A Most Inconvenient Marriage (33 page)

She almost skipped from the room. Before the door closed behind her Abigail caught a glimpse of her throwing her arms around her father’s neck.

“Why can’t she be gentler with him?” Abigail murmured. “She’s going to reopen his wounds.”

Jeremiah shifted toward the back door. He took the wooden spoon from the crock that held the utensils and rubbed it between his fingers. “She’s affectionate. It isn’t in her nature to hold back.”

Who was more uncomfortable—Jeremiah at having to defend Laurel or Abigail for being misunderstood?

“I wasn’t being critical,” she said. “Only worried about my patient.”

“I know.” He raised the wooden spoon to his nose and inhaled. “Juniper?”

Their eyes met. He thrust the spoon into the crock, upsetting it. Whisks, ladles, and knives clattered to the floor. Abigail knelt beside him to gather the errant utensils. She reached for the ladle, but his hand met hers on the cool metal handle.

She raised her eyes to his. Longing. Naked longing. Had she not looked him in the face since his decision? Only by keeping his distance had he been able to hide it from her. She drank it in, knowing she should look away but unable to do so. His eyes spoke, but he had no words for her. No promises. No hope.

Abigail would do what she could to free him, but she hadn’t had much opportunity. If only Dr. Hopkins would slow down on his house calls. Couldn’t he see that Laurel was hungry for his attention?

She straightened and took up the brimming teapot. “Rachel needs a cup,” she said. “The warmth is good for her.”

He didn’t reply. Why was she explaining?

As she pushed into the parlor, Ma and Mr. Wallace jumped. They exchanged a sly glance and then chuckled. Rachel rocked a few times before getting her feet to the floor, her head upright. “Will you help me upstairs?” she asked Abigail. “I’ve had enough of their glee for one evening.”

Abigail hung the pot over the fire and took Rachel’s arm. Rachel grimaced at the pressure.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail said. “Is your elbow sore?”

“Every joint is sore. I think the fever is back.”

Abigail helped her up the stairs, then felt Rachel’s head after she had eased herself onto her bed.

“So tell me, Nurse Abigail”—Rachel creaked back into the pillows—“is this the end?”

Abigail took her gnarled hand between her own. “Could be. How do you feel about that?”

“I stopped being a help to my family just as I was getting old
enough to contribute. Instead, they’ve had to do everything for me. Every time I’m served a meal or helped up the stairs, I hate it. I hate myself. I’m ready for it to be over.”

“If you’re still here, God has something left for you to do. You aren’t finished.” Abigail released her hand, found a handkerchief, and dipped it into the basin on the washstand. “Did you know the last feverish patient I cooled was Alan?”

“Tell me,” Rachel said.

Abigail summoned the memories—the filthy room, the hopelessness, and Alan’s assurance that God was with him still. “He was my favorite patient. He wanted to get well. He fought the infection more than anyone I’d ever seen, and he made no secret of the fact that he wanted to live so he could come home to his fiancée.”

Rachel smiled. “We weren’t engaged. Not really.”

“According to him you were. But you know, no matter how much he wanted to live, he was never desperate. He trusted God with his life . . . and with his death. He was a remarkable man. It’s no wonder you fell in love with him.”

Rachel was silent for a moment and then said, “I didn’t want to love him. What kind of wife could I be? By the time we were honest with each other, he and Jeremiah were already gone. He had my letters. That’s all he got.” Her eyes sought the gilt frame that held Alan’s picture. “I wouldn’t say it in front of Ma, but in a way, I’m glad Alan isn’t here to see me like this. Don’t get me wrong. I’d give anything to have him alive. But if he were here sitting at my side, it’d be so hard to let go. As it is, well, I’m glad for it to be over. Ma will be free, and Laurel . . . well, I guess you all will have to work out that mess.”

“And what about Jeremiah?” Abigail asked. “How will he feel when you die?”

Rachel’s brow troubled. “I told myself I wouldn’t care. He’s made me miserable.”

“Has he?” Abigail wove the cloth between her fingers. “You might be miserable, but I’ve never seen Jeremiah do anything but serve you and keep you safe.”

Rachel’s lips pursed. She seemed to sink even further into the pillow. “I’ve held him accountable for sending Alan away, but I guess I’m accountable for everything that’s happened since.”

“Apologize, if you’d like,” Abigail said, “but even more important, he wants your forgiveness.”

“It’s time, I reckon.” Rachel stared at the ceiling. “I’ll talk to him.”

“When?” Abigail couldn’t allow her any time for procrastination.

“When I see him next. Don’t worry, Abigail. I understand your hurry. I won’t let you down.”

Pulling the door closed behind her, Abigail tiptoed to the staircase. Rachel’s bed creaked, giving evidence that she didn’t rest soundly, but besides medicating her, Abigail feared there was little she could do to ease her discomfort. She must be hurting powerfully indeed if she finally thought she could forgive Jeremiah.

Abigail stayed on her toes to keep her boot heels from echoing on the hollow steps. She’d nearly reached the bottom when Laurel whirled around the corner and stopped her descent.

“I’ve been waiting on you.” Laurel looked over her shoulder at Ma and her father. She lowered her voice. “Seriously, I need your help. What can I do about Jeremiah? He has been out of
sorts lately. I thought you might have an idea. He never seems to misbehave around you.”

If she only knew.

Abigail leaned against the stair rail and considered. “How’d you manage to keep Dr. Hopkins content?”

Laurel’s eyes softened. “With Newton, I didn’t have to think before I spoke or be careful what I said.”

“And Jeremiah’s different?” Abigail was puzzled. She’d never thought Jeremiah to be overly sensitive.

