Daughters of the Heart

by Caryl McAdoo

  “True, but I wasn’t paying you no never mind, not until the big summer fish fry of ’48. You remember that?”

  She nodded. How could she forget? “Seems to me, you only had eyes for Mary Rachel back then.”

  “Yeah, your sister is a beauty all right, but you…well, you were so young then. Anyway, thought I was, but she only had eyes for Caleb Wheeler.”

  “I remember we’d just finished seining the river and helping Rebecca gather the keepers, hurrying to throw the others back into the water.”

  “That’s right, fun times.”

  “I got in your way, remember that?”

  It all came back. Sitting there next to the Red, grinning at her instead of putting on his boots, so he could be of some use. “I remember you lollygagging and not helping.”

  “Hey, I was thunderstruck, like the first time I’d ever really noticed you.” He smiled and leaned ever closer. “I’ve been in love with you ever since. Remember what you said to me?”

  “No, what?”

  Love. Did he really know what that meant? She didn’t. How could someone who’d never been kissed know anything about romantic love? She loved her family and…she glanced at her father, deep in conversation with some man who’d pulled up a chair.

  Clay’s face ever closer sent a heady wave over her.

  Was she about to faint? He smelled so good.

  What would it be like to press her lips against his?

  Her heart beat double time trying to break out of her ribs.

  Downright wrong, her sister getting kissed first.

  But Gwendolyn would pay dearly if her father caught her kissing him right there in the Donoho’s dining room. The idiot would probably kiss her back, and then Daddy would kill him on the spot.

  She leaned back and grinned.

  “What’s funny?”

  She snickered, glanced at her father still engrossed in his conversation, then sat forward again, but not too close. “Oh, I just saved your life.”

  “What?”

  “You come back, Clay Briggs, and I’ll tell you all about it. Now what was it I supposedly said to you at the fish fry?”

  “If I tell you, will you tell me what you meant?”

  So many things had happened that summer before she turned fourteen.

  Sorting through the yards of material she and Miss Laura had sown to make all the new dresses her blooming bosom demanded, she shooed away all the boys who suddenly decided she didn’t need to be chased any longer and focused on the day of the fish fry.

  Hot. She did remember it being almost unbearably hot.

  Seemed to her she didn’t say anything when she caught him staring at her. Then like a bolt of lightning it hit her. “Mercy.”

  “Exactly. Now pray tell, Gwendolyn Buckmeyer, what did you mean by that?”

  She gave him her best smile, the one she’d spent hours practicing. “Come back, and I’ll tell you that, too. But seeing as how you’re running off to God only knows where…well…then what’s the point?”

  His mirth faded, replaced by the most serious, manly expression she’d ever seen on his handsome face. “Will you wait for me?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  That evening a storm rolled across the prairie, broke the breath-sucking heat, and sent an almost cool breeze to flutter Gwen’s lace curtains. More than bearable.

  After rocking Crockett to sleep, she replayed every word of her last minutes with Clay, wondering when she might see him again. She loved him saying that he loved her almost as much as she hated him running off with Elijah.

  Poor CeCe. So heartsick over her fiancé leaving, she’d bawled most the night. Gwen even cried with her some, but not over Clay going.

  Shedding tears less over them leaving, she cried rather over being so torn, not knowing who she wanted; if she could only decide. Braxton was so much more the man, but he’d run off, too.

  However, his proved a better reason. After all, his friend died.

  Clay Briggs only left because he wanted to have an adventure. Still the boy in him. Maybe he would come home a man.

  If only her heart could be as sure as her sister’s. No indecision from Cecelia. Three handsome men around, and she knew immediately who she wanted and jumped straight in over her head. She loved Elijah Eversole with her whole heart.

  More than life, she’d said. But how did she know?

  Gwendolyn didn’t feel anywhere near as strong about Braxton or Clay.

  Could it be that neither one was right?

  Would she ever know true love?

  Preparations for the big Independence Day picnic brought some respite. Unlike most Fourths, she volunteered to help in the kitchen. If she planned on becoming a wife, best learn more about preparing meals.

  No cook would be coming along to her new home. Oh, just the thought of her own home gave her glory bumps!

  Think of it! A husband and babies of her very own.

  Folks lauded her seamstress skills all over the county, always took a blue ribbon at the fair. Had since only a nine-year-old. Looking pretty didn’t throw her any knots, had that part down plenty smooth.

  And everyone bragged on her natural ways with babies. Still, having Miss Jewel or someone like her in the kitchen would be such a blessing.

  Mama May had been blessed like that, but she sure enough whispered in Gwendolyn’s ear that all wives needed to know at least the basics—all the basics. Even cleaning. And planting the garden, hoeing it, too.

  And taking care of the nasty chickens, too, she supposed. Those stupid birds doodooed everywhere. Mercy, she’d be so busy. Did she want to sign up for all that with Clay? Or Braxton?

  Or anyone? She actually might understand Mama May’s procrastination more and more.

  As most years, the Fourth of July celebration ended with a bang. Lots of firecrackers and pistols shot in the air. But…of all the attention the men and boys paid her, none measured up to the two suitors she already juggled.

