A Most Inconvenient Marriage (32 page)

Abigail waited on the porch for their arrival. Her plaid dress was almost lost in the busy pattern of the colorful stonework behind her, but her hair shone like a beacon. A physical response drew him toward her, a longing so strong it nearly pulled him out of the wagon and into her arms.

Home. He finally knew the meaning of the word. It wasn’t a house or a property that was designated as yours. No. Home was where you longed to be. And not just with people you loved. Love was fine, but it left too much room for disappointment and pain. Love was an obligation that had to be fulfilled. Home was where your soul rested because someone waited there whom
you trusted. Someone who would work at your side to fulfill all those obligations to the people you loved.

And he could rely on Abigail. Time and again she’d been faithful. She’d weathered his storms, endured his tempers, and throughout every conflict she remained true. Home: a place, a person to fall upon knowing they’d catch you and minister to you until you healed.

He’d finally found home, only to learn he could never return.

Laurel had changed her mind. She’d decided to accept his offer, and she was within her rights to do so. He was the fool. He should’ve never opened his heart to Abigail until he’d settled the matter with Laurel. And he’d never forgive himself for the hurt he’d cause Abigail. What would she think of him? Even worse, would she look at herself differently? Would she think she was unlovable? Would she understand it had nothing to do with what he wanted?

Rolling to the door, he set the brake.

Abigail came to the wagon and unfastened the tailgate. “I prepared your room for him.”

“Thank you.” He joined Hopkins at the back to lift Hiram as Laurel flitted around them. Abigail ran ahead to hold the door open. She smiled demurely as he passed, a gesture meant for him only, but he took no reassurance from it, only pain that such looks wouldn’t be offered once he explained.

Abigail had already turned down his blanket. A fresh pitcher of water and a cup awaited Hiram on his bureau. Jeremiah noticed that a pile of his clothing and his pillow were stacked in a corner, ready for him to carry away. His heart twisted at the thought of Abigail going through his clothing, choosing what he’d wear tomorrow. A wife’s work. His throat twisted. Laurel caught his eye.

“Papa’s going to be just fine, Jeremiah. Don’t worry so.”

His ma appeared to announce that she’d kept supper on for them. Hopkins made his excuses and, after some basic instructions to Abigail, left without a word for him or Laurel. Did Hopkins resent his victory? If only the man knew how bitter it was.

Only when he tasted the potatoes and onions did Jeremiah realize his mother had succeeded in getting him to the table to eat. The tin plate in his lap had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. Abigail and Laurel chatted quietly, obviously unaware of any conflict the recent events had caused. The room was too little for them. The house too small. Another coy smile from Laurel and Jeremiah felt like he would choke. Abigail lowered her face over her plate, obviously displeased by the exchange. She had to know. They had to get this behind them quickly. Dragging it out was pointless once the decision had been made.

Jeremiah stood and dropped his plate in the basin.

“What is it, son?” Ma’s fork clanged onto her plate.

“I’ve got work to do.”

Laurel’s chatter halted. “Do you need my help?”

He couldn’t look at her. Once he returned from the barn, he’d be hers, but not yet.

“You’d better stay inside in case your pa needs you. Abigail?”

Relief washed over her face. She carried her half-eaten plate of food to the slop bucket and dumped it in without hesitation, little knowing what lay ahead. He snagged a lantern and they exited through the kitchen door.

Abigail loitered on the porch, looking over the hills that surrounded them. “It’s hard to believe evil can hide in such beauty.”

“Come on,” he urged.

“What’s your hurry?”

Not knowing what to say, he grabbed her by the arm and half-dragged her to the barn.

She kept up as he limped quickly over the rough surface. His
fingers stroked the inside of her arm, wishing, praying that she would be happy for him, that he could be happy for himself. But there was no way around this, not if he kept his word. A man didn’t change his mind and leave a woman without affection, which is precisely what he’d done, but of the two of them, Laurel had prior claim. He’d have to find a way back to the emotion that had kept him alive during the war, but he was afraid that the emotion had been only that. Coming home he’d finally learned that his dreams of Laurel had no real truth behind it. He’d finally found a future that suited him much better.

