A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  “How could your mother do that to you? How could she not know you better than that?” Jeremiah’s chest stretched with a sigh. “I wish you would’ve trusted me enough to tell me up front. If anyone could understand how you felt about your horses and your farm, it would be me.”

  The shackles around Abigail’s heart broke. He didn’t condemn her. She sloshed her brush into the bucket again.

  “I wrote to Mother when I got to St. Louis, but I received no response. Then I tried again just today.”

  “Today?” he almost barked. “What caused you to write today?”

  However understanding he’d been about her family, she didn’t want him to understand this.

  “I don’t think I’ll be staying here much longer.”

  Jeremiah leaned the shovel against the wall. “Because of our talk this morning?”

  Abigail kept her head bowed over her bucket. Better to remain silent than admit her love for him and the pain of it.

  “I see.” The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. “I treated you as rough as a cob this morning, Abigail, but if you’ll allow it, I’d like to make amends. Why don’t we finish here and wash up first? There are certain things a man doesn’t want to declare over a bucketful of manure.”

  Another offer of room and board? She should be grateful, but his generosity stung. “Depending on what you have to say, a bucket of manure might be appropriate,” she muttered and dropped her brush into the bucket.

  She wasn’t coming down. Jeremiah blew out the last lamp and pulled off his shirt. Abigail had gone upstairs to wash, barely acknowledging his request that she return when she was done. He hadn’t wanted to wait until morning to speak, but the silence upstairs told him that she’d already gone to bed. He eased his tired body onto the pallet on the floor and pulled a quilt up around his shoulders. Until they washed his tick and got clean straw he’d bed down in the parlor and give the room some time to air out.

  He was still shocked to think of Abigail with a large extended family back in Ohio when he’d always pictured her alone in the world. Knowing her as he did, he wasn’t surprised that once she’d left home she wanted to forget the whole situation. Indecision wasn’t one of her weaknesses.

  Yet he must encourage her to mend the rift. He cared about Abigail—cared a lot—and knew how painful trouble in the family was. He’d do whatever he could to fix it, but to his mind, the real issue had already been settled. Her relationship with her family might be uncertain, but he had no more doubts about her relationship with him. And that was something he wanted to speak to her about as soon as she’d let him.

  Bare feet padded down the wooden staircase. Jeremiah’s senses sharpened. From his pallet he watched Abigail glide through the parlor. She wasn’t coming to see him. Instead she disappeared into the kitchen. Water splashed into a pot. If she was sleepwalking they’d have one giant mess on their hands.

  What was she doing? Was she up like this every night, or was he dreaming again? And did she wear that fancy green wrapper every night?

  Wide awake now and curious, Jeremiah reached for his shirt. Whatever she was doing, it was more than a trip to the outhouse. He pulled the cool cotton over his head, slid his arms into the sleeves, and stood. Good thing he hadn’t lost his trousers for the night. He stuffed half his shirt tails in, then gave up and stumbled into the kitchen.

  Abigail nearly jumped out of her skin. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to catch her breath. “I was watching out the window, thinking about those bushwhackers . . .” She shook her head. “You startled me.”

  The shiny material of the wrapper looked out of place in the humble kitchen. Besides her ruined pink gown, Jeremiah had never seen Abigail dressed in anything so fine. He glanced down at his rumpled cotton shirt hanging loose and frowned. “I gave up on you coming downstairs and went to bed. Sorry.”

  Only by the glow of the stove was he able to see her troubled expression. “I thought you’d already gone to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

  She turned to the stove and stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. The piney scent sharpened his senses.

  “Do you usually boil juniper berries at midnight?” he asked.

  “If you didn’t know that, you must be a heavy sleeper.” Her mouth tipped. “But of course you are. The day you came home from the war, you were snoring before I left the room.”

  The beautiful stranger who’d barged into his life. How long ago that seemed. Her hair hung between her shoulder blades, still damp from its recent washing. The shiny green wrapper was cinched tight around her waist, hugging her curves. How he longed to take her in his arms and just tell her how it was going to be. But how was it going to be? His head spun with anticipation. He was about to find out.

