A Most Inconvenient Marriage (3 page)

“You’re not angry?”

“Oh, honey, you stayed by my son through his suffering. Thank the Lord for sending you to Jeremiah’s side so he wasn’t alone.”
Mrs. Calhoun stepped back and took her hands. “I can never repay you.”

Rachel groaned. “Ma, Jeremiah wouldn’t marry without telling us. Not after the way he carried on about me.”

“He didn’t have time to notify you,” Abigail said. “And he wouldn’t have married me if a chance for recovery existed. In fact he’d almost waited too late. He didn’t even have time to explain to his fiancée in his last letter. He only shared his love.”

“Well, she never took up mourning,” Mrs. Calhoun said. “And I suppose it’s a blessing that she’s been able to carry on. Any day now I expect to hear that Laurel and Dr. Hopkins are engaged.”

Laurel? Jeremiah had always called her Juliet. He’d even asked Abigail to address his last letter to her by that name. What would her reaction be? At least Laurel had recovered enough to consider an alternative beau. Hopefully she’d accept Abigail’s appearance with as much grace as Mrs. Calhoun had.

Finally looking her in the eyes, Rachel spoke. “You didn’t happen to meet any other men of Jeremiah’s division, did you? Were many of them captured?”

“I suppose so, but most of the prisoners at Gratiot Street were transferred back east. Jeremiah stayed only because he could go no farther.”

Rachel grasped the doily-covered arm of the sofa to steady herself. “But who did he speak of? Did he mention Alan White? Was Alan a patient of yours?”

“Alan White? No, I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

“Don’t fret,” Mrs. Calhoun admonished her daughter. “Alan didn’t say where he was in that last letter, but he’s hardly had time to write again. Especially with the war winding down. You’ll hear from him soon.”

What unshed tears were stored in the dark circles below Ra
chel’s eyes? She glared, obviously not satisfied with Abigail’s tale. “If what you say is true, Jeremiah had nothing to lose, but what about you? Don’t you have any family, or suitors, or anybody to care if you never come home? Why would you depend on strangers to take you in rather than friends?”

Abigail walked to the curio cabinet. Ceramic bells, crystal bells, brass . . . her head rang with accusations and defenses. She’d start anew if they’d let her, but there’d be questions about who she was, where she’d come from, why she wasn’t welcomed by her family. Well, the truth was messy. Better to clean up the story before they pried any further.

“My father died in a riding accident, and after that my mother . . .” She added her fingerprints to those already smearing the glass curio cabinet. “I miss her. I have no one, so I came west.”

There. That was enough. She’d told herself that if they didn’t accept her, she could leave at first light. Nothing lost. But now that a glimpse of a home, a family, a farm had been offered, she didn’t want to lose it.

“See, Rachel. Abigail has every reason to stay with us.” Mrs. Calhoun sat next to her daughter and wrapped an arm around her. To Abigail’s surprise, Rachel had the grace to look ashamed.

“I don’t want her to cause you any trouble, Ma. You have enough of a burden caring for me. If she doesn’t pull her weight—”

She might as well get started. Abigail turned to the ladies. “Before I became a nurse, I lived on a horse farm. I helped my father in every aspect of the business, and I promise I’ll work harder for you than anyone ever has. In fact, I’m anxious to take a look around and visit the stock.”

Mrs. Calhoun nodded, already deep in her memories. “That’d be fine.”

Abigail gazed at the mug of coffee that’d never made it to her hand, but she couldn’t wait to reach the barn. She took up her coat.

Mrs. Calhoun stood. “Oh, and Abigail, I know you had a mother you loved, and I don’t want to take her place, but I’d be honored if you’d call me Ma. That is, if it ain’t presuming too much.”

Although the family resemblance wasn’t visible in her features, her warmth and kindness had clearly shaped her son’s character.

“I’d love to have you as my ma,” Abigail said. “You’re all the family I have left.”

Besides visits from his caregivers, the single shaft of light from above was the only connection he had to the world outside. Soon he’d be set free from this prison, this cave, and he could finally crawl out of hiding. He could finally go home.

Home.

He’d made a mistake and because of it home could change forever. He prayed it wasn’t too late to undo what he’d done. When he was free, he’d get it straight and no one would be hurt. He’d take care of everything if, for once, they’d let him.

He sucked the last of the marrow out of the chicken bone, thankful for each morsel that they’d spared him. Oh, that God would give him the strength to see to his duty. He wouldn’t quit until his family was safe and their lives were restored, but if he went home alone, nothing would be solved. He’d never be forgiven.

The barn hugged a rise on the south of the house. As no sip of coffee had made it to her lips, Abigail strode to the trough.
She dumped out the water bucket, pumped fresh water in, and drained a full dipper in one thirsty pull. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and smacked her lips. Poor breeding? Her mother had taught her how to behave in a drawing room just as her father had taught her how to behave in a barn. Manners consisted of nothing more than the ability to put someone at ease, and she dearly hoped she could ease the troubles here.

After helping herself to another dipper, Abigail was in a better frame of mind to meet the horses. At least they wouldn’t behave as poorly as Jeremiah’s sister.

