A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  Her chin dropped. “What are you talking about? What’s this have to do with Ladymare?”

  There was her blond braid, just like the first time, but she sure wasn’t walking into his arms. “The horse conversation will have to wait until we settle the marriage question.”

  Her eyes bulged. “Marriage? Are you asking me to marry you?” The noise coming from her beautiful face sounded akin to a snort.

  “Of course not.” He straightened his shirt. “You were asking me.”

  “Me!? You conceited . . . No, I wasn’t. I wasn’t thinking about that at all, but evidently you were.”

  “Forget I said anything. It was a mistake.” He jammed his hands into his pockets. Hadn’t he spent a sleepless night worrying about getting something wrong? “I must’ve been thinking of Laurel.”

  “Did Laurel ask you to marry her?”

  Any other woman would’ve kindly let a man escape. Why did she have to follow every rabbit to the burrow and dig it out?

  “You have vittles for me?”

  She grabbed the burlap sack and threw it at him. “What I was going to tell you is that I might offer a trade. Instead of me waiting around until February for the colt to be born, I could take Ladymare. You’d have the colt that you and Laurel planned on all along, and I’d have a grown horse I could ride away and be gone from here. I was also going to tell you to be careful today, but I changed my mind. Some birdshot might improve your intelligence.”

  “You’d leave already?” February. He’d counted on six more months before she left. Anything could happen in six months. “But I don’t have your horse.”

  “You will shortly.”

  He shook the sack. She couldn’t leave. They were just getting comfortable, weren’t they? “I told you if something happened to me . . .” But the disgust on her face stopped him. Yeah, something about that had irked her. There was nothing left to do beyond thanking her for the food and stomping out. He’d find more sympathy with the bushwhackers.

  What could she do with his lying eyes? When they spoke to her, they contradicted his words. Abigail stood firm until he pushed through the kitchen door. Then she fell into a chair, thudded her elbows on the table, and sank her head into her hands.

  He’d told her to stay, but he was unsure. She told him she’d leave, and he looked stricken. What was the truth?

  She said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d thought of the horse trade last night. Without that counter, how could she have denied that she wanted to marry him? And how had he recognized her thoughts when they’d only recently made themselves known to her? Slowly her admiration of him had grown. He might talk rough, but he never failed to act with compassion—dropping back to check on her when they rode to market, sacrificing himself so she could escape, defending her against Varina’s accusations. Jeremiah grumbled often, but his toil for others showed his heart. And his heart would never be hers.

  It was time to give up. Time to give this lost cause to the Lord and see what He would do with it. Would God work a miracle, or would He comfort her through her disappointment? Either way, she had to face reality.

  Jeremiah knew her. They’d spent many hours alone working with his leg, working with the horses, hiding from outlaws, and discussing the farm. If he didn’t love her already, there was nothing else she could do. She was who she was, and she wasn’t Laurel.

  Quickly, before she lost the courage, she’d write her mother again. After her mother failed to respond to her last and only letter, Abigail had promised herself that she’d never again submit herself to the painful waiting for a reply and not receiving one. The sting of rejection hadn’t numbed an iota, but what choice did she have? If there was a chance that her mother would welcome her back, she had to try. She couldn’t stay here.

  In a way, Jeremiah’s misunderstanding had been a mercy. It’d given him a chance to consider marriage to her, and he’d decided against it. Now she knew. She’d be happy for him and Laurel, but she couldn’t be happy living under the same roof.

  Jeremiah and Hopkins rode along the north side of Fowler’s land, ears perked for any sound that rang false through the trees. Calbert and Hiram had spurred off to the south side more than an hour ago. From the looks of it, they would meet near Fowler’s homestead, and if there was anyone caught in the cave betwixt them, they were in for a hot battle.

  Hopkins held up his hand. Jeremiah tugged on the reins and rose in the saddle, wondering yet again at how nice it was to feel both feet in the stirrups. Hopkins cocked his head. A razorback burst through the undergrowth with her scruffy piglets following behind. Hopkins’s horse shied, but Jeremiah’s mount stomped, chasing the aggressive sow away.

