A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  If it had been anyone else, Jeremiah would’ve suspected they were being cowardly, but Calbert was merely stating the obvious. Fowler hadn’t attacked him or stolen his horse. If he didn’t know what those men were up to, he couldn’t be held responsible. But now he knew.

  The tension began to ebb as they realized no confrontation awaited them. Not today. And perhaps Fowler would find the evidence they sought. They stopped at the next spring to fill their canteens and munch on the vittles riding in their sacks.

  “I’ve got to say, Jeremiah, I’m impressed with your recovery.” Hopkins took a crunchy bite of a green apple. “Someday you must tell me what remedies you used.”

  Jeremiah swigged the cold spring water in his canteen. “It wasn’t any remedies. Abigail just worked the old leg over until it got limbered up.”

  “She manipulated your leg?” Hopkins lowered his apple and leaned forward. “Tell me more.”

  Jeremiah straightened his leg. He enjoyed the feeling of strength that had returned but didn’t relish the speculation in Hopkins’s eyes. Funny how being with Hopkins made him want to win Laurel, but when Hopkins wasn’t around, he spent a lot more time thinking about Abigail.

  He cleared his throat. “Abigail assured me there wasn’t nothing improper.”

  Hopkins lifted an eyebrow. “Abigail may have been innocent of any untoward thoughts, but I doubt you were.” He laughed at his own joke. “Don’t worry. I’m interested for purely scientific reasons. Perhaps she’d be willing to perform the same maneuvers on me, just so I could better understand.”

  Trouble boiled in Jeremiah’s heart, bubbling slowly like hot sorghum. The thought of Abigail sharing her time with Hopkins set his world akilter. “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “She wouldn’t? Whyever not? Abigail has an interest in healing people. If she could perform the procedure on you, then she should be able to work with any man, woman—”

  “But not you.” Jeremiah screwed the cap on the canteen with unnecessary force. Calbert and Hiram chuckled at the exchange. Well, he couldn’t help it if there was tension between him and Hopkins. They’d both set their sights on the same prize. Someone would win and someone would lose. He didn’t intend to ever lose again, even if it cost him . . .

  Jeremiah stood. His legs were stiff but they worked well enough to carry him away from the spring. He bumped into a tree trunk and stopped as the thought finally found words. Winning Laurel would cost him. If he kept fighting this battle for her, kept trying to beat the doctor, he would forfeit the one woman who understood him, the woman he most cherished. He would lose Abigail.

  How long had he loved Abigail? Some part of his imagination—the part unshackled by his stubbornness—had tried to show him. His dream that morning had pushed his heart where he hadn’t allowed it to go. Abigail as his wife? But instead of offering, he’d hesitated, still unsure of what she had hidden.

  Jeremiah roughed his hand across the scaly bark of the pine tree. She had secrets, but if he couldn’t weather them, then he had no right to her affection. Abigail was shielding an injury, and Jeremiah knew how that felt.

  He also knew how much he appreciated Abigail’s listening to his hurts. Although he’d bungled every encounter so far, surely he could pass this test.

  Once Jeremiah had a goal, he could hardly think of anything else, and at that moment the most important task of his life was to tell Abigail of his discovery. He loved her. Whatever she needed from him—understanding, patience, a sympathetic ear—he was ready to give. If only she’d let him.

  Chapter 19

  Although the sun had dipped behind the mountain ridge, Abigail could still count on half an hour of daylight. She rubbed her burning eyes, willing the image of the barn to fade from her corneas. All day at watch and no sign of the men lurking about. Laying the rifle across her lap, she stretched her arms above her head. Jeremiah should’ve returned by now. He wouldn’t leave them alone at night, not by choice. What was happening out there in the woods? How she envied them for getting to face their adversaries. She’d prefer anything to this anxious waiting.

  A horse whinnied, the noise echoing off the walls. Abigail suppressed a smile. Jeremiah needed to come home safely, else he’d never know that she’d stabled horses in his room. Initially she felt guilty, knowing that well-fed horses would foul the room in a matter of hours, but as the day progressed she had time to appreciate the humor.

