A Most Inconvenient Marriage (29 page)

He was certainly pensive. Maybe he’d gone to visit Laurel on the way home. Had she given him something to consider? Not that it mattered. Finley had Abigail’s letter and her missive was on its way.

They carried the buckets and shovels to the house. Abigail skidded to a stop when they reached his room. Horse manure
garnished the floor from his bed to the dresser. A large dark spot stained the blanket on his bed, looking like it’d soaked through.

“They really grounded it into the floor, didn’t they?” Abigail scratched her nose.

“You could’ve at least spread straw down.”

“I thought bushwhackers were chasing me. Straw wasn’t a priority.”

He grunted in reply as he stepped over the piles. “There’s only one way I’m forgiving you for this.” He turned to face her, his eyes coaxing her to trust him. “While we muck out this room, I want you to tell me about your family.”

Abigail’s toes curled inside her boots. “I’d prefer to keep that story to myself.”

“And I’d prefer not to shovel manure out of my bedroom, but coming clean takes some work.” He scraped the shovel along the floor. The load dropped into the bucket with a plop.

How much could she tell him? Would she survive the humiliation of her own family’s accusation?

Stepping carefully, she came to his bed and removed his pillowcase. She dropped the pillow on the dresser and gathered the soiled bedclothes. Whether from the odor of the sheets or her own unease, Abigail felt certain she would gag. She carried the linens into the hallway and dropped them.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jeremiah called from inside the room.

He wasn’t giving her a choice.

She dragged herself to the room, and he motioned for her to begin.

“My father was the most important person in my world.” It wasn’t right that she’d gone so long without paying honor to the one who deserved it. Her words quickened. “He treated me like a partner. He asked for my opinion on the horses we purchased,
on which to breed, on how much to sell them for—not that he needed my advice. All I knew was what he’d taught me, and he made me feel so important. So smart.” Her jaw tightened. “He died when I was sixteen. I was lost, but I took over where Papa left off. He’d taught me well and we continued to prosper. My older brothers told Mama how lucky she was to have me. They knew.”

He waited. The shadow of his broad shoulders filled the small room. So rarely did she see him idle, patient. He was always striving, moving, trying to gain, but now he was still. “And your mother?”

The nausea returned. “We need to empty the tick. It’s soaked through,” she said.

He wrinkled his nose. “Those horses were more accurate than the Yankee artillery. Let’s get it outside.”

He leaned the shovel against the wall and grasped the opposite end. Together they wrestled the straw tick outdoors. Dirt and straw flew when they dropped it. Abigail hurried inside to the kitchen, thankful that Ma and Rachel were upstairs. Breathlessly she pumped a bucketful of water, added a dollop of lye, and found the scrub brush. By the time she reached the room, Jeremiah was already there.

“I lost my pa, too,” he said. “I know how painful the memories can be, but please tell me about your ma. When did she pass?”

Abigail’s hands began to shake. The bucket dropped to the floor with a splash. “I . . . I never said she died exactly—”

His eyes widened. The look of betrayal on his face was worse than any accusation. “You lied to me?”

“I didn’t lie.”

He turned his face away.

“Jeremiah, I didn’t lie. Ma mistook what I said and I never
corrected her. I should have, but I didn’t know how. Not after she told you.”

With his hands on his hips, he tilted his head toward the ceiling. Abigail had told herself that she didn’t care what he thought of her. She’d never been more wrong.

“So your mother is alive and living in . . .”

“Ohio.”

“Yes. Ohio.” His jaw clenched. She’d seen him struggle before. Abigail knew the signs that Jeremiah was in pain, but she’d never felt so responsible. Finally he let out a sigh before turning to face her. “There has to be more to the story. The Abigail I know wouldn’t leave her widowed mother during a war.”