  Poor old man Wilson proved the funniest and most entertaining, flashing his toothless grin whenever he caught her eye, but what was he thinking? Even if she was so crazy as to want to marry a man in his forties, her father would never allow it.

  July burned its way to August. Only thing worse than 1853’s summer heat proved to be its horrible humidity. In Gwen’s almost nineteen years, she couldn’t remember it being so choking muggy.

  The rain had been great, especially for the cotton—her family’s biggest cash crop—but the few hours of relief from the heat came at such a high price.

  The boys hurried through their chores then stayed in the stock pool, only coming in for supper. She and her sisters and Mama May had taken to bathing most evenings while the men and boys saw to the dishes.

  Sure didn’t need to bother kindling a fire. The cooler the water the better, its release way more than welcome.

  One such splashy evening, as Mama May climbed out of the cedar tub Daddy had built for Gwen’s mother so many years before, realization smacked her hard.

  Her stepmother’s thin cotton chemise clung to her form. She wasn’t letting herself go as Gwen and Cecelia had speculated.

  “Mama?”

  May grabbed a towel, then turned around, a look of sweet surprise on her face. “Yes, dear?”

  “When do you expect the tiny blessing?”

  Her smile widened. “I suppose sometime just after the New Year.”

  Gwendolyn beat her sisters out of the water, but Bonnie squealed first.

  Hugs and kisses flowed!

  Happy tears, but mingled with a few of regret that it wasn’t her with child. Gwen led the charge congratulating her father on the newest Buckmeyer. Mostly, he seemed pleased, but she detected a bit of remorse in his tone and in his eyes.

  That night while she lay on her pillow staring into the darkness, contemplating the prospect of another baby, a tear filled her eye, and a twang of jealousy swirled across and through her heart.

  Mary Rachel had beat them all wit
h two babies who’d have an uncle or aunt younger than them. Rebecca and Wallace Rusk had not been blessed.

  Levi and Rose just welcomed their third boy, baby Wallace Rusk after the first of the year—five boys! Maybe the new wee Buckmeyer would be born on his birthday.

  Life wasn’t fair, two good-looking men had been vying for her hand, showering her with their attentions, and now she didn’t have any. To make it worse, her younger sister settled her future with Elijah and Daddy’s blessing.

  They would be married come spring then probably nine months and a day later, bring another baby into Gwendolyn’s life to love who wasn’t her own.

  Tears welled then overflowed. Nothing was fair!

  The sweltering heat.

  Clay and Braxton so far away.

  And her getting older by the minute.

  Gracious, Lord, I’m almost a spinster.

  That same night, four hundred and sixty miles east by southeast, in the seediest park of New Orleans, the section of the French Quarter called the Swamp, where gamblers, whores, thieves, and cheats plied their trade on each other and any unfortunate pilgrim who happened to fall into their dens of iniquity, a hawk became a pigeon.

  Like all the regulars at the tables, Braxton’s fortunes peaked and plummeted. Better than most, his skill proved dampened of late by his lust for a beautiful mulatto he’d danced with two Sundays past in Congo Square.

  Her master wanted three thousand for the slave, and Braxton was short.

  His stake turned into scared money, and instead of his usual conservative style of play, he pressed. Then wholly contrary to his personal code, exhausted all lines of credit.

  Save one.

  Half past midnight, he stopped outside the Bourbon Street two-story and turned his ear to the dimly lit balcony. No snorts and raspy snores rode the muggy breeze. The Bull was up. Braxton keyed the lock and slipped inside.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he hurried up and rapped a knuckle on the door. After two lungs’ full of stale air, he pushed it open.

  The old man, bathed in lamp light, sat next to the window, a drink in his hand, reading a book. How quaint. Where was his latest soiled dove?

  He tucked a slip of paper between two pages then lay the tome in his lap. “Saints alive, boy, where have you been?”

  “I need a loan.”

  The Bull eyed him a bit then nodded. “How much?”

  “Five thousand.”

  “Tidy sum. Last I heard, you weren’t that far in.”

  “Still not, but there’s a slave I want to buy.”

  “Ah yes. The mulatto in Congo Square. Sofie, right? Handsome woman.”

  “Anything go on in this town you don’t know about?”

  He snorted a grin. “Hardly. Should be taking after the English. We treat our slaves too good, giving ’em Sunday afternoons off, acting like they have rights.”

  “Where’s your charity, old man? Of course they do, and –”

  “And nothing, Son, they’re property, pure and simple. No more than a dog or a mule. Think a mule ought to have Sundays off, too?” The man turned his face away and stared out the window. “If Greely and his bunch get their way, the darkies will all be free men. Every last, cursed one.”

  Braxton had heard it all before, no need to argue, not when he needed funds.

  The old man looked back. “You been writing to Henry’s baby girl?”

  “Just the once.”

  “Why not more?”

  “She’s…”

  “What? Too good for the likes of you?” He grinned. “What name did you give them?”

  “Hightower.”

  “That’s right, I remember now.”

  “Beside the girl, how much you really need?”

  “They cut me off at a grand.”

  “You telling me he’s asking four for that girl?”

  “No, sir, three.”

