Beauty for Ashes

by Dorothy Love

  His eyes widened. “Are you? I’m glad of that. Nate is a good man. But you’ve waited years to marry. Can’t you wait awhile longer?”

  “I’ve only recently realized that Nate and I are perilously close to passing the prime of our lives. Every day that goes by is time we can never get back. I’ve spent all this time putting off my future, wondering whether something better might be around the next corner. But now—”

  “You’re refusing me. After all I’ve done for you, you’re too busy with your own life to help your only blood kin when he needs it the most.”

  “You make me sound cruel and uncaring.”

  He clenched his jaw. “How else would you describe it?”

  “Henry, if there is anything else I can do, anything at all, I will do it gladly. But—”

  “You don’t have to say anything else. I understand.” He went to the door.

  She followed him. “Please don’t go away angry with me. I can’t bear it.”

  “I’m not angry.” He jammed his hat onto his head and wrenched the door open. “I’m disappointed.”

  Tears rolled down her face. Already her heart ached with grief for the loss of the vital bond that had existed between them. “I’m sorry.”

  “Congratulations on your forthcoming wedding. I hope you and Nate will be very happy.”

  “You will come to the ceremony?”

  “Not likely. I’m leaving soon as I can find somebody to help Mary with the farm. Good-bye, Carrie Lou.”

  She watched through the window as Henry climbed onto his wagon and drove away. At the same instant, Griff Rutledge emerged from the mercantile, his arms laden with packages, and started up the street.

  Despite her sadness at losing Henry, the sight of Griff made Carrie’s nerves jump. Watching his purposeful strides as he headed for the Hickory Ridge Inn, she felt the odd quivering in her insides returning. Something about him made her feel alive, excited, filled with possibility. She started after him, then chastised herself and sat down again. She was about to marry Nate. These inexplicable feelings for Griff simply would not do.

  Finally she put on her hat, took up her keys again, and locked the shop. Regardless of Griff Rutledge’s unsettling effect upon her emotions, her mind was made up. She was through with waiting for perfection. She’d settle down in Hickory Ridge with Nate. Forget all about the horse trainer, his soulful eyes and charming smile, and the way he made her feel.

  TWELVE

  Following the pungent scent of boiling cabbage and the rattle of silverware, Carrie headed to the kitchen. Mrs. Whitcomb stood over a bubbling pot, steam fogging her spectacles.

  “Carrie. Looks like it’s just you and me for supper tonight,” she said. “Pull up a chair.”

  Carrie swept aside a deck of Rosaleen’s cards and sat. “Where is everybody?”

  “Rachel got a letter from her husband in North Carolina. He found a job—finally—and has sent for her. She tore out of here like the place was on fire.”

  “I don’t blame her. They’ve been apart a long time.”

  “Too long. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I don’t think so. Even the best of marriages can come undone when people are apart too long.” Mrs. Whitcomb ladled the cabbage into bowls and pulled a pan of cornbread from the oven. “Anyway, Rachel went down to Jeanne Pruitt’s dress shop to pick out a new traveling dress, and Rosaleen went with her. They’re going to the bakery later to buy a cake to celebrate.”

  Carrie picked up her spoon. “That’s odd. When I passed the dress shop just now, I could have sworn the place was dark.”

  Mrs. Whitcomb sat down and dipped a piece of cornbread into the soupy cabbage. “Maybe Rachel and Rosaleen are already at the bakery. Personally I hope they bring a peach pie instead of cake. I love peach pie, and the season’s almost over. It’s Lucy’s favorite too.”

  Carrie tasted the cabbage and wrinkled her nose. Bland as dirt. If only she’d had time to bake a pan of biscuits or a blackberry pie. She reached for the pepper and shook a generous amount into her bowl. “Where is Lucy tonight?”

  “At a meeting down at the town church. They’re talking about the Christmas pageant.”

  “I miss having the pageant at our church. It’s one of the things that makes Christmas real to me.”

  Mrs. Whitcomb buttered another piece of cornbread. “Remember the year Mrs. Lowell’s orphans sang carols? That was the year it snowed knee-deep to a tall Indian.”

  Carrie grinned. “I remember. Wyatt Caldwell proposed to Ada that night on a sleigh ride to the top of Hickory Ridge. Can you imagine anything more romantic?”

  “Wyatt Caldwell always had a flair for the dramatic. He was very lucky it snowed enough to get that sleigh of his out. I always felt the Lord himself had a hand in that.” Mrs. Whitcomb chewed and swallowed. “I sure do miss having him around town.”

  “I miss Ada something awful.” Carrie gave up on the cabbage and pushed her bowl away. “I doubt she and Wyatt can make another trip for a wedding so soon after Henry’s.”

  Mrs. Whitcomb grinned. “You’re getting married at last? Are you fooling me, girl?”

  “I’m serious. Nate has been after me forever to set a date, and I’ve decided it’s time.”

  “Oh?” The hotelier’s brow went up. “I don’t suppose your decision had anything to do with the amount of time he’s spent hanging around here, talking to Rosaleen.”

  The niggling thought that Nate was getting too friendly with Rosaleen had in fact crossed Carrie’s mind, but she refused to give it any credence. “Rosaleen is not Nate’s kind of woman.”

  An explosion of laughter escaped Mrs. Whitcomb’s lips. “If that’s what you think, you’ve got a lot to learn about men.”

  “Aunt Maisy?” Lucy called. “Anybody home?”

  “In the kitchen.” Mrs. Whitcomb hove to her feet to serve up another bowl of cabbage.

  Lucy came in, frowning. “For mercy’s sake. Cabbage again? Hello, Carrie.”