Her throat tightened. “Not by choice.” She fell to her knees, plunged the brush into the bucket, and jerked it out, sloshing water everywhere. With both hands on the brush she scrubbed with all her might, working up the nerve to begin. “Two years after Father’s death, Mama married a man—John Dennison. Other than my youngest brother, all my siblings were already married. They told me to be happy for Mama, but they didn’t have to live with the man.” She spun the brush in the water and attacked the floor again. “They didn’t have to see him in Papa’s chair, holding Mama’s hand. They ignored his campaign to erase every memory of my father.” She shot a sideways glance to see his reaction.

“Keep going.” His face smoothed, making it unreadable.

“He acted nice enough on the surface. I know I irritated him with my attitude, but because of Mama he didn’t say anything. Then the war came. My younger brother joined the army, and it was just me and them. I couldn’t bear it. The two of them would’ve been happier without me. I knew that. But that was no reason for him to do what he did.”

Jeremiah’s body stiffened. “What happened?”

He crackled with tension. Abigail didn’t know what to do with him. One wrong word and he might ride all the way to Ohio and attack John. She chose her words carefully.

“I’d sold off a few of our stock. Men were leaving for the war and horses were in great demand, but I wanted to hold some back. Prices were sure to rise. Then one day, a major and his men rode up our drive. They were looking for horses. I told them we had nothing to sell. They asked to speak to my father.” Her mouth twisted. “Those horses were mine. I’m the one who’d chosen them, cared for them, doctored them through illness and foaling.”

She didn’t have the nerve to look toward Jeremiah. What would he think? Would he chide her for her foolishness, or could he, as a man who’d fought for his own property, understand her outrage?

“He sold them?”

“Not just the ones I wanted to hold back, but he emptied the stables. Our breed stock, bloodlines my family had nurtured for years, were sent as cannon fodder. He wasted my father’s legacy. Generations of horses were lost that day. And if Ladymare is gone . . .”

Jeremiah’s head bowed. He rubbed his knuckles absently. “And for that you ran away.”

“Only overnight. I went to my brother’s house, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He had his own property and was too caught up in the war to care. I went back home the next morning, but John accused me of stealing a pocket watch of his. Imagine. He sells all my horses and then has the gall to call me a thief. He said I couldn’t live there until I apologized.”

“What did your mother say?”

“She wouldn’t speak up for me. She stood by and let him . . .” The words stuck in Abigail’s throat. She shook her head in an
effort to dislodge them. “I couldn’t even go to my brother’s, not without Mama’s support, so I decided I’d go west. Join a wagon train as a governess, a companion, or anything. I got as far as St. Louis when I saw the opportunity to work as a nurse. Papa always said I had a healing touch with the horses, so I thought it was fitting.”

“How could your mother do that to you? How could she not know you better than that?” Jeremiah’s chest stretched with a sigh. “I wish you would’ve trusted me enough to tell me up front. If anyone could understand how you felt about your horses and your farm, it would be me.”

The shackles around Abigail’s heart broke. He didn’t condemn her. She sloshed her brush into the bucket again.

“I wrote to Mother when I got to St. Louis, but I received no response. Then I tried again just today.”

“Today?” he almost barked. “What caused you to write today?”

However understanding he’d been about her family, she didn’t want him to understand this.

“I don’t think I’ll be staying here much longer.”

Jeremiah leaned the shovel against the wall. “Because of our talk this morning?”

Abigail kept her head bowed over her bucket. Better to remain silent than admit her love for him and the pain of it.

“I see.” The floorboards creaked beneath his feet. “I treated you as rough as a cob this morning, Abigail, but if you’ll allow it, I’d like to make amends. Why don’t we finish here and wash up first? There are certain things a man doesn’t want to declare over a bucketful of manure.”

Another offer of room and board? She should be grateful, but his generosity stung. “Depending on what you have to say, a bucket of manure might be appropriate,” she muttered and dropped her brush into the bucket.

