A Most Inconvenient Marriage (12 page)

“Where did you go?” she asked.

Alan lost his arm, lost his life looking for Jeremiah. If only Jeremiah could forget their discussion on the porch behind them—the one when Alan asked permission to call on Rachel and Jeremiah refused him. He didn’t deserve a friend like Alan, and he no longer had one.

“I got away from the battlefield and made it to the edge of a pasture before I gave out. They should’ve found me there, but the farmer spotted me first and brought me inside.”

“Confederate sympathizers?” she said.

“No. Quakers, who refused to take a side. They doctored me up and hid me out of Christian charity.”

“And the soldiers didn’t look for you there?”

“They did, but those Quakers had practice hiding folks. They’d been part of the underground railroad.”

“And they helped you, a Confederate soldier?”

“I was fighting for my freedom just the same as the slaves they helped.”

Her mouth twisted and a sharp eyebrow rose. She stepped
back and took no pains to hide the fact that she was staring at his leg.

“So you healed, but your movement was inhibited during your convalescence?”

“I couldn’t get out and walk, if that’s what you mean.”

She nodded as she circled him, staring at his hindquarters in a most unladylike manner. Jeremiah felt his ears grow warm.

“You know, those Quakers might inspire me to do some Christian charity, as well,” she said.

“I’m glad you added
Christian
, ’cause I can’t imagine what you have in mind.”

“The doctor I assisted was Swedish. Dr. Jonson trained for years at Dr. Pehr Ling’s academy in Stockholm. His ambition was to improve healing through exercise and massage.”

“This doesn’t sound promising.”

“Poor Dr. Jonson didn’t get to see much progress. The prisoners we tended weren’t given much by way of nourishment or medicine, and many died from the lack of both. And yet, since physical manipulation doesn’t require a budget and the prisoners had nothing else with which to occupy themselves, he was able to perfect the techniques he’d studied. If Dr. Jonson were here, I’m confident he could improve your leg. Perhaps get you off the crutch entirely.”

His heart skipped a beat. As much as Jeremiah hated to admit it, it wasn’t only his chores that kept him from going back to Laurel. He remembered too well her disappointment at his injury. How could he compete with Dr. Hopkins when he couldn’t even walk? But he shouldn’t get his hopes up.

“They let him practice this quackery on people?”

“On prisoners. True, I wasn’t allowed around the more able-bodied prisoners, but the doctor did report that the difference
between those who participated and those who didn’t was remarkable.”

He tried to straighten the hurt limb, but the best he could do was to sweep the toe of his boot against the ground. Impossible. It was too late to fix. All he’d accomplish would be to make himself look like a fool. “I think I can manage without the experiments.”

She twisted her mouth to the side. “Then by all means, manage. That cripple leg won’t slow you down. Not by much, anyway.”

She waited for him at the pile of rails, holding her end until he could clump over.

“I’ll work twice as long and twice as hard if I need to.” He scooped beneath two rails, lifting the double load easily.

Abigail walked stiff-legged, holding the beams low. Her breath chopped, but the strain didn’t keep her quiet. “Yes, I’m sure Laurel will want you to work from dawn to dusk. Every woman wants a husband who’s too busy to spend time with her.”

Jeremiah dropped the rails. With a squeak Abigail hopped back as she lost her grip, and they crashed at her feet.

“Don’t talk to me about Laurel.” What was wrong with this woman? His men had respected him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been busy around here. I have to work to save my farm. I can’t just find a lonely soldier and weasel my way into a family.”

Her jaw clenched. Her fists rested on her nicely rounded hips. “Do you honestly think I tricked Alan? That I used some womanly persuasion on him?”

He swallowed, unsure he could resist her womanly persuasion. “Why you? Why did he send you here when he could’ve sent any number of people?”

“Maybe because I wanted to help him, just like I want to help you. Does there have to be another motive?”