  Reluctant admiration flickered in Hopkins’s eyes. Jeremiah nodded toward the trail and they continued, two roosters scratching after the same hen. As much as he hated to admit it, Hopkins, with his school learning and highfalutin ways, was here riding next to him, which was more than he could say for many of the mountaineers. They excelled at minding their own affairs, but when one needed help, they were just as likely to hole up in their hollows and let you be. If it weren’t for Laurel . . .

  Rustling ahead of them brought him out of his reverie. He and Hopkins approached the cave from the low ground on the north while Calbert and Hiram would come in above them. Frequent use had widened the trail here. The limbs didn’t catch at his sleeve, proof that visitors had been common recently. A dark figure appeared above the cave. Between the evergreens, Calbert’s flopping hat floated as he and Hiram tried to locate the younger men.

  “I guess this is it,” Jeremiah whispered to Hopkins.

  “Do you think they’re in there?”

  “We’re fixing to find out.”

  Chapter 18

  The wooden pail bumped against Abigail’s knee as she toted the slops from the kitchen to the barn. She’d composed the letter and, to a lesser degree, composed herself before Ma had come down for the morning. The postmaster should be by soon. She’d get it posted and pray that John and her mother would accept her plea, or at least that they’d clear the way for her to apply to her brothers for help instead of insisting that she’d wronged them.

  She could feel the key to the padlock in her pocket clicking against her penny and tugging down at her skirt’s waistband. No doubt the horses would be restless in their stalls, not understanding why they were being stabled on such a beautiful day. And the tomcat wasn’t happy about being locked out after a night of carousing. He slunk across the green as angry mockingbirds dove and pecked.

  “Did you get too close to the nest?” she asked the indignant cat as he crouched, striped belly to the ground. She emptied the slop bucket into the sty, to the delight of the greedy pigs. The tomcat rubbed against her skirts, nearly tripping her on her way to the barn door. She stopped to run her hand over his arching back. Already she could wax nostalgic about this place, and she hadn’t left yet.

  She dropped the bucket and inserted the key into the heavy padlock. One twist and the lock sprang. She slid it off the staple, pulled the metal hasp free, and shoved the door open. Abigail reached down to pick up the bucket and froze.

  Footprints.

  Definitely a man’s and they were not Jeremiah’s. They approached from the woods, leaving a dark path, and then appeared in the bare rocky soil of the barnyard. She turned the heavy padlock over in her hands. No damage she could see, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be more successful next time.

  Goose bumps puckered her arms. Someone was watching. From the deep shadows of the forest, drying leaves rustled and a branch swayed. Abigail stepped behind the barn door, shielding herself. She pressed her eye to the gap around the hinge and surveyed the woods. Nothing that she could see, but someone had been there . . . was still there.

  Her jaw set. They wouldn’t take another horse from the Calhouns. Praying that no one attacked while her back was turned, Abigail jerked two bridles down from their pegs. Quickly she tugged them onto Josephine and Jeremiah’s ol
d war mare, buckling loosely with shaking fingers and keeping an eye on the door. There was only one place more secure than the barn, one place they could better defend.

  She dumped three scoopfuls of oats into the slop bucket and threaded her arm through the rope handle. Then she climbed the stall gate, threw her leg over Josephine’s expanding back, and grabbed the reins of the other mare.

  She didn’t have far to go. If they gave chase, she’d turn the mare loose and pray that Josephine could outrun the poachers in her condition, but hopefully they could make their short trek safely.

  Taking one last deep breath, Abigail urged Josephine forward, expecting to see a rider burst from the woods, but all was still. The horses trotted easily to the porch, then stopped.

  Abigail slid off Josephine and coaxed her forward. “Come on up, girl. You won’t get in trouble.”

  Josephine sniffed the rock floor of the porch. Ducking her head, Josephine stepped daintily up the steps and the mare obediently followed. Abigail had to set the bucket of oats down to open the front door, but then held it beneath Josephine’s nose to entice her across the threshold.

