April realized she wasn’t doing a very good job of holding up her end of the conversation. As Mr. Ludwig left the table, she helped Beulah put food away and clear the plates.
“Okay, what’s bothering you?” her friend demanded as she stored a cherry pie in the pantry.
“Nothing,” April said. She carried dishes to the kitchen.
“Might as well tell me now. I won’t let up. You’ve been distracted all evening.”
Beulah gathered the silverware as April poured hot water into the dishpan.
“Did I see you with Gray this morning?”
“Mmm.” April scrubbed a dinner plate. “His lady friend is in town again.”
He hadn’t looked pleased to see Francesca. Hadn’t looked the way April would have expected him to when his fiancée came to visit.
“You have to wonder if a man really wants a woman like her running his life.”
April silently conceded she’d wondered that, too. Gray never spoke about her.
“You think he’ll actually marry her?”
April wondered about the grim expression on Gray’s face when he’d spotted the buggy rolling into town. He’d said they were not engaged…but why did the French woman continue to visit almost every month, throw silly parties, decorate his office, act as though she owned the man? It was a strange alliance, one April would love to know more about.
“I don’t know. Somehow, I can’t see those two together.” Beulah carefully dried glasses.
April shrugged.
“You two have spent a lot of time together lately.”
“He says they’re not engaged—”
Beulah turned abruptly and grinned. “You’ve talked about her!”
“Not talked about her in particular. He mentioned something and I asked if the rumors were true, and he said, ‘You can’t believe everything you hear.’”
“Then they could be engaged?”
“He said they weren’t.”
“You get this funny, wistful note in your voice when you talk about him.”
“For goodness’ sake. You’re going to have to do something about your imagination.”
“Answer the question.”
“I forgot what it was.”
“I’ve seen how you look at him, April. Gray is a handsome man.”
April rinsed a dish and set it aside. “Not really.” Beulah didn’t know about the duel and April hoped to keep it that way. By Saturday afternoon the whole thing would be over, and Beulah and Grandpa would never be the wiser. Still, it was odd not to share her dilemma with her friend; they’d told each other everything since they were old enough to share secrets.
But Beulah couldn’t know about the duel; she would certainly tell Grandpa, and he would put a stop to it. April couldn’t risk it, couldn’t ignore Grace’s threat as if it had never happened. April had to bluff her way through, and if Gray’s plan worked, no harm would come of it. She would salvage her pride, and Grace’s anger would be appeased. And April would be rid of Henry. Well rid of Henry.
“How’s Raymond?” she asked, changing the subject.
Beulah’s cheeks pinked to a high color. “Who?”
“Raymond Grimes. Haven’t I seen him coming out of the pharmacy quite a few times in the last several weeks? He isn’t ill, is he?”
“No…” Beulah began, then stopped. “He…just stops by to say hello. You know. Just being polite. We’ve had supper together once or twice.”
“Uh-huh,” April said, glad to have finally distracted her friend. The last thing she wanted to discuss was her feelings about Gray. They were difficult enough for her to understand without trying to explain them to Beulah.
“Raymond is a nice man. Quiet, but nice.”
Beulah’s cheeks grew even pinker. “My, will you look at the time. It’s getting late!”
They finished the dishes. Then April walked the short distance to the mortuary, her mind not so much on Beulah and what seemed to be a blossoming love between her and Raymond Grimes, as on Gray and Francesca.
April had no right to resent Gray for entertaining the woman, though it wasn’t socially acceptable the way she kept showing up. Apparently she wasn’t worried about propriety.
Where were her mother and father? Did they approve of her lack of decorum? Grandpa said the world was in bad shape, but had it gone so far that well-bred young women now shamelessly pursued eligible men?
April slipped in the back way, not wanting to wake Riley, who had been sleeping poorly lately. Datha had her hands full recently, what with Flora Lee complaining more and more about her aching bones.
The door squeaked as April shut it and stepped into the small kitchen. The smells of Riley’s supper still hung in the air, meatloaf, potatoes, string beans from Jacel’s garden that Datha had canned.
April was so familiar with the household that she didn’t bother lighting the lamp. She was halfway across the kitchen when she heard a sound that stopped her in midstep. Her heart thumped, then raced like a windmill.
What was it?
A mouse?
Oh, she hoped not! She’d told Datha to set traps at night!
There it was again.
Where was it coming from? The pantry?
Not anxious to brave a mouse, she crept closer to the cupboard.
The sound was barely distinguishable, but something was in there. She could hear a faint rustling.
Lighting the lamp, she left it on the table, then eased the pantry door open, hoping to catch the rodent unawares. Lamplight spilled into the space, reaching the corners of the narrow room. A piece of gray cloth on the floor caught her attention; then she saw it was part of a skirt.
“Datha?”
The girl was huddled in a corner, her hands over her face. Her thin shoulders quivered as she choked back sobs.
Kneeling quickly in front of her, April frowned. “Datha? What’s the matter?”
When she didn’t answer, April very gently drew her hands away from her face. Her eyes were swollen from crying and her cheeks wet with tears.