  “What’s the tea for?”

  She watched the pot as if it might sprout legs and walk off. “For Rachel. She has trouble sleeping at night, which is no wonder since she’s inactive during the day. The tea calms her and eases her joint pain.” The warmth of the stove pinked her cheeks.

  “I’m amazed at your care for her. She’s my sister, and still I struggle.”

  She shrugged. “I try to see the person in there God sees. The person Christ died for. And I hope someone would see me the same way.”

  “What do you see in me?” he asked.

  Her head bowed. “From the time I came around the bend and you were trying to climb on your horse, I saw your determination. I knew I didn’t want you for an enemy.”

  “But that’s what I became.”

  The stirring paused. She tilted her head toward him. Her smooth skin shimmered in the light. “Are you still?”

  “Definitely not,” he said. Her high lace collar brushed against her face. Summoning his courage, Jeremiah reached to run a finger along her jaw. Abigail’s lips parted. He swallowed. “My first impression of you was of danger. I knew how hard I’d have to fight my attraction to you, and with the claim you were making on my farm, I didn’t trust you. It was a battle I couldn’t afford to lose.”

  She lowered her eyes as he traced her chin. “About the letter . . . I don’t know why I even mailed it. Mother never answered the first time, but I know I won’t feel whole until it’s settled. Even if I don’t go home, I want to hear from her again.”

  “Don’t go home.”

  The tea sizzled in the pot. Abigail remained motionless. “Why should I stay?”

  Chapter 20

  The crushed berries spun in the hot water, the piney steam dampened the wooden spoon, but it was his gaze that made her burn from the inside. He took her by the wrist and turned her from her task.

  “Abigail, when I came home and found you here, I was afraid to let you stay. But I needed you. I couldn’t handle the horses, the farm, and Rachel without your help. The decision to let you stay was selfish on my part. You were convenient and I was only thinking of myself.”

  The neck of his shirt was open, exposing his pulse just above his collar bone. Her eyes traveled from her wrist, up past his scruffy chin to his strong mouth, but she couldn’t go any further. The spoon clattered out of her grasp and onto the floor. She needed her hands empty—maybe to hold him or maybe to slap him silly if his latest offers were as hollow as those of that morning.

  “Staying here was practical on my part, too,” she said. “You don’t owe me an apology for that.”

  “But things have changed, haven’t they? I can walk now. I don’t need a hired hand in the fields or the stable, and yet . . .” He took her empty hand and threaded his fingers between hers. “And yet I need you.”

  His palm pressed to hers, skin to skin, nothing between them.

  “I don’t want to do this without you, Abigail. I can’t imagine this place without your courage, your beauty, your spunk. I can’t imagine me without you. Please give me a chance. Don’t leave.”

  Earnest. Intense. Persuasive. Her reservations were crumbling with every word. But she wouldn’t give her heart to someone who didn’t want all of it.


  “I need to know exactly where I stand with you, Jeremiah.” She studied her fingers entwined through his. “No more confusion.”

  “I’m ashamed of what happened in the barn that day.” His deep voice fit perfectly with the midnight sounds outside. “I kissed you before my heart was convinced. I promise I’ll never do that again.”

  She looked up. “You’ll never kiss me?” She barely squeaked out her question.

  “No.” He released her hand to cup her cheek and tease an earlobe. “I won’t kiss you until I’m certain I love you, and only you.”

  Slowly he pulled her to him. This time he couldn’t claim to be the victim of a rash impulse, not when he so deliberately took her into his arms. Their foreheads touched and their noses bumped. He nuzzled his cheek against hers, waiting for what she didn’t know. But then with the slightest turn, his mouth sought hers. The gentlest of touches. And then more. Much more. Murmurs of love, not anger. Warmth that made her shiver. Patience and the mystery that somehow his tender caresses made her pulse race even more than the fiery time before.

