A Most Inconvenient Marriage (20 page)

She thought she’d faint.

Taking one end of the cloth between his teeth, he ripped it into bandages. She couldn’t swallow, not until he held her hands again.

“I understand how you feel,” he said. “But after all you’ve done for me, don’t you dare tell me I can’t do this for you.”

It was humbling to have someone else doctor her, especially when she’d been in the man’s arms an hour earlier, acting like a complete wanton.

Knowing the sooner he was finished, the sooner she could work on Josephine’s leg, she submitted until he tied a tight square knot and released her. She stumbled backwards, desperate to get some space between them.

He propped his fists against his waist. “Now, about your other injury . . .”

Whatever blood was left in her body drained from her face into her throbbing ankle. “You aren’t touching my . . . anywhere else.”

His neck reddened. “I wasn’t going to. All I meant was if you can’t walk, I can help you.”

Well, that was certainly ironic. Abigail tugged on her collar. “It’s only turned. I can walk it out.”

But first to look after Josephine. Turning her attention to her task, Abigail knelt and ran her hand down the horse’s forearm to her knee, so the touch wouldn’t surprise the skittish mare. The teeth of the trap had dug painfully into her fetlock but had mercifully missed the tendons. While there might be chips of bone that could cause her trouble, all signs pointed to a complete recovery.

“Who would do this to a horse?” Abigail gently pulled back scraped hide to clean the cuts as best she could.

“Maybe the same man who killed Rankin and stole Varina’s horse.” Jeremiah scanned the woods surrounding his farm. “Make sure you stay close to the house.”

Abigail sighed. Just when she most wanted to get away from this man, he was short-leashing her. He’d better behave himself, or he might find her more dangerous than anyone else he’d crossed today.

No longer could Abigail blame Rachel for the crackling tension in the house. Fearing that the lone man was a dangerous bushwhacker, Ma kept a constant vigil at the windows all day while Jeremiah worked outside alone—and he was alone because Abigail refused to put herself in his path again. Her sore ankle wouldn’t serve as an excuse for long, but she’d be firm. She’d come to the Ozarks to tend Rachel, and she’d neglected her station. Although no remedies she knew of could cure the woman, Abigail wanted to prepare Rachel for a peaceful farewell. She’d walked to the doors of death with more men than any reverend, and she knew a thing or two about the regrets that often met them there.

Not that one had to die before they became acquainted with regrets. She dumped the dough out of the wooden bowl and onto the table. On the long evenings of half light after the chores were done, Abigail had ample time to wonder if she could’ve done anything different. Perhaps when John sold her horses, she could’ve held her temper. But would it have mattered? Was he just looking for an excuse to run her off? What if she’d refused to leave? Would her mother have listened? Then again, she’d
written home before and didn’t get a reply. All that was left was for her to make the best of her situation.

A situation that was getting worse. Even through her pretended indifference, Rachel had noticed the tension between Abigail and Jeremiah that evening, and Ma had asked if either of them were coming down with something. Abigail’s medical training led her to suspect a case of regretful osculation—a horrible condition that left one feeling resentful and irrational. Hopefully she’d soon recover and be inoculated from further bouts. Until then, she blamed her moodiness on her bandaged hands.

Tenderly she glided the wooden rolling pin over the mound, leaning her shoulders into her work until the dough spread flat on the table. Dusting more flour, she flipped it over and rolled it from the other side, an awkward endeavor considering Jeremiah’s bandages resembled mittens. According to Ma, pumpkin pie was Rachel’s favorite. Abigail hoped Rachel appreciated her gesture.

“If she’s sweet on him, why ain’t she sitting by him on the porch?”

Abigail’s rolling halted at Betsy Huckabee’s whispered question. She leaned toward the open window to catch Josiah’s next words. “They must’ve gotten cross at each other. Pa said Jeremiah went to see Miss Laurel today.”

“Poor Miss Abigail. No wonder she’s staying clear of him.”