The pasture appeared somewhat maintained. Despite the errant saplings, the fence was intact and the barn solid. She found the gate between two stone posts, hinges a bit rusty but still swinging with only a slight protest.

A bay raised his head at the noise. The gray horse perked his ears, too. Abigail shielded her eyes to get a better look and was pleased by what she saw. Deep chests, strong haunches, with delicate feet and heads—promising even from this distance. Then their alert ears picked up the sound of something more interesting than the gate. Rattling a bucket of corn, Mr. Huckabee stepped out of the barn.

“Oh,” Abigail breathed as the two horses sped to a graceful canter. If it weren’t for the tufts of wet soil flipping up behind them, she could almost believe they were floating above the ground. Jeremiah hadn’t exaggerated. She would be proud of these horses.

She latched the gate behind her and approached them cautiously.

“I thought you might want to inspect them closer.” The stallion pushed ahead to get first dibs on the bucket, his tail swishing high. “By the way, I’m Calbert Huckabee. Did you get to meet Miss Rachel?”

Remembering that barn manners were different than parlor, Abigail extended her hand, pleased when he took it without pausing. “Yes, I did. And please call me Miss Abigail. Do you mind?” She nodded to the bucket.

“Help yourself.”

She plunged her hands into the dusty corn, surprised by the memories the familiar action revived. The rolling kernels, their simple weight and sweet smell reminded her of a happiness that had eluded her since her mother had remarried.

Bringing up brimming handfuls, she stepped away, drawing the stallion after her for a better inspection. The bay seemed to read her intent. His eyes flashed. He tossed his head and pranced to her.

“He’s a proud one,” she said.

“He should be. He’s from Texas, sired by Steel Dust.”

“Is that so?” She held her hand flat. The horse’s velvety muzzle razed her palm, snorting the familiar scent in her face. “How did I manage without my horses?”

Calbert smiled. “How long are you staying with Mrs. Calhoun?”

“This is my home now.” She’d found somewhere new and she’d fight to keep it. Abigail scratched the stallion on the forehead as he nudged the last kernel from between her fingers. “You know these horses well. Are you their groom?”

“Don’t know that I’d have any such fancy title as that. I’m busy with my own place most the time, but I try to keep an eye on Mrs. Calhoun. Just being neighborly. I figure I owe Jeremiah that much, God rest his soul. After his Pa died he wore himself out keeping this place going.”

But Abigail was already planning the future. One stallion and a gelding—not a fortune, but they were first quality. When she returned to the house, she’d ask to see their pedigrees, not
that it mattered. Their breeding was obvious by sight, but she was curious. What familiar names would she see? Could either of these have Stuart bloodlines?

Mr. Huckabee was inspecting her as closely as she’d been watching the horses. “You say you knew Jeremiah?”

Abigail had better become accustomed to telling her unusual story and making it sound as convincing as possible. “I married Captain Calhoun.”

Mr. Huckabee snatched his hat off his head and slapped it against his knee. “I knew it! The minute I laid eyes on you I thought, ‘There’s a lady for Jeremiah. They would’ve been a fine matched team, for certain.’” He sobered. “If only he’d made it home.”

“If he thought he was coming home, he wouldn’t have married me.”

“What’s that?”

Abigail dusted off her hands, then hid them in her coat pockets. “It was a practical arrangement on his end. I didn’t know what to expect from his farm, but I’m fully eager to fall in love with this place.”

“And you haven’t seen the prize pumpkin yet. She’s entitled to some time by herself, if you know what I mean.” Mr. Huckabee tossed the remaining corn in a trough and turned toward the barn.

Abigail nearly skipped along behind him. The rock walls hugged the warmth from the animals and kept it from stealing outside. A pen of pigs huddled together, and a goat bounded off a table as she walked by. With the shutters closed it felt a bit muggy, yet to Abigail there was nothing unbecoming about stable smells. A whinny drew her eyes before they adjusted to the shade. A gentle face watched her approach, black forelock falling across a yellow-dun hide. Love at first sight.

“Her name is Josephine Bonaparte. Lancaster out there is her sire.” Mr. Huckabee continued to describe her gait, her intelligence, but Abigail didn’t need to hear an appraisal. She was convinced.

“She’s in season, I gather.” Abigail scratched her cheek. “Has she been bred before?”

“No, ma’am. Laurel’s pa bought a stallion for her, though. He was going to be a wedding present for Jeremiah and Laurel when he came back from the war.”

Laurel, her husband’s fiancée. Abigail saw her face reflected in Josephine’s gentle eye. The horse blinked knowingly and nudged her hand. Abigail smiled. She’d lost her horses back home, but maybe God had blessed her with this opportunity. Talking to Laurel would be awkward, but she had to be told. Procrastinating only impeded progress, and right now the progress Abigail was most concerned with was filling the pasture with horses. That was the best way she could help her new ma and Rachel.

Romeo was counting on her.

“How far away is this stallion?” Josephine nibbled at a blond lock that had escaped Abigail’s coif.

“Just across the river, about a mile from the ford.”

“Would it be possible to take Josephine to visit tomorrow?”

Mr. Huckabee pulled at his beard. “I’ve just been waiting for permission.”