A Most Inconvenient Marriage (13 page)

She’d seen quite a bit of him, actually. “Yes, but he seems to have disappeared. Can I relay a message for you?”

His chin slid sideways. “Are you feeling up to snuff? Looks like you’ve been rolling around on the ground.”

“Oh my. I just tripped over the wagon tongue.” She brushed the straw off her skirt. “Very careless of me.”

“There’s usually a rag of sorts in here if you need it to clean up.”

But the only piece of cloth Abigail could see was Jeremiah’s britches hanging from the plow.

“It’s fine. I’ll get dirtier before the day’s through. You don’t need to worry about—”

“Where did that rag go?” He rustled through a bucket full of tools while the light from the upper window seemed to illuminate the convicting article of clothing. “I know it’s here somewhere.”

Abigail darted between him and the plow. “Really, I’m fine. I’ll keep a lookout for it, though. Let you know if it turns up.”

He craned his neck to see past her. “Is that it behind you?”

Abigail snatched the trousers and balled them up in her arms. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”

Calbert stared pointedly at the suspender loops that swung out of her grasp. His bushy eyebrow waggled like a caterpillar. What could she say? She met his gaze directly. If he wanted to ask a question, he might as well do it now.

He shrugged. “I came to ask if you could come with me. Bushwhackers shot Mr. Rankin over on Fulton’s Bald. Doc Hopkins is out to Pine Gap today. They need you.”

“But what if the outlaws are still out there?”

“I’m watching for them.” He stared down at the trousers. “Not much gets past my notice, Mrs. Calhoun.”

“Calbert, I thought I’d explained the situation. Just call me Abigail.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am. I’ll wait on the porch and give you a few minutes to say good-bye . . . if you see Jeremiah, that is.”

What a disaster. Just when he’d let down his guard and started to enjoy her company, things got complicated again. Jeremiah had a fair idea of what Calbert suspected and didn’t know how he’d ever explain to the man.

His britches flew over the wall of the stall and landed on his head. “Listening to you will be the biggest mistake of my life,” he said as he pulled his trousers on.

“Do you know the Rankin family?” Abigail asked.

He bowed his head, and not just so he could see the buttons as he did them up. “Yes. They’re Union, so you should get along right enough. He can’t have been home much longer than I’ve been. He outlives the war and then gets attacked after peace is proclaimed.” He pulled his suspenders over his shoulders. “Peace? Peace is a foreign idea here, I’m afraid.”

“But it wasn’t always. Surely after a while—”

“You don’t know.”

By the time he stepped out of the stall, her humor had faded. Well, so had his. Maybe someday there’d be a place where happiness didn’t feel like pouring salt on a wound. That day wasn’t today.

She finished saddling Josephine. He checked the straps on the old leather tack, said a quick prayer for the Rankin family, for Abigail’s safety, and for his own, because he was going looking for the people who’d done this . . . crippled leg and all.

Clouds had rolled in over the mountains, trapping the heat and adding humidity. Abigail caught a line of sweat rolling down her neck and thanked God once again that Calbert had the grace to pretend the barn encounter never happened. They would have enough controversy to handle once they reached the Rankins’ cabin.

“I hope they’ll let me help,” she said.

“Of course they will. Word is getting around about how you helped Varina’s family,” Calbert answered. “They’re starting to trust you.”

Abigail’s lungs squeezed painfully. This mountain man thought more of her than her own mother did. Another reason she was determined to stay here and never go home. She gripped the horn of her saddle. “I’m still an outsider. I appeared claiming that Jeremiah was dead and I’m his wife, then he showed up and set the record straight. They have to suspect me.”

Before Calbert could argue further they arrived at the Rankins’ cabin. A knock on the rough door brought instant results.

The raw-boned youth had a scrape on his cheek, marring his scraggly attempt at a beard. His blond lashes rimmed red eyes that were desperately trying to disguise his sorrow. “Pa said we couldn’t trust you to bring good help.”

Calbert jerked his pipe out of his mouth and pointed it at the boy. “She worked for the Federal Army, and if that ain’t good enough for you, I don’t know what is.”

The boy looked over his shoulder into the cabin. He swallowed and turned back to them. “We sent for Dr. Hopkins and he’s as secesh as anyone, but Pa don’t want a lady playacting on him. He’d rather die with dignity.”

If only she could persuade the boy—not for her own pride
but for his father’s life. “Is it that bad, then?” she asked. “I want to help, and while I’m not as good as Dr. Hopkins, I do have some medical training.”

The youth pulled the door closed behind him and with lowered voice said, “It’s bad. He’s in terrible pain and running hot. His breathing is all rattle-like. Some blood coming up, but not much.”

“Does it look like he was shot in the lungs?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He turned at his name being called from inside and cracked the door open. “I’m sending her away.”

Calbert scratched his head. “It’s a tough decision, son. Disobey your pa or take away his best chance at a miracle.”

“Help is right here,” she said. “If I can save his life . . .”

Abigail prayed as the boy weighed his decision. She’d known rejection—expected it even—but she didn’t want someone else to suffer because she’d been deemed unworthy.

“Come on in,” he said at last. “If Pa survives, surely he’ll forgive me.”

Calbert motioned her ahead, and she rushed past him, praying that the delay hadn’t cost Mr. Rankin his life.