  “Be mine, Abigail. Please.” His thumb caressed her cheek. Skimmed over her swollen lips. “I’m lost without you.”

  If it weren’t for his warm hands on her, she might have floated away. “I think I’ve always been yours. I belonged to Jeremiah Calhoun before I even knew him.”

  The tea bubbled and hissed. Or maybe she could only now hear it.

  Reluctantly she pulled out of his grasp and stared at the pot of berries, still uncomprehending. He loved her? Jeremiah Calhoun loved her? What took him so long?

  “Rachel will wonder what’s become of me.” Her voice sounded hollow and far away.

  “Is that all you have to say?” His eyes smiled.

  “What do you expect? I can’t write sonnets in the middle of the night.”

  “Let’s go up and tell Rachel together. We could wake Ma up, too, but I doubt she’ll be surprised.”

  Abigail’s eyes widened. “You aren’t going to tell everyone, are you? What will people think after we’ve lived together for so long?”

  “They’ll think the same thing I do—that it’s about time.”

  She wouldn’t see him until breakfast. He’d be out milking and feeding the animals, so she had a few moments to prepare. Rolling up her sleeves, Abigail pushed into the kitchen bright with morning’s first light. In the middle of the table lay an unruly bouquet of late-blooming calico aster bundled by twine and a scrap of paper.

  Abby,

  If last night was a dream, please tell me, but I pray it wasn’t.

  Jeremiah

  She pressed the paper to her smiling lips and settled the fluttering in her stomach. Her memories hadn’t evaporated with the darkness. Here was something solid, something definite. Unfolding the paper, she checked the names once again. Yes, it was to her and from him. No mistake. And she was one hundred percent sure this time that the man truly was Jeremiah Calhoun.

  She slid the note into her pocket with her father’s coin. If Jeremiah liked to write love letters, she’d have to find a good hiding place. Not much privacy sharing a room with his mother.

  Abigail filled a canning jar with water and did her best to arrange the flowers before starting the bacon. Once breakfast was sizzling, she broke off a bloom-covered stem and threaded it through a buttonhole in her blouse. Ma noticed the flowers on the table immediately.

  “Good morning, Abigail. That’s a pretty bouquet.”

  “Isn’t it? I found it this morning.”

  “Did you, now?” Her eyes softened. “That Jeremiah. Such a thoughtful lad. Always thinking of his mother.”

  Abigail ducked her head over the skillet and thanked God for those who always assumed the best.

  “I hope you weren’t up late last night.” Ma took dishes from the drying rack and placed them on the shelves. “I didn’t hear you come up.”

  Jeremiah wasn’t the only one who slept heavily. Or snored. “Not too late, but don’t worry. It was time well spent.”

  His shadow appeared at the back window before the door opened. The chilly morning gave his complexion a rosy tint, but his eyes lit up at the flower at her throat. “Good morning, Abigail.”

  “Good morning.” How could she live in his house when the very sound of his voice made her dizzy? “Would you like some juniper tea for breakfast?”

  The door clicked closed behind him. He came to her side and extended his hands toward the warm stove, his shoulder bumping hers. “You bet. Especially if it comes with that special sweetener you add.”

  His mother swatted at his arm. “You a tea sipper? If it weren’t for the flowers you left me, I’d scold you for your nonsense.”

  His eyes widened. Abigail winked and carried the plate of hot cakes to the table.

  “Anything for you, Ma.” He held out her chair, then performed the same duty for Abigail.

  “We might make a gentleman out of him yet.” Ma tucked her napkin into her collar, a move directly in opposition to every etiquette lesson Abigail knew.

  “I prefer him the way he is.”

  Jeremiah’s fork froze. His teasing smirk replaced by wonder as he gazed at her. “Can you help me in the barn today?”

  Abigail could feel her face warming. “I could. I mean . . . what do you need? Do you think it’s . . . prudent?”

