Dueling Hearts

by McDonough, Vickie;

  His mother nodded and smiled. “I’m happy to hear you say that, son. But just remember, things change slowly in the South. People here are steeped in tradition.”

  “I know, Mama. Now, I must go.”

  “All right. I’ll gather some things and have Charley drive me over. Maybe there’s something I can do to help. I can at least keep Carina company. She cares so much about her slaves that she’s bound to be upset.”

  Reed strode from the room, thinking it ironic that Carina cared for her slaves. If she cared so much, she’d set them free.

  Five

  Abel’s groans tore at Carina’s heart long before she reached the slave quarters. She’d had the elderly man’s house built closest to the barn, hoping to save him a few steps each day. Why had he been working in the fields? Woodson had been instructed to give Abel only simple jobs like repairing harnesses, grooming the horses, and feeding livestock. She wanted him to feel useful, but she didn’t want him out sweating in the hot sun. As odd as the situation was, he’d become her mentor and a friend, and she didn’t want to lose him.

  Little Sammy leaned against the door frame, staring inside. Tears streamed down his dark cheeks, but he didn’t utter a sound. When he saw her, he ran to her, burying his face in her skirts. Carina patted his back and hugged him; then she stooped down. “Your mama is bringing bandages. I’d like you to go see if she needs help. Then I have a special job for you, if you’re up to it.”

  Torn bits of leaves clung here and there to his curly black hair, as if he’d shredded a handful and tossed them in the air over his head. She plucked out the larger ones.

  Sammy swiped his eyes with the back of his hands and stared up at her with watery eyes. “I’s a man. I can do anythin’, Miz Zimmer.” The thin seven-year-old stood straight like a soldier then leaned over and wiped his damp cheek on his shoulder.

  Smiling, Carina hoped to put the boy at ease and make him feel useful while getting him out from under foot. “I need someone who can wait out front and tell Enoch and Thomas where we are. Can you do that?”

  “Yes’m.” He smiled then darted past her, his thumping bare feet pounding across the dirt path.

  Stopping outside Abel’s house, Carina stood beside the open door, half afraid to peek in. What if the injury were serious? Would he die?

  She nibbled on the knuckle of her index finger, wishing there was someone else who could handle this crisis, but she had long ago learned that if she didn’t do the tending, it wouldn’t get done. Lowering her hand and straightening her spine, she stepped inside. “How is he, Woodson?”

  Betsey’s husband glanced up and gave a brief shake of his head. Chester, the other field hand, stood at the end of the bed, shifting from foot to foot.

  Soft moans rose up from the lone bed. Abel lay in the shadows, his hand holding tight to the edge of the mattress. His right leg was bent like a stick snapped in two so unnaturally at the midcalf, but as far as she could tell, the wound hadn’t pierced his skin. She despised seeing him suffering and chastised herself for worrying earlier about losing another worker when her good friend lay writhing in pain. People would look down on her if they knew that some of her father’s slaves were her best friends. It was because of them that she found the strength to go on each day.

  “Ches’er, go fetch me two fresh boards ’bout a foot-and-half long, and git some bandages from Betsey.” The low timbre of Woodson’s deep voice kicked Chester into action.

  He hurried past Woodson, nearly running into her. His eyes widened; then he ducked his head. “Pardon, Miz ’Rina.”

  “That’s all right. I snuck in quiet-like. I already have Betsey gathering the bandages.”

  Chester’s eyes shone with unshed tears, and his lower lip quivered. “It were my fault, Miz ’Rina. I done left a spade out in the field. We was ready to come in, and Abel said he’d fetch the spade.” His shoulders drooped and he shook his head. “Ol’ Abel, he done stepped in a hole we hain’t filled in yet. His leg snapped like a fox’s in a trap.” He made claws with his fingers then clapped his hands together.

  Carina shuddered at the vivid demonstration. “It’s all right, Chester. I know Abel doesn’t blame you, and neither do I. Accidents happen.” She knew the man’s fears stemmed from her father’s past harsh treatment. He would have beaten Chester severely not just for causing another worker to be injured but simply because he’d left a tool out in the weather. She believed in treating the slaves with kindness and received their loyalty for it.