  Where did he find the nerve to assume she wanted to marry him? The cad. He might be dead set on pining after someone who didn’t give two rats for him, but that didn’t mean she suffered the same ailment. No, she didn’t care what he thought. She couldn’t afford to.

  “Abigail!” Rachel called from upstairs.

  Abigail bolted to her feet and ran to the stairwell.

  “What is it?”

  “Someone is here. Two people just ran across the field to the back side of the house.”

  A stone formed in her stomach. So she wanted to face her adversaries? Here was her chance. Abigail wiped her hand on her skirt before swinging the rifle stock into her grip. The shutters were pulled to, but she eased past them just the same.

  “Should I come down?” Ma whispered, but Abigail couldn’t answer, not when she heard a rustling just outside the kitchen door.

  Could it be Jeremiah? No. He wouldn’t sneak around to the back door. She placed her hand on the knob and leaned her ear against the wooden panel.

  A giggle. Her eyes narrowed and she pressed even closer. Definitely not men. It sounded more like . . .

  She pulled open the shutters and stuck her head out to meet Josiah and Betsy’s startled expressions.

  “What are you doing?” Refusing to wait for an answer, she deposited the rifle on the counter, threw open the door, grabbed fistfuls of their clothing, and dragged them inside.

  “You’re pinching me,” Josiah cried.

  “What are on your feet? Are those your father’s shoes?” Abigail asked.

  Betsy beamed at her brother. “Isn’t he clever? He made those big footprints this morning by the barn. You should’ve seen how scared you looked when you saw them.”

  Josiah smiled through his grimace. Abigail shook him. “You made those marks? That was a prank?”

  “I told you we’d get you back. I never did think you’d put the horses in the house, though,” he guffawed. “What’s Mr. Jeremiah going to say?”

  Abigail released him, fearing she might wallop him if he didn’t get out of reach. Suddenly hiding Josephine and the mare in Jeremiah’s room didn’t sound so heroic. And to make matters worse, she heard someone approaching the front of the house.

  “You two better get home.” With a little shove she pushed them away from the house. “You don’t want to be here when Jeremiah sees his room.”

  They sped away, Josiah barely hampered by shoes too large. Abigail saw them safely to the trees, then locked the door and prepared to take her medicine. From the fluttering and carrying on in the front of the house, she could tell that Jeremiah had arrived home without harm. She skimmed her hands over her hair and went to join them.

  Jeremiah seemed to have been watching for her. Over his mother’s head and her repeated questions about his welfare, he beckoned Abigail closer.

  He didn’t know about his room. He wouldn’t look at her with that bizarre expectant look if he did. Abigail approached cautiously. Stable smells assaulted her. She squeezed her hands before her.

  “Abigail.” More intense than ever, his eyes fixed on hers, begging her not to look away.

  “Jeremiah.” Had something happened? Had he a message to impart that he couldn’t share before his mother and Rachel? His worn face made her ashamed that she’d secretly exulted in the mess she’d made of his room. If only she could clean it before he found out.

  “I’m sorry, but we didn’t find Ladymare. The bushwhackers were gone by the time we found their hideout. Fowler promises that he’ll let us know if they’re on his land, but hopefully we won’t
hear from them again.”

  So Ladymare was gone? She smiled bravely. “I’m glad no one got hurt.”

  “Do you smell that, Jeremiah?” Rachel had finally made it downstairs. Her ruddy face looked even worse in the crimson evening light. “Those smells aren’t coming from the stable.”

  His nose wrinkled. “My boots are clean. I didn’t track in—” He jerked his head to look past the staircase at the closed door to his room. “Ma?”

  Ma wadded her apron in shaking hands. “Those men were snooping around the barn this morning. We knew we couldn’t guard the barn and the house, so we—”

  He darted past her. Rachel called out, “It wasn’t Ma. Ma tried to stop her.”

  No sound, which scared Abigail worse than the hollering she’d expected.

  He turned, his face hard, his nostrils flared. “Have you seen this?” Josephine stuck her head out the door and nuzzled his hand. “Of all the monkeyshines,” he muttered.

  “What’d you do to make Abigail mad?” Rachel asked.

