A Most Inconvenient Marriage (11 page)

She had come to him. There Laurel stood in all her dewy freshness, smack dab in his kitchen. Her dark, black-rimmed
eyes drew him to a time before the world had been set aslant. She had come to find him, and that was a miracle worth celebrating.

He didn’t want to move, standing as motionless as a skittish buck. “I’m glad you’re here.” It didn’t matter why. Just the chance to see her again was bullion worth hoarding.

“I’d like to talk to you.”

Still dazed, he followed Laurel into the parlor, wishing he could spill his heart to her and tell her his awful news, but Rachel had to hear first. His stomach twisted as he forced thoughts of Alan behind him. If anyone could comfort him through the times ahead, it’d be Laurel. He needed her with him, now and forever.

She walked slowly, probably worried that he couldn’t keep up. What wouldn’t Jeremiah give to never see the hated crutch again? A lifetime of hunting? Every horse in his stable? Unfortunately, he didn’t have much to bargain with. He sat on the sofa next to her. A mite crowded, but she’d never complained before. She tucked her skirt beneath her, leaving a definite canal between them.

“I don’t think you’re going to like what I have to say.” She fiddled with a wooden button on her dress.

Jeremiah braced himself. Whatever she had to say couldn’t be worse than what he’d heard already. “Go on.”

“While you were away and I thought you were dead, I might have fallen in love with Dr. Hopkins.”

Jeremiah winced. “But you don’t know if you love him?”

She picked at her fingernails. “That’s the problem. If you hadn’t returned, my feelings would’ve been certain. Now you’re here.” She took a deep breath and peeked up through her thick eyelashes. “I don’t want to tell him good-bye, but I’m happy you’re back.”

He’d heard clearer declarations of love from hound dogs, but knowing the conversation with Rachel that loomed, Jeremiah
was desperate for some encouragement. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

“I was gone a long spell, so I guess it’s understandable that you’d be confused, but you’re doing the right thing in coming here. We’ll get this set straight.”

Her chin lifted. “I’m not sure I want it set straight. That’s what I’m saying. I was content to be Newton’s girl, and I might be yet. I don’t mind you coming around, but please don’t rile your feelings up. If you have any doubts about me, then you’re free to go. I won’t hold you to any promises.”

As if she had the right to cancel a promise he’d made. “I want to marry you. If I have to win you again, I will.” She turned her rosebud lips up toward him. Normally he’d think about kissing them, but he had more serious matters on his mind. “When you become my wife, I want you to know there’s no one else. Take your time and think it over. You’ll begin to see clearly again.”

And she would. God had been good to keep her from marrying when she’d learned of his disappearance. He’d kept her safe for Jeremiah and brought Jeremiah home in one piece, even if not all of those pieces functioned properly. Compared to everything else he’d gone through and what still lay ahead, waiting on Laurel was the least of his worries.

Taking a wet rag, Abigail scrubbed at a scuff on the kitchen wallpaper. The only way out was through the parlor, and she’d rather not interrupt Laurel and Jeremiah. Still reeling from her discovery, Abigail crouched as the tiny floral print blurred before her eyes. All this time Rachel had been waiting, watching, listening for any sign that Alan would return. All this time he was lying in a grave, and Abigail had seen him buried.

How tragic to wait and not know. Did her mother spend more than a passing thought on her? Probably not. She’d allowed her new husband to run Abigail off, after all. Besides, her mother had all but forgotten her while they still lived under the same roof. Unlike Abigail, who loved fiercely and forever, her mother had decided she no longer needed her daughter.

“Abigail, could you come here, please?”

It was Jeremiah. Abigail stood, tossed the rag into the sink, and located the penny in her pocket.

Ma was helping Rachel to the sofa as Jeremiah tapped his crutch impatiently.

“My, it’s so late. We need to get the evening chores done—”

“Ma, have a seat,” he said. “We’ve got something to tell you.”

