A Most Inconvenient Marriage (7 page)

The woman had hung the lantern on the hook and had taken up the brush. How she could have missed his approach when he was bristling like a razorback boar, he couldn’t fathom. He hadn’t tried to be quiet, but there she stood, deep in thought while brushing that dreadful bag of bones that had carried him home.

She looked the part. Pretty enough to pull off a heist, confident enough to think she could get away with it. Even now she was probably concocting a story or devising a plan to bamboozle him. His mother might be easy to fool, but he wasn’t. Good thing he came home when he did.

“Planning to steal my horse?”

She didn’t look up. Her calm strokes continued uninterrupted. “If so, I wouldn’t take this one, although she’s not without value.” She combed her long fingers through the mane. “Combine her girth with Lancaster’s strength, and you’d get a good pulling horse. She wouldn’t produce a Saturday racer, but people need to pull up rocks and tree stumps more than winning a bet.”

Jeremiah blinked. She knew horses. Whatever her strategy, he hadn’t expected that approach.

She turned and unabashedly stared at his hands with eyes too cunning for her gentle face. “A man in prison little resembles the man on the street. I wouldn’t expect to recognize Jeremiah Calhoun dressed, groomed, and presentable, but I would expect him to recognize me. And I’d expect him to be missing an arm.”

“I’m sorry. Would you like me to lop one off for you? If I’d known that I’d ruin your game, I would’ve been more considerate and stayed dead like I was supposed to.”

Her lips pursed. “This isn’t a game. I came because of my promise to a dying man. He told me about his sister, Rachel, and his horse farm. He sent me here. If it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

“Fortunately, I’m not the least bit curious. Nice story. I applaud your efforts, but it’s over. Perhaps you can follow the Union troops out west and find another victim to—”

The woman took the lantern and marched out of the barn into the darkening evening. The lights from the rock house across the span of yard winked at him. His home. How he wanted to just rest—forget supper, forget catching up—to just lie down somewhere safe for a night. But he had one more obstacle to remove before his home was secure.

“Where are you going?” he called to her back.

“To my room.”

“That’s not your room. It’s mine.” Jeremiah hobbled to catch her.

“I have nowhere else to go, and I’m tired. I got up early to go to the Wallaces’ this morning, and—”

“The Wallaces’?” Jeremiah stumbled. “What were you doing there?”

She didn’t slow down. The raw end of the crutch had a tendency to slide on gravel, but Jeremiah had to risk it to catch her.

Her words were as brisk as her steps. “I had to talk to Dr. Hopkins about one of his cases, and I knew I could find him there.”

Dr. Hopkins at the Wallaces’? Was Hiram sick? Before he could ask, she continued.

“I really like Laurel, by the way. We’re getting on splendidly.”

Jeremiah stopped again. The woman should be horsewhipped. He gritted his teeth. The thought of Laurel believing her lies liked to kill him. He wouldn’t allow this impostor to stay a moment longer than necessary.

He watched her stride toward the house, jealous of her ability to cover ground. Well, she wouldn’t walk all over him. For years he’d dreamt of the moment when he’d return to claim Laurel for his own. He wasn’t about to let a tricky Yankee get in his way.

Abigail slammed the bedroom door behind her and fell against it. Who was he? She unbuttoned her collar, fighting for air. According to Ma and Rachel, the man whose voice she could hear lecturing her through the door was Jeremiah. But whom had she married? Who was Romeo?

Her head throbbed. How many times had the descriptions of judgmental Jeremiah failed to correspond with jovial Romeo? The man’s hazel eyes, his square jaw, even the hawkish nose were family traits she now recognized. How could she have ignored all the inconsistencies?

Only after she heard Ma’s gentle voice trying to control her son did Abigail relinquish her post at the door.

If anyone was at fault, it was she. She tried to imagine herself in his situation, returning home after four years, injured, weary, only to be called a liar and told he was supposed to be dead. Abigail sank onto the bed and covered her face. What a welcome she’d given him. As if Ma and Rachel didn’t recognize their own son and brother! She had to make things right. She owed him an apology.

