A Most Inconvenient Marriage (27 page)

He’d told her to stay, but he was unsure. She told him she’d leave, and he looked stricken. What was the truth?

She said a silent prayer of thanks that she’d thought of the horse trade last night. Without that counter, how could she have denied that she wanted to marry him? And how had he recognized her thoughts when they’d only recently made themselves known to her? Slowly her admiration of him had grown. He might talk rough, but he never failed to act with
compassion—dropping back to check on her when they rode to market, sacrificing himself so she could escape, defending her against Varina’s accusations. Jeremiah grumbled often, but his toil for others showed his heart. And his heart would never be hers.

It was time to give up. Time to give this lost cause to the Lord and see what He would do with it. Would God work a miracle, or would He comfort her through her disappointment? Either way, she had to face reality.

Jeremiah knew her. They’d spent many hours alone working with his leg, working with the horses, hiding from outlaws, and discussing the farm. If he didn’t love her already, there was nothing else she could do. She was who she was, and she wasn’t Laurel.

Quickly, before she lost the courage, she’d write her mother again. After her mother failed to respond to her last and only letter, Abigail had promised herself that she’d never again submit herself to the painful waiting for a reply and not receiving one. The sting of rejection hadn’t numbed an iota, but what choice did she have? If there was a chance that her mother would welcome her back, she had to try. She couldn’t stay here.

In a way, Jeremiah’s misunderstanding had been a mercy. It’d given him a chance to consider marriage to her, and he’d decided against it. Now she knew. She’d be happy for him and Laurel, but she couldn’t be happy living under the same roof.

Jeremiah and Hopkins rode along the north side of Fowler’s land, ears perked for any sound that rang false through the trees. Calbert and Hiram had spurred off to the south side more than an hour ago. From the looks of it, they would meet near Fowler’s
homestead, and if there was anyone caught in the cave betwixt them, they were in for a hot battle.

Hopkins held up his hand. Jeremiah tugged on the reins and rose in the saddle, wondering yet again at how nice it was to feel both feet in the stirrups. Hopkins cocked his head. A razorback burst through the undergrowth with her scruffy piglets following behind. Hopkins’s horse shied, but Jeremiah’s mount stomped, chasing the aggressive sow away.

Reluctant admiration flickered in Hopkins’s eyes. Jeremiah nodded toward the trail and they continued, two roosters scratching after the same hen. As much as he hated to admit it, Hopkins, with his school learning and highfalutin ways, was here riding next to him, which was more than he could say for many of the mountaineers. They excelled at minding their own affairs, but when one needed help, they were just as likely to hole up in their hollows and let you be. If it weren’t for Laurel . . .

Rustling ahead of them brought him out of his reverie. He and Hopkins approached the cave from the low ground on the north while Calbert and Hiram would come in above them. Frequent use had widened the trail here. The limbs didn’t catch at his sleeve, proof that visitors had been common recently. A dark figure appeared above the cave. Between the evergreens, Calbert’s flopping hat floated as he and Hiram tried to locate the younger men.

“I guess this is it,” Jeremiah whispered to Hopkins.

“Do you think they’re in there?”

“We’re fixing to find out.”

C
HAPTER 18

The wooden pail bumped against Abigail’s knee as she toted the slops from the kitchen to the barn. She’d composed the letter and, to a lesser degree, composed herself before Ma had come down for the morning. The postmaster should be by soon. She’d get it posted and pray that John and her mother would accept her plea, or at least that they’d clear the way for her to apply to her brothers for help instead of insisting that she’d wronged them.

She could feel the key to the padlock in her pocket clicking against her penny and tugging down at her skirt’s waistband. No doubt the horses would be restless in their stalls, not understanding why they were being stabled on such a beautiful day. And the tomcat wasn’t happy about being locked out after a night of carousing. He slunk across the green as angry mockingbirds dove and pecked.

“Did you get too close to the nest?” she asked the indignant cat as he crouched, striped belly to the ground. She emptied the slop bucket into the sty, to the delight of the greedy pigs. The tomcat rubbed against her skirts, nearly tripping her on
her way to the barn door. She stopped to run her hand over his arching back. Already she could wax nostalgic about this place, and she hadn’t left yet.

She dropped the bucket and inserted the key into the heavy padlock. One twist and the lock sprang. She slid it off the staple, pulled the metal hasp free, and shoved the door open. Abigail reached down to pick up the bucket and froze.

Footprints.

Definitely a man’s and they were not Jeremiah’s. They approached from the woods, leaving a dark path, and then appeared in the bare rocky soil of the barnyard. She turned the heavy padlock over in her hands. No damage she could see, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be more successful next time.

Goose bumps puckered her arms. Someone was watching. From the deep shadows of the forest, drying leaves rustled and a branch swayed. Abigail stepped behind the barn door, shielding herself. She pressed her eye to the gap around the hinge and surveyed the woods. Nothing that she could see, but someone had been there . . . was still there.

Her jaw set. They wouldn’t take another horse from the Calhouns. Praying that no one attacked while her back was turned, Abigail jerked two bridles down from their pegs. Quickly she tugged them onto Josephine and Jeremiah’s old war mare, buckling loosely with shaking fingers and keeping an eye on the door. There was only one place more secure than the barn, one place they could better defend.

She dumped three scoopfuls of oats into the slop bucket and threaded her arm through the rope handle. Then she climbed the stall gate, threw her leg over Josephine’s expanding back, and grabbed the reins of the other mare.

