by S. B. Moores
The men turned as one to see the Thoroughbred, about twenty feet away. It had given up trying to stand and lay quietly on its side, exhausted and huffing deep breaths. Its leg, too, had clearly been broken.
“Good God,” Thomas said. “Such a waste.”
“Now, Thomas.” Henry Whitfield objected. “The good Lord appears to have spared Tobias any more serious injury.”
Thomas shook his head. “You’re right, Henry. You’re right. But this should never have happened.” He glanced again at Justin like he, the poor farmer’s son, must somehow have caused Toby’s fall.
A buckboard arrived and the men lifted the still-unconscious Toby into the bed. As they gathered up their horses and prepared to leave, Thomas Johnson handed Justin a pistol, butt first.
“It’s primed,” he said. “Since you’re the doctor here, Sterling, see if you can manage this operation with only one shot.”
Justin understood. Even if Thomas couldn’t blame Justin for Toby’s accident, he could make him put the Thoroughbred down. Justin accepted the pistol without saying anything. The men left, along with Abby, who rode next to the buckboard. Naked to the waste, Justin stood in the hot sun, held the pistol at his side, and watched them go. Abigail didn’t look back.
Jenkins placed a sympathetic hand on Justin’s shoulder. “Sometimes I think we’re only here to serve them.” He winked. “I’ll let the renderer know he has work.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Still unconscious, Tobias was placed on a goose-down mattress on a divan on the covered porch at the rear of the Johnson house, where there might be a cooling breeze and relief from the summer heat. The doctor had come and gone. He was unable to do anything more for Tobias at that moment, except to place a more permanent splint on his broken leg. Servants were available, but Abigail volunteered to sit with Toby until he woke up. It was assumed that his unconscious state was temporary, and that he would awaken shortly. He appeared comfortable enough, and there wasn’t much Abigail could do, but someone needed to be there just in case. She limited her attention to occasionally dampening Toby’s brow with a cool kerchief. Every few minutes, Toby’s closed eyes would dart about. He’d mumble something Abigail couldn’t understand, then lapse into a deeper, more comfortable slumber.
How young he looks, to have such troubled sleep, thought Abigail. She remembered the start of the horse race, and how Toby had lain on the whip, eager to take the lead and prove his mettle. Her friend was still full of youthful vigor and enthusiasm. She wondered what fate awaited him, or her, for that matter, as they grew older. As an only son, undoubtedly he would take over the family’s farm. Who would he end up marrying? What kind of a husband would he make? Ridgetop was a relatively closed society, and whatever future Toby had might well include Abigail.
A woman could do worse than marry Tobias Johnson, but at that moment she wasn’t sure. She still planned to raise horses of her own, even if part of a larger farm. She would insist that whatever man she married help her live that dream. Surely Toby wouldn’t object, but she might need more than permission. What of other men? Justin Sterling came to mind. There was a man who knew what he wanted from the world, if not how to get it. If she needed a partner to fulfill her dreams, Justin had an inner strength that might make it possible. If her plans fit his.
There came a soft knocking on the screened door. Abigail looked up and saw two men standing at the top of the steps outside the porch. One wore a silk top hat and looked the part of a travel-worn gentleman. The other man stood slightly behind and looked more like an employee, but at what rough service? Between the two, he looked like the one who did the heavy lifting.
“Good afternoon, madam,” the gentleman said. “The name’s Bailey. Hutchison Bailey. This here’s my associate, Mr. Smith. We’ve come to inquire of the boy’s condition.” He pointed a gloved hand at Toby.
“Hello,” Abigail said. From their unannounced and somewhat irregular appearance at the rear of the house, she wasn’t eager to introduce herself to these strangers.
Bailey continued. “We spoke to Master Tobias before the race this morning, and we’re real sorry he took such a bad spill. We hope he’s not seriously injured.”
“His leg’s broken, but he’s resting well enough.” Whoever these men were, apparently they were acquainted with Toby.