Abigail poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on her nightstand. The water sloshed as she fought to steady her hands. If he was Jeremiah, then she had no right to be there. The horses, the farm, the cozy rock house—she’d never see any of it again. And what about Ma? How could Abigail abandon her adopted family? Leaving her home the first time had ripped her heart in two. She couldn’t do it again. Not when she’d finally found people who needed her. Surely she could reason with Captain Calhoun. Surely she could prove to him that she was an asset.

From the tone of his voice outside the door, he hadn’t relin
quished his rights to his bedroom yet. She set down the glass and opened the door to find a glowering man still pleading with his mother to expel her.

“Captain Calhoun,” she said. “May I have a word with you?”

His eyes pierced her. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Abigail stepped back into the room to allow him entrance. He rapped the doorframe with his crutch.

“You are not my wife. Don’t think that I’ll be hornswoggled into saving your reputation. I wouldn’t hesitate to have you run out of town.”

“This isn’t a trick. Anything said in the parlor can be heard upstairs, and I’d like a private word if you don’t mind.”

Jeremiah looked to his mother for permission. Abigail rolled her eyes. As if she had designs on his virtue. Honestly.

Evidently Ma thought he was safe, for he entered. His eyes scanned the room greedily. Realizing he hadn’t seen his room for years, Abigail gave him a moment to take it in. He nodded as if pleased to find it as he remembered, until his eyes caught her emerald taffeta wrapper hanging on a hook. With that his pleasure vanished.

“Captain Calhoun, I want to apologize. I no longer doubt your word that you are Jeremiah.”

“There’s progress.”

“But we owe it to your family to figure out who sent me. The man I married at Gratiot Street gave me specific instructions—”

“Really, miss . . . what is your proper name?”

“Everyone here calls me Mrs. Calhoun, but I suppose you should call me Abigail.”

He looked like he’d just as soon put on skirts and perform “The Merry Widow Waltz.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two months.”

“You’ve had two months to go about telling your tale, spinning your windies, telling everyone you’re my wife?”

“I don’t know if I’ve met everyone—”

He threw his hat on the dresser. “If you’ve lived here for two months, then word’s got out. How are you going to fix this mess?”

He had every right to be angry, she reminded herself. She couldn’t blame him, although she could wish he wasn’t standing so close, glowering at her. Abigail tried to take a step back, but her knees were already pressed against her bed.

His bed.

And even as tall as she was, her eyes only came up to his mouth. A rather nice mouth, if it wasn’t so busy frowning at her.

“I understand how confusing this must be for you,” she said. “I’m confused, too. I don’t know how I could’ve made such a mistake, but maybe there’s an explanation. The Jeremiah Calhoun I met claimed to have a head injury and didn’t give us his name until the very end. We thought he was bluffing, but maybe we were wrong. Maybe his memories got confused. I can’t explain it. All I can say is that I mean you and your family no harm. We’ll figure this out soon.”

“But you’re sticking to your story? You’re not hiding anything?”

Abigail would never tell anyone about her stepfather’s accusations or her mother’s betrayal—no use in stirring up more suspicion. Maybe that qualified as hiding something, so she settled with saying, “I’m telling you the truth.” So far.

He picked up the timepiece off the nightstand and turned it over in his hands. With his head bowed he reminded her of a little boy examining a treasure. “I’m so tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of enemies. I wanted to come home and find some peace,
but if there’s none to be found, then I’ll keep striving. Fighting might be all I’m fit for anymore.”

“The war is over, sir.”

“Is it? Are my family and farm safe?” He narrowed his eyes and did a perfunctory account of her from head to toe. “Mother said you’re welcome to sleep in her room—at least for one night. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have the energy to throw you out properly.”

Abigail recognized a hint of satisfaction in his last words. He stumped past her and collapsed on the bed while she gathered her nightclothes from the wardrobe. By the time she’d removed her robe from the hook, he was snoring softly.