  “Good girl. Come on. It’s tighter quarters than you’re used to, but you’ll be safe here.”

  “Oh. My. Stars.” Ma stood on the staircase, her needlework trailing on the ground. She filled her mouth with air and puffed out her cheeks, no doubt biting back words no lady should know.

  “The horses aren’t safe in the barn.” Abigail pulled them to the staircase and then walked around to close and bolt the door behind them.

  “We can’t have animals in the house.” Ma stepped between Josephine and her bell collection in the whatnot cabinet. “They’ll destroy it.”

  “Ma, these horses are worth more to you than anything in this house. Unless you and Rachel want to leave the house unprotected and guard the barn, this is our only option.”

  The mare’s nostrils flared as she caught scent of the bucket of oats. Her ears went back and she whinnied.

  “Is there a horse in the house?” Rachel called from upstairs.

  “You are going to do Rachel irreversible harm,” Ma whispered. “She cannot take the strain.”

  “I won’t take them upstairs.” Abigail lifted the bucket to the mare, who dipped her head and snorted appreciatively.

  “And you’re feeding them in here?”

  “They’re hungry.”

  “Mother!” Abigail noted that Rachel’s voice hadn’t come any closer—a sign that she hadn’t felt like getting out of bed, even to witness Abigail’s folly. “What’s happening?”

  “Don’t concern yourself, dear. Abigail and I will have it settled soon.” Then to Abigail, “You have to keep them out of the way. They mustn’t be in the kitchen or on my parlor rug.”

  Abigail squirmed her mouth to one side. They couldn’t go upstairs, but if they weren’t in the parlor or the kitchen, that left only one option.

  “Jeremiah’s room?”

  Ma pressed her hand to her forehead. “He will kill you.”

  “Not if I save his horses, he won’t.” Abigail shifted the weight of the heavy bucket so Josephine could get her share. “Even if the men were to breach the door, they might not find them the way they’re hid behind the stairs.”

  Ma didn’t move but repeated her earlier objection.

  “Jeremiah won’t be happy.”

  Abigail shrugged. “Let his wrath fall on me, then. It usually does.”

  Stepping backwards she coaxed the horses to follow the oat bucket into the narrow hall behind the stairwell. She pushed the door open, hoping the room was as bare as she remembered. The bed hadn’t changed, still tidy and pushed against the wall. His pitcher and basin would need to be removed before Josephine nosed it off the bureau and broke it. Besides a comb, a few coins, and an extra pair of wool socks, nothing was in harm’s way.

  Gathering his belongings, Abigail opened the top drawer of his bureau, the one that had so briefly been hers, and placed everything inside. When this drawer had held her duds, she’d still thought of herself as Mrs. Jeremiah Calhoun. Absently Abigail caressed the two worn shirts. She already knew the drawer below held his one Sunday suit and spare necktie. What she wouldn’t give to see him in a fine wool jacket and tailored trousers. How fun it would be to spoil him with nice things when he was so used to doing without.

  But she’d done the best she could for him. Whether or not her mother answered her letter, she knew her time here was almost over.

  With a last caress on the collar, she closed the rough drawer. What was it about these hills that made one long for the impossible?

  Warm ashes stirred as Jeremiah stomped past. No one was there, but they hadn’t been gone long. While he hoped they’d moved on for good, more probably they’d found a new place to hunker down, maybe even closer to home.

  Calbert eased around the corner, rifle drawn.

  “They’re gone.” Jeremiah slid his pistol into his belt.

  “There are fresh tracks above,” Calbert said. “We’re for following.”

  Hopkins nodded. “Let’s go.”

  They mounted and fell in behind the older men. From the looks of the tracks, the group had grown. Somewhere, they’d picked up a donkey or two. Hopefully those were stolen like Ladymare and didn’t represent additions to their gang. The last thing they needed was more men to fight.

  The late afternoon sun slanted down at them by the time they broke out of the trees at Sutler’s Stream.

  “They crossed here.” Calbert gestured to the gravel bar. “The slope yonder is churned up something considerable.”

  “Are we still on Fowler’s land?” Hiram asked.