“Whatever on earth is the matter?” April whispered, trying not to frighten her more. “Datha, talk to me. I want to help you.”
“Nobody can help me,” she sobbed brokenly.
“Is it Jacel?” April prodded, certain that something must have happened to the young man. “Has he been hurt? Is that it? Please…”
April moved closer, her foot knocking over something that, when she turned to look, appeared to be a bottle of Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound. A spoon lay beside it.
“What is this?” April picked up the bottle and discovered it empty. “Are you ill? Do you have a stomach ailment? Cramps? Datha, you have to talk to me!”
This brought on a fresh spate of sobs, and April realized the girl was too upset to tell her anything.
“Here, let me help you up. We’ll have some tea and…”
She began pulling her to her feet, but even as she made the attempt she saw the widening pool of blood on the floor.
“Oh, dear God!” she prayed. So much blood. She’d never seen so much blood.
“Datha, what have you done?” Taking the girl by her thin shoulders, she gently shook her. “Have you done something to yourself? You must tell me!”
“I can’t have a baby,” Datha sobbed. “I can’t, Miss April…I just can’t.”
Baby? April frowned. “You’re with child? Does Jacel know?”
“No! He can’t know what I’ve done. Please—I’ll tell him I was mistaken, that I started my monthlies just as he said I would—”
“We’ve got to get you to a doctor,” April murmured. Gray. Where was Gray? “You stay right there. Don’t move. I’ll go get help.”
Running faster than she’d ever run in her life, April raced headlong out the back door and down the steps. Her breath came in painful gasps as she ran through the darkened streets.
All she could think about was the blood.
The deep, crimson pool of Datha’s lifeblood
.
She was so winded by the time she’d reached Gray’s office, she had to stop and catch her breath. Bent double, she stood holding the rail of the outside staircase, panting, trying to think. Dear God, don’t let Datha die before I can get help! she repeated over and over in a ragged litany.
When she could, she raced up the staircase and pounded on the door.
“Gray! Gray!”
What if Francesca was with him?
“Gray!”
The door flew open and a disheveled Gray looked out. “What is it? Riley?”
“No, Datha. I—I think she’s tried to abort a baby. You’ve got to come!”
“I’ll get my bag.”
April turned, bolting back down the stairway. Gray followed a moment later, pulling on suspenders with one hand, carrying his medical bag in the other.
Side by side they silently ran toward Fallow and Main Streets, saving their breath for the race against death.
Datha was lying huddled in the corner of the pantry, only half-conscious now. She gave no indication she knew they were there.
“I’ll get Flora Lee,” April whispered as Gray set to work.
“Not yet. She’d only be in the way.”
“But if Datha—”
“I’ll tell you when to go after her.”
“I don’t want Grandpa to know.” April spoke in hushed tones, hoping that Riley was sleeping soundly on the second floor. “He thinks so much of her….”
Gray unsnapped his bag and removed his stethoscope. “Get some light in here.”
April lit two more lamps and carried them into the pantry. Standing back to allow him room, she watched him work for over ten minutes before he impatiently tossed his instruments aside.
“I can’t do anything here. I’ve got to get her to my office.”
“What can I do?”
“I’ll carry her. You take my bag.”
Lifting Datha’s slight weight into his arms, he carried her out of the pantry, her blood soaking the sleeves of his white shirt.
He cradled her to his chest, running to his office, with April following behind, taking two steps to his one.
Did Jacel know? April wondered. Had he instigated Datha’s decision?
No. April was positive he didn’t know. Jacel would be the last person to risk Datha’s life.
April reached into Gray’s pocket and got the key to the office. Unlocking the door, she lit a lamp as he carried the unconscious girl straight through to the examining room.
“Help me get her undressed.”
Grabbing a pair of scissors, April began cutting away Datha’s dress. The girl had lost so much blood, April couldn’t believe she was still breathing.
“Who would have done this?” Gray cursed under his breath as he laid out surgical instruments that, by the mere sight, made April’s skin crawl. Looking at the shiny steel implements brought back painful memories of her mother’s death.
“There’s a…midwife. Mrs. Waterman. She’s been…helping young women solve their problems for as long as I can remember. She must be nearly as old as Grandpa.”
“Where does she live?”
“Up on the hill, at the west end of town. She has a small house up there. She doesn’t go out much.”
April shivered. She didn’t need to see the grim look on his face to know Datha was slowly losing the battle.
Standing at the foot of the table, April gently smoothed a lock of coal-black hair away from the young woman’s face. Datha was a good girl. Her only weakness was Jacel, because she loved him too much.
April worked beside Gray, handing him instruments, bandages, towels, wiping the sweat dripping periodically from his brow.
“Butchers!” he muttered, trying to stay the ceaseless flow of blood. “If you and Lydia Pinkham are so intent on crusading, this is what your efforts should be about!”
“It is,” April said. “This is exactly what we’re trying to change. Because women can’t find answers, they’re forced to do idiotic things like this.”
“No doctor worth his salt would do this to a woman.”
