A Most Inconvenient Marriage

by Regina Jennings

  “What’s your hurry?”

  Not knowing what to say, he grabbed her by the arm and half-dragged her to the barn.

  She kept up as he limped quickly over the rough surface. His fingers stroked the inside of her arm, wishing, praying that she would be happy for him, that he could be happy for himself. But there was no way around this, not if he kept his word. A man didn’t change his mind and leave a woman without affection, which is precisely what he’d done, but of the two of them, Laurel had prior claim. He’d have to find a way back to the emotion that had kept him alive during the war, but he was afraid that the emotion had been only that. Coming home he’d finally learned that his dreams of Laurel had no real truth behind it. He’d finally found a future that suited him much better.

  And it too would be destroyed.

  Once inside he closed the door behind them. Too distraught to check the window for the Huckabee spies, Jeremiah set the lantern on the worktable and turned to Abigail.

  As usual, her clothing bore evidence of her daily toils—this time blood mingled with the soil. She studied his face like a gunfighter watching his opponent, looking for a sign of intentions, puzzled by his hesitation to begin.

  And how could he begin?

  Without warning Jeremiah found himself gathering her into his arms. He pressed her head into his chest and buried his fingers in her hair. Abigail caught him in an embrace no less possessive, even if it lacked desperation.

  “What are you going to do, Jeremiah?”

  His arms tightened. He couldn’t let her go. But he must. She had to know. With a quick prayer for forgiveness Jeremiah began. “Abigail, you must believe upon my honor that I’d never purposefully hurt you.”

  Her chest expanded, then released in a long sigh. Her fingers trailed across his back as she slowly pulled away. “I see.” She took a step backwards, breaking his hold. Her voice wavered. “Then congratulations are in order, I suppose.” Her chin quivered.

  “Yes. No.” He swung his arms above his head. “This is what I’ve wanted for years. Marrying Laurel was my goal throughout the war. The prize that awaited me after the battle.”

  “You don’t have to explain. I knew all along.”

  “But at this point, it’s not my decision. I can’t choose between the two of you, because if I could—” He paced the length of the barn before returning. “When I told her I’d wait on her, I never thought I’d have any doubts. I didn’t think it was possible. But no matter how I feel now, she broke off her relationship with Hopkins because of me. I can’t go back on a promise.” Jeremiah cleared his throat. “I never lied to you. Don’t you doubt for a minute that I meant every word, every moment—”

  “Because that’s all there’ll ever be?”

  The pain on her face slashed through him. He reached toward her, but she stepped back.

  “It’s late,” she whispered and wiped at her nose. “Mr. Wallace might need me.”

  “Wait—”

  “For what?” She raised her chin, ever the brave little soldier. “What can you possibly say to make this better?”

  He had nothing. He lowered his eyes and didn’t lift them until she’d turned and trudged to the house, her arms wrapped tightly around her. How vulnerable she looked. How lowdown and sorry he felt. Jeremiah kicked a pail. It crashed against the stall wall, startling the horses. He’d blamed so much on his circumstances—bushwhackers inciting violence in the region, the conscription forcing them to take sides in the war, Rachel’s illness leading to his bad decision with Alan—but here was a mess of his own making. No one to blame but himself.

  If ever he had to retreat behind a thick skin and make the best of a disaster, it was now. He needed a backbone like never before. He’d finally achieved his quest, and he wouldn’t be ungrateful. Laurel deserved a happy marriage, and that’s what he was obligated to provide. And he’d be just as faithful to see that Abigail got what was coming to her. She’d be treated fairly, too, by him and his family.

  He’d failed her in every other way. Taking care of her future was all he could offer.

  Betrayal. Abigail lay with her back to Ma’s snoring and cried silent tears. It’d happened again. When her mother and John banished her from her home, Abigail swore she’d never again be so injured. No one else could hurt her as badly because she’d never care as much. But she cared now.

  She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief crumpled in her fist. She wanted to run. Wanted to be gone before the sun came up and she had to face him and had to reconcile how badly he’d broken her with how much she still loved him.