  “Pretty close to his cabin.” Jeremiah urged Lancaster across the stream. “Too close for him to claim he knows nothing about them.”

  Up the hill, dogs barked. The sound seemed to come from the same direction as the curl of smoke that snaked through the trees. Jeremiah squinted into sunlight. If the interlopers had been harbored here, Mr. Fowler had much to answer for. He hoped they could converse peacefully. Jeremiah prayed he hadn’t survived the War Between the States, only to be shot dead because of a feud.

  Leaves rustled. Hopkins drew his gun quick as lightning. Jeremiah felt the cold handle of his own pistol before a fox darted across their path.

  “Guess I’m a little jumpy.” Hopkins wrinkled his nose. “I know the Fowlers don’t cotton to uninvited visitors.”

  As if they’d ever invited anyone on their property besides kin. But sure enough, the tracks were still clear, following the trace that traversed their mountain.

  “You think we should just ride up to the cabin?” Hiram asked. “It might be safer to send a message that we’d like a word with him.”

  Jeremiah ground his teeth. He’d figured on having this settled one way or another by sunset. He didn’t relish putting the confrontation off another day. He turned to Hiram just in time to see the trunk of cedar next to him explode into splinters.

  He landed, both feet on the ground, running, pulling Lancaster behind a boulder before he had time to feel the nicks in his face and neck. Ducking, he saw Hiram, Calbert, and Hopkins all taking cover, even though no further shots were fired.

  From across the pass, Hopkins turned a white, sweat-drenched face to him. Scared, but the man hadn’t lost his senses. He held up one finger. Yes. One shot. Didn’t feel like the work of the outlaws they’d been tracking.

  “Fowler?” Jeremiah’s voice echoed against the rocks.

  “Who’s asking?”

  Hopkins nodded his support as Jeremiah raised his pistol above his head and let it hang from his thumb.

  “You know good and well who’s asking. You saw me clear enough to draw a bead on me.”

  Silence. Jeremiah rose slowly. He stepped from around the boulder, praying his leg didn’t buckle and get him killed for making a sudden move. “We’re tracking bushwhackers.”

  “That’s rich, Calhoun.” The voice floated disembodied down to t
hem. “Last I heard you and the bushwhackers were one and the same.”

  A familiar burning flared in his chest. “I was not a bushwhacker. You know I joined the army proper.”

  “Any army that takes up arms against their countrymen isn’t a proper army. It’s an army of traitors.”

  “Would you say the same of George Washington? You call him a patriot—”

  “Jeremiah!” Calbert warned as he left his hiding place behind. “Look, Fowler, we aren’t here to debate. We’re tracking some men who crossed here earlier. Good chance they’re the ones who’ve been causing mischief around here.”

  Fowler emerged from the forest wall like a specter. A giant of a man, he looked like he could grow even bigger eating nothing but nettles. “Get off my land.”

  “Mr. Rankin was a Fed. You don’t care to avenge—”

  Calbert grasped his arm. “Come on. This trail isn’t going to lead us anywhere.”

  But Jeremiah wasn’t through. “What about your neighbors? Those men have killed. They are murderers, Fowler.”

  “What proof do you have?”

  “Three men chased me down, stole my horse coming home from Pine Gap. Before that they set a steel trap on my property and caught another mare of mine in it. Ask yourself where they’re getting their herd. Ask Varina to describe her horse, if you don’t believe me.”

  The giant swung his jaw to one side. “I heard you out. You go on now and I’ll check into it.”

  “But we’re here now,” Jeremiah protested. “How do we know you aren’t going to warn them and let them get away?”

  Fowler’s sharp brow lowered. “I reckon we’ll just have to trust each other, huh? Now get.”

  Ridiculous. Too busy brooding to notice Hopkins’s inspection, Jeremiah stalked back to his horse, mounted, and headed to cross the stream as quickly as possible. “What he did just then was criminal. Aiding bandits—”

  “But if you take on Fowler, you take on all his kin,” Calbert said. “Innocent people would get hurt on both sides. Let’s give him a chance.”