  “Definitely not.” He chewed his food while continuing to stare at her with an intensity that made her pulse race. “On second thought, maybe I should see if Calbert can give a day’s labor. We need to get the harvest in. You wouldn’t mind helping us with that, would you?”

  “I can sit with Rachel,” Ma said. “We should get the vegetables in the cellar while the weather holds.”

  ————

  Within the hour Calbert had returned with Jeremiah and the news that Mr. Fowler had visited them that morning. Whether or not his guests had stolen horses, he couldn’t or wouldn’t say, but he did assure Calbert that he’d told them of the accusations against them. When they’d heard who was out looking for them, they’d decided it best to pack up and move out.

  “So Fowler told them we were hunting them?”

  “He did.” Calbert removed his hat to scratch at the bushy growth sprouting wild. “I’d rather not be named, but if they left without fuss, maybe they weren’t the ones who killed Rankin, after all.”

  “I almost hope they were,” Abigail said. “I’d rather have them gone than worry about another murderer.”

  “It was them,” Jeremiah said. “We need to get word to the sheriff. He might do his job for once and go after them.”

  “Either way, they’re gone and I’m relieved.” Calbert pulled his hat down low on his forehead. “I’ve got better things to do than fret over them . . . like get your greens in. Let’s get busy.”

  Soon the three of them were picking okra, pulling beans, and digging up sweet potatoes. Between serious conversations over the bushwhackers, Calbert would break into song as he forked through the sweet potato hills. Jeremiah’s tenor would join him with ridiculous enthusiasm that had Abigail giggling. Never had she seen him so carefree. She paused to watch him, shirt sticking to his back, as he heaved another bushel of sweet potatoes into the wagon. No crutch. No cane. And none of the sorrow that had lurked over him. True, Rachel was still sick and marauders might lurk, but for just a moment they had a touch of pure joy. She wouldn’t worry about her family, she wouldn’t worry about Ladymare. She had a good man who loved her, and she couldn’t help but love him, too.

  She rose from her knees and dusted off her skirt. Stepping over the rows of beans, she found the water tin and drained the cool liquid down her throat. Taking another dipperful she approached Jeremiah.

  He watched her every step. She extended the dipper to him, and he caught her fingers around it, refusing to let her loose.

  “Are you happy?” he asked.

  How she wanted to touch that smiling face. “I’ve never been happier.”

  Je
remiah shot a quick glance toward Calbert at the other end of the garden. “Why do you want to keep us a secret?”

  She stepped closer. “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s so perfect. It feels more special that only we know.”

  His hand tightened over hers. “Look at me. I wouldn’t recognize myself in the mirror, I’ve changed so much. Everything is different. No one will miss it.”

  His eyes sparkled with a life they hadn’t had before. The determination had always been there, but now it was combined with the hope that there might be joy someday to mix with their endurance.

  “I’m so thankful.” And she truly was. God must’ve directed Alan’s plan, because there was no way Alan could’ve foreseen how perfectly she and Jeremiah complemented each other.

  Jeremiah had nothing better to do than stand like a fencepost and gaze into Abigail’s eyes, but she finally released the dipper and returned to her bushel of beans. Throwing his shovel over his shoulder, he ambled to Calbert and dug in beside him.

  “What do you think about that tomfoolery Alan pulled with Miss Abigail?” Jeremiah asked. “Is that something she should undo?”

  “You talking about the marriage?” Calbert slowed. “The man she married is dead, but Jeremiah Calhoun ain’t. You might want to get that cleared. Miss Laurel wouldn’t appreciate having to wait on an annulment when she finally makes up her mind.”

  Across the field Abigail shifted quickly and swatted at an insect that’d come too close. Jeremiah smiled. “On the other hand, in the eyes of the law I might be abiding in holy matrimony with Abigail already.”

  Calbert smiled so big his beard pulled up three inches. “That’s something to ponder, I reckon, but don’t think you’ll rob Miss Abigail of a trip before the parson on such a flimsy excuse.”