She didn’t have far to go. If they gave chase, she’d turn the mare loose and pray that Josephine could outrun the poachers
in her condition, but hopefully they could make their short trek safely.

Taking one last deep breath, Abigail urged Josephine forward, expecting to see a rider burst from the woods, but all was still. The horses trotted easily to the porch, then stopped.

Abigail slid off Josephine and coaxed her forward. “Come on up, girl. You won’t get in trouble.”

Josephine sniffed the rock floor of the porch. Ducking her head, Josephine stepped daintily up the steps and the mare obediently followed. Abigail had to set the bucket of oats down to open the front door, but then held it beneath Josephine’s nose to entice her across the threshold.

“Good girl. Come on. It’s tighter quarters than you’re used to, but you’ll be safe here.”

“Oh. My. Stars.” Ma stood on the staircase, her needlework trailing on the ground. She filled her mouth with air and puffed out her cheeks, no doubt biting back words no lady should know.

“The horses aren’t safe in the barn.” Abigail pulled them to the staircase and then walked around to close and bolt the door behind them.

“We can’t have animals in the house.” Ma stepped between Josephine and her bell collection in the whatnot cabinet. “They’ll destroy it.”

“Ma, these horses are worth more to you than anything in this house. Unless you and Rachel want to leave the house unprotected and guard the barn, this is our only option.”

The mare’s nostrils flared as she caught scent of the bucket of oats. Her ears went back and she whinnied.

“Is there a horse in the house?” Rachel called from upstairs.

“You are going to do Rachel irreversible harm,” Ma whispered. “She cannot take the strain.”

“I won’t take them upstairs.” Abigail lifted the bucket to the mare, who dipped her head and snorted appreciatively.

“And you’re feeding them in here?”

“They’re hungry.”

“Mother!” Abigail noted that Rachel’s voice hadn’t come any closer—a sign that she hadn’t felt like getting out of bed, even to witness Abigail’s folly. “What’s happening?”

“Don’t concern yourself, dear. Abigail and I will have it settled soon.” Then to Abigail, “You have to keep them out of the way. They mustn’t be in the kitchen or on my parlor rug.”

Abigail squirmed her mouth to one side. They couldn’t go upstairs, but if they weren’t in the parlor or the kitchen, that left only one option.

“Jeremiah’s room?”

Ma pressed her hand to her forehead. “He will kill you.”

“Not if I save his horses, he won’t.” Abigail shifted the weight of the heavy bucket so Josephine could get her share. “Even if the men were to breach the door, they might not find them the way they’re hid behind the stairs.”

Ma didn’t move but repeated her earlier objection.

“Jeremiah won’t be happy.”

Abigail shrugged. “Let his wrath fall on me, then. It usually does.”

Stepping backwards she coaxed the horses to follow the oat bucket into the narrow hall behind the stairwell. She pushed the door open, hoping the room was as bare as she remembered. The bed hadn’t changed, still tidy and pushed against the wall. His pitcher and basin would need to be removed before Josephine nosed it off the bureau and broke it. Besides a comb, a few coins, and an extra pair of wool socks, nothing was in harm’s way.

Gathering his belongings, Abigail opened the top drawer of his bureau, the one that had so briefly been hers, and placed
everything inside. When this drawer had held her duds, she’d still thought of herself as Mrs. Jeremiah Calhoun. Absently Abigail caressed the two worn shirts. She already knew the drawer below held his one Sunday suit and spare necktie. What she wouldn’t give to see him in a fine wool jacket and tailored trousers. How fun it would be to spoil him with nice things when he was so used to doing without.

But she’d done the best she could for him. Whether or not her mother answered her letter, she knew her time here was almost over.

With a last caress on the collar, she closed the rough drawer. What was it about these hills that made one long for the impossible?

Warm ashes stirred as Jeremiah stomped past. No one was there, but they hadn’t been gone long. While he hoped they’d moved on for good, more probably they’d found a new place to hunker down, maybe even closer to home.

Calbert eased around the corner, rifle drawn.

“They’re gone.” Jeremiah slid his pistol into his belt.

“There are fresh tracks above,” Calbert said. “We’re for following.”

Hopkins nodded. “Let’s go.”

They mounted and fell in behind the older men. From the looks of the tracks, the group had grown. Somewhere, they’d picked up a donkey or two. Hopefully those were stolen like Ladymare and didn’t represent additions to their gang. The last thing they needed was more men to fight.

The late afternoon sun slanted down at them by the time they broke out of the trees at Sutler’s Stream.

“They crossed here.” Calbert gestured to the gravel bar. “The slope yonder is churned up something considerable.”

“Are we still on Fowler’s land?” Hiram asked.

“Pretty close to his cabin.” Jeremiah urged Lancaster across the stream. “Too close for him to claim he knows nothing about them.”

Up the hill, dogs barked. The sound seemed to come from the same direction as the curl of smoke that snaked through the trees. Jeremiah squinted into sunlight. If the interlopers had been harbored here, Mr. Fowler had much to answer for. He hoped they could converse peacefully. Jeremiah prayed he hadn’t survived the War Between the States, only to be shot dead because of a feud.

Leaves rustled. Hopkins drew his gun quick as lightning. Jeremiah felt the cold handle of his own pistol before a fox darted across their path.

“Guess I’m a little jumpy.” Hopkins wrinkled his nose. “I know the Fowlers don’t cotton to uninvited visitors.”