by Dorothy Love
Nate jammed his hat onto his head. “Go ahead and pretend that’s true if it makes you feel less guilty.”
He motioned her out the door and locked the shop.
Griff reined in his hired horse and peered at the crude wooden sign nailed to a tree beside the road. Beneath the tangled undergrowth, a narrow rutted lane led deeper into the thick stand of timber. The bloated carcass of a possum lay rotting just beyond the intersection.
Griff looked around. This was the road to the gambling hall in Two Creeks? He urged the horse onto the path. A couple of miles farther on, the road widened to reveal a row of shanties on either side. Boarded-up windows, half-naked children running wild, a knot of old men smoking on a collapsed front porch bespoke the coloreds’ plight. He could imagine that what little money found its way to Two Creeks quickly found its way out, tucked into the pockets of cardsharps and con men.
At a bend in the road, he crossed a wooden bridge spanning the wide creek and saw the gambling house, a ramshackle, tin-roofed affair perched on stilts above the sluggish brown water. A couple of horses stood tethered at the rail out front. A rig he supposed was Rosaleen’s waited at the side door. He reined in, dismounted, and pushed through the door.
The air was still and thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of unwashed bodies. An ebony-skinned man behind the bar looked up, nodded, and went back to polishing a shot glass. At a pine table in a corner, two men sat drinking and talking, their hats pulled low, hiding their faces.
The side door opened, and Rosaleen swept in. Dressed in a dark blue satin dress and feathered hat, she put him in mind of an exotic flower growing in the midst of a weedy patch.
“Griff. You came. I wasn’t sure you would.”
“I said I’d be here.” He motioned her to the table. “Sit down. Let’s get this over with.”
She perched on the chair, opened her reticule, and took out a new deck of cards. “I expected a bigger crowd than this. Shall we ask those two gentlemen to join us?”
“It won’t be much of a game otherwise.”
He watched her stroll to the other table. She bent and whispered to one of the men. The two got up and followed her back to Griff’s table.
“Gentlemen,” Rosaleen said, “this is Griff Rutledge, one of the best card players between here and New Or—um, Texas.”
The taller of the two nodded and sat down across from Griff. “I heard about you. You’re the feller intendin’ to ride some fancy horse in that race this fall.”
“That’s right.” Griff eyed Rosaleen as he shuffled the deck and cut the cards. “What’s your pleasure, gentlemen?”
“You ever played triple-draw poker?” The other man’s chair scraped the wooden floor as he sat down.
Griff kept his expression impassive. “A time or two. Deuce to seven?”
“Fine by us.”
Griff dealt the first hand. The Negro barkeep wandered over with four glasses. Without even tasting the liquor, Griff knew it had been watered down. In the past he’d have insisted on a decent shot of liquor, but along with his loss of interest in gambling, he’d lost his taste for strong drink too. He waved away the drink and took up his cards. Across from him, Rosaleen studied her hand and chewed her bottom lip.
“I’ll take two cards.” Her rings flashed as she tossed away her unwanted cards and scooped up the ones Griff dealt.
“How about you gentlemen?” he asked.
“Gimme two,” said the taller one.
The other one shook his head. “Reckon I’ll keep the ones I got.”
After several rounds the taller gambler tossed his cards onto the table. “I’m out.”
“Me too.” The other one tossed his cards onto the table and shook his head. “If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.”
The door opened and two colored men came in, laughing and joking. They stopped stock-still at the sight of Rosaleen, their expressions full of curiosity. Griff knew how they felt. The first sight of Rosaleen was bound to throw any man for a loop.
Griff tapped his cards and raised a brow. “Miss Dupree? You in?”
“Just a minute. I’m thinking.” She drummed one finger on the table.
He tamped down his impatience. “What’ll it be?”
“I believe I’ll raise you.” She opened her reticule and tossed another bill onto the table.
“You’re sure?”
Her emerald eyes flashed. “Are you going to play or talk?”
