A Most Inconvenient Marriage (14 page)

Fortunately there weren’t any bad guys to see them as they barreled out of their hiding place, but they would’ve been a tough shot the way they were weaving from side to side.

Giving up on sneaking anywhere, Jeremiah would settle on making it home. Poor Lancaster. The mash had so impaired his sight that he would’ve run himself smack dab into a tree if Jeremiah had let him. Of course he didn’t, but a tug on a rein that should’ve corrected his path instead sent him careening toward another obstacle, swaying first one way, then the other.

If they did run into trouble, Jeremiah dearly hoped they’d just shoot the horse.

The ground leveled. Lancaster stopped to pant. Jeremiah pried his knuckles off the reins. Never in the cavalry had he experienced such a harrowing charge. More gently now, he urged Lancaster forward. His head drooped and he lagged as if pushing himself each step. And who should be there to note their arrival but Abigail and Calbert walking out of the barn. She halted midstep to stare. Her voice carried to Calbert, his mother, everyone to witness his disgrace.

“Come on, Lancaster. Try to get home without embarrassing us both.”

But Lancaster had done give out. He sank on his haunches and sat like a mule.

Now even his mother had made it outside. Abigail was running toward him, Calbert hurrying just behind.

“Get up, you worthless piece of horsehide,” he mumbled. “Come on, get up.”

With a heave and another burp, Lancaster rose to his unsteady feet. Abigail swung the barn gate open for him.

“What happened? Is he shot?”

Ma scurried toward him. “Shot? You’re shot?”

“No one’s shot.” Jeremiah tried to direct Lancaster into the
barn, but Abigail caught his bridle and started her own inspection.

“What’s that smell?” She leaned close to his side. Jeremiah held motionless as her upturned nose twitched. “Whiskey? You haven’t been drinking, have you?”

His mother cried out and covered her mouth. Calbert removed his hat and scratched his head, looking like he wanted a place to hide.

“No, I haven’t been drinking. It’s this miserable horse. I found a still up on the ridge, and he helped himself to the sour mash while I took a look around.”

“The horse is tipsy?” Calbert asked. “If that don’t beat all.”

“You should try riding a skunked horse down a mountain,” Jeremiah said.

“The way he’s belching, I think he might want some fresh air. Let me unsaddle him and get him to water.” Noticing the slight pout to her lips, Jeremiah had to guess that Abigail’s visit hadn’t gone as planned. With one last stroke she led the horse to the barn.

“Don’t be scaring me like that, Jeremiah. I thought you were hurt.” Ma lifted the hem of her black skirt and ambled back to the house.

“A still, you say?” Calbert squinted toward the mountain. “Did you see anyone?”

“No, but someone had been keeping the fire until they saw me coming up.” Jeremiah looked over his shoulder. “How’s Rankin?”

Calbert shook his head. “By the time we got there, he was too far gone. We stayed until his last breath.”

“And Abigail?”

“She’s taking it hard. They didn’t want to let her help and after they did, he died anyway.” Calbert dusted his knee. “I’d
best get home. Don’t want Mrs. Huckabee to be alone with the babies if there’s a killer out.”

Calbert climbed aboard his mule as Jeremiah made his way back to the barn and found Abigail combing her fingers through Lancaster’s mane.

“Calbert told me about Rankin,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I did everything I could. No one could’ve saved him.” Her fingers glided over the horse’s neck. Lancaster stood transfixed.

“I’m sure they realize that. They have no reason to question your skill.”

“They will now. And it doesn’t help any that you’ve already denounced me.”

“Me? I’ve never said anything to the Rankins about your nursing.”

Forgetting the horse, she spun to face him. “But just you being here calls my honesty into question, especially after I told everyone I’m your wife and you said that we’d never met.”

A familiar warmth crept over him—the same warmth that appeared every time the subject of their marriage came up. “I have to tell the truth. We aren’t married.”

“I know, but it’s very inconvenient.”

“You have no idea.” He shifted his crutch before his underarm got sore. Losing a patient would hurt. Almost like losing one of your men. Next thing you knew, you were questioning your abilities, your calling. He’d been there, and the only way to get over it was to move on until you reached another victory.