Sometimes he hated being right. Jeremiah had set out on the slim chance that he might see something pertaining to Rankin’s attack, and there it was. A plume of smoke on the back side of the mountain. He adjusted the pistol riding in his belt and wished once again he had two legs to fight on. But this was his home, and it was his duty to face the dangers that threatened it. Chicanery was afoot, but once the land was cleared of outliers, the womenfolk would be able to travel safely. Abigail could wander away from the house more, which would be good. Too
much time with her made him tetchy, and goodness knew the last thing his house needed was another crabby apple rotting inside.

Before he reached the ridge, Jeremiah could smell the fire, and it wasn’t no cook fire. His nose wrinkled at the familiar odor. A moonshine still. On his property. He followed the scent to a crevice hidden by thick bushes. He made a wide pass around the area first, looking for anyone hunkered down next to the awkward copper contraption, but it seemed recently abandoned. The fire beneath the boiler blazed and the mash bubbled, but no one sat with it.

Jeremiah dismounted, furious at the proof that a stranger was using his land. They’d probably run off just as they saw him coming. He clumped to the still and, swinging his crutch, knocked it to its side. A few more hits and the copper chamber busted, leaking out the sickly sweet-smelling mash.

He’d scared someone away, but the one who shot Rankin might be headed back there even now, and Jeremiah would be waiting for him. He tied Lancaster to the nearest tree and crept to the cave that overlooked the tight clearing. There could be someone hiding in there, he supposed, but once he slid behind the thick cedar that grew up against the opening, he saw it was empty.

Or next to empty. Nestled between the limestone gills of the cave, a fire had been laid out, but if it weren’t for the presence of the still, Jeremiah would have no reason to believe anyone had been there for years.

This spot had been a favorite hideout when he was small. He knew every lump and hollow of it. He squeezed into his favorite cubbyhole, much smaller than he remembered. True, if a shooting broke out, he’d be trapped, but it wasn’t as if he could run anyway. The shelf hid him from view, made a nice
sniper’s nest if it weren’t for the dripping water. Still, it was a right smart place to lie in wait for someone to show himself.

Once in place, he loosened his gun and stretched out, or tried to, but that lame leg of his remained tented up.

If only. If only he could get his strength back. If only the hills were safe for decent folks. If only Laurel would settle down and marry him. If only Rachel were healed. Those were his foremost prayers. Beyond that he supposed he could spare a prayer for the Yankee nurse, that whatever problems she’d left behind would be solved. He’d sensed trouble in her terse attitude and vague answers. He’d pray that, seeing how she was a kindly person and hard worker, she’d find someone who’d do right by her. Otherwise he might find himself more worried about her than was seemly.

Minutes passed. A quarter of an hour. Plenty of time for him to imagine his future—horses to sell, fields full of orchard grass and red clover, golden-haired children playing on the porch.

Jeremiah scrunched his nose. Golden? How in thunder could he and Laurel have blond children? He rubbed his eyes. He’d been sitting there so long, he couldn’t even daydream worth a hoot.

No one was there and probably no one was coming. Only after listening closely did Jeremiah leave his hiding place. He couldn’t outrun a child, but his senses had been honed over the years so that nothing escaped his notice. Somehow rustling leaves, the birds, and even the scent of the dirt told him that no one was near. He parted the bushes and ducked under the growth to find Lancaster patiently awaiting his return.

“Nothing, huh?” he asked his old friend. “No one messed with you?”

Lancaster blinked slowly at him, a droll expression on his face. Stepping around the busted still, Jeremiah untied the reins and slid his crutch across Lancaster’s withers. If he kept work
ing, soon he’d be able to lift himself in the stirrup. No more scrambling up like a boy climbing wet rocks.

He grasped the saddle horn and Lancaster stumbled sideways.

“Not you, too. I expect that old nag to be unsteady, but you can hold me.”

Jeremiah pulled again. This time Lancaster took two steps forward, leaving Jeremiah hopping to keep up with him.

“Whoa, boy.” What was wrong with the horse? Suddenly Lancaster’s stomach tightened and his back stretched. Lancaster’s head dropped and he released a satisfying belch. Only then did Jeremiah fully appreciate the condition of the still.

The copper pot had been nosed away from the fire and emptied. The stones, which had been splashed with mash, were now licked clean. Jeremiah turned to stare at his horse. Lancaster, like any guilty boy, kept his head down.

Sugar, cornmeal, yeast—no wonder the animal couldn’t resist lapping it up. But how to get him home? Once he stepped out of these bushes, Jeremiah was a target. He couldn’t hobble down the mountain leading an intoxicated equine.

“I don’t care how bad you feel, you’ve got to carry me home.” Jeremiah stopped short of the “let this be a lesson to you” lecture his own pa had delivered him the first time he’d found a still. Instead, he dragged Lancaster to a tree trunk. He wrapped the reins around it for leverage. This time Lancaster kept his hooves beneath him as Jeremiah mounted. Jeremiah wanted to ease downhill, walk slowly and quietly, but the mountain was too steep. Lancaster stiffened his legs and tried to resist, but his inebriated condition left him no match for gravity. Stumbling and skidding, the horse crashed through branches, picking up speed as they descended. Jeremiah tugged on the reins, but Lancaster couldn’t help himself. It was all Jeremiah could do to duck branches and stay in the saddle.