Abigail’s heart hammered. She hugged her arms around her stomach, knowing she would be called upon to testify. With solemn eyes Jeremiah directed her to the rocker.

“What happened?” The dark pools beneath Rachel’s eyes looked like bruises. “Did you hear from Alan?”

“Rachel”—his sister bristled at his voice—“Abigail figured something out today that might be hard to believe, even harder to accept.”

Rachel’s lip curled. Her eyes narrowed. “So Abigail has uncovered secret information that pertains to me? How fascinating.”

There was no placating her, but Abigail recognized the sarcasm as Rachel’s only defense.

“Had I known, I would’ve told you immediately,” Abigail said, “but it wasn’t until I saw Alan’s picture in your room that I figured it out. After Alan White was injured at Westport he was captured. They brought him to the prison where I worked.”

Rachel leaned forward, her eyes alight. “He was injured and captured? Well, if he’s in prison that would explain why he hasn’t made it home.”

Abigail looked to Jeremiah. Sadness etched his face, but he nodded for her to continue.

“When he was captured he refused to give his identity. We called him Romeo because he spoke only of his love back home.”

Mrs. Calhoun sniffed and took Rachel’s hand, but Rachel shook her off. “And?”

“He lost his arm in the battle, and by the time he came to us, he was beyond our abilities. The doctors did their best, but gangrene set in.” Rachel’s face hardened. Abigail continued. “He knew the end was coming. That’s when he told me his name was Jeremiah Calhoun. He asked me to marry him so I could care for his sister. He promised me the farm if I’d look after you.”

Rachel sprang to her feet, wobbling forward to clutch the center table. “You have no conscience. First you claim to be Jeremiah’s wife, and when you’re caught in that lie, you tarnish the name of my . . . of the only man . . .” She swayed. Jeremiah took her by the shoulders and guided her back to the sofa.

She jabbed her finger toward Abigail. “Do you see what she is? She’s a Lucifer, accusing, twisting a knife in our most guarded hurts. She’ll change her story again when Alan comes home. She can’t stay here—”

“She’s staying.”

Jeremiah said that? Abigail bit her lip and studied her hands, unable to watch the anger on Rachel’s face any longer.

“She’s staying because we need her,” he said. “She’ll leave after the colt is born. And I don’t think she’s lying. What would she gain by saying she married Alan?”

“She would hurt me.”

Ma wiped the tears from her cheek. “Rachel, Abigail doesn’t want to hurt you. Just think of all the good she’s done for us.”

Still kneeling beside Rachel’s couch, Jeremiah took her hand. “I’m sorry, Rachel. Alan was my best friend, but I don’t pretend
to miss him as much as you do. If I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t have got between you. I wouldn’t have discouraged him.”

Rachel pulled her hand free. With dry eyes and a face of stone she turned from her brother. “Some friend. Some brother. If this is true then there’s no way for you to fix it. You stole my last chance for happiness, and I don’t think I’ll live long enough to forgive you.”

Jeremiah flinched. But with the same stubbornness Abigail had come to recognize as his family’s legacy, his mouth hardened.

“I said I was sorry and there’s nothing else I can say. You won’t hear me speak of him again. If you need me, I’ll be here, taking care of my family. That’s all I wanted to do in the first place.” And he trudged to the door, his crutch clicking against the wood floor.

C
HAPTER 8

June 1865

He’d heard that hard work caused a woman’s beauty to fade, that bearing a heavy burden dulled her youth until she became stooped, wrinkled, and grew as brown as a pecan.

So far hard work hadn’t hurt Abigail any.

It’d been two weeks since Jeremiah had made his decision to let Abigail stay, and he’d had ample opportunity to regret it. Every time the blond braid she wrapped around her head like a Swedish crown caught the sun, every time she bent over the oven, every time she dozed in the rocker exhausted from a hard day in the field, Jeremiah reminded himself that she wasn’t staying. She didn’t belong at his farm.

