A Most Inconvenient Marriage (15 page)

The woman sitting before her was nothing more than a scared, bullying child controlling the only part of her life left to her, but Abigail wouldn’t shy away from Rachel’s displeasure like Ma did.

“We all have fond memories of Alan,” Abigail said, “and I’d think you would want to share them. He was a good man and deserves a remembrance.”

“Talking about him won’t bring him back. It won’t help him one bit.”

Abigail picked up Ma’s journal and folded it neatly. “No,
once someone passes it’s too late. Which is why we shouldn’t wait to express our love, our admiration . . . and our forgiveness.”

Rachel humphed. “You’re a nurse, not a minister. Why don’t you get me well instead of poking around where you’re not welcome?”

Abigail leaned forward. “I can’t get you well, Rachel. The fever has damaged your heart. I’ll do what I can to ease the inflammation and protect you from another onslaught, but the next round could be your last. Please don’t leave your mother and brother remembering only how angry you were. Nothing hurts like a hostile farewell.”

And Abigail should know. Had she understood the cost of her banishment, she would’ve fought harder to clear her name.

“If you truly understood what a fine man Alan was, then you’d understand why I can’t forgive Jeremiah for sending him to his death.”

“You hold Jeremiah responsible?” Abigail asked. “Alan didn’t. He was devastated that he lost his friend at Westport. Of course he didn’t name Jeremiah, but every story revolved around either his friend or his Juliet.”

“Stop.” Rachel swung her feet over the side of the bed. Her eyes shot daggers at Abigail. “I told you I don’t want to talk about him. You took my beau, and now you’re trying to weasel your way into my home. I see through your maneuvering. Your story about being Mrs. Calhoun didn’t stick, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t looking for another chance to make it true. Catching Jeremiah would mean you get this farm, and that’s what you’ve been after all along.”

Catching Jeremiah? Was there no end to Rachel’s outlandish claims? Abigail held her gaze just long enough to prove she wasn’t intimidated. “Alan sent me here, and I’ll stay until my
work is done. And I can promise you I have no designs on your brother.”

With a disbelieving huff, Rachel fell back onto her pillow. Abigail stood and straightened the quilt tangled beneath her, still ittitated by the idea. She’d been desperate enough to marry a stranger the first time, and her circumstances hadn’t improved since then. Yet marrying a dying man was a far cry from being bound forever to an opinionated, disruptive force like Jeremiah. There were worse fates than being a widow.

She didn’t know what she would do, but she could say with certainty what she wouldn’t. The sooner Jeremiah won Laurel back, the sooner everyone would be at ease.

Bending at the waist with Josephine’s hoof supported against her thigh, Abigail ran the hoof pick alongside the horse’s frog, knocking loose the mud from the day’s ride. While she wasn’t giving up on Rachel, Abigail needed this time with the horses. Working with them reminded her of her father . . . and reminded her of a time when she was valued.

When her father died, Abigail determined she’d look after her mother and make certain they’d never lack. She woke early and oversaw the grooms, not afraid to pitch in and shovel, feed, or saddle if necessary. When buyers visited she helped her mother provide a fitting reception and then dealt with them professionally, just as her father had taught her. Even her older brothers, by then working their own farms, were impressed. Constantly her mother sang her praises to their friends, so pleased that her daughter could manage the large operation on her own, but when John Dennison came calling, her mother no longer needed her.

Abigail took up the brush and swept loose the remaining
debris caught in the horseshoe. John was the thief. He stole her mother from her. He stole her farm and her horses, and when she challenged him, he claimed she had taken his gold pocket watch. Ridiculous. No one would believe it—except her mother.

When John threatened to banish her if she didn’t return it, her mother stood silent. Furious, Abigail had stomped upstairs, threw her clothes into a traveling case, and left, thinking they’d track her to town and beg her to return. But they didn’t. Well, she could be just as stubborn. She wouldn’t go back if they didn’t want her.

As she picked through Josephine’s last hoof, Jeremiah entered. Looking up, Abigail blew a wisp of hair out of her face. “I’ll be done here in a second.” She didn’t bother asking if he needed something. Obviously he wasn’t looking for her company.

He lifted the end of the oak table and swung it into position against the wall of the barn. Jeremiah hopped into place and scooted his back against the wall.

“This old leg feels worse today than it has for a while.”

“You shouldn’t push yourself so hard.” She ran the brush over the bottom of the hoof, flicking the dirt and leaves free.

“Doing nothing hasn’t worked. Might as well try your methods.”

Abigail lowered Josephine’s leg and set her tools aside. “I suppose you’re my next patient?” She brushed off her hands and pushed the bittersweet memories of her family behind her. If she didn’t earn a home here, she had nowhere to go. She’d let her first home go too easily. She wouldn’t give up this one without a fight.

After leading Josephine to her stall, Abigail climbed up on the table beside Jeremiah and fitted her mind into a professional reference. However much he frustrated her, however deeply their lives were temporarily intertwined, he fit a category that removed
barriers and forbade emotion. He was her patient. What would Rachel think about their secret meetings in the barn? Would she insist they were part of Abigail’s scheme to seduce Jeremiah? If so, she didn’t know Abigail at all. True, Jeremiah was handsome and had a vibrancy that was impossible to ignore, but Abigail wasn’t the type to insist on attention. She’d rather do her job and be judged by her performance than try to beguile someone into a favorable response. She wanted him to admit she was an asset, not be blinded by infatuation. Empty flattery had never healed any of her patients. Competency and efficiency did.