“A bit of bad fortune.” Bailey removed his hat and held it to his chest. The other man said nothing, but he looked to and fro, as if he’d never seen a house as large or nice as the Johnsons’, and he wanted to memorize everything he saw.
“We believe he’ll be okay when his leg is mended.” She wondered where the servants were, or if she should call for the Johnsons.
“Excellent,” Bailey said. “Excellent. As a matter of fact, our discussions with Master Tobias this morning concerned a certain business arrangement we—that is, Mr. Smith and I—have with him. Has he by any chance mentioned us to you, or anything about our business?”
“I’m afraid he has not,” she said. “And I don’t believe Tobias will be in any condition to conduct business for a few days, possibly more. Can you inquire of him at a later date?” She couldn’t imagine what kind of business Toby had with two such disreputable-looking characters as Misters Bailey and Smith. Obviously they were not from Ridgetop County, and Abigail was beginning to wish they would go on their way.
“That would be a problem for us,” Bailey said, glancing at Mr. Smith. “Our business with Master Tobias was of a rather immediate nature, to be concluded at once, after the competition this morning.”
“I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for you,” she said.
“How unfortunate.” Bailey put his hat back on his head. “Mr. Smith and I must insist that the matter be addressed—”
“Excuse me.” Justin appeared, standing at the bottom of the steps. He’d put on another shirt since the incident at the horse race. Even with Toby’s injuries, Abigail had struggled at the time to keep from openly admiring Justin’s bare chest. Now she was grateful for his unannounced arrival at the back door.
“There’s nothing we can do for you,” Justin said. “Not at this moment.”
Bailey and Smith turned to look at Justin. “And you are . . . ?” Bailey said.
“I am a friend of Mr. Johnson’s. That’s all you need to know.” Justin turned slightly, revealing the pistol he’d been holding low, next to his leg.
“A friend of the Johnsons. How fortunate for you,” Bailey said.
Smith scowled at Justin but looked to Bailey, apparently for instructions.
Justin held out his free hand, palm open and away from the house, inviting Bailey and Smith to leave. “If you have any business with Tobias Johnson, I’m certain he will contact you when he is able.”
Abigail glanced behind her, hoping Toby’s father or one of the servants would arrive. She couldn’t explain the tension filling the air, and she feared the men might cause trouble. But Bailey backed down, even though Smith looked eager to start a fight.
“How right you are,” Bailey said. “Come, Mr. Smith. We should let Master Tobias rest and make a full recovery.” To Abigail’s relief, the two men walked down the steps. Bailey paused and doffed his hat when he passed Justin. “We will inquire again when the master is better able to attend to business. Good day.”
“Good day to you,” Justin said.
Smith gave him a grim smile and kept walking.
Justin watched the two men go until they had crossed the Johnsons’ back lawn and entered onto the tree-lined public lane bordering the rear of the property. Then he came up the steps and stood at the screened door.
“Thank you,” Abigail said. “I can’t imagine who those men are.” She held the door open.
Justin came in. “As luck would have it, I saw them talking to Toby just before the race.”
“Is that why you came armed?” She pointed at the pistol.
“What? This?” Justin held the pistol up at eye level and examined it. “It’s not loaded. I was just returni
ng it to Mr. Johnson.”
“Ah, yes,” Abigail said. “Someone had to put down Toby’s horse. It’s so sad.”
Justin set the pistol on a small table next to the divan. “An absolute waste. I hope I’m never required to perform that particular task again. How’s Toby doing?”
“Pretty much the same.” She smiled. “The doctor compliments you on your splinting skills and says you’d make him a good assistant, if you ever give up farming.”
Justin placed a hand on Toby’s forehead. “I’ll consider it. There must be more profit in doctoring than farming, if you can put up with sick people.” He smiled to show he was kidding.
“Better to put up with the sick than people like those men. Who were they?”
“I don’t know, but I have my suspicions.”
“And what are those?”
“As long as we’ve had horse racing, money has changed hands. I think those men were betting on the race.”