Of all the inconvenient women, why had Alan sent this one his way? Had Alan spared a thought for the tangle he’d created for him? If so, had his friend smiled at the conundrum? Jeremiah buckled the low sled to the horse’s harness. He’d said he wouldn’t speak of Alan, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t think of him. And now at least he could stop imagining Alan dying alone in a field churned with death. Better that Alan’s last
days were spent with a compassionate, competent nurse at his side—one he evidently trusted to do right by Rachel, impossible though it seemed.

And that’s why Alan had sent Abigail. Because she was the perfect nurse for Rachel. Tough enough to take her abuse while patient enough to care about her, and also right handy when it came to the farm. He sighed. He’d just finished the spring planting and it was already June. Too much time had passed without a chance to make it back to the Wallaces’ and commence courting in earnest. Besides, tales of missing cattle, noises in the night, and strange tracks still found their way through the forest to him. Everyone was staying near their hearth. Only problem was that his hearth had a beautiful woman sitting at it.

Jeremiah hawed to the horse. The old nag leaned into the harness and pulled the load of split rails to the fence where Abigail waited. Her collar flapped open where the first two buttons had sprung loose, exposing her glistening neck. Jeremiah swiped his forehead with his sleeve. Funny how sweat looked like something fancy on her, all shiny like Christmas ornaments. Why would God tempt him so?

Then again, maybe there was a benefit. He’d promised Abigail board for eight more months. After Josephine had her colt, he’d have to show Abigail the door, but kicking her out would be like putting the tea back into the leaves. That is to say, impossible where his mother was concerned. If he was ever to be shut of her, he needed to find a place for her to go. The most likely solution was to get her married off. As far as that matter, her appearance didn’t hurt her none.

“You gonna stay on that horse all day, or are you going to climb down and help me?” she asked with a grin.

Good thing she was pretty. Abigail spoke directly even when a little wandering might be appreciated.

Jeremiah slung his poor leg over the saddle and put what weight he could on it until he could get his good foot on the ground. He jammed his crutch into his underarm before she had time to comment and met her at the back of the sled. She bent at the waist and grasped a rail with both hands. He could only use one, but was equal to the task. Slowly, so as not to lose his grip, he hobbled to the fence and helped her lift the rail into place. He wished Abigail didn’t have to walk backwards, but he couldn’t manage with his crutch.

“Is your leg going to get any better?” she asked.

“It’s a sight better than it was last winter.”

“I know you got shot at Westport, but what happened then? You didn’t come to one of our hospitals, or we would’ve had a record, and I would’ve never married you.”

His head snapped up. She corrected, “Married Alan, rather.”

Unlike his mother and Laurel, Abigail had an inkling of the horrors of war. He didn’t need to tell her everything, but she could take the truth. Jeremiah carried another rail before he answered.

“My horse got hit and when it went down I got caught beneath. I was crawling out when the back of my leg got shot.”

“Your hamstrings?”

He nodded. “Passed through from left to right. We were in retreat by then, but I couldn’t run and I had no horse, so I did what I could with the rest of my ammunition and then I hid.” He’d always wonder if he’d done right by hiding. Something about it seemed cowardly, but on the other hand, surrendering as a prisoner wasn’t particularly brave, either.

Abigail dusted her hands off after placing the rail. “What about Alan?”

“He stopped for me. I knew I’d go no farther that day, but he had to make it out. I owed Rachel that.” At Rachel’s name,
he looked toward the stone house nestled in the valley. Dissatisfaction twisted his gut, and he turned back toward the field, leaning against the partially finished fence. “I fell. I told him to go on. He refused, so I let on like I was finished. Gut shot. Told him I had my pistol, to let me die fighting.”

Abigail came to his side. She stood next to him and surveyed the wilderness past the fence.

“But Alan didn’t leave you behind. He told me that his best friend was hit during the retreat and a Minie ball hit him in the arm as he came back around to find you.”

“He was shot looking for me?” He searched her eyes, as if Alan could speak to him through her, but all he saw reflected in the clear blue was sympathy.