She wasn’t coming down. Jeremiah blew out the last lamp and pulled off his shirt. Abigail had gone upstairs to wash, barely acknowledging his request that she return when she was done. He hadn’t wanted to wait until morning to speak, but the silence upstairs told him that she’d already gone to bed. He eased his tired body onto the pallet on the floor and pulled a quilt up around his shoulders. Until they washed his tick and got clean straw he’d bed down in the parlor and give the room some time to air out.

He was still shocked to think of Abigail with a large extended family back in Ohio when he’d always pictured her alone in the world. Knowing her as he did, he wasn’t surprised that once she’d left home she wanted to forget the whole situation. Indecision wasn’t one of her weaknesses.

Yet he must encourage her to mend the rift. He cared about Abigail—cared a lot—and knew how painful trouble in the family was. He’d do whatever he could to fix it, but to his mind, the real issue had already been settled. Her relationship with her family might be uncertain, but he had no more doubts about her relationship with him. And that was something he wanted to speak to her about as soon as she’d let him.

Bare feet padded down the wooden staircase. Jeremiah’s senses sharpened. From his pallet he watched Abigail glide through the parlor. She wasn’t coming to see him. Instead she disappeared into the kitchen. Water splashed into a pot. If she was sleepwalking they’d have one giant mess on their hands.

What was she doing? Was she up like this every night, or was he dreaming again? And did she wear that fancy green wrapper every night?

Wide awake now and curious, Jeremiah reached for his shirt.
Whatever she was doing, it was more than a trip to the outhouse. He pulled the cool cotton over his head, slid his arms into the sleeves, and stood. Good thing he hadn’t lost his trousers for the night. He stuffed half his shirt tails in, then gave up and stumbled into the kitchen.

Abigail nearly jumped out of her skin. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to catch her breath. “I was watching out the window, thinking about those bushwhackers . . .” She shook her head. “You startled me.”

The shiny material of the wrapper looked out of place in the humble kitchen. Besides her ruined pink gown, Jeremiah had never seen Abigail dressed in anything so fine. He glanced down at his rumpled cotton shirt hanging loose and frowned. “I gave up on you coming downstairs and went to bed. Sorry.”

Only by the glow of the stove was he able to see her troubled expression. “I thought you’d already gone to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

She turned to the stove and stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. The piney scent sharpened his senses.

“Do you usually boil juniper berries at midnight?” he asked.

“If you didn’t know that, you must be a heavy sleeper.” Her mouth tipped. “But of course you are. The day you came home from the war, you were snoring before I left the room.”

The beautiful stranger who’d barged into his life. How long ago that seemed. Her hair hung between her shoulder blades, still damp from its recent washing. The shiny green wrapper was cinched tight around her waist, hugging her curves. How he longed to take her in his arms and just tell her how it was going to be. But how was it going to be? His head spun with anticipation. He was about to find out.

“What’s the tea for?”

She watched the pot as if it might sprout legs and walk off.
“For Rachel. She has trouble sleeping at night, which is no wonder since she’s inactive during the day. The tea calms her and eases her joint pain.” The warmth of the stove pinked her cheeks.

“I’m amazed at your care for her. She’s my sister, and still I struggle.”

She shrugged. “I try to see the person in there God sees. The person Christ died for. And I hope someone would see me the same way.”

“What do you see in me?” he asked.

Her head bowed. “From the time I came around the bend and you were trying to climb on your horse, I saw your determination. I knew I didn’t want you for an enemy.”

“But that’s what I became.”

The stirring paused. She tilted her head toward him. Her smooth skin shimmered in the light. “Are you still?”

“Definitely not,” he said. Her high lace collar brushed against her face. Summoning his courage, Jeremiah reached to run a finger along her jaw. Abigail’s lips parted. He swallowed. “My first impression of you was of danger. I knew how hard I’d have to fight my attraction to you, and with the claim you were making on my farm, I didn’t trust you. It was a battle I couldn’t afford to lose.”