“Only one night?” Abigail folded her clothes over her arm. She’d determined to stay on this farm, but the appearance of the real Jeremiah Calhoun had thrown her plans awry. Regardless, she had invested in his property, and she wouldn’t leave empty-handed. Tomorrow they’d talk and perhaps she could work out a deal with him. But if Captain Calhoun planned to run her off, he’d better be prepared for one last battle.

C
HAPTER 5

Home. He’d thought of it for years while digging trenches, sleeping in his saddle and eating wormy hardtack. Home where his loved ones waited on him. Home where he could bend his efforts toward healing, strive to mend instead of destroy. But now he was here, and he didn’t know what to do. With his bad leg curled up, Jeremiah sat on the stone steps leading up to the house and watched the sun rise over the ridge.

The Lord is my
rock, and my fortress . . . my strength, in whom I will
trust.
And he’d need a heap of strength now that he was a cripple. Was God’s offer of help still good even if Jeremiah had much to account for?

He had blood on his hands, but God allowed for soldiers. The Old Testament was full of them. Only problem was he hadn’t been fighting pagan Canaanites or blasphemous Romans. How exactly did God judge between His children?

And then there was Rachel and Alan, although God didn’t need to chastise him for that. Jeremiah already felt whipped, and just in case he was too easy on himself, it looked like Rachel would continue with the punishment.

So whether or not he and God were good, he couldn’t guess. All he could do was to thank Him for getting him home and for taking care of his mother, his sister, and Laurel while he was gone. And pray that they heard from Alan soon.

As far as his tasks, planting was behind. His mother had set a garden, but much smaller than they’d had before the war. Would he be able to plow the field? Reckon he had no choice. Rachel couldn’t, and Jeremiah couldn’t imagine his mother behind the plow. Where was Alan when he needed him?

Where
was
Alan?

A shadow in the trees moved. Likely a deer, but would he ever stop feeling the urge to shout an alarm when he saw someone approach? The codger broke through the trees, took one look at Jeremiah, and then stumbled backwards.

Jeremiah smiled. “Come on, Calbert. You ain’t seeing a ghost.”

Calbert snatched his hat off and scratched his head. “Somehow I knew you’d be back. I just couldn’t imagine that you were really gone for good.” He lumbered up the drive while Jeremiah got his crutch situated in time to give the man the bear hug he’d come after. Ever since Jeremiah’s father’s death, Calbert Huckabee had stepped into the void and done his best to see that none of Jeremiah’s raisings was neglected. Jeremiah owed him much, and as he considered the farm it was obvious that Calbert had continued his care while Jeremiah was gone.

“The place doesn’t look half bad,” Jeremiah said, “and I know it’s on account of you.”

Still smiling up at him with shining eyes, Calbert waved away his praise. “Your ma kept it middlin’. She just needed a hand now and then.”

“Like the milking every morning? I should’ve known Ma didn’t do that.”

“No, it’s been Abigail recently. She’s a much better hand than your ma or your sister. Hard worker, too.”

If she was such a hard worker, why didn’t she earn herself a farm instead of trying to trick him out of his? “Calbert, I know nothing about that woman. I’ve never seen her before, and I sure as shooting didn’t marry her.”

Calbert scratched his chest. “Abigail wouldn’t lie. I’ve spent a fair piece of time with her. . . . Well, it wouldn’t do any good to argue with you, I suppose. Still, you might want to reconsider your stance. You could do a lot worse.” Calbert noticed his leg, then looked away quickly. “I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Jeremiah tightened his grip on his crutch. “I know you didn’t.”

“Well, I was just headed to the barn. Tell Abigail I’m started on the chores.”

“Thanks again for everything, Calbert. Ma couldn’t have made it without you.” Jeremiah took the two steps to the porch, cursing his crutch, and hobbled to the door. By the light of day, he could see the stacks of his mother’s journal clippings, her bell collection, and the spinning wheel all in their place. Perhaps less dust than he remembered, but memories tended to shift, given enough time.