  And she did. How could she not? Abigail buried her face in her pillow. If he didn’t do his duty—even to Laurel—he wouldn’t be the man she adored. As much as she might wish he’d leave Laurel, she couldn’t help but admire his sacrifice. If only it didn’t mean sacrificing her.

  She had to have faith that she’d be happier without him. God could turn this for something better. And maybe Jeremiah would be happier with Laurel.

  But he wouldn’t. Silently Abigail sat up in bed. He loved her. He said he did, and he’d always told her the truth. He didn’t want to marry Laurel. Could it be that it was up to her to see that he didn’t? She’d left home instead of battling out her stepfather’s accusation, but now she feared she’d walked away too quickly. Not again. Abigail wouldn’t lose Jeremiah without a fight.

  She gnawed on her fingernail while appraising her reflection in the dark bureau mirror. She couldn’t set her wiles against Jeremiah’s. He was honoring his promise, and she didn’t want to oppose him.

  Laurel, on the other hand . . .

  Chapter 22

  September 1865

  Abigail hung her bonnet on the peg as she entered the parlor. Two weeks had passed without any sign of the bushwhackers. After Hiram’s attack they seemed to have vanished into the morning fog that blanketed the valleys. The men had ceased their searches but stayed vigilant nonetheless. The ladies stayed near the house, leaving only the Huckabee children free to wander the hills without fear.

  In the rocker Hiram sat with his shirt hanging loosely over his wrapped torso. He scratched his sideburns as he exclaimed over Ma’s ladies’ journal.

  “They goodness me. I never thought to hear a firsthand account of visiting Egypt. I feel right ashamed sitting here enjoying tales of the Orient when poor Hopkins is wearing himself thin tending my fields, but what’s a man to do?”

  “You’re to heal,” Ma said. “That’s your one objective, and if my journals keep your mind from going soft, then so be it.”

  The rocker creaked as he guffawed. “While the body sleeps, the mind leaps. Now, back to the story. What did they call that market again?”

  Ma’s rocker chirped merrily. “Let me see. It’s a bazaar. Yes, here it says ‘The bazaar itself is a perfect Babel, insufferably crowded. The salesman holds up the articles which he wishes to sell, as swords, pistols, pipes, cashmere shawls, jackets, trousers, etc. and, pushing his way through the crowd, bawls aloud the price at which he offers them.’”

  Rachel glanced at Abigail from her supine position on the sofa. “Too bad you haven’t been caring for Mr. Wallace all along,” she said. “Ma would rather read to him than keep me company.”

  To Abigail’s surprise, Ma didn’t protest, but leaned over the arm of her rocker to point out another feature of her journal to Hiram.

  Abigail lifted the teapot off its hook to check for water. “Perhaps an attempt to be agreeable would bring results.”

  “The only person who ever found me agreeable was sent away,” Rachel said. “Besides, you might follow your own advice. Evidently Jeremiah doesn’t appreciate your company, either.”

  Unbidden, her eyes turned to the window. From the parlor she could see Josephine grazing on the faded grasses of autumn, her sides rounded and filling with the promise of Abigail’s future—a future that would someday send her from the troubled mountains she’d come to love.

  The warmth of the teapot pres
sed through her skirt. She raised it quickly before it burned her hip. No matter what Jeremiah thought of her disposition, he had Laurel for company, and in the two weeks since she and her father had taken up residence in the Calhoun household, Jeremiah had barely spoken to Abigail. No more working together in the barn. No more fighting or teasing. It was as if she didn’t exist. Every night on her voyage to the kitchen, she passed Jeremiah’s sleeping form in the parlor, but he remained fast asleep. No more keeping her company as she prepared Rachel’s midnight elixir.

  With the teapot extended before her, she pushed through the kitchen door. Laurel spun to face her. Jeremiah tucked his chin and studied the floor.

  “Sorry to interrupt.” Abigail placed the pot in the basin. As she pumped, water sizzled on the hot metal surface.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Laurel said. “Jeremiah has been so gloomy, and I can’t get him to cheer. Maybe you could coax him.”

  The pot overflowed and the excess gushed down the drain. Abigail should thank her lucky stars that the couple had avoided her if this was their conversation. “You’ll have to solve this problem on your own. Nothing I could say would please him.”

