A Most Inconvenient Marriage (5 page)

Laurel’s mouth dropped open. “His wife? All this time I worried that—” She clutched at her midsection. “Are you sure? Jeremiah isn’t . . . wasn’t the type of man to change his mind easily.”

“He didn’t change, not at all. This was purely a matter of convenience. If it’s any comfort, we were never even alone together. He was faithful to you until the end.”

Her basket slid off her arm and toppled to the ground. “I . . . I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. I’d assumed his last moments were spent thinking of me.”

No longer able to bear the hurt on Laurel’s face, Abigail
studied the pine cones spilled at her feet. “They were. You and Rachel were all he cared about. I’m only here to honor his wishes.”

“I thought you must be a cousin of some sort.” Hiram slid his hands into his pockets. “But a dead man’s wife only brings strife. Can you imagine how humiliated Laurel will be when everyone finds out that Jeremiah married you?”

“I’ll explain the situation as often as you’d like,” Abigail said. “I have no desire to present myself as something I’m not.”

“But far as I’m concerned, the horse deal is void. Those horses were to be wedding gifts—”

“Father.” Laurel secured an ebony lock behind her ear. “Don’t be hasty. We might not like the situation, but harassing Mrs.”—she swallowed—“Mrs. Calhoun accomplishes nothing. If Jeremiah would have married me, you’d have the upkeep of both farms on your hands, so perhaps it’s for the best. Besides, we could use the money.”

She should’ve known that Jeremiah’s Juliet was a woman of valor. Hadn’t he told her so?

“I’d appreciate the assistance,” Abigail said. “I’m prepared to pay and leave Josephine today.”

Hiram grumbled through the negotiations. Laurel remained subdued, but given the circumstances, Abigail thought she’d conducted herself heroically. She owed the young woman for not making her task any more difficult and would look for every opportunity to thank her.

After Abigail inspected Napoleon, they haggled a price and soon reached an agreement. Josephine would stay at the Wallace ranch for a few weeks. The fee was the same, whether she foaled or not, and Abigail handed over the velvet drawstring bag of her earnings, knowing how little remained in the bureau drawer back at the farm.

“Thank you, Mrs. Calhoun.” Hiram passed the bag into his
daughter’s hands. “I hope a year from now you have a healthy, pristine foal, but even more than that I hope your tale does nothing to tarnish Laurel’s memories of Jeremiah.”

Abigail nodded. As long as she had his farm, she’d leave the memories for Laurel.

April 1865
St. Louis, Missouri

The stench seeped from the wooden floors and brick walls of the third-floor prison hospital even though most of the patients had gone. Where they ultimately rested, the man didn’t want to imagine. He had enough trouble keeping up with those he was responsible for. Miles traveled, records searched, soldiers questioned, and he was no closer to an answer than at Westport when he last saw him.

The nurse offered a chair. He refused, though the effort cost him. Putting the war behind him would be difficult when he bore the painful reminders of his involvement, but unless he wanted his mind to be as unsound as his body, he couldn’t dwell on all that had happened.

“Here’s the register, sir. I looked for the dates you requested, but I didn’t find the name.” The nurse didn’t wear a uniform, but then again, neither did he. She held the book out to him, and noticing his situation she flattened it open on the desk. “Truthfully, our records got behind after ’64. Still, if you’d like to have a look yourself ”—her ragged fingernail pointed to the correct line—“start here and work your way down.”

Whether the nurse stayed or left, the man didn’t notice. The names, stacked one on top of the other like corpses bound for a communal grave, burned into his memory.

“Sherman, Matthew. Smythe, Thaddeus. Pettey, Oliver.”

There was no order, no reason. He was not allowed the mercy of being able to bypass any of the names—several familiar, a few dear. No, he had to look at each one and endure the memories.

“Stevens, Edwin. Grisham, Clement. Calhoun, Jeremiah.”

The pit of his stomach grew cold. He blinked and bent closer to touch the register where the blotched ink spelled out the horrendous mistake. “Calhoun, Jeremiah. Died February 23, 1865.”

His hand trembled. He fell against the desk, causing it to screech across the floor. The nurse appeared instantly.

“Are you ill? Let me help you to a chair.”

He waved her away, his eyes fastened to the register.

Jeremiah Calhoun wasn’t the name he sought. It was a shock, but more important than a faulty record was finding the man he’d wronged.

He prayed that he wasn’t too late.

Hart County, Missouri
Two Weeks Later

Abigail read the rejection in Varina Helspeth’s sneer before she spoke.

“I don’t care if she did marry Jeremiah, I don’t want no Yankee woman looking after my son.”

The woman’s face was as plain as an empty paper sack and just as flat. A fine line of whiskers dusted her top lip. Abigail thought her mouth would sooner splinter than curve into a smile.

Dr. Hopkins picked up his medical bag from her front step. “Come on, Mrs. Calhoun. They don’t need our services here.” He dropped his hat atop his thick shock of hair and spun his lanky frame.

Another rejection. Abigail didn’t blame the woman. If her own mother didn’t trust her, why should a complete stranger?

She had one foot on the bare dirt path when Varina grunted. “But you have to help him, Doctor. We have to get the shot out of his back.”

“I don’t work without my nurse. If you don’t need her help, you don’t need mine.”

Let her son die or allow Abigail in the house? The length of time it took the woman to decide proved once again how hated outsiders were in these woods.

