A Most Inconvenient Marriage (22 page)

Abigail drifted away until she spotted a woman with sewing notions. Thimbles, needles, and scissors brought Ma to mind. If Abigail was correct about Rachel’s prognosis, Ma may soon have many hours to sit silent and wish for time to speed by. New needles would probably be appreciated.

She approached the little table next to the woman. Her eyes narrowed as she took in the handiwork on Abigail’s dress. “That’s fine stitching,” she said finally. “Someone from around here make it?”

“No. I brought it with me.”

The woman leaned forward. “You talk funny.” She traced her fingers over the handle of a Bowie knife strapped to her side like a holster.

“I’m from the East.”

A man appeared out of nowhere. Or that’s what Abigail thought when he sat up in the back of a wagon and pulled at his beard. “Northeast or South?”

Where was Jeremiah when she needed him? Now might be a good time to see his scowling face. “I’m a guest of the Calhouns.” And that’s all she said. If those credentials wouldn’t hold, then she had nothing better to offer.

“Is that so?” The man climbed out of the wagon, exposing a pair of britches patched on the backside. “Are the Calhouns here?”

“Jeremiah is.” She motioned toward the unhappy man holding a bag of cotton on his shoulder. He tried to ignore her summons, but when the man split the air with his whistle, Jeremiah dropped the cotton next to Laurel, bent to make his excuses, and stalked to them.

“Peter.” Jeremiah’s mouth flattened in a grim line. “Is there a problem?”

“This Yankee gal claims to know you.”

Before she could protest over the man’s doubting her word, Jeremiah held up a hand silencing her.

“She does. Miss Stuart is a nurse and she’s caring for my sister.”

“A nurse, you say?” Abigail’s skin crawled at the way he leered at her. “And where would you be meeting a Yankee nurse?”

Jeremiah’s chest expanded. “I reckon that’s none of your business.”

The man sized him up. “Perhaps not. Does make me curious though. Especially when you disappeared after Westport, but here you are alive. I’d think you’d be eager to clear your name and explain the difference between you and a deserter.”

Abigail gasped. Jeremiah stepped toe-to-toe with the man. “I don’t owe you an explanation, but I’m not ashamed of my service for my state. I was injured during the battle, as you might have noticed, and was unable to keep up with the retreat. I got stranded behind enemy lines.”

“And there was no way to rejoin your troops. What a pity.” A sneer crossed his bristly face.

“Let’s go.” Once again Jeremiah dragged her away. “It was a mistake bringing you.”

“The problem isn’t me. It’s you . . . all of you. Half the town won’t talk to the other half. People on your own side question your loyalty. You can’t get along with anyone past your own mountain. You can’t even get along with people in your own house.”

“That’s enough.” The veins in his temple bulged. “You’re not eager to go home, either, so before you point your finger at me, you might take a look in the mirror.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it? Don’t think I haven’t noticed your aversion to talking about your past. You want to keep secrets? Fine. Until then, I have a lady who is missing my company.”

Abigail stepped back. What did he know? He suspected something. Cautiously she continued. “Aren’t we here to get some help with the man who set the traps? Why aren’t you asking about him?”

“Chances are, he’s kin to someone, so it’d be foolhardy to announce I’m hunting him. Out here information comes forth bit by bit. You can’t rush people, and you can’t make them talk. So please don’t wave me down again. You aren’t exactly helping my case.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I’ll do my best to carry on without you.”

He turned toward Laurel and Hopkins. “Everyone else seems to be coping just fine,” he said and stalked off.

Nowhere to go, nothing to do, but now the small gatherings made sense. Once the hostile glances that flew from group to group had been translated for her, she realized she was traipsing
through a dangerous no-man’s-land still under dispute. The wagons represented stakes in the ground. Territory had been established, and the only neutral area appeared to be the auction taking place just uphill of the general store.

Abigail brushed past the curious stares, wondering at the hostility. If they hated their neighbors so, why did they all stay there? Stubborn might describe more than the mules of Missouri.

Barefoot children darted between the adults, chasing grasshoppers, begging for a treat from the store, tattling on siblings. Yelps sounded over the crowd as men bid on the steer being led around the circle. The bids slowed, the auctioneer’s cadence repeated, repeated, repeated until he yelled, “
Sold!
” and smacked a peach crate with his elaborate gavel.

