen years from her.

  “Where’d you get the horse?” He couldn’t help but notice the way Laurel leaned into Hopkins’s side. Much like she’d walked with him just moments ago.

  “This is my horse. From home. Can you believe it?”

  His attention snapped back to her. “What? You know this horse?”

  “It’s a miracle, Jeremiah. She’s from the Stuart stables and came all this way with a Federal private. He was selling her as a mere farm horse. Had no idea what a treasure he had.”

  Jeremiah stepped to the side. She had good lines. Her eyes were intelligent and her feet looked nimble enough, but her dimensions were difficult to appreciate, as thin as she was.

  “She might look decent if she thickens up. Hopefully a farmer will treat her good.”

  Done with his appraisal he turned to reclaim his spot at Laurel’s side when Abigail stopped him.

  “A farmer didn’t buy her, Jeremiah. I did.”

  “You bought her? You shouldn’t ever carry that much gold. . . . Wait a minute. Where’d you get money?”

  “I didn’t have any money . . . or not enough anyway. I traded her for the gelding.”

  “You did what? My gelding? You gave away my horse?”

  Abigail glanced over her shoulder at the crowd, stepped closer, and lowered her voice. “I didn’t give him away. I traded him, and it was a good trade. How is a gelding going to help you fill your stables?” Her words sped, quiet and pleading. “And Lancaster is Josephine’s sire, so that’s no help. You need Ladymare.”

  But that was his call. Not hers. No one disposed of his property without his permission. He leaned down, getting as close to her face as was prudent and yelled. “You. Traded. My. Horse?”

  Her face went white. “Stay away from me, Jeremiah Calhoun. I don’t care how mad you are, you better not kiss me again.”

  “You kissed her?”

  Jeremiah spun to see Laurel with one hand pressed to her bosom. “Jeremiah, if that’s how you feel—”

  “That is not how I feel!”

  Hopkins placed his arm around Laurel’s shoulders. “I think I’d better take you home, dear. You’ve endured enough today.”

  Sweat beaded on Jeremiah’s forehead. “I’m not going anywhere. Not until I get my horse back.”

  Ever helpful, Hopkins tried to steer Laurel to the wagon, but she broke loose. Wringing her hands, she looked up at him with those doe eyes.

  “Really, Jeremiah, if you have feelings for Abigail, I understand.”

  “The only feelings I have for Abigail at this moment are murderous anger and frustration. I can explain the kiss. It was . . . well, I can’t explain, but ask her. It was a mistake.”

  Abigail crossed her arms. “The only mistake I made was being alone with you. If I’d had any inkling that you were going to kiss me—”

  “Oh, stop it!” Jeremiah pounded his crutch into the ground. “You liked it and don’t even pretend you didn’t!”

  “We’re going now.” Hopkins’s smile was as big as a watermelon slice. He lifted Laurel into the wagon, and she didn’t protest this time, keeping her head ducked and avoiding the two of them altogether.

  Jeremiah stomped toward the auction, then turned on Abigail. “You’d better catch them or else you’re on foot.”

  “I’m not leaving Ladymare. She’s all I have of home. I can’t lose her.”

  “If you’re so fond of home, why don’t you go there?”

  Her head snapped up. “That horse is all I have left of my life. You have your family, your farm, Laurel . . . more or less. I have nothing.”

  “Well, you don’t have this horse, either. You had no right.” But he was wasting breath arguing with the bull-headed woman. Jeremiah took the reins and dragged the mare to the gathering. No sign of his gelding. He turned to holler for Abigail but she was right on his heels.

  “Who’d you trade with?” he asked.

  She pulled on her ear. “It’s complicated. A soldier had Ladymare, but he wanted specie. No one wanted your horse until Hopkins talked Caesar Parrow into—”

  “Hopkins?” His jaw tightened.

  “Now that I think of it,” her mouth twisted, “perhaps he wasn’t merely being helpful.”

  “Perhaps not.” Jeremiah scanned the gathering for Caesar. To her credit, she was searching, too, although to what end, he couldn’t imagine.

  The gavel fell on the last bid. The tight circle broke apart as buyers and sellers wandered back to their clusters of kin. Mr. Ballentine, the auctioneer, hopped off of his rickety platform and saluted Jeremiah with a hand to his forehead—the habit not yet broken in the few months since the war had ended.

  “Captain Calhoun. Never thought I’d see you again.” Ballentine draped his arm over his youngest son, who’d come to stand at his side.

  “Hey, Ballentine. You can stop with all that captain nonsense. I ain’t captain of nothing no more.”

  “But I was more than uncommonly pleased to hear you’d survived. We thought we’d lost you at Westport.”