  Laurel frowned comically. “Well, I have no use for a sourpuss. I might as well go visit with the elders and leave him to you.”

  She almost skipped from the room. Before the door closed behind her Abigail caught a glimpse of her throwing her arms around her father’s neck.

  “Why can’t she be gentler with him?” Abigail murmured. “She’s going to reopen his wounds.”

  Jeremiah shifted toward the back door. He took the wooden spoon from the crock that held the utensils and rubbed it between his fingers. “She’s affectionate. It isn’t in her nature to hold back.”

  Who was more uncomfortable—Jeremiah at having to defend Laurel or Abigail for being misunderstood?

  “I wasn’t being critical,” she said. “Only worried about my patient.”

  “I know.” He raised the wooden spoon to his nose and inhaled. “Juniper?”

  Their eyes met. He thrust the spoon into the crock, upsetting it. Whisks, ladles, and knives clattered to the floor. Abigail knelt beside him to gather the errant utensils. She reached for the ladle, but his hand met hers on the cool metal handle.

  She raised her eyes to his. Longing. Naked longing. Had she not looked him in the face since his decision? Only by keeping his distance had he been able to hide it from her. She drank it in, knowing she should look away but unable to do so. His eyes spoke, but he had no words for her. No promises. No hope.

  Abigail would do what she could to free him, but she hadn’t had much opportunity. If only Dr. Hopkins would slow down on his house calls. Couldn’t he see that Laurel was hungry for his attention?

  She straightened and took up the brimming teapot. “Rachel needs a cup,” she said. “The warmth is good for her.”

  He didn’t reply. Why was she explaining?

  As she pushed into the parlor, Ma and Mr. Wallace jumped. They exchanged a sly glance and then chuckled. Rachel rocked a few times before getting her feet to the floor, her head upright. “Will you help me upstairs?” she asked Abigail. “I’ve had enough of their glee for one evening.”

  Abigail hung the pot over the fire and took Rachel’s arm. Rachel grimaced at the pressure.

  “I’m sorry,” Abigail said. “Is your elbow sore?”

  “Every joint is sore. I think the fever is back.”

  Abigail helped her up the stairs, then felt Rachel’s head after she had eased herself onto her bed.

  “So tell me, Nurse Abigail”—Rachel creaked back into the pillows—“is this the end?”

  Abigail took her gnarled hand between her own. “Could be. How do you feel about that?”

  “I stopped being a help to my family just as I was getting old enough to contribute. Instead, they’ve had to do everything for me. Every time I’m served a meal or helped up the stairs, I hate it. I hate myself. I’m ready for it to be over.”

  “If you’re still here, God has something left for you to do. You aren’t finished.” Abigail released her hand, found a handkerchief, and dipped it into the basin on the washstand. “Did you know the last feverish patient I cooled was Alan?”

  “Tell me,” Rachel said.

  Abigail summoned the memories—the filthy room, the hopelessness, and Alan’s assurance that God was with him still. “He was my favorite patient. He wanted to get well. He fought the infection more than anyone I’d ever seen, and he made no secret of the fact that he wanted to live so he could come home to his fiancée.”

  Rachel smiled. “We weren’t engaged. Not really.”

  “According to him you were. But you know, no matter how much he wanted to live, he was never desperate. He trusted God with his life . . . and with his death. He was a remarkable man. It’s no wonder you fell in love with him.”

  Rachel was silent for a moment and then said, “I didn’t want to love him. What kind of wife could I be? By the time we were honest with each other, he and Jeremiah were already gone. He had my letters. That’s all he got.” Her eyes sought the gilt frame that held Alan’s picture. “I wouldn’t say it in front of Ma, but in a way, I’m glad Alan isn’t here to see me like this. Don’t get me wrong. I’d give anything to have him alive. But if he were here sitting at my side, it’d be so hard to let go. As it is, well, I’m glad for it to be over. Ma will be free, and Laurel . . . well, I guess you all will have to work out that mess.”

  “And what about Jeremiah?” Abigail asked. “How will he feel when you die?”