Without a word, Varina disappeared into the house, leaving Abigail and Dr. Hopkins outside. Was that a no? As if reading her thoughts, Dr. Hopkins leaned down and whispered, “She left the door open. You won’t get more of an invitation than that.”

With a smile she followed the sharp-chinned doctor inside.

The young man’s wounds weren’t serious. He’d been peppered with bird shot in an innocent hunting accident. The injury would heal quickly if it was kept clean. Seeing that the Helspeths’ cabin was on the same mountain as the Calhouns’, it only made sense for Abigail to check his progress and leave Hopkins free for his more important daily duties—holding down the porch swing at the Wallace place, for example.

“Have Calbert ride with you,” Dr. Hopkins suggested as they departed. “There are dangerous men lurking about. Our troubles started before the war began, and they aren’t ended just because it’s over.”

It wasn’t difficult to believe the foreboding woods held hidden dangers. Even graced with the breathtaking dogwoods and cheery redbuds, their dark crevices covered secrets. If honest, hard-working people would snub her to her face, what were the outlaws capable of?

Abigail shuddered. She didn’t need an imagination to know
what evils men would commit—she’d seen them, both in battle wounds and in the care of the prisoners she’d worked with.

“Did you serve with Jeremiah?” Abigail asked as the horses picked their way back to the Calhoun side of the mountain.

“Yes, ma’am.” Hopkins had the creaky voice of a much older man. “We joined the Missouri State Guard to protect our state from foreign invaders, but General Fremont declared us traitors. No surrenders, no prisoners. Men merely hung as common outlaws if captured in battle. Little by little as we found opportunity, our divisions enrolled with the Confederate Army, so we’d be treated as proper soldiers. In ’62 Jeremiah signed under Major General Price in the Army of the West. I stayed with Colonel McBride as he went to Arkansas.”

“But you’ve been home—” Too late Abigail realized how her words could be heard as an accusation. “I don’t mean to pry.”

His chin rose. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. I provided medical care with the army until ’64, when General McBride requested my services for himself. He’d been unwell and was headed further south, hoping warmer weather would rid him of the pneumonia that had afflicted him. By the time he died, I knew my chances of finding a unit to join were slim with Arkansas under Union control, so I decided to go home and help the families left behind.”

Abigail couldn’t help but like the earnest young man who obviously cared more for healing than conquering.

He continued. “Naturally I had no intention of falling in love with Laurel. It’s bothered me that I was enjoying her company while Jeremiah fought . . . and died. But you’re here now, and I thank you. Evidently even Jeremiah believed that four years was too long to wait.”

He tugged his hat a bit lower on his head. At least some
one was grateful for her—two people, counting Ma Calhoun. She didn’t have the heart to tell the doctor that Jeremiah never stopped loving Laurel. If she’d learned anything recently, it was that people often preferred not to know the whole truth, and that suited her just fine.

C
HAPTER 4

May 1865

Life at the Calhoun farm was settling into a pleasant routine. Before Abigail’s arrival, Rachel’s dependence on her mother meant that the housework had been abandoned, but Abigail soon had it set aright. Although the simple furnishings couldn’t compare to those of Abigail’s childhood home, she took pride in the cozy, tidy rooms. And every day after she completed her household chores and finished rounds with Dr. Hopkins, Abigail spent her afternoons grooming, feeding, and exercising the horses. In the beginning, they resisted being put through their paces, but they soon accepted their daily routine. If only Rachel would adjust to her care, as well.

Rachel. Abigail tossed a bucket of oats into the trough. If her sister-in-law possessed the strength of an able-bodied woman, she’d be a nuisance indeed. But to be fair, if she weren’t sick she wouldn’t have been allowed to carry on so. Abigail balanced the bucket on the top rail of the fence and wiped her hands on her cotton everyday dress. If only she could find a way to break through Rachel’s harsh façade. Judging the
severity of her symptoms, one more bout of the fever would be the end of her. Had Rachel considered the memories she’d be leaving behind?

The horses were fed, but Ma wouldn’t have supper ready for another hour at least. The sun skimmed the tops of the trees at the back of the pasture. Another area she hadn’t explored. Not wanting to disrupt the horses’ dinner at the trough, Abigail set out on foot, pausing to inspect a thresher set against the fence, rusty with idleness.

Yes, they would need to plow up a field and get some barley in soon. One foal a year wasn’t enough to live on. The farm was capable of producing more crops than Ma had scratched out during the war.

Abigail snapped off a head of Queen Anne’s lace as she made her way up the ridge. Stopping where it crested, she looked down on the valley below. She hadn’t realized that the road she walked in on curved around the back of the property. Not that she was surprised. The Ozark wagon trails wormed through the hollows as crookedly as a greedy quartermaster. Twirling the stem of Queen Anne’s lace, she made her way down the steep hill, cautious of the loose rocks that tumbled before her.

No wonder this area hadn’t been cleared. It was too sharp to ride on, too sheer to farm. Its only benefit was that it provided a protective barrier between the road and the farm. Unless those bushwhackers and jayhawkers she kept hearing about rode billy goats, they wouldn’t sneak up on the house from the back.

Taking advantage of her height and the privacy, Abigail hitched up her skirt and scaled the split-rail fence, sliding the last few feet down to the road that cut through the narrow valley. If she figured correctly, the walk around to the front gate wasn’t far—easier to tackle than trudging over the ridge on the
rough side. Besides, she could inspect the fence more carefully and see if there were any gaps or more farm equipment rusting outside the barn.