  Jeremiah’s neck stiffened. Was Ballentine digging at him? But if Ballentine had any questions, he’d ask them flat out. No prissy stepping around for the man.

  “I managed to hide from the Yankees after I was shot.”

  “And Alan? What ever happened to him?”

  He sensed rather than heard Abigail step closer. Ballentine noticed, too. He dipped his head in acknowledgment of her presence but waited for Jeremiah to speak.

  “
He was captured. Died in the prison hospital.”

  Ballentine ducked his head. He shuffled through the dirt. “That’s a sore shame. Didn’t know Alan for long, but he was a fine man.”

  “Yes, he was.” As if Jeremiah needed the reminder.

  With a gentle push, Ballentine directed his son Wyatt toward the empty platform.

  “Go on and load up our gear, boy.” And then to Jeremiah, he said, “It’d be nice to have a permanent auction house here. But that’s not what you came to talk about.”

  Jeremiah waited for the boy to depart. “You sold my horse today,” he said.

  “Sure did. A nice little piece of switchery, but the Rawlins boy paid my commission, so I’ve got no bone to pick.”

  The Rawlins were Union. Not likely to help him unravel this tricky trade. But maybe with Ballentine’s help . . .

  “I’d like to get my horse back. He was sold without my say-so.”

  Ballentine shot a quick glance at Abigail. His brows lowered. “A deal’s a deal, Jeremiah. You know that.”

  “But it was my horse and I didn’t make the deal.”

  “But if you give your horse—”

  “He was stolen.”

  A soft gasp from behind him. Well, what did she expect? That he’d just let her get away with the theft?

  Ballentine raised an eyebrow. “Those are serious charges, friend. If someone truly stole your horse, then yes, I’d be honor bound to get it back for you, but in this case the law isn’t on your side. Your wife has as much right to your property as you do.”

  Jeremiah sucked in a half a barrel of dust in one breath. He threw a baleful look at Abigail, but she had already turned away from him, arms crossed and chin up.

  “This woman is not my wife.”

  “She’s not? I heard some Yankee nurse showed up to take care of Rachel and that you—”

  “It’s a tangle, but we’ve got it unknotted.” He motioned to the irate woman. “Tell him, Abigail.”

  Slowly she turned toward him. She fluttered her eyes upward, looking for all the world like innocence decked in pink ribbon. “You are breaking my heart, dear husband.”

  Jeremiah’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He held pleading hands out to Ballentine, but the man’s eyes crinkled in amusement.

  “I think you two need to come to a more convenient understanding. But my work here is finished. Have a safe trip home, Jeremiah . . . and you, too, Mrs. Calhoun.”

  The afternoon sun baked the rocky ground at his feet. No breeze stirred the muggy air, but day was slipping away. He took another look at the bony horse whose reins he held. The animal met his gaze with patience, challenging him to declare her unfit. But still, she wasn’t his choice, and Abigail had no right.

  Once again she’d interfered with his plans.

  Abigail had really hated taking his horse—especially since he’d been kind enough to defend her against horse-thieving claims. There’d be a high price to pay—that she expected—but she’d do what she could to make it up to him. Within reason, of course.

  He pulled Ladymare down the hill, walking well, considering the uneven ground. Soon they reached the bottom of the clearing, and the forest swallowed them into its narrow throat.

  “Do you think we’ll catch Laurel and Hopkins?” Abigail trotted a few steps to catch up with him.

  “Hopkins will make good time if it means leaving me behind.”

  She trailed her fingers through the flowering Gaura at the edge of the path. “I hoped you’d be pleased with the trade instead of angry.”

  “You’re an educated woman. Isn’t there a stronger word than angry?”

  Abigail snapped off the head of a black-eyed Susan. “Let’s see, how did I feel after you assaulted me in the barn? Furious? Is that the word you’re looking for?”

  His mouth twisted with wry humor. “I’ve shot at men who’ve done me less harm.”

  They continued up the mountain in silence. Jeremiah’s day of squiring Laurel hadn’t turned out as he’d wanted, and Abigail had done nothing to improve his mood. She felt guilty but couldn’t be sorry over the trade. Finding Ladymare just made her whole trip to Missouri worthwhile. If she knew where any of their other stock was, she’d travel twice as far to retrieve them. Her dreams of restoring the Stuart stables suddenly didn’t seem so improbable.

  “And before you gloat,” Jeremiah said, “don’t think for an instant that I’m giving you this horse.”

  Another obstacle. “I’d rather you have her than someone who doesn’t recognize her worth.”

  “And you think I do?” His eyebrows formed question marks.

  Abigail hoped her smile was dazzling. “I have faith in you, Jeremiah. You’ll come around.”

  “You mean you’ll wear me down. That’s what you’re really saying.”