Everyone had motives, didn’t they? “It’s unnatural. That’s all.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Then keep searching, Captain. Refuse my help until you figure out why I’m here. In the meantime, why don’t you finish up alone?” She spun away and marched to the house.

Infuriating. As if he hadn’t had enough of Yankees coming to his territory and bossing him around. Hadn’t he gone to war over the matter?

And he’d lost.

Jeremiah wobbled as he bent to grab a rail. With his first step backwards it slid out of his hand. The second time he found better purchase and pulled it all the way to the fence—a drawn-out affair with stumbling and sweating. Then he had to balance one end on the fence while he hobbled to the other side and lifted it. He could work twice as long and still couldn’t make up for two good legs beneath him.

He’d come home prepared to throw himself on God’s mercy and pray he could survive with his injury, but what if he didn’t need to be injured after all? Everyone would benefit if he were healed. Laurel, his family, his farm. Being able-bodied would make his goals possible. Maybe Abigail’s remedy was God’s answer?

But he wouldn’t let that uppity nurse line him out. She’d have to realize who was boss. And if she couldn’t help, he’d have to let on like it didn’t matter. He couldn’t put too much hope in her. He’d been disappointed too many times already.

Abigail’s spoon clicked against her bowl. The ceiling creaked above her head. Ma glanced up, waited, then took another bite of stew.

Rachel hadn’t felt like coming down. Ever since learning of Alan’s death, she’d withdrawn even further into herself, and worrying over her was taking its toll on Ma, too.

Abigail drained the milk from her cup. She’d go up after dinner and visit with Rachel. Abigail would enjoy hearing more about Alan, and perhaps talking about him would ease Rachel’s pain, although she wouldn’t be surprised if Rachel would shut her out.

Jeremiah hadn’t spoken to her yet, either, come to think of it. He hadn’t mentioned how he fared with the fence since she’d left. Abigail might as well have brought a book to the table for as much company as he and Ma provided. He looked up and caught her watching him. She looked away, snatched her napkin, and wiped her mouth, trying to act natural, but it did no good. Unable to ignore his glower any longer, she met his gaze straight on. For a heartbeat his hazel eyes captured hers, seeming to ask something of her, but she didn’t understand the question. He grunted and bowed his head over his stew again.

Nothing left in her bowl, Abigail took another slice of the bread, just to keep her hands busy. He, too, took to the bread basket but found it empty. One look at his sharp cheekbones and she remembered how injury wasted away at a man.

“Here.” She offered him her slice, only a bite missing. “I’ve had enough.”

Again he searched her face. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

“Thank you.” He took it from her hand and crumbled it into his bowl to mop up the juices.

Ma roused herself. “I’ll clean up. Are you going back to the field?” she asked Abigail.

“I thought I’d check on Rachel.” Abigail rose to put together a tray for her.

Ma tugged her sleeves down from around her elbows. “Maybe it’d be better if I went. I know it’s not your fault, Abigail, but she’s having trouble understanding why Alan married you.”

Abigail’s hands stilled. Couldn’t Rachel understand that she and Alan were trying to help her? But that would require rational thought—something Rachel seemed unwilling to attempt. “I’ll wait until tonight to check her swelling,” Abigail said. “You go on up and I’ll get the dishes.”

Ma took Rachel’s tray and swept out the door as Abigail busied herself at the sink. She’d find something to work on, but she wasn’t going to volunteer her time to Jeremiah. Not until he admitted that he needed her help. How long was he going to sit there, anyway? Hadn’t he finished that last piece of bread by now?

He cleared his throat. “Abigail?” The uncertainty in his voice sent a flutter through her stomach. Goodness, he’d be a dangerous man if he occasionally acted halfway Christian.

She turned. Under his right arm dirt clumped on his shirt, probably from lugging the rails without her. He followed her gaze and made to brush it off.