The taller of the gamblers leered at her. “If you ain’t a pistol. Why I bet you’d be—”
“Pardon me, sir. You’re interrupting the lady’s concentration.” Griff tossed another ten dollars onto the table and watched her eyes go wide. She was definitely in over her head. He almost felt sorry for her, until he remembered how they’d arrived at this point in the first place.
She slumped in her chair and tossed her cards onto the table. “All right, Griff. You win.”
He raked the pile of cash to his side of the table and pocketed it without counting it. “Get your things. I’ll ride along with you, see you safely back to town.”
She eyed the lanky gambler, who had returned to the bar for another drink and was now studying her intently from beneath the brim of his hat. “I think I’ll stay awhile.”
He grasped her arm. “You’ll do no such thing. You’re coming with me. You don’t belong to that life anymore.”
“Maybe I do.” Her voice wobbled. “Maybe that’s all I’m meant for. Anyway, I have no choice now. I’m broke, and I have to pay the rent somehow.”
“Where have I heard that story before?” Griff felt a tightening in his chest. For years he’d thought about how satisfying it would feel to collect this debt—fit retribution for her having played him for a fool. But somehow all he felt now was pity and sadness. And self-loathing that he had raised the stakes when he was certain she held a losing hand. He drew a wad of bills from his pocket and pressed them into her hand. “Here’s your rent money.”
“I don’t want it. I’m sick of being beholden to you, of being tracked down like I’m a criminal or something.”
“Consider it a gift. As of right now, your debt is canceled.”
“But you said you needed the money.”
“It turns out I don’t need it as much as I need my self-respect.” He waved one hand around the sleazy gaming house. “I can’t leave you here. You ought to take that money and buy a ticket on the next train out of Hickory Ridge.”
“I’m not leaving town.” She stuffed the bills into her bodice and picked up her reticule. “Not until I find what I came here to find.”
TEN
Her stomach taut with nerves, Carrie slid her key into the lock and entered the bookshop. Today was the first meeting of the ladies’ book discussion society, and she’d been awake all night worrying about it. Would anyone actually attend? She’d posted notices at the mercantile and the Hickory Ridge Inn and invited everyone at the Verandah—Mrs. Whitcomb, Lucy Whitcomb, Rachel Ryan, Rosaleen, and even the elderly Provost sisters who spent their days sequestered on the third floor. She didn’t expect the ancient ones to actually attend, but she couldn’t be impolite and not invite them.
It was disappointing that Lucy would not be able to leave the Grayson children long enough to attend, but at least the young woman had kept her job. Carrie liked Lucy’s ready laugh and sharp mind. Her intelligence and patience would make her an excellent teacher. If the Hickory Ridge school reopened before Lucy headed for her new life in Montana, Carrie intended to recommend her for the post.
She set a basket of freshly baked cinnamon rolls on the counter and went to the back room to make coffee. Nate had left everything ready for her. The coffee grinder and a sack of beans waited beside a jug of fresh water and the blue enameled pot that was kept filled any time the shop was open.
She ground the beans and dumped them into the pot, lit the stove, and set the pot on to boil. She set out a saucer of milk for India and opened the curtains t
o the bright August sunshine. Through the dusty window she watched the activity on the street. A few farm wagons waited outside the mercantile. Mr. Gilman, in a gray striped suit and felt bowler, arrived for his morning shave at the barbershop. Molly Scott, the mayor’s wife, hurried into the dress shop and came out almost immediately with a box tucked under her arm.
Watching her, Carrie’s eyes welled up suddenly, remembering their conversation at the Founders Day picnic back in July. Mrs. Scott had confided that her newly married daughter was expecting a baby. Carrie offered congratulations, but her insides burned with envy. All her youthful dreams had been so simple—a home, a husband, children to guide and to love. How had such modest aspirations eluded her?
True, Nate said he wanted to marry her. But the longer she delayed setting a date, the more uncertain of her feelings she became. These days she and Nate seemed always to be at cross purposes. Perhaps it was a sign they weren’t truly meant for each other. But if they weren’t, what other chance did she have for happiness? Would she end up old and alone, living out her days at the Verandah like poor Mrs. Athiston?
The bell above the door sounded, and Rosaleen and Mrs. Whitcomb arrived together. Carrie pushed back her dark thoughts and put on a welcoming smile.