“Come on,” he said. “Our morning appointment was interrupted, but there’s no reason we can’t start now.”

“Really?” The slightest smile from her could coax a badger out of his sett. “I would like that.”

“So what do I do?”

She found Calbert’s missing rag and brushed the goat drop
pings off the old table. “This table will work. Move it so only the narrow end is against the wall.”

Not easy while holding the crutch, but possible. He grasped the end of the table and swung it away from the stone wall. Then with two swinging moves of his crutch, he was at the head. He lifted and pushed it into place, leaving enough room for Abigail to make her way around it.

She inspected the table, paying particular attention to a wobbly leg. “I don’t imagine it’ll overturn. Climb on up.”

Was he really going through with this? He had to remember that besides encouraging Abigail, his true motivation was Laurel. She deserved a husband who could walk and work, who could help her up and down stairs instead of needing assistance himself. If submitting to Abigail’s insane theories could help him win Laurel, then it was worth it.

Tossing the crutch aside, Jeremiah lifted himself and slid onto the table until his back was against the wall as Abigail directed.

“Straighten both legs as much as you can.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” One leg lay flat. The other had enough space beneath his knee for a raccoon to pass. “It won’t stretch.”

“It doesn’t want to stretch,” Abigail said. “Our job is to make it.”

He had tried. Didn’t she realize how hard he’d tried? Evidently not. Taking a milking stool, she placed it near the table and stepped up to sit at his side.

Too close for his conscience. He scooted to the far edge to keep space between them, but she stopped him.

“I’m trying to get close to you. Don’t run off.”

He could feel his face growing warm. “What if Calbert comes back? He’ll know for sure something funny’s going on.”

“Don’t worry, by the time I’m done you’ll hurt so bad, you’ll despise me.”

Jeremiah swallowed. “Let’s hope.”

Twisting so she faced him, Abigail placed one hand beneath his knee and one above it. “I’m going to put some weight here. Tell me when it hurts.”

He watched her long fingers against his trouser leg. He was trying to help her forget the death of a patient, but how far was he willing to go? A woman really shouldn’t act so familiar. It could give a man the wrong idea, but then pain shot up his back. He gritted his teeth and forgot any attraction she held.

“I’m going to hold it here for a ten count,” she said. “Try to release the muscles.”

He grunted.

“Breathe, Jeremiah. Unclench your fists. You’re fighting the pain.”

“But I’m winning.” His back felt clammy against his shirt. Sweating without even moving. She let go.

“I told you to tell me when it hurt.” She reached her hand beneath his leg and touched his hamstring.

He grabbed her wrist as his pulse sped. There were limits—for her own safety as well as his. “Don’t you get frisky.”

She glared at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Unfortunately, his dreams most likely would contain some part of this encounter. A lock of blond hair brushed against his sleeve, the curl catching and separating on his rough homespun shirt. He closed his eyes as she probed the back side of his leg. “Please get back to the hurting part,” he rasped.

She kneaded the hard knot of his scar. “Feel that? That Minie ball tore all this muscle when it passed through. It grew back together just like God intended, but it drew up short.”

“Considering my foot barely reaches the floor, I’d say I guessed
as much.” He didn’t know where to look, not with her sitting so close.

Reaching to his ankle she slid his foot forward until it resisted. This time she leaned the underside of her arm against his knee. The warmth of her body washed through his pant leg.

“Thank you for letting me do this,” she said. “I’d like to think I accomplished something positive today . . . besides making you uncomfortable.”

With her hands all over him he was beyond uncomfortable. He’d welcome pain if it chased away temptations. But more than the pain was the fear that his muscle would tear. He could imagine it snapping, detaching, and recoiling like a broken spring. His elbows tightened against his torso, his back arched.

“It hurts.” The words made him feel defeated, like he was giving in.

“Good. Stop fighting it. Breathe.” She continued to lean on his leg, but put a hand on his chest. “Release this. Let it rest. Your shoulders. Make them soft.”

She ran her hand across his arms, her light touch sending chills down his spine. Good thing Laurel never touched him like this. It was hard enough to ignore this stranger. Better to focus on his leg, which, to his surprise, had lowered a hair more. A new wave of pain caused his gut to tighten, but with effort he willed his body to submit.