Although, with his clean soap and fresh laundry he smelled a lot better than any man she’d ever helped before. Tenderly she probed the back side of his leg, encountering the hardened mass deep beneath the skin.

“Let’s loosen you up first.”

He cleared his throat and looked away as she massaged his leg. Obviously he still wasn’t comfortable with her this close. Maybe once they got to know each other better, the awkwardness would fade.

Or maybe not.

She slid his foot forward, then leaned her arm against his knee. “Tell me when I’m pushing hard enough.”

“I’m trying to set my mind on something else.” He leaned against the wall, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes. “But all I can think about is how you’re torturing me.”

“Think about Laurel.” Abigail released the pressure. “Tell me how you met.”

She briskly jostled his leg, shaking it loose before returning him to the stretch.

“We grew up on the same mountain, all the way back to when she was a barefoot gal running around in short skirts.” He grimaced, and then through clenched teeth he continued.
“Pretty little thing. We reached an understanding before I left for the war.”

“Engaged?” Abigail asked

“Purt near. Her pa thought her a bit young, so we decided to settle the matter when I returned.”

Four years ago Laurel would’ve been quite young. She still seemed immature to Abigail, but it wasn’t her place to notice. “Waiting was probably best for both of you.”

He squirmed and the muscles in his neck tightened. If only he could stop fighting against the pain. She reached up and brushed her fingers along his neck. His eyes opened and he jumped away as if she’d touched him with a hot poker.

“What’s that for?”

Abigail straightened. “You need to relax. If you’re in that much pain, then we should slow down.”

A flush crept up his neck. “You spooked me. That’s all.”

“Try to remember this is only medical, Captain Calhoun.”

The corner of his mouth tilted up. “How would you feel if I had my hands all over you?”

A bolt of lightning jolted through Abigail. Too well could she picture herself seated at the table with him leaning over her, his strong arms wrapped beneath her. She snatched her hands away. A thud sounded outside the high window. Giggling and quick steps brought Jeremiah to his knees atop the table. He pulled himself up to the window.

“It’s the Huckabee kids.” He rearranged his collar. “They moved a barrel beneath the window and were snooping on us.”

Abigail paced from the stone wall to the stall. “I’m employing techniques for which Dr. Ling of Sweden has become world renowned. There’s nothing to be embarrassed over.” But she was.

“Those ornery young’uns will make the most of their story.”

How many men had she washed, cleaned, performed the most humiliating chores for when they couldn’t do it themselves? Working together was not a crime. She would not cower before the flimsy threat of a rumor. They must focus on their goal. And she mustn’t think about his hands.

“Back to work, then,” she said. “Getting your leg straight is a priority, but we also need to strengthen it.”

“Now you’re talking. I want to be able to pull like a draft horse.”

“Then sit on the ground over here.” Finally on a safe topic, Abigail’s mind clicked along the steps she wanted to accomplish before the morning got too late and they were missed. She grabbed the corner of a heavy feed sack, gripping the scratchy burlap as it rasped against her hands, and tugged it in place before him.

“Bend your leg up as close to your body as you can get it.”

He drew his bad leg to his chest, best he could. With a final heave Abigail pushed the bag over, and it dropped on his toes.

His eyebrows rose. “You gonna bury me?”

“Jury’s still out.” She stooped to move the milking stool, making the way clear. “Push that sack of feed with your bad leg. Just stretch it out as far as you can.”

His mouth firmed and determination flared in his eyes. His foot indented the tight sack, but it didn’t budge. He took a deep breath and pushed again. Nothing moved.

“I’ll look for a lighter sack.” Abigail started past him, but he caught her ankle with an iron grip.

His shoulders curved forward, his eyes bore ahead, channeling all his strength toward the feed sack. The determination she so admired was on full display. His hand tightened on her ankle, but he didn’t seem to notice. He strained his leg, then again. And again. The sack rocked with each pulse until it slid an inch. He
kept at it until it went another, slower than a grapevine grows, until his leg was extended to its farthest possible length.

His eyes glowed fiercely. He grunted with a sense of accomplishment and gave her ankle a squeeze, his fingers brushing just above where her boot ended. Then his eyebrows jumped, his hand shot away, and he tucked it under himself as if he could hide it. He didn’t raise his head. Didn’t say a word.

Abigail backed away, suddenly wishing for a large dipper of water to splash down her burning throat. She couldn’t work with him if she continued to have such unladylike thoughts. On the other hand, how could she stop when he was making progress?

She’d never had this problem before.

With her toe she pointed to the feed sack. “Scoot forward and do it again. Stop when you reach the wall. I’m going now. Going to the ash hopper to collect lye.”

He didn’t stop her, which was a good thing. She might need some time before they worked together again. Some time to remind herself that he was her patient . . . and that her patient was in love with another woman.

Jeremiah didn’t remember learning to walk the first time, but this time wasn’t a lick of fun. His muscles hurt. His awkward jabs frustrated him. Why couldn’t his leg just obey? Why’d it have to act so contrary?

Pushing the bag away from the wall, Jeremiah was just fixing to start the other way when he heard his name called.

“Jeremiah! Jeremiah, come to the house.” The choppy words proof that Ma was running.