“You’ve been busy, Carrie.” Mrs. Whitcomb looked around the tidy shop, at the gleaming woodwork and neat rows of books. “The last time I was here, the place was a mess.”
“That’s why Nate hired me.”
Mrs. Whitcomb plopped into one of the chairs Nate had brought over from his house for the occasion. “I’d say he got his money’s worth.”
“Where is Mr. Chastain this morning?” Rosaleen purred. She flipped open her fan. “I haven’t seen him since he brought another stack of books to the Verandah last week. I declare that man knows about every book that ever was written. I find every single conversation with him utterly fascinating.”
Carrie rolled her eyes toward the flyspecked ceiling. Rosaleen hung on every word Nate spoke, feigning interest in every book he mentioned. It was annoying as mosquitoes in July, but Nate seemed to revel in the attention. Couldn’t he see through that woman?
“I’ll tell him you said so.” Carrie shelved a couple of books Nate had left on the table. “Or you can, when you drop in to pay your bill.”
“My . . .” Rosaleen’s eyes widened. “But I thought, I mean, weren’t the books a gift?”
“One or two, maybe, but not all of them. The bookshop must turn a profit, you know.”
The aroma of the coffee drifted through the sunlit shop. Carrie raised the windows and peered out at the street. Where was everyone? She had at least expected her friends from church to come. Given the sporadic nature of services these days and the demise of the quilting circle, surely Mariah and the others were starved for somewhere to go and someone to talk to.
“Carrie?” Mrs. Whitcomb blotted her face with her handkerchief and flipped through a book of poems. “Despite this heat, that coffee sure smells inviting.”
Carrie turned from the window. “I’ll pour some. And I made rolls this morning too.”
“I thought I smelled cinnamon when I woke up this morning.” The hotelier smiled. “You’re welcome in my kitchen anytime, Carrie Daly, as long as I get first claim on the leftovers.”
Carrie went to the back, poured coffee, and uncovered the plate of rolls, trying not to feel disappointed at the poor turnout. Well, this was the first meeting, after all. And a book society was a new idea that perhaps took some getting used to. If only Ada Caldwell were here. Ada was a voracious reader, forever writing to Carrie about whatever book she happened to be devouring at the time. And Lillian—she would certainly have livened things up. Wyatt Caldwell’s late aunt had an opinion about everything, and she hadn’t been shy about sharing any of them.
Carrie served the refreshments and picked up her copy of Thomas Aldrich’s Marjorie Daw and Other People, which featured the cleverly written short story that the Memphis book club ladies were raving about. Written in the form of letters between a Mr. Flemming and his friend, Mr. Delaney, it was a delightfully humorous meditation on just how easy it was to become enamored with the very notion of being in love. It was just the sort of story to get the ladies talking.
The shop door opened, and a woman in a yellow calico dress swept in, her parasol dangling from one arm. “Is this the ladies’ book discussion society?” she trilled. “I’m not too late, am I?”
Carrie looked up. Her stomach clenched.
“Hello, Mary.”
Griff dismounted and led Majestic around the pasture, delaying permission for the horse to return to the barn. Majestic’s time around the training track was getting better and better. But Griff had noticed that the minute he slid from the saddle the horse headed for the barn, eager for his work to be done—a habit Griff intended to discourage. From his pocket he produced a carrot for Majestic and continued a slow circuit of the pasture while Majestic munched contentedly.
A blue jay sailed into the trees, calling noisily, its sapphire-colored wings shimmering in the light. Majestic blew out and snorted. Griff patted the colt’s sleek side. “All right, boy. We’ll call it a day. You’ve earned it.”
He dropped the reins, turned his back on the horse, and clicked his tongue. Majestic responded with a soft whinny and walked along beside Griff.
Griff grinned. One of the things he loved most about Thoroughbreds, aide from their trainability and desire to run, was their affinity for people. He and Majestic were coming to an understanding. They would make a fine pair come Race Day.