The owner of the steer led it outside the ring to the winning bidder. Abigail watched as the new owner passed a gold piece to him. They shook hands and then parted, going to their opposite sides of the road, presumably to glare at each other again once their business had been completed. Abigail shooed a persistent fly away. At least they could trade animals without a blood feud breaking out.

The auctioneer called for the next offering, and the crowd parted. A thin young man wearing the blue trousers of the Federals led a horse into the ring, and Abigail’s heart stopped.

Impossible. Unbidden, her hand sought the penny she always carried.

Never in her grandest dreams had she expected to see one of her father’s horses again. Abigail pushed past a stately old-timer and a grizzly trapper and stumbled into the ring with the chestnut mare. Together, she and her father had chosen this horse’s parents, delivered her, and began her training once she’d grown, but her father hadn’t lived long enough to see it completed. Pulling her hand out of her pocket, Abigail ran it
along the cheek of the mare. It pushed its nose into her hand. A swish of the tail. The knowing spark in her giant liquid eyes. Ladymare recognized her. Abigail’s voice quavered. “You came to me, didn’t you? Even hidden here in this Philistine land you found me.”

“Is there a problem, ma’am?” The auctioneer mopped his brow with his bandanna.

“This is my horse. You can look on her belly. She has a scar on her underside.”

“Now, looky here.” The young soldier stepped forward. “This horse was commissioned to me back in Ohio. If you’re calling me a—”

“I’m not calling you anything.” Abigail pressed her cheek against the horse’s neck. “She was sold to the army, not stolen. I’m just surprised to see her so far from home.”

“Then if there are no objections, we’re going to sell this animal.”

Sell her? Abigail took quick inventory of her condition. Ladymare’s hips jutted out, evidence of poor provisions, much like the soldier who had brought her. To look at her, no one would suspect her smooth gait, and even more valuable, the bloodline that she’d pass on during the many fruitful years she still had in her.

She couldn’t let her go. This horse represented her father’s and her grandfather’s toils and dreams. They’d carefully planned and chosen their stock to produce this horse. She wasn’t about to let her get away.

The soldier led the horse around the circle. Men stepped forward to inspect her as he opened her mouth to display her teeth.

Abigail darted through the crowd, forgetting any shred of dignity as she raced for the wagon, but Jeremiah wasn’t there.
The log where he’d sat with Laurel and Dr. Hopkins was empty. She bounded up the steps to the tiny store and burst inside. Hopkins jumped.

“Where’s Jeremiah? I have to see him.” Her hands braced against each side of the doorframe. “Hurry. I don’t have time.”

Dr. Hopkins pounded his fist against a barrel top. “He and Laurel disappeared and if you find him, you better tell me. I’ve got a thing or two to say—”

She didn’t wait for him to finish, running outside instead. She didn’t have the money to buy Ladymare, but she wouldn’t let her disappear. She wouldn’t let her go to some farmer and be bred by a donkey. She wouldn’t waste the best bloodlines in Chillicothe on some bag of bones. At the very least, Jeremiah should have her. He’d appreciate her. Lancaster would make the perfect sire, and thus her bloodlines would be preserved.

But how could she stop the sale?

One more scan of the area, but no Jeremiah. Well, she wished him luck with Laurel, but she couldn’t wait on him to return. He knew horses. He’d understand.

She reached Jeremiah’s gelding and ripped his reins free from the wagon wheel. “Come on, come on,” she urged as she pulled him toward the crowd. The auction had already begun. Ladymare’s ears perked when Abigail neared. The auctioneer stopped.

“Do you have a bid?”

Feeling every cold stare, Abigail straightened her shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have any money. All I have is this horse to offer in trade.”

The soldier frowned. “I don’t want another horse. I need the cash money.”

The auctioneer tapped his gavel lightly. “Do you want to sell your horse first?”

But what if it didn’t work out the way she wanted? What if she lost Jeremiah’s horse and still couldn’t afford Ladymare?

“No, I need to trade straight up. Is anyone willing to be a go-between?”

Stony faces met her question. Murmurs rumbled behind hands. Was no one going to help her?