“I bet you didn’t do this to Alan. Else he wouldn’t have married you.”

She finished the count, then rose off him. “I couldn’t rehabilitate a limb that was gone. You have more to work with.”

He drew his knee up and shook out the burning. “I don’t know what I expected, but that wasn’t it.”

Abigail smiled and patted his leg in a gesture that was surprisingly comforting, considering his confusion seconds ago.

He pulled his left leg up to bend it at the same angle and compared the two, the strong versus the withered. If he could straighten the leg, he could strengthen it. Maybe there was hope after all.

“Let’s do it again,” he said.

C
HAPTER 10

Abigail pulled off her slat bonnet and fanned herself as she walked to the house. Having already put the horses through their morning exercises, she turned her attention again toward her patients—two of them now. Truly she hadn’t expected Captain Calhoun to submit to her instructions with such dedication. Yesterday it’d taken her a quarter of an hour to convince him that there was a limit to what they could accomplish in one appointment. Thankfully he’d finally believed her, or else they’d still be in that barn—and then what would Calbert think?

Abigail grinned. As if she’d have her head turned by Jeremiah Calhoun. During the war she’d worked with handsomer patients than him—fresh-faced boys with rakish grins pouring on the Southern charm even as their lives ebbed away, men whose classical features would’ve inspired Renaissance sculptors. This backwoods Missouri boy couldn’t hold a candle to them. Not with his square jaw, his aquiline nose, and his . . . well, there was something about his eyes. She slowed as she approached the house. What was it that made them unsatisfactory? Perhaps because they found everything more interesting than they did
her. Why, even yesterday when she’d been helping him out of the goodness of her heart, he’d rather close his eyes in boredom than acknowledge her.

Just as well. His indifference protected her. Abigail had learned to guard her heart at the prison. Too many men died. Caring grew costly. But she’d never been in a situation like this—one patient over a course of months, living together with his family. A weaker woman might mistake concern for affection.

From the stairwell, Abigail heard Rachel’s voice. “Why do you read those papers, Ma? Don’t they make you sad over what you’re missing out on?”

“Of course not, dear. The journals are only to ‘broaden my horizons,’ as it says on the cover.”

“Well, I understand wishing you had a different life.”

Ma stashed the ladies’ paper on the table next to her just as Abigail entered the room. A cloud of smoke curtained Rachel. With two fingers Rachel removed her pipe and blew a slow, steady draught directly in Abigail’s direction.

“Do you think you’re hurting me by making yourself sicker?” Abigail asked.

“It’s not about you. I’m doing what makes me happy.”

Ma fanned the cloud away. “You don’t think it’s bad for her, do you? I thought if it relieved her rheumatism, it couldn’t hurt.”

“Her achy joints won’t kill her,” Abigail said. “Lack of oxygen and stress on the heart will.” But sharing that information only distressed Ma. Best to get her out and her mind on something more productive. “I thought you might enjoy working in your garden while it’s still cool outside.”

Ma tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear and pushed out of her chair. “That’s a fine idea. No reason to wait until it’s scorching.”

Rachel’s eyes darted from Abigail to her mother, as if trying
to make a decision. “Go on, Ma,” she said at last. “I can sit by myself.”

“No need for that. Abigail will stay with you.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.” Rachel’s thin mouth twitched, almost smiling at her own ill temper.

“She’ll be just fine.” Abigail sat beside Rachel’s bed as Ma departed. “Or we could go outside. Nothing’s preventing you from leaving the house. I’ll make you a pallet in the shade if you’d like a change of scenery.”

“Will you let me smoke outside?”

Abigail shook her head and extended her hand. With a generous amount of muttering Rachel passed the pipe to her. “If you have something to say, we’d might as well get it over with.”

Abigail opened the window to lessen the effects of the tobacco smoke. The warm breeze tossed the flowered curtains against her arms. “I wanted to talk about Alan, actually. I knew him for only a few weeks and I miss him. I wish you’d tell me more about him.”

Rachel placed a hand to her chest. Her breathing sped, shallow pants that measured her displeasure by half gulps. “Those memories are mine. Maybe I don’t want to share them, especially with you.”