The scent of late-summer leaves drifted across the pasture as he and Majestic neared the barn, triggering a memory of a summer in Charleston when he was a boy, abed with aching lungs and a raging fever. His mother had bathed his forehead with rags wrung out in cold water and read all his favorite stories, though he was so sick he heard them only dimly through his febrile fog.
When his fever finally broke, Charlotte Venable Rutledge dropped to her knees beside her son’s bed, sending up prayers of thanksgiving for his deliverance. The next week, as Griff regained his strength, she read stories from the Bible. Noah and the Ark, David and Goliath, and Jonah and the whale had been his favorites. Later he’d read the story of Jacob and his immediate attraction to the beautiful Rachel, an attraction so strong he’d worked seven years for a chance to claim her.
He’d thought of that story last week when he stopped by the bookshop and spoke with Carrie Daly. Griff wasn’t much of a believer in true love, certainly not in love at first sight. But he couldn’t deny he felt something powerful pass between him and the lovely Mrs. Daly every time they met.
He shook his head. So what if they were attracted to each other? There was no future in it. He was headed to Australia. He’d heard that she was headed to a life with the bookseller. Besides, the moment a man fell in love, complications set in, and he was in no mood for complications.
Carrie forced a smile. “Come in, Mary. You’re not too late.”
Henry’s new wife swept into the bookshop and looked around. “Oh dear. I’m not the only one who showed up, am I? Oh, how mortifying for you, Carrie.”
Mrs. Whitcomb drew herself up. “Mary Stanhope. Did you mistake me for a piece of furniture? You most certainly are not the only one. Me and Rosaleen can hardly wait for the discussion to begin.” She winked at Carrie. “The two of us, plus Carrie, of course, are charter members of the Hickory Ridge Ladies’ Book Society.”
Carrie could have hugged the older woman. She grinned at Mrs. Whitcomb.
“Charter members?” Mary perched on the edge of her chair and arranged her skirts.
“It’s a very exclusive group,” Rosaleen put in. “By invitation only.”
“I’m sure. But I’m family, so of course I’m charter too.” Mary snapped her fan open and motioned to Carrie. “Mercy, it’s hot! Still, that coffee smells good. And the cinnamon rolls. Bring me some, please.”
Carrie poured the coffee and
passed the plate of rolls to her sister-in-law, striving to maintain a firm rein on her temper. Mary had usurped her home and her brother. Wasn’t Carrie entitled to anything of her own?
She opened her book and read the opening pages. Rosaleen laughed at the description of the hapless Mr. Flemming slipping on a lemon peel and of his doctor’s dire assessment of the poor man’s mental state.
“The best part is Mr. Delaney’s descriptions of Marjorie,” Mrs. Whitcomb said when Carrie finished her reading. “I like the way he described her as ‘enchanting in the summer twilight.’” She let out a hearty laugh. “I realize Marjorie is only imaginary, but it still makes me jealous. I don’t reckon I’ve ever once been called enchanting.”
Mary frowned. “Let me get this straight. There really was no Marjorie Daw? She was just a made-up lie?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call her a lie,” Carrie said. “She was more of . . . an invention, to keep Mr. Flemming’s spirits up while his broken leg healed.”
“Well, I think it’s a stupid story.” Mary opened her bag. “The announcement said to bring your favorite book, so I brought this—”
“Excuse me, Mary, but I was here first.” Mrs. Whitcomb fished a book from her bag and set on the table. “Any of you read Lady Audley’s Secret? My sister down in Georgia sent it to me, and I must say I found it quite sensational.”
“In what way?” Carrie sipped her coffee and sent the hotelier a grateful smile. The woman had certainly put Mary in her place.
“Imagine a woman who seems a perfect wife and mother,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “but she winds up a bigamist and a murderer. Shocking.”
“To say the least.” Rosaleen’s fan stirred the hot summer air.
“This Lady Audley, for her own selfish reasons, abandoned her own child.” Mrs. Whitcomb shook her head as if the story had come straight from that morning’s newspaper. “Disowning a child is worse than murder if you ask me.”
Rosaleen blanched and got to her feet. “Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing! Perhaps she had no choice. People ought not to form opinions about others until they have all the facts.”