  She thought it wise not to answer that charge.

  “Did you find out anything about the man who trapped Josephine?” she asked.

  “It sounds like we’re the only ones who’ve seen him . . . and lived.”

  “And if you hadn’t been there . . .” Abigail shuddered. Her shoulder bumped against his arm before she straightened her path.

  “Jeremiah, that auctioneer said something about Alan that surprised me. He said he hadn’t known him long. Didn’t Alan live here?”

  Jeremiah brushed through the limbs that crowded the narrow path. “His family is from northwest of here, just along the Kansas border. He left home before the war when the jayhawkers came over from Kansas and stirred up trouble.”

  “The jayhawkers stirred it up or the bushwhackers?”

  He snorted. “Alan didn’t raid Kansas, if that’s what you mean. His ma wanted him out of harm’s way, so she sent him to Springfield to look for work. I met him on a dock at the train station and offered him a job, back when we could afford to hire a hand or two. Those were different times.”

  “So that’s when he and Rachel fell in love.”

  “I don’t know that I’d call it love.” One look at his stubborn face and it was obvious that even he doubted the truth of his statement.

  “So they didn’t love each other? Then it’s a good thing, Jeremiah Calhoun, that you kept them apart. Otherwise, Rachel would’ve been fooled into thinking she was happy before he went off and died.”

  Her quick steps scattered pebbles before her. Sometimes there’s no easy answer. Sometimes a person has no good options, but when they choose poorly they should acknowledge their mistake. Not Jeremiah. He would never admit he was wrong.

  “I was wrong.”

  Abigail almost tripped. She stopped. Ladymare halted at her side. “What’s that?”

  “You’re going to make me say it again? Fine!” He waved a hand to the sky calling for a witness. “I was wrong. I thought the war would be over quickly and Alan would return home. That once he got away from our farm he’d forget Rachel. I thought that having children would kill her.”

  “And it very well could’ve,” Abigail admitted.

  “But she’s going to die anyway, so instead of giving her a few happy years, I only extended her loneliness. I can’t help but think how much simpler life would be for everyone if Alan had survived instead of me. Hopkins and Laurel would be happy. Rachel would be happy. And you . . . you’d probably be somewhere in Kentucky trying to wrangle a horse farm there.” He stared off between the trees ahead. “I should’ve been the one to die, not Alan. Rachel has every right to hate me.”

  Evening was coming on quickly, and they had yet to reach the creek they’d passed at midpoint, but the walk was doing them good, both physically and spiritually.

  “And you have every reason to hate me,” Abigail said. “I invaded your house, made decisions over your property, and frustrated your sister to no end. And although I’ve tried, I’ve not been any help reconciling you and Laurel. I understand why you’re anxious to get rid of me.”

  Jeremiah’s eyes snapped to hers. “You are a heap of trouble, no denying it, but I
don’t discredit how you worked my leg over. That was pure charity.”

  Abigail’s heart skipped a beat. “Josiah and Betsy might disagree on how pure it was.”

  His eyebrow hopped. “Those two are as quiet as Indian scouts. I wish I could’ve seen them screaming when you surprised them with the dough face.” He actually smiled. “This isn’t so bad. You know, I was dreading the ride home with Hopkins. His conversation is duller than a widow woman’s ax.”

  The longer they traveled, the more weight Jeremiah was putting on the crutch, and they had a long way to go before they reached home.

  “You can ride the horse,” Abigail said. “I don’t mind walking.”

  “I might have to take you up on that offer. I’m getting plumb wore out.”

  Abigail stepped over to him and held out her hand. He lazily considered for a moment before handing her the reins and mounting.

  “Much better than the first time I saw you,” she said.

  “Go on. Toot your own horn.” He settled into the saddle, then almost under his breath added, “There’s room for you, too, if this bag of bones can carry both of us.”

  “That bag of bones can carry both of us all day and all night.”

  He extended his hand down to her. “Then climb on up. We’ll see if your boasts about the impressive Stuart stables are true.”

  Abigail peered up at him. Was he safe? Suddenly the thought of riding behind him, arms wrapped around his waist seemed a very foolish one. She felt her face warming.

  “No, thank you. Maybe once I’m winded, but for now I’d prefer to walk.”

  From the way he watched her, she knew he’d discerned her objection.

  “We can take turns,” he said. “I’ll let you ride uphill on the next rise. Of course, we’ll lose the sun behind the mountain before we get to the Wallaces’. Once it’s dark—”

  He straightened. Ladymare’s ears perked and stretched forward. Jeremiah laid his hand on Abigail’s shoulder, stilling her. Silently he swung from left to right, scanning the thick forest and undergrowth. He loosened his pistol from his belt. “Get up,” he whispered.