  Besides accuse her of proposing to him? “It wasn’t revenge,” Abigail said, “although I did smile when I thought—”

  Jeremiah’s eyebrows shot up.

  When would she learn to keep her mouth shut? “I’ll get a shovel.” With her chin tucked, Abigail sped to the barn. The clinks of bridles from behind let her know that Jeremiah had the horses. She fished the key out of her pocket while he caught up. He held the lock tilted so the last light could fall on the keyhole. Their fingers brushed as she tried to jam the key in.

  “Steady,” he said.

  But it was his fault her hands were shaking.

  She pushed the door open wide so the horses could pass. She’d do her best to make amends.

  “Ma said there were men here today,” he said. “Were they the same that took Ladymare?”

  Abigail twisted her toe in the dirt. “This morning I found boot prints at the door—fresh prints and not yours. I guess I panicked. I dragged the horses inside, and since they couldn’t go upstairs and they couldn’t get near your mother’s bell collection or her rugs or—”

  “And my room was the closest thing to a stable you could think of.” Was he mad or weary? She couldn’t tell.

  “My biggest regret is bringing them inside in the first place. Turns out Josiah and Betsy left those tracks. I caught them with Calbert’s boots, traipsing around leaving prints to scare me.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “Their pa better get a handle on those young’uns.”

  “Are you angry?”

  “I’ll get over it.” His eyes flickered down. “But I wouldn’t turn down an offer of help on the cleanup.”

  Abigail grabbed a bucket and the shovel. “Absolutely. And I’ll stay up to sit watch if you’d like.”

  “I don’t reckon it’s necessary. It’d probably be best if we went to bed tonight.” He suddenly cleared his throat, possibly choking on an inhaled piece of straw, and turned a red face away as he fastened the stalls.

  He was certainly pensive. Maybe he’d gone to visit Laurel on the way home. Had she given him something to consider? Not that it mattered. Finley had Abigail’s letter and her missive was on its way.

  They carried the buckets and shovels to the house. Abigail skidded to a stop when they reached his room. Horse manure garnished the floor from his bed to the dresser. A large dark spot stained the blanket on his bed, looking like it’d soaked through.

  “They really grounded it into the floor, didn’t they?” Abigail scratched her nose.

  “You could’ve at least spread straw down.”

  “I thought bushwhackers were chasing me. Straw wasn’t a priority.”

  He grunted in reply as he stepped over the piles. “There’s only one way I’m forgiving you for this.” He turned to face her, his eyes coaxing her to trust him. “While we muck out this room, I want you to tell me about your family.”

  Abigail’s toes curled inside her boots. “I’d prefer to keep that story to myself.”

  “And I’d prefer not to shovel manure out of my bedroom, but coming clean takes some work.” He scraped the shovel along the floor. The load dropped into the bucket with a plop.

  How much could she tell him? Would she survive the humiliation of her own family’s accusation?

  Stepping carefully, she came to his bed and removed his pillowcase. She dropped the pillow on the dresser and gathered the soiled bedclothes. Whether from the odor of the sheets or her own unease, Abigail felt certain she would gag. She carried the linens into the hallway and dropped them.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Jeremiah called from inside the room.

  He wasn’t giving her a choice.

  She dragged herself to the room, and he motioned for her to begin.

  “My father was the most important person in my world.” It wasn’t right that she’d gone so long without paying honor to the one who deserved it. Her words quickened. “He treated me like a partner. He asked for my opinion on the horses we purchased, on which to breed, on how much to sell them for—not that he needed my advice. All I knew was what he’d taught me, and he made me feel so important. So smart.” Her jaw tightened. “He died when I was sixteen. I was lost, but I took over where Papa left off. He’d taught me well and we continued to prosper. My older brothers told Mama how lucky she was to have me. They knew.”

  He waited. The shadow of his broad shoulders filled the small room. So rarely did she see him idle, patient. He was always striving, moving, trying to gain, but now he was still. “And your mother?”

  The nausea returned. “We need to empty the tick. It’s soaked through,” she said.

  He wrinkled his nose. “Those horses were more accurate than the Yankee artillery. Let’s get it outside.”