  Woodson cleared his throat and scowled at the younger man. Chester cast another glance at Abel then hurried out to do Woodson’s bidding.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to be done till I get some supplies, unless you want to snitch some of yo’ daddy’s whiskey to ease Abel’s pain.”

  Carina despised drinking, and her fader had strict rules about not letting slaves have whiskey. He just didn’t want to share, but in this one thing, she agreed. Liquor weakened people to where they couldn’t function or think straight. It emboldened them to do things they wouldn’t normally do. But it would ease Abel’s pain. Could she sneak a small amount for Abel’s sake without her fader noticing?

  “I can try.” She hurried outside, feeling guilty that she was relieved to have a task to do so she wouldn’t have to witness Abel’s suffering any longer. Poor old man.

  She cut through the barn and scanned the area to make sure the horses were all right; then she lifted up her skirt and jogged toward the house. The door to the kitchen flew open and banged against the side of the building. Betsey hustled out the door onto the whistling walk and hurried toward her.

  “How’s Abel? He be dead?”

  Carina smiled. Betsey always expected the worse. “No, but he’s in a lot of pain. Woodson wants me to sneak some of Fader’s whiskey for him.”

  Betsey’s eyes widened. “That be dangerous, even fo’ you.”

  She nodded. “I know. I’ll be careful—and quiet. Where’s Etta? I don’t want her down at the cabins, blubbering and upsetting Abel.”

  “I know. She be in the kitchen peelin’ taters for supper.”

  “All right. I’m heading in the house and will be back in a few minutes. I hope.”

  Betsey tightened her lips then turned toward the barn and shuffled away, as fast as her wide body could travel.

  Carina wiped her feet on the faded carpet runner just inside the side door. The poor thing was as sad as the rest of the house. She remembered the day it arrived on a wagon her father had driven from Charleston. Her mama had been so excited and had done a little jig in the yard, looping arms with Carina and swinging her around. Those had been happy days.

  But happy days rarely occurred anymore. She didn’t have time for them—nor lollygagging and dreaming about the past.

  She tiptoed up the stairs, trying to step lightly so as to not put her full weight on the steps and make them squeak. Pausing at the entrance to her fader’s room, she exhaled a soft sigh to see he was still sleeping—and that he’d rolled over so his back would be to her. If not for Abel’s dire need, she’d never attempt such a feat.

  Walking on her toes, she crept across the room, following the lone sliver of sunlight that defied the thick drapes. It led almost directly to the round drum table that held a tray with a single bottle and glass. Glancing sideways, she held her breath as she reached for the bottle.

  Her fader snorted then rolled onto his back and scratched his chest through his nightshirt. Carina froze. All except for her trembling hand.

  “Hey there, girl. What’s that you’re doing?”

  ❧

  The warm breeze brushing Reed’s cheeks as his horse galloped down the road confirmed that he was truly home. No more chilly days and frigid nights trying to keep warm in a drafty room. No more twenty-hour days working in a smelly infirmary filled with the sick and dying. No more odd Scottish food.

  He much preferred helping people one-on-one—and tasty Southern cuisine
.

  As his horse approached the turnoff to Tanglewood, Reed slowed his mount to a trot. If he hadn’t known where the entrance to the plantation was, he would have missed it. The quarter-mile drive was overgrown with trees with dead and broken limbs, shrubs that looked as if they were fighting one another to see which could get to the far side of the road first, and vines that battled the shrubs. An abundance of weeds with colorful flowers rose up between the wheel tracks in their effort to erase all evidence of human life.

  Karl Zimmer must be terribly ill to allow his home to remain in such a state of disrepair. A shaft of guilt stabbed Reed. If he hadn’t killed Johan in that duel, would Tanglewood be in such a dilapidated condition?

  He nudged his mount into a gallop again. No amount of remorse could bring back the young man, and Reed had poured out enough remorse over the past few years to fill an ocean. He was a different man from that arrogant youth he’d once been. God had changed him, and now God was giving him a chance to help the Zimmers.