  “What were you planning to do with the other thousand?”

  “Turn it into five, so I could pay you back.”

  “Whatever. You ready to do what I want?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Good.” The Bull of his woods rubbed his hands together then nodded. “I’ll take care of your markers, and buy that slave girl you want, but she’s mine. Until you wed one of Henry Buckmeyer’s daughters.”

  Braxton hated the thought of his beauty living there with the old man, but what choice did he have? “You detest Henry that much, Father?”

  For the longest, the man didn’t respond, then a sly grin etched his face. “I’ll have my revenge, Son. And you can have your high-priced, high-yeller gal—and a rich wife to boot.”

  The next day, after buying his marker back with the one from his father, but before any deal made for the object of his burning desire, Braxton decided a bit of a change to be in order.

  His father sat on the patio of his favorite Bourbon Street watering hole, sipping coffee, reading the same book from the night before.

  Taking the open chair across from the old man, he caught the waiter’s attention and pointed to his father’s almost empty cup.

  With his own steaming brew, dashed with a shot of whiskey, half swilled, he set the mug down hard onto the wrought-iron table. “I’ve decided to change our arrangement a little.”

  The Bull looked up, marked his place with a finger, and pointed his book’s cover toward Braxton. “You read any of May Meriwether’s novels?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re a fool then.”

  How many times had he heard that? Not doing this or that or doing that or this; made no difference. Always made him a fool for it. But he wasn’t the one carrying a thirty-year-old grudge. He huffed.

  “If you say so, Father. Told your man to fetch my bags. I’m moving back into my old room.”

  A snort, followed by a sip of java, eventually turned into a little smile. “Suppose you’re fancying a few days with my new slave.”

  “I want a month.”

  The man looked off. His eyes followed a full-skirted field hand down the street toting a bowl of cantaloupes balanced on her head. Once she turned the corner, he looked back.

  “Let’s make it two, if….” He smiled big enough to reveal his gold-plated jaw tooth. “You toe the mark. I mean no cards, up every day with the sun, and tending to my business.”

  Sixty days. Anything could happen in that much time, and what the old man didn’t know…except so connected, not much happened in this town that escaped him.

  But Braxton knew of a few of Claude’s old haunts that even Bull Glover didn’t have eyes in. “Deal, but might as well call it the first of January.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Wouldn’t want to miss the holidays with my dear old dad.”

  Bull stuck out his hand. “A letter a week, and do some shopping. Send the little lady a few love trinkets.”

  Braxton hesitated, but what else did he have to pass his time? He could pick up his Sofie a trinket or two as well. “Fine, but Henry Buckmeyer is liable to kill us both.”

  The fifth day of August, 1853, found Clay Briggs standing on a pier watching the offloading of his and Elijah’s steamer trunks, but more important—according to his friend—the ten cases of high pressure hoses.

  The man extolled the value of his purchased in New Orleans. Clay had never seen so many gold coins in all his days, but then his pap handled the money.

  The teamster finished the bills of laden, signed them both, then handed over the papers. Elijah signed one and handed it back. “How quick can you get there?”

  “Three hour, no more’n four. I’s gots to get up Broadway first, then I’ll come around to yous directly.”

  “You been there before?”

  “Oh yes, sir. Everyone knows the Lone Star, Miss Mary’s Mercantile.”

  Elijah folded the bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “See you then.”

  He touched Clay’s elbow. “Come on, we’ll find a hack.”

 
“Thought we was riding with our goods?”

  “Take too long.”

  Clay had adored New Orleans. The city’s rhythmic buzz set his feet to dancing, but from what he’d seen of San Francisco, he might love this town even more. Raw, yet rich, yellow-skinned men scurried about and other foreigners spouted strange words. While not as hectic, it all worked.

  Bless the ocean breeze, blew all the bugs right on through. Wouldn’t miss the mosquitoes and flies one little bit.

  He matched strides with the man he’d grown to like better than any of his brothers. Pu him in mind of the story about David and how he loved King Saul’s son Jonathon more than any of his own kin.

  Elijah Eversole showed him respect instead of always knocking him around and taking picks.

  A few blocks from the wharf, an oriental man with a long black pigtail swinging against his back, sped by, pulling a big-wheeled buggy with a high and mighty lady riding, her face mostly covered by a ruffled parasol.

  Before he got a good look, they turned at the next corner. The man ran flat out as though about to miss supper.

  “Where do you suppose that guy’s going in such a hurry?”

  “China Town.”

  “What’s that?”

  What would it hurt? Elijah’s young friend’s obvious delight with what little he’d seen of San Francisco amused him.

  For his money, he’d rather be back in Texas with his love, but seemed young Mister Briggs’ intrigue focused far more on the grand adventure of a new world than any romantic notions.

  Elijah loved being a changed man now, born again.

  He could show Clay around China Town, and still get to the Mercantile before his goods.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rhythmic hammer blows pounded behind both eyes. Elijah rolled over and told his lids to open, but they refused. Where was he?

  A door creaked open. “Mister Eversole, sir?”

  The voice sounded sweet, but not exactly like his Cecelia’s. “What?” His lips protested the movement. Were they bleeding?