Oh, the stories they were concocting. Ever since they’d snooped on her in the barn, Abigail had determined to better them. They weren’t the only ones who could pull a caper. She cast about the kitchen looking for something to surprise them with. A jug of water out the window? Too obvious. A sudden
Boo
? Not scary enough. And then she realized the answer was at her fingertips.

Quickly Abigail gouged out two holes in the pie crust. Dragging her fingers downward she created drooping triangles, and then a horizontal gash where the mouth should be. She smoothed her hair back, although it didn’t matter. She’d be filthy, but it’d be worth it. Peeling the crust from the table she draped it over her head, arranging the eye holes and mouth appropriately. If done correctly she’d look like the ghoul of every child’s nightmare, flesh melting off the bones, eyes and mouth distorted. Even her bandaged hands looked like something from the crypt.

Hobbling to the window, Abigail sighed dramatically. The rustling beneath the window stopped as she began her performance, surprised by the ease with which the emotion gushed forth.

“Poor, poor me. Now that Captain Calhoun has seen my true appearance, how will I ever earn his love? No one can look at me without horror.” She’d rather he not look at her at all, but she wasn’t going to let the little pranksters get away again.

The whispering commenced. “Shh. She’s in there. What did she say?” The peony bush rustled against the rock wall.

“If only the fairy hadn’t cursed me.” Abigail flattened her back against the wall, thinking it better not to mention Captain Calhoun again. “If only I hadn’t promised her my youth in exchange for the love potion.” The cool breeze floated in, but her face didn’t feel it through the layer of dough. They argued in whispers until she heard them reach their final compromise.

“We’ll both look.”

Their bare feet padded up the wall as they hoisted themselves up. Abigail waited until she saw grimy fingers clutching at the sill, then sprang forward, thrusting her dough-covered face toward theirs.

“AHHHH!!”

Through the holes in her pastry mask Abigail saw their
mouths stretch wide, their eyes bug, and their breathing stop. Clenching the windowsill, Betsy screamed at a pitch that’d make a dog hurt. Josiah gave a startled squeal, then dropped to the ground. He grabbed his little sister by the waist and tried to drag her away, but her fingers refused to release the sill.

“C’mon Betsy. Let go! We got to run! Let go!” he pleaded.

Abigail stretched her bandaged hands toward the girl. “Now that you’ve seen my true face, I can never let you escape.”

“Let go, Betsy.” He jerked her hands free and with a thud she landed on top of him.

“Her face,” Betsy cried. “What happened to her face?”

Credit her with one victory for the day. Abigail grinned beneath her shroud. Who would’ve thought that a simple pie crust could be so terrifying? But her foes hadn’t fled the field. Josiah’s head popped back into the window.

With his head slightly askew he watched her through narrowed eyes. “What is that?” he lisped between his gapped teeth, while Betsy waited a safe distance away.

Didn’t take the boy long to find his courage. Or to figure out her trick for that matter. Abigail pinched off a piece from her chin and poked it into her mouth. “Melting flesh. Delicious!”

The boy flashed her an ornery smile. “Maybe we’s even, but I don’t like to be even. ’Specially when Betsy’s gonna keep us awake all night with nightmares.”

“Be careful.” Abigail hollowed her voice. “You might be the one with nightmares next time.”

Josiah wrinkled his freckled nose at her and dropped out of sight. The warmth of her skin had melted the dough to it. It wouldn’t be easy to peel off, but Betsy and Josiah were delighted. Their laughter faded with their quick footsteps racing home to make their plans.

But other footsteps approached and the uneven gait couldn’t
be mistaken for any other. The kitchen door flew open and Jeremiah entered.

“I heard screams—”

One look at her face and he skidded to a stop. His crutch hit the rag rug and slid out from under him, but he caught himself on his bad leg and the doorframe. His mouth opened. He pointed. Blinked. Pointed again.

Feeling brave beneath her mask, Abigail twirled an errant lock of hair around her bandaged finger. The dough clung and moved like a second, albeit looser, skin. “Is something amiss?”