  Rachel’s brow troubled. “I told myself I wouldn’t care. He’s made me miserable.”

  “Has he?” Abigail wove the cloth between her fingers. “You might be miserable, but I’ve never seen Jeremiah do anything but serve you and keep you safe.”

  Rachel’s lips pursed. She seemed to sink even further into the pillow. “I’ve held him accountable for sending Alan away, but I guess I’m accountable for everything that’s happened since.”

  “Apologize, if you’d like,” Abigail said, “but even more important, he wants your forgiveness.”

  “It’s time, I reckon.” Rachel stared at the ceiling. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “When?” Abigail couldn’t allow her any time for procrastination.

  “When I see him next. Don’t worry, Abigail. I understand your hurry. I won’t let you down.”

  Pulling the door closed behind her, Abigail tiptoed to the staircase. Rachel’s bed creaked, giving evidence that she didn’t rest soundly, but besides medicating her, Abigail feared there was little she could do to ease her discomfort. She must be hurting powerfully indeed if she finally thought she could forgive Jeremiah.

  Abigail stayed on her toes to keep her boot heels from echoing on the hollow steps. She’d nearly reached the bottom when Laurel whirled around the corner and stopped her descent.

  “I’ve been waiting on you.” Laurel looked over her shoulder at Ma and her father. She lowered her voice. “Seriously, I need your help. What can I do about Jeremiah? He has been out of sorts lately. I thought you might have an idea. He never seems to misbehave around you.”

  If she only knew.

  Abigail leaned against the stair rail and considered. “How’d you manage to keep Dr. Hopkins content?”

  Laurel’s eyes softened. “With Newton, I didn’t have to think before I spoke or be careful what I said.”

  “And Jeremiah’s different?” Abigail was puzzled. She’d never thought Jeremiah to be overly sensitive.

  “It’s just certain things, like his leg for one. If I mention that he’s favoring it, he turns all sullen. If I offer to help him walk back to the house, he refuses. He’s just not as fun as he used to be.”

  Imagine that. Abigail pitied both of them. “But you didn’t have that problem with Hopkins?”

  “Not until the end.”

  “What exactly happened between you?” Abigail asked.

  Her bottom lip droop
ed. “He said he was plumb worn out over my hem-hawing around. He told me if I didn’t make a decision, then his offer was off the table. Can you believe it? He said he’d find a woman who knew her own mind better.”

  “And you were surprised?”

  Laurel’s eyes went wide. “Of course I was surprised. I thought he loved me. How could he give me a deadline—?”

  An eruption cut off her words. Gunshots, glass exploding. Laurel dove for the floor, hitting Abigail’s legs and knocking her back into the stairwell. Ma’s scream rent the air.

  Clawing her way over Laurel, Abigail crawled into the parlor. Another window shattered and plaster dust poofed over her head as a second volley of shots rang out.

  Hiram had an arm thrown over Ma’s shoulders, pinning her to the floor. “Is she hurt?” she called to him.

  But a voice from outside interrupted his answer.

  “You’uns came hunting for us, stirring up trouble. Now we’re coming after you.” Cheers accompanied his boast.

  Abigail raised herself enough to see through the broken window the three men who’d attacked Jeremiah and her. And the ringleader was riding Ladymare.

  “You’d better watch your back, Calhoun. And tell your buddies that goes for them, too.”

  She covered her head as another volley ricocheted off the exterior stone wall. She scrambled to her feet as they melted away into the woods. Glass littered the floor, and Ma’s table of newspaper clippings had been overturned. Sliding on the papers, Abigail all but pushed Hiram out of the way in her rush to get to Ma.

  “She’s fine,” he said. “Maybe a few nicks from the glass.”

  Rachel and Laurel entered together. Laurel ran across the room and threw herself into her father’s arms.

  “Where’s Jeremiah?” Rachel asked.

  Abigail’s heart dropped. If he’d been caught unaware . . . She couldn’t think. Just went into motion. Rachel reached the front door before Abigail could disentangle herself from Ma.

  “Don’t, Rachel.” Abigail commanded. “They could still be out there.”

  “But so is Jeremiah.”