“With Toby?” She looked down at her friend, whose sleep was troubled one again. “Do you think he owes those men money? That’s horrible.”
“I hope he doesn’t,” Justin said. “But men like that would not have come here so quickly to pay off their own debts. And how horrible the situation is would depend on how much money Toby may have lost.”
She shook her head. “It’s bad enough that he’s lost the race and his horse, too. I can’t imagine being in debt to gamblers.” She sat and took one of Toby’s hands in hers. “I’m going to sit with him awhile. It may be better if you aren’t here when he wakes. You would remind him of his losses.”
“Very well.” Justin shrugged his shoulders and left.
Abigail looked down at Toby’s placid face and wondered what kind of mischief he’d been up to.
Walter Sterling glanced over the top of the book he was reading when Justin came into the sitting room. The boy seemed worried, unable to decide whether to sit or pace the room.
“Good evening, Father.”
“Good evening, son.”
“What are you reading?”
He glanced at the cover of the tattered red book. “It’s an ancient Greek tale. An adventure, written by a man named Homer.”
Justin hesitated, interrupting his apparent self-absorption to look at his father. Walter smiled, but something worried him.
“An adventure,” Justin said. “That’s fine for the Greeks, but what can they tell us about the hardships of a farmer’s life in rural Tennessee?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Walter set the book in his lap. “Men have always been set upon by demons, some more exotic than others. Some are of their own making, and farmers are not immune.”
“There’s no need to go on an adventure to find those demons,” Justin said. “And we’ll never be free of them, I suppose.”
“Probably not,” he said. “But it’s how we respond to the demons that marks us as men. Or, in the case of this story, how fathers relate to their sons and their demons.”
“Your son hasn’t done too well with his demons, lately.” Justin dropped into a chair opposite him. “I should have won that race. I could have, too, if Toby hadn’t taken a fall.”
“No, you didn’t win the county free-for-all, son, but you did something much more important. You helped your friend when he needed it. That should provide returns long after the excitement of winning a horse race has waned.”
“Thank you, Father, but a single incident of helping Toby Johnson is akin to once helping the Queen of Egypt step out of her carriage. It’s bound to get lost among the other trappings of the Johnsons’ lives. Toby’s broken leg will mend. In time it will be nothing more than a story he’ll tell his children, nothing more than a momentary inconvenience in his comfortable life. But my coming to his aid may have resulted in a serious setback for the Sterling farm. Or at best it was an opportunity lost.”
Walter picked up his pipe from a small table next to his chair and looked into the bowl. “These things, these demons if you will, happen from time to time. It’s not the end of the world. We’ve bred some fine stock, in no small part due to your help.” He knocked a few ashes from the bowl into a clay ashtray and started reloading the pipe with fresh tobacco. “There will be other races, not that it matters so much. Sooner or later men who look for horses like ours will find their way to our door. I have faith in that. As I have faith in you.”
“Thank you, Father. I knew you would. I just wish there was something more I could do for you. For us.” Justin waved a hand in the air, taking in the whole Sterling farm. “I feel like there’s so much more we could have, but it remains out of reach.”
“You’re doing as much as any father can expect of a son. Perhaps our lot in life is set. And if that’s true, we may never be as comfortable as the Johnsons or the Whitfields, but we’re comfortable enough, God willing. And don’t be fooled. Families who appear so much better off than others have their own problems, ones we poor Sterlings do not.”
“Maybe so.” Justin nodded. “But what I wouldn’t give to have their problems, just for a day.”
Walter looked a little more closely at his son. “Forgive me if I pry, but I suspect your concern over not winning the race has more to do with something else, something more personal than taking home the purse. Am I right?”
Justin’s head shot up and he grinned. “You know me too well.”
“It’s the Whitfield girl, Abigail, who’s got under your skin. I know.”
Justin’s grin turned into a rueful smile and Walter’s suspicions were confirmed. He had been expecting this kind of trouble sooner or later.