  He leaned the shovel against the wall and grasped the opposite end. Together they wrestled the straw tick outdoors. Dirt and straw flew when they dropped it. Abigail hurried inside to the kitchen, thankful that Ma and Rachel were upstairs. Breathlessly she pumped a bucketful of water, added a dollop of lye, and found the scrub brush. By the time she reached the room, Jeremiah was already there.

  “I lost my pa, too,” he said. “I know how painful the memories can be, but please tell me about your ma. When did she pass?”

  Abigail’s hands began to shake. The bucket dropped to the floor with a splash. “I . . . I never said she died exactly—”

  His eyes widened. The look of betrayal on his face was worse than any accusation. “You lied to me?”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  He turned his face away.

  “Jeremiah, I didn’t lie. Ma mistook what I said and I never corrected her. I should have, but I didn’t know how. Not after she told you.”

  With his hands on his hips, he tilted his head toward the ceiling. Abigail had told herself that she didn’t care what he thought of her. She’d never been more wrong.

  “So your mother is alive and living in . . .”

  “Ohio.”

  “Yes. Ohio.” His jaw clenched. She’d seen him struggle before. Abigail knew the signs that Jeremiah was in pain, but she’d never felt so responsible. Finally he let out a sigh before turning to face her. “There has to be more to the story. The Abigail I know wouldn’t leave her widowed mother during a war.”

  Her throat tightened. “Not by choice.” She fell to her knees, plunged the brush into the bucket, and jerked it out, sloshing water everywhere. With both hands on the brush she scrubbed with all her might, working up the nerve to begin. “Two years after Father’s death, Mama married a man—John Dennison. Other than my youngest brother, all my siblings were already married. They told me to be happy for Mama, but they didn’t have to live with the man.” She spun the brush in the water and attacked the floor again. “They didn’t have to see him in Papa’s chair, holding Mama’s hand. They ignored his campaign to erase every memory of my father.” She shot a sideways glance to see his reaction.

  “Keep going.” His face smoothed, making it un
readable.

  “He acted nice enough on the surface. I know I irritated him with my attitude, but because of Mama he didn’t say anything. Then the war came. My younger brother joined the army, and it was just me and them. I couldn’t bear it. The two of them would’ve been happier without me. I knew that. But that was no reason for him to do what he did.”

  Jeremiah’s body stiffened. “What happened?”

  He crackled with tension. Abigail didn’t know what to do with him. One wrong word and he might ride all the way to Ohio and attack John. She chose her words carefully.

  “I’d sold off a few of our stock. Men were leaving for the war and horses were in great demand, but I wanted to hold some back. Prices were sure to rise. Then one day, a major and his men rode up our drive. They were looking for horses. I told them we had nothing to sell. They asked to speak to my father.” Her mouth twisted. “Those horses were mine. I’m the one who’d chosen them, cared for them, doctored them through illness and foaling.”

  She didn’t have the nerve to look toward Jeremiah. What would he think? Would he chide her for her foolishness, or could he, as a man who’d fought for his own property, understand her outrage?

  “He sold them?”

  “Not just the ones I wanted to hold back, but he emptied the stables. Our breed stock, bloodlines my family had nurtured for years, were sent as cannon fodder. He wasted my father’s legacy. Generations of horses were lost that day. And if Ladymare is gone . . .”

  Jeremiah’s head bowed. He rubbed his knuckles absently. “And for that you ran away.”

  “Only overnight. I went to my brother’s house, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He had his own property and was too caught up in the war to care. I went back home the next morning, but John accused me of stealing a pocket watch of his. Imagine. He sells all my horses and then has the gall to call me a thief. He said I couldn’t live there until I apologized.”

  “What did your mother say?”

  “She wouldn’t speak up for me. She stood by and let him . . .” The words stuck in Abigail’s throat. She shook her head in an effort to dislodge them. “I couldn’t even go to my brother’s, not without Mama’s support, so I decided I’d go west. Join a wagon train as a governess, a companion, or anything. I got as far as St. Louis when I saw the opportunity to work as a nurse. Papa always said I had a healing touch with the horses, so I thought it was fitting.”