  A young boy sat on the steps to the main entrance of the house. He jumped up and waved at Reed, his arms flapping like a bird not yet old enough to fly. Guiding his horse over to the child, he scanned the house and yard. It was in the same condition as the drive. Chipped paint curled up on the side of the house, like a beggar woman’s tattered skirt, revealing a dingy gray petticoat.

  “You come to he’p Abel? They’s over at his cabin.” The boy jumped off the top step and loped toward the barn.

  Reed reined his horse to the left and followed. Instead of going into the faded barn, the boy skirted around it, sliding to a halt outside a small cabin.

  “In there.” The boy’s thin finger disappeared behind the doorjamb.

  Reed dismounted and held out the reins. “You think you could walk my horse and then get him a drink?”

  A wide grin tugged at the boy’s cheeks. Reed couldn’t help noticing the child’s spiked lashes. Had he been upset over the injured man or something else?

  He untied his medical bag from the back of his saddle then ducked through the doorway. His eyes adjusted to the dimmer light as a moan rose up from across the small room. A tall, broad-shouldered man turned away from the bed and stared at Reed, as did a shorter and much wider woman. Neither said a word but stared at him as if he were an apparition. A dark stain covered the white of the man’s shirt.

  “I’m Dr. Reed Bishop. Can you tell me what’s wrong with this man?”

  The couple eyed one another. The woman’s brows lifted, but the man gave a quick shake of his head. They kept their heads down as was the way of most slaves, but the tall man cleared his throat. “I reckon you be lookin’ for Massa Zimmer. He up at the big house.”

  Karl Zimmer had been bedridden for a while—that was common knowledge. “Has he taken a turn for the worse?”

  “Nah, sir. He be the same.”

  “Then I’ll see to this man first. What’s his name?”

  The man’s head jerked up, his eyes wide. “We ain’t never had no real doctah tend any of us.”

  The woman’s dark eyes brimmed with hope. “He be Abel, and his leg be broke.”

  The tall man shushed her and scowled. “Miz Zimmer, she done sent for someone already.”

  Reed heaved a sigh. He knew discrimination ran both directions at times, but would they stand in the way of his helping their friend just because he was white? “I know. Enoch came to my home—Reed Springs. I’ve just returned from Scotland, where I was educated at the Royal College of Physicians and Surgeons of Glasgow. I’m quite capable of tending your friend.”

  “Let the doctah be.” A weak voice rose up from the bed, and the tall man turned and glanced down.

  Reed got his first look at his patient—an older man. He was within his right to step forward and start assessing the injured party, but he waited. For some reason, he wanted the tall man’s approval. Finally, Woodson nodded and stepped back.

  Stooping down, Reed lifted Abel’s wrist and checked his pulse. Weak but steady. He scanned the slave’s length, narrowing in on the ripped pants and crooked leg. At least as best he could tell in the dim lighting, the broken bone wasn’t protruding through the skin. Thank You, Lord, for that. “I need more light. Do you have a lantern?”

  Woodson shook his head. “Massa Zimmer, he don’t allow no fires near the barn.”

  Reed pursed his lips. He didn’t like the idea of moving Abel, but he had to see well if he was going to help him. He held his bag out to the woman, who took it with lifted brows. “Woodson, I need you to lift that end of the mattress while I hoist this end. We’ll take Abel outside where I have proper lighting.”

  Woodson hesitated.

  “Go on, git hold of the bed.” The old man swiped his hand in the air; then it dropped back to his side.

  In less than a minute, they had Abel situated outside under the shade of an apple tree. The old man groaned but never cried out. Reed hated that moving his patient caused him additional pain, but it was necessary. He quickly assessed the man’s injuries—a severely fractured leg, but that seemed the extent of it. Standing, Reed motioned to the two servants to come to him. “I need a bucket of water,” he said to Woodson.

  Nodding, Woodson jogged away. Reed turned to the woman. “Do you have any paperboard and some starch?”

  Betsey’s eyes rolled upward as she considered his question. Then she nodded so hard her jowls jiggled. “Yes, suh. I know just where some be.” She turned and cupped her mouth with her hands. “Sammyyy! C’mere, boy.”