The crowd parted and Dr. Hopkins stepped forward. “Come on, you’uns. This lady needs help. This here horse is Calhoun’s. You know it’s good stock. You know it’s a working horse, well trained. Someone here can use this horse.”

With his hands in his pockets he strolled around the circle, his gaze challenging those he thought could help. He hailed a man at the back. Abigail’s eyes widened in recognition. “Mr. Parrow, even if you don’t need a horse, I know you can trade up on this gelding. He’s worth two of the mare.”

Caesar Parrow. Abigail remembered tending him for a burn. The man slung his sack over his shoulder and took the gelding by the chin. He cracked his mouth open, then nodded. “I’ll bid on the mare, but if I win, we trade even.”

Abigail nodded. Caesar blurted his bid, picking up where the last bidder left off. Abigail waited breathlessly as bidders dropped out, leaving only the trapper and one other. Finally, with a dip of his chin, the man stepped back into the crowd.

“Last chance on this fine mare. Going . . . going . . .
gone!
”

The gavel fell. The air whooshed out of the soldier. “That’s more than I expected to get for her.”

Caesar gave him the required gold as he unbuckled the saddle from Ladymare’s back. “I wouldn’t have paid so much for her, but I got this fine horse. He’s a high-dollar specimen if I ever seen one.”

Abigail helped switch out the saddles and bridles, her hand shaking with uncontainable excitement. She ruffled Ladymare’s
mane with every pass. A treasure, unexpected, unforeseen, but truly a gift from God when she least expected it. Even if she left the mare behind with Jeremiah, seeing her again soothed her heart. Knowing that she was in capable hands gave Abigail a sense of continuity. Her father’s legacy would live here, blended with the sure feet and endurance of the Calhouns’ stock.

It was more than she’d hoped for.

C
HAPTER 15

He’d hoped for more.

While sitting on the log watching Hopkins entertain Laurel, Jeremiah dearly wished for a plague or an epidemic to break out that would keep the man too busy for socializing. When finally a dysentery sufferer appeared and insisted on Hopkins’s undiluted attention, Jeremiah spirited Laurel away. Taking her by the hand, he dragged her, giggling, into the forest and through a dale, barely relying on his crutch. He stumbled, but she threw her arms around his waist to steady him, marking the first time he was thankful for his injury.

Once again she was his wood sprite, her laughter trilling through the forest as he gathered a bouquet of wildflowers for her. Once again they were young, with no thought of hardships or sorrow, assuming the sun would remain high overhead forever, and they’d never get tired, or old, or hungry.

He picked wild strawberries as she demonstrated the latest dance steps, and he wondered who he missed more—Laurel or the Jeremiah he used to know. The strawberries mushed in his mouth. Already past their prime, they coated his tongue with an
unpleasant flavor. Only with Laurel was he ever this carefree, but his carefree days were over. Would she understand the burdens he shouldered? Had she changed?

Sensing his darker thoughts, Laurel dropped to her knees beside him and spread her skirt primly.

“We should be getting back. Newton won’t be happy.”

Trouble etched across her little face. How she hated to cause pain. Maybe that’s why he loved her so.

He smiled his consent. Laurel took his hand in both of hers and pulled him to his feet. The sun had moved, after all. The worries hadn’t disappeared. They’d merely bide their time, waiting for him to shoulder them again.

Their steps sped as they neared town, both anxious to forget all they’d lost. Laurel’s skirt caught on a blackberry bush and ripped in her haste to pull free from its grasp.

“We should finish our trading, then head home,” Jeremiah said. “Don’t want to be out after dark.”

“I’ll see how Newton’s fared.” She measured the two sides of her ripped skirt against each other and frowned.

They reached the wagon, but neither Newton nor Abigail was anywhere to be seen. His horse was gone, too. Jeremiah scratched his chin. Had Hopkins and Abigail headed home without them? What if the two of them formed an attachment?

When he saw them approach he could almost believe they had, and it didn’t leave him as satisfied as he’d expected. Abigail beamed like she’d just discovered a whole troop of injured men needing her assistance, and Newton looked as smug as a blacksmith in a horseshoe throwing contest.

Laurel rushed to meet the doctor. She looped her arm through Hopkins’s and batted her eyes. Any anger Hopkins felt at her disappearance had to disappear at such a welcome. Any comfort Jeremiah had found melted at the same rate.