“Are you trying to scare the living daylights out of me?” He looked nervously behind himself before allowing the kitchen door to close. “What is this? Some kind of beauty treatment?”

Starting at her chin, Abigail rolled the dough up, wishing he wasn’t watching so closely.

“The Huckabee kids were spying in the window. They’ll think twice before they do that again.” The dough peeled off her face but clumped to her hair.

“I’ll think twice before I eat another of your pies.” Jeremiah reached for a messy lock, but with a frown let his hand drop obediently to his side. “Is this a family recipe?”

Her chest tightened at the question. She shrugged and looked at the floor.

“Where exactly do you come from, again?”

Her neck tensed. Why would he ask that? “Ohio.”

“Can you be any more specific?”

“Outside of Chillicothe. Why?”

He took the dough out of her hand and dropped it in the slop bucket with a thud. “I really don’t know much about you, do I?”

Usually when a man showed an interest in a lady, he had romance in mind, but somehow, even after a knee-wobbling kiss, Abigail doubted that was his aim.

“Why bother? I’m leaving next spring, and you’ll never see me again.” The way he stared, she was certain she still had dough on her face. She rubbed her nose.

He cleared his throat. “When I go to Pine Gap in a few days, I’d like to take Laurel. I think it’d be best for everyone involved if I spent more time with her.”

Abigail forced herself to face him. Why should she feel slighted? Jeremiah had never hidden his intentions to marry Laurel. “That’s a wonderful idea,” she managed finally.

“But I can’t go on my own. Hiram will insist on her being chaperoned, and Ma doesn’t want to go. That leaves you.”

Last choice again. “Do you think after your behavior in the barn that I’d want to be alone with you?”

He might as well put her beneath a magnifying glass the way he studied her. “I have questions I want answered about the man we met today. I’m hoping to run into him or someone who knows him. Besides, you never know who you might meet on market day.”

Was he trying to play matchmaker? Abigail scolded herself. She couldn’t allow her feelings to be hurt. Besides, what did it matter what this hillbilly thought of her? His opinion wasn’t worth a Confederate dollar.

C
HAPTER 14

The clear morning gave promise of a beautiful journey ahead. Jeremiah broke his fried egg with his fork and scooped up the runny yolk with his toast. He dashed pepper on top, enjoying the biting scent, and practically hummed as he devoured it. Breakfast had been a disappointment lately. While the food tasted fine, the mood had felt flat. Not that there was usually any conversation at breakfast, but he had always left the kitchen feeling optimistic, looking forward to the day ahead.

Maybe it was his time working with Abigail that he’d looked forward to. He dared a glance toward the tall woman. Dressed as she was in a fancy pink getup, he found it hard to believe she lived in his house. Why would a city lady like her help him? Well, she wasn’t anymore. Ever since he’d gone and smooched her, she’d come nearer to sitting on a beehive than being in the same room with him.

Which was why she wouldn’t help him through his exercises anymore. Which was why breakfast wasn’t the cheerful event it used to be. Which was why Jeremiah was itching to go to town with Laurel.

He shoveled in his last bite of egg. The part about needing a chaperone was as true as Ole Blue’s nose, but maybe seeing how pretty Abigail was would remind Laurel that she wasn’t the only choice around. She shouldn’t pass up a fella that other gals would give their eyeteeth for.

They needed an early setout if they were going to get the best trades. His saddlebags were already loaded with bags of shelled beans, padded jars of honey, and some beets. They hadn’t raised anything uncommon, but neither did they need anything. Just some extry that might mean some nice lace for Ma or new shoe soles for him in case his didn’t last until tanning season.

He met Abigail’s gaze. Barely disguised impatience. That’s about all she gave him now. Well, it was his own fault. He missed her friendship and was working toward gaining it back, but it wasn’t easy when she kept him at a distance.

“You be careful, Jeremiah.” His mother said as he stood. “Don’t forget there’s a dangerous man in those woods.”