And it too would be destroyed.

Once inside he closed the door behind them. Too distraught to check the window for the Huckabee spies, Jeremiah set the lantern on the worktable and turned to Abigail.

As usual, her clothing bore evidence of her daily toils—this time blood mingled with the soil. She studied his face like a gunfighter watching his opponent, looking for a sign of intentions, puzzled by his hesitation to begin.

And how could he begin?

Without warning Jeremiah found himself gathering her into his arms. He pressed her head into his chest and buried his fingers in her hair. Abigail caught him in an embrace no less possessive, even if it lacked desperation.

“What are you going to do, Jeremiah?”

His arms tightened. He couldn’t let her go. But he must. She had to know. With a quick prayer for forgiveness Jeremiah began. “Abigail, you must believe upon my honor that I’d never purposefully hurt you.”

Her chest expanded, then released in a long sigh. Her fingers trailed across his back as she slowly pulled away. “I see.” She took a step backwards, breaking his hold. Her voice wavered. “Then congratulations are in order, I suppose.” Her chin quivered.

“Yes. No.” He swung his arms above his head. “This is what I’ve wanted for years. Marrying Laurel was my goal throughout the war. The prize that awaited me after the battle.”

“You don’t have to explain. I knew all along.”

“But at this point, it’s not my decision. I can’t choose between the two of you, because if I could—” He paced the length of the barn before returning. “When I told her I’d wait on her, I never thought I’d have any doubts. I didn’t think it was possible. But no matter how I feel now, she broke off her relationship with Hopkins because of me. I can’t go back on a promise.” Jeremiah cleared his throat. “I never lied to you. Don’t you doubt for a minute that I meant every word, every moment—”

“Because that’s all there’ll ever be?”

The pain on her face slashed through him. He reached toward her, but she stepped back.

“It’s late,” she whispered and wiped at her nose. “Mr. Wallace might need me.”

“Wait—”

“For what?” She raised her chin, ever the brave little soldier. “What can you possibly say to make this better?”

He had nothing. He lowered his eyes and didn’t lift them until she’d turned and trudged to the house, her arms wrapped tightly around her. How vulnerable she looked. How lowdown and sorry he felt. Jeremiah kicked a pail. It crashed against the stall wall, startling the horses. He’d blamed so much on his circumstances—bushwhackers inciting violence in the region, the conscription forcing them to take sides in the war, Rachel’s illness leading to his bad decision with Alan—but here was a mess of his own making. No one to blame but himself.

If ever he had to retreat behind a thick skin and make the best of a disaster, it was now. He needed a backbone like never before. He’d finally achieved his quest, and he wouldn’t be un
grateful. Laurel deserved a happy marriage, and that’s what he was obligated to provide. And he’d be just as faithful to see that Abigail got what was coming to her. She’d be treated fairly, too, by him and his family.

He’d failed her in every other way. Taking care of her future was all he could offer.

Betrayal. Abigail lay with her back to Ma’s snoring and cried silent tears. It’d happened again. When her mother and John banished her from her home, Abigail swore she’d never again be so injured. No one else could hurt her as badly because she’d never care as much. But she cared now.

She dabbed at her face with the handkerchief crumpled in her fist. She wanted to run. Wanted to be gone before the sun came up and she had to face him and had to reconcile how badly he’d broken her with how much she still loved him.

And she did. How could she not? Abigail buried her face in her pillow. If he didn’t do his duty—even to Laurel—he wouldn’t be the man she adored. As much as she might wish he’d leave Laurel, she couldn’t help but admire his sacrifice. If only it didn’t mean sacrificing her.

She had to have faith that she’d be happier without him. God could turn this for something better. And maybe Jeremiah would be happier with Laurel.