  A short while later, once all the supplies had been gathered, Reed dispensed a dose of laudanum and sent more prayers heavenward, asking God to help Abel endure setting the leg and the splinting procedure. Finally, he stood and surveyed his handiwork. Not too bad at all.

  Betsey wiped Abel’s brow with a damp cloth and cooed to him. “You be all right soon enough. Mm-huh, you will.”

  Reed washed the starch mixture off his hands in the bucket of fresh water that Woodson had brought him then dried his hands with a clean towel. He offered Woodson and Betsey a smile. “With good fortune and God’s healing hand, Abel should recover use of his leg, as long as he stays off of it for the next month, giving it time to heal well. Take special care that he not move his leg until the starch mixture hardens. Could take the rest of the day. You can give him a dose of laudanum for the pain.” Reed showed Betsey how much to dispense. “But be careful that you don’t give him too much. Mix it in a cup of willow-bark tea if he finds it too distasteful.” At the sound of quick footsteps, he turned, flinging the towel over his shoulder.

  The young boy, Sammy, who’d been tending his horse, ran toward him. He skidded to a halt, his eyes wide when his gaze dropped to the splint on the old man’s leg. “How come Abel’s leg done turned all white?”

  “That be a splint,” Betsey said. “It’ll make Abel’s leg better.”

  “How?”

  Betsey shrugged. “Ask the doctah.”

  The boy spun toward Reed, but his eyes shot past him, just as Reed heard the soft swish of fabric. His heart jolted. A woman jogged toward him—a thin woman with enough curves to spark his interest, dressed in a faded brown skirt and off-white shirtwaist. He lifted his gaze to her face, and something hit him hard in the gut. Dark hair shoved up in a haphazard bun tilted to one side, and enticing wisps curled around her lightly tanned cheeks that would be an embarrassment to most Southern women. Eyes as mysterious as the ebony sky on a starless night stared down at Abel while her brow puckered to a V. Why was she so familiar?

  Her gaze jerked up to Reed’s and her enticing eyes went wide. She blinked several times, then her face scrunched like a grape left too long in the sun. “What are you doing here?”

  A grin tugged at Reed’s mouth. So much for Southern hospitality. That was hardly the thank-you he’d expected for risking his reputation to help her slave—at least he assumed Abel belonged to this intriguing woman.

  That sense of knowing her—of seeing her before—flickered in
his mind then exploded like a flame to whale oil. She was the black-eyed Susan from the ball—the same ball where he’d dueled Johan Zimmer. “And just who are you?”

  She pursed her lips up to one side, then whisked around him as if he were of no more consequence than an old fence post. She stooped next to the old man. “How are you doing?”

  The boy bounced on his toes and tugged on the woman’s faded skirt. “Miz Zimmer, that doctah done put a cocoon on Abel’s leg.”

  Zimmer? His vixen was Carina Zimmer? How could he have not known? He stepped back, staggering under the weight of this revelation. No wonder she’d refused to dance with him all those years ago at the ball.

  She straightened and then marched toward him, her eyes slatted. “Who authorized you to treat my worker?”

  Reed opened his mouth, but her reaction stunned him to silence. Any other Southern woman would graciously thank him for treating her slave, although she may well turn her back afterward and rant about how disgraceful a thing she thought it was. But not this woman. She didn’t give a hoot about tradition but faced him head-on—and in spite of her rudeness, he couldn’t help admiring her candor.

  “I did not give you permission to be on my property, nor did I authorize you to treat one of my people. I want you to leave.” She stamped her foot. “Now!”

  Betsey hurried around behind Miss Zimmer, shoving Reed’s instruments into his bag. He winced at the harsh treatment of the brand-new utensils that he hadn’t had a chance to properly clean yet. The slave woman waddled over and held out his bag to him, the gratitude in her eyes palpable. He offered her a gentle smile and nodded his understanding, but the grin soon withered in the face of Miss Zimmer’s anger.

  “Well, are you leaving?”

  “Miz Zimmer,” Betsey said. “He done he’ped Abel out. He say that thing on Abel’s leg will he’p it to heal better and make it stronger. Can’t I at least offer him some pie and tea?”