Justin ran his fingers through his hair. “I suppose that’s a tale as ancient as it is current. And, much to my dismay, the author, whoever he is, can’t seem to write a happy ending. At least for me.”
“And you believe that’s because of a difference in wealth. That there is too much distance between us poor Sterlings and the Whitfield family, which lives high above us, metaphorically speaking, in a shining farm on a hill.”
“Aye, that’s the stopper. But even if it weren’t, Abby herself causes me as much suffering as I can stand. One moment I see such a light in her eye—the spark of love, at least I hope—and I do everything I can to fan that spark into a flame.” Justin clenched his fist. “Then she turns away, to Toby perhaps, or to the next man who approaches her, and she has no more time for me. I feel the floor fall away beneath my feet and I tumble into pitch darkness. How can one woman cause so much misery?”
“I know it won’t help to point this out, but the aching heart in question is yours. So you may have some choice in the matter.”
“So true. I would give everything I own to know that Abigail Whitfield’s heart ached as much for me, even for the briefest moment, as mine does for her. Or, if it doesn’t, to be free of this pain, once and for all.”
“I am familiar with young Miss Whitfield, and you may underestimate the woman’s feelings for you.”
“What do you mean?” His son looked at him with cautious hope.
“I’ve seen the two of you together. I’ve surely seen the light in your eye when you’re with her. And I’ve observed Abigail, too. She has her eye on you, of that I am sure.”
“Is my interest in her a motive for revenge? Is that why she tortures me so?”
“In a sense, yes. She would not torture you if she did not feel favorably toward you. Unfortunately, she may not be able to do otherwise.”
“How do you mean?”
“Abigail’s life is not entirely her own. None of ours is.” He set the book on a side table. “We all have obligations. Some are of our own doing, and some are like the demons of an adventure. And some of them are set upon us by our circumstances at birth.”
“Now you speak of Henry Whitfield, surely a demon and the bane of my existence.”
“Henry doesn’t wish you ill. He simply wants the best of all things for his daughter. What father wouldn’t?”
“Am I such a sorry prospect? N
o, don’t answer that. I know my own worth. It’s Henry who doesn’t.”
“If love for a woman were a measure of a man’s worth, you, my son, would be wealthy indeed. But Henry must be concerned with more worldly matters. He cares for his family in the same way you and I and your mother do, each within our own means. In Henry’s case, his means are substantial, and that’s the standard by which he measures what’s good for his daughter.”
“And because of that I am doomed. Abby and I have no say in our fates, is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, I hope that’s not true. I’m merely telling you that Abigail understands these things. She must be torn between her feelings for you and her love and respect for her father.”
“And, being unable to express whatever those feelings are for me, much less to commit, she settles for torturing me.”
Walter laughed. “What you think of as torture may simply be a test. Have you ever considered that?”
“She tests me? How much more testing do I need? How much more can I stand? Would she drive me to my knees before she can love me?”
He laughed again. “No, son. I’m sure that’s not the case, but think of this. If you were Abigail Whitfield and you loved a poor farmer’s son, what kind of man would that boy have to be to win her away from Henry Whitfield?”
Justin hung his head. “The man would have to be Agamemnon, leading an army of heroes who storm the high, forbidding walls of the Whitfield mansion.”
“He’d have to be strong, that’s true. As strong as his love.”
Justin regarded him in silence. “That’s what you mean by a test.”
“Abigail Whitfield is not a flirtatious woman, as far as I can tell. If she had no interest in you, and you little in her, she’d have no reason to torment you so. More likely she would ignore you. As it is, the degree to which you are tormented might be proportional to her feelings for you, although about that I can only guess.”
Justin grinned. “If that’s true, Father, then Abigail Whitfield loves me more than the moon and stars, more than her next breath.”
Walter struck a match and spoke between breaths as he lit his pipe. “Keep that in mind, son, when your heart aches. Do what you can, within reason, to pass the test, but be true to yourself.”