But he wouldn’t. Silently Abigail sat up in bed. He loved her. He said he did, and he’d always told her the truth. He didn’t want to marry Laurel. Could it be that it was up to her to see that he didn’t? She’d left home instead of battling out her stepfather’s accusation, but now she feared she’d walked away too quickly. Not again. Abigail wouldn’t lose Jeremiah without a fight.

She gnawed on her fingernail while appraising her reflection in the dark bureau mirror. She couldn’t set her wiles against Jeremiah’s. He was honoring his promise, and she didn’t want to oppose him.

Laurel, on the other hand . . .

C
HAPTER 22

September 1865

Abigail hung her bonnet on the peg as she entered the parlor. Two weeks had passed without any sign of the bushwhackers. After Hiram’s attack they seemed to have vanished into the morning fog that blanketed the valleys. The men had ceased their searches but stayed vigilant nonetheless. The ladies stayed near the house, leaving only the Huckabee children free to wander the hills without fear.

In the rocker Hiram sat with his shirt hanging loosely over his wrapped torso. He scratched his sideburns as he exclaimed over Ma’s ladies’ journal.

“They goodness me. I never thought to hear a firsthand account of visiting Egypt. I feel right ashamed sitting here enjoying tales of the Orient when poor Hopkins is wearing himself thin tending my fields, but what’s a man to do?”

“You’re to heal,” Ma said. “That’s your one objective, and if my journals keep your mind from going soft, then so be it.”

The rocker creaked as he guffawed. “While the body sleeps,
the mind leaps. Now, back to the story. What did they call that market again?”

Ma’s rocker chirped merrily. “Let me see. It’s a bazaar. Yes, here it says ‘The bazaar itself is a perfect Babel, insufferably crowded. The salesman holds up the articles which he wishes to sell, as swords, pistols, pipes, cashmere shawls, jackets, trousers, etc. and, pushing his way through the crowd, bawls aloud the price at which he offers them.’”

Rachel glanced at Abigail from her supine position on the sofa. “Too bad you haven’t been caring for Mr. Wallace all along,” she said. “Ma would rather read to him than keep me company.”

To Abigail’s surprise, Ma didn’t protest, but leaned over the arm of her rocker to point out another feature of her journal to Hiram.

Abigail lifted the teapot off its hook to check for water. “Perhaps an attempt to be agreeable would bring results.”

“The only person who ever found me agreeable was sent away,” Rachel said. “Besides, you might follow your own advice. Evidently Jeremiah doesn’t appreciate your company, either.”

Unbidden, her eyes turned to the window. From the parlor she could see Josephine grazing on the faded grasses of autumn, her sides rounded and filling with the promise of Abigail’s future—a future that would someday send her from the troubled mountains she’d come to love.

The warmth of the teapot pressed through her skirt. She raised it quickly before it burned her hip. No matter what Jeremiah thought of her disposition, he had Laurel for company, and in the two weeks since she and her father had taken up residence in the Calhoun household, Jeremiah had barely spoken to Abigail. No more working together in the barn. No more fighting or teasing. It was as if she didn’t exist. Every night on
her voyage to the kitchen, she passed Jeremiah’s sleeping form in the parlor, but he remained fast asleep. No more keeping her company as she prepared Rachel’s midnight elixir.

With the teapot extended before her, she pushed through the kitchen door. Laurel spun to face her. Jeremiah tucked his chin and studied the floor.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Abigail placed the pot in the basin. As she pumped, water sizzled on the hot metal surface.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Laurel said. “Jeremiah has been so gloomy, and I can’t get him to cheer. Maybe you could coax him.”

The pot overflowed and the excess gushed down the drain. Abigail should thank her lucky stars that the couple had avoided her if this was their conversation. “You’ll have to solve this problem on your own. Nothing I could say would please him.”

Laurel frowned comically. “Well, I have no use for a sourpuss. I might as well go visit with the elders and leave him to you.”