“I didn’t mean women are looking for abortions. They’re looking for help, Gray, for answers when they’re scared and don’t know where to turn. Doctors should be there to give them answers, not just vague reassurances.”
When he’d done all he knew to do, he stepped back, wiping his bloody hands on a towel. Datha lay on the table, as still as death.
Moving closer, April whispered. “Is she…?”
“No, but she’s lost a lot of blood. I don’t know, April…. You should go for Flora Lee now.”
Reaching for Datha’s hand, April held it tightly, trying to will strength into her nearly lifeless body. She could feel a weak, weak pulse along the inner index finger on her right hand. It wasn’t much, but she knew Datha was strong. She could make it through this if she truly wanted to.
If she didn’t, the shock would kill Flora Lee.
“Could we wait until Datha regains consciousness?”
Gray’s features were stern. “I can’t promise that will happen.”
A moment later, he parted Datha’s lips and forced a few drops of laudanum down her throat.
April looked at him, puzzled.
“I don’t want her moving around and starting the hemorrhaging again.”
Nodding, April scooted a chair next to the table, continuing to hold Datha’s hand. “You’ll tell me if…when there’s a change.”
Gray nodded gravely. “I’ll tell you.”
Sometime during the next few hours, April realized that not all doctors were the enemy.
Gray was a doctor. A physician, a healer with true dedication to saving lives. This wasn’t the kind of man who had butchered her mother. This was not the kind of man April had vowed to fight with every breath in her. This was a man who fought to save life, not destroy it.
“I’m glad you were here,” she said, closing her eyes wearily.
He was sitting at his desk, cradling his head in his hands. His shoulders didn’t look as wide or as imposing tonight. They just looked very tired.
Lifting his head, he offered her an extended smile. “I’m glad you came to me. I hope that means you and I are making progress.”
“I misjudged you, Gray. Please forgive me…and thank you for saving her life.”
“I didn’t save it. If she makes it, the credit will belong to a higher source.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?”
He nodded. “Each time I treat a patient, I know God is working through me. He gave me the gift of healing, and I try my best to use it for Him. Sometimes there isn’t anything I can do, but I do what I can, and trust Him for the unseen.”
She studied Gray in the dim light. She’d been wrong to assume he was like some other doctors. He wasn’t. He was unlike anyone she’d ever known, man or woman. He was uniquely his own person.
“You aren’t like most doctors.”
“I’m honored by the thought, but I am exactly like most doctors. There are more physicians who want to save lives than those who use the simplest, and often most cruel, method of solving a problem. I’m sorry about your mother. Sometimes even our best efforts fail. I wish I could tell you why, but I’m not God. I don’t have all the answers.”
Resting her head on the cold wooden table, she watched the lantern burn lower. It was running out of kerosene and needed refilling.
“Thank you.”
Yawning, he leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his thick hair. The little-boy gesture touched her. “I told you, she’s not out of the woods.”
“I know, but thank you. At first I didn’t like you, and I judged you harshly. I was wrong. You care…you honestly care about your patients.”
Staring at the ceiling, he said softly, “Look, April, I’m willing to concede that women do have problems that physicians tend to ignore. I find myself saying, ‘Go home, rest, and it will be better in the morning.’ I do so not out of in
difference, but out of frustration. We do what we can, but medicine is a science. I think of the body as a large, complex map. We follow the recommended routes, but they don’t always take us where we want to go. We do what we can, and we guess the rest of the time.”
They sat in silence, listening to the ticking of the clock on the wall. Sometime during the night, a shower came by, pelting the windowpane, then moved on. The moon came out, illuming the rain-wet streets.
The two of them moved in and out of sleep, listening to the sound of Datha’s barely perceptible breathing. If it were to change, even a fraction, April was prepared to run and get Flora Lee. She prayed unceasingly. She knew Gray was doing the same.
He stirred at last, lifting his head to look at her.
“Who’s her second?”
Half-asleep, April tried to open her eyes. “Who’s her second what?”
“Grace. Who’s her second?”
It dawned on her he was thinking about the duel.
“I don’t know…. I didn’t think to ask.”
The admission was so absurd, it broke the tension. They both laughed, temporarily easing the strain.
“I guess I could write and ask,” she offered.
Getting out of his chair, he came to stand beside her. Cradling her head, he held her, stroking her hair. His hands smelled of camphor and soap. He didn’t say anything; words weren’t necessary. He was there, beside her. That, for the moment, was all the support she needed.
Closing her eyes, she rested her head against his broad chest, overcome by her feelings. Henry had never once made her feel this way, comforted, protected.
At the moment, nothing was pertinent but Datha. Not April’s feelings toward Gray or Francesca, or silly pistol duels over a man unworthy of such theatrical acrimony.
In the overall scheme of things, that all seemed petty and self-serving when a young woman lay close to death because she’d thought she had no other choice.
“Who’s mine?” she whispered.
“Your what?”
“My second?” She realized they’d never discussed it.
“Me,” he said.
She nodded. Him. Thank You, Lord. Her life was in capable hands.
Bluebonnet Belle Page 21