“It’s just certain things, like his leg for one. If I mention that he’s favoring it, he turns all sullen. If I offer to help him walk back to the house, he refuses. He’s just not as fun as he used to be.”

Imagine that. Abigail pitied both of them. “But you didn’t have that problem with Hopkins?”

“Not until the end.”

“What exactly happened between you?” Abigail asked.

Her bottom lip drooped. “He said he was plumb worn out over my hem-hawing around. He told me if I didn’t make a decision, then his offer was off the table. Can you believe it? He said he’d find a woman who knew her own mind better.”

“And you were surprised?”

Laurel’s eyes went wide. “Of course I was surprised. I thought he loved me. How could he give me a deadline—?”

An eruption cut off her words. Gunshots, glass exploding. Laurel dove for the floor, hitting Abigail’s legs and knocking her back into the stairwell. Ma’s scream rent the air.

Clawing her way over Laurel, Abigail crawled into the parlor. Another window shattered and plaster dust poofed over her head as a second volley of shots rang out.

Hiram had an arm thrown over Ma’s shoulders, pinning her to the floor. “Is she hurt?” she called to him.

But a voice from outside interrupted his answer.

“You’uns came hunting for us, stirring up trouble. Now we’re coming after you.” Cheers accompanied his boast.

Abigail raised herself enough to see through the broken window the three men who’d attacked Jeremiah and her. And the ringleader was riding Ladymare.

“You’d better watch your back, Calhoun. And tell your buddies that goes for them, too.”

She covered her head as another volley ricocheted off the exterior stone wall. She scrambled to her feet as they melted away into the woods. Glass littered the floor, and Ma’s table of newspaper clippings had been overturned. Sliding on the papers, Abigail all but pushed Hiram out of the way in her rush to get to Ma.

“She’s fine,” he said. “Maybe a few nicks from the glass.”

Rachel and Laurel entered together. Laurel ran across the room and threw herself into her father’s arms.

“Where’s Jeremiah?” Rachel asked.

Abigail’s heart dropped. If he’d been caught unaware . . . She couldn’t think. Just went into motion. Rachel reached the front door before Abigail could disentangle herself from Ma.

“Don’t, Rachel.” Abigail commanded. “They could still be out there.”

“But so is Jeremiah.”

Bending, Abigail scurried across the room and took Rachel by the arm. “Go to the kitchen and stay low. Everyone is just fine, but you can’t take the stress. Wait in there.”

Rachel obeyed without protest, but it didn’t help the sickening feeling in Abigail’s chest. Where was Jeremiah?

Ignoring her own advice, she knelt at the front door and cracked it open. There he lay on the front porch, face down, arms spread over his head.

“Jeremiah.” She ran outside, barely caring if the outlaws watched. But it wasn’t Jeremiah stretched out flat. It was Hopkins.

The doctor lifted his head. “Are they gone?” he asked.

Then Jeremiah appeared. Abigail fell on her backside next to Hopkins as Jeremiah ran out of the barn. “Get inside,” he called, but Abigail couldn’t move at all. She just sat on her rump, drinking in the sight of him running, uninjured.

Hopkins pushed up to his knees, wincing. “Come on.” He and Jeremiah fumbled over each other, each trying to help Abigail up and get everyone inside to safety.

If enjoying Jeremiah’s attention was wrong, she’d never be right again. Once everyone was inside, Jeremiah pushed the door closed behind him and locked it. Ma’s cries started afresh at Jeremiah’s entrance, although from relief now. One look at Hopkins and Laurel teared up, as well.

“Your back,” Laurel said. “What happened?”

Abigail would much rather look at unharmed Jeremiah, but duty called. She pulled the bloodied shirt away from Hopkins’s arm and ran her hand over his leather vest.

“It’s just splinters,” he said. “They shot the porch post and sent some chips through my shirt, but my vest caught most of them. Then I was able to get flat enough to hide on the porch. How’s everyone in here?”

“I fell on my arm,” Hiram said, “but I don’t think I opened up any wounds.”

“Just look at my parlor,” Ma wailed, proving she had no real injuries.

“You might be the only one injured,” Abigail said to Hopkins, a vague idea beginning to form. “But I’d better get Ma to bed before she has a conniption. Laurel can help you clean those scratches. You get that shirt off, and I’ll bring down some liniment and a clean bandage.”

If Jeremiah disapproved of her plans, he made no sign. He stood watch by the broken window. “Check on Rachel while you’re up there,” he said.

“She’s in the kitchen,” Abigail told him.

Broken glass crunched beneath his boots. He swung the kitchen door open and froze.

“She’s not in here,” he said. And at the look on Abigail’s face, he rushed ahead.

Jeremiah burst into the kitchen. Rachel wasn’t near the iron stove. She wasn’t sitting at the table, and she wasn’t under the table. She was gone, and there was only one way out other than the parlor.

The door to the outside swung on its hinges. And then he saw Rachel sprawled on the lawn.

It couldn’t happen. Not on his own farm. Not home where everyone was supposed to be safe. Without thought for his safety, Jeremiah ran to her. He rolled her over.

“No,” he cried. “No.”

Abigail flew across the yard to kneel beside him. She tugged her shawl free and tucked it around Rachel’s shoulders.

Rachel’s blue lips stretched tight, trying to suppress her moans.

“Why? Why would you come out here?” he demanded.

Her strength ebbed before his eyes. Struggling for breath, she answered. “You’ve always taken good care of me, big brother. I wanted to take care of you for a change.”

A chill ran through his body. He thought himself prepared for her passing, but not like this. He’d gone to war to keep his family safe, and here she’d given her life to save him.

Or nearly. She wasn’t dead yet.

“Can I pick her up?” he asked Abigail.