“Were you serious about my leg getting better? If not, then tell me now because I don’t want—”

“I’m serious.” Abigail sat down across from him. Was he giving her a chance? If she could heal his leg, then there’d be no way he’d ever ask her to leave. “Besides some hard work, it wouldn’t cost anything to try.”

He lifted his face. “I’m not afraid of work.”

“Neither am I.”

Whatever uncertainty he’d allowed her to see vanished.

He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Exactly what do you have in mind? I don’t know how you can doctor me without being inappropriate.”

Inappropriate? Like the thorough appraisal he gave her that morning? But this sounded like a promise to do better. “You might feel uncomfortable, but I assure you, I’m no sheltered miss. My time serving your fellow men at arms exposed me to sights that would turn a butcher’s stomach.”

His eyes lost their focus, reminding Abigail that he’d witnessed atrocities of his own—perhaps committed them against her countrymen. He pulled his crutch from the wall and stood. “Tomorrow then? And where? The barn?”

“I’ll meet you there after breakfast.”

“And you can’t be telling anyone about this.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

He walked to the door. With his head bowed he added, “That fence work is going slow.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” She rose from her chair and picked up the dish towel. “I told your mother I’d tidy up in here.”

He turned. “Do you need any help? I could give you a hand, and then when we’re done maybe you could come back outside . . .”

She hoped he understood her smile to be happiness and not gloating. “That’d be marvelous.”

C
HAPTER 9

“I’m going to the barn, now.” Jeremiah’s cheeks sported a flush that Abigail hadn’t noticed before. “You don’t need anything, do you, Ma?”

Ma sipped her morning coffee and turned the page of her ladies’ journal. “Me? Naw. If I do, I know where to find you.”

He shifted in his chair and almost dragged the tablecloth off with him. “But I’d hate for you to bother. Besides, I don’t want to be disturbed once I get my chores going.”

Abigail bit her lip. Gathering the empty breakfast plates, she had to hide the smile that threatened to break through. Jeremiah wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t want anyone to know about their project. Well, she could understand. What passed for normal in a prison hospital would be shocking in civilian life, and the paces she’d put him through weren’t even considered normal in a hospital. Not yet, according to Dr. Jonson. She hoped it wasn’t too late to help Jeremiah. Her experience, limited as it was, dealt with fresh injuries. Could Dr. Ling’s methods work on muscle that had already mended?

“I’ll go on up to Rachel,” Ma said. “Perhaps reading
Frank Leslie’s
Monthly
to her will brighten her morning.”

Jeremiah had already fled, although whether from eagerness to get started or embarrassment, Abigail couldn’t guess, but as soon as the kitchen was tidied she took the short walk to the barn.

He’d already opened the high window, but even with the cheerful light flooding in, Jeremiah looked a bit green as he peeked at her from over a stall.

“Are you sure this is necessary? If Laurel finds out—”

“She wants you healed. If we’re successful I don’t think she’ll complain about the method.”

He nodded, then straightening his shoulders he came out from the stall.

Abigail’s jaw dropped. “Where are your britches?”

Jeremiah’s nostrils flared. He tugged his shirttails as far over his drawers as they’d reach. “You said . . . you said it wasn’t inappropriate. That you’d seen everything.”

She couldn’t squelch a giggle. “But that doesn’t mean I want to see more.” Abigail covered her mouth and spun away, right across the tongue of the wagon and onto the floor. The landing knocked the air out of her, but she continued to shake with laughter. She propped herself up on her elbows and tried to catch her breath.

“And I thought you’d be mad that I kept my drawers on,” he said. Was that a touch of humor from the grim Captain Calhoun? He’d darted back into the stall, almost smiling at her from over the divider. “I’m glad I’d already sworn you to secrecy. Now toss me my trousers. They’re hanging on the plow.”

But before Abigail could move footsteps sounded at the door.

She scrambled to her feet. With a finger to his lips, Jeremiah ducked just as the door opened and Calbert entered.

“Abigail?” Calbert scanned the barn. “Where’s Jeremiah? Have you seen him?”