  “Maybe you’d rather waste a dollar and have dinner at the inn,” her aunt said.

  Lucy tossed her hat onto the back of her chair and plopped down. “Yes, I would love that, but every dollar I save brings me that much closer to my Jake and Montana.” She took a bite of cabbage and made a show of swallowing it. “I’m eating this cabbage for a good cause.”

  Between bites, Lucy filled them in on plans for the Christmas pageant. “Reverend Patterson is asking Mariah Whiting to play the piano again this year.” She picked up the pepper shaker and doctored her bowl of cabbage. “That is, if the Whitings are still in town by Christmas. Mr. Patterson said the mill owners let most of the men go last week, but they kept Sage on for now.”

  The cabbage sat like lead in Carrie’s stomach at the reminder of Henry’s plight and her refusal to move back to the farm. She walked over to the slop pail and dumped her bowl of cabbage into it. “I’ve had a long day. I’m going to bed.”

  “Don’t you want to wait and see what Rachel and Rosaleen bring from the bakery?” Mrs. Whitcomb peered out the window. “They should be here any minute.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “Go on to bed,” Lucy said, waving her spoon at Carrie. “If what they bring is any good, I’ll save you some.”

  In her room, Carrie got ready for bed and opened her Bible, but the words blurred on the page. Guilt and confusion knotted her stomach. Was she wrong to want happiness for herself? Wrong to marry Nate when she felt something—she wasn’t certain just what—for Griff Rutledge? Her attraction to him made no sense at all. They were practically strangers, and he was merely passing through. What was the point of wanting what could never be hers?

  Griff led his hired horse into the livery and handed the reins to the proprietor, a skinny fellow with a scraggly beard and piercing black eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Tanner. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Rutledge.” Tanner spat a stream of tobacco juice into the street. “Will you be wantin’ her again
tomorrow?”

  “I expect so.” He nodded toward the chestnut mare. “You might check her left back foot. She seemed to be favoring it some on the way home today. Shoe might be a little loose.”

  Tanner nodded, scratched his belly, and jerked his thumb toward the front of the livery. “Didja see my new sign?”

  Griff leaned back to read it. “Excelsior Stable, H. Tanner, Prop. Horses, Buggies, Hacks, and Harnesses for sale or rent. Horses boarded by the month, day, or single feed. Hack, horses, and Careful Driver available at rates to suit the times. That’s quite some sign, Mr. Tanner.”

  Griff grinned. “That’s quite some sign, Mr. Tanner.”

  Tanner spat again. “Charlie Blevins over at the mill made it for me. Cost me an arm and a leg, but I figgered it might be worth advertisin’, with folks coming into Hickory Ridge for Race Day.”

  “Let’s hope for a good turnout.”

  “How’s the trainin’ going?” Tanner removed the mare’s bit and saddle and led her into a stall. “That black colt of Mr. Gilman’s sure is a beauty.”

  Griff nodded. “He is. He’s a challenge, though. Some days he spooks easily, and others he thinks he’s in charge.”

  “You’ll get that notion out of his head,” Tanner said. “Folks say you’re the best horse trainer in the country.”

  “I’ve my share of successes.” Griff touched the brim of his hat. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Leaving the livery, he jogged across the street and headed for the inn. Exhausted and grimy after a long day with Majestic, he looked forward to a bath and a hot supper. He pushed open the door and crossed the carpeted lobby to retrieve his room key.

  The clerk handed him the key and a couple of letters and inclined his head toward the sitting area just off the lobby. “A visitor for you, Mr. Rutledge. He’s been here most all day. I offered to send somebody out to Gilman’s to get you, but he said he’d just as soon wait.”

  Griff tucked the mail into his breast pocket just as the man rose from his chair and crossed the lobby.

  Griff regarded his younger brother with a mixture of astonishment and annoyance. “Philip.”

  Key in hand, he turned and headed for the stairs. “How long has it been? Five years? Six?”

  “Closer to eight.” Philip matched his steps to Griff’s as they ascended the wide staircase. “You’re looking well.”

  “Thanks, but I’m sure you didn’t come all this way merely to remark upon my appearance.”

  “It’s Father. He’s quite ill. His doctors think it’s his heart.”

  They reached the landing. Griff fitted his key into the lock. “I very much doubt that, old boy. Our father’s heart is his least vulnerable spot.”

  He opened the door and motioned Philip inside, noticing that his brother had put on a bit of weight. His hair was graying too. Perhaps the rigorous duties of a proper Southern gentleman were wearing him down. “How in the Sam Hill did you find me anyway?”

  Philip frowned. “A Mrs. . . Gilbert?”

  “Gilman.”

  “That’s right. Anyway, she wrote to Mrs. Pinckney that you were here, acting as somebody’s horse trainer.” He grinned, revealing a glimpse of the sunny child he’d once been. “You know how the Charleston grapevine works. Mrs. Pinckney told Mrs. Allston, who told Mrs. Ravenel, who told me.”

  “I see.” Griff tossed aside his key.

  “Look, I know you’re angry that Father plans to leave everything to me, but can you honestly say you want it? Especially now when all of South Carolina is still a ruin?” Philip plopped into the chair by the window. “The house in town is in dire need of a new roof, and the gardens have fallen into such a state, I can only be thankful Mother is not there to mourn them. You wouldn’t even recognize the plantation. One of the winnowing houses is nearly down. The trunk gates are all broken. I’d sell, but who would buy it? There’s no one to work it. It’s worthless in its present condition.”

  Griff took the other chair and gazed out the window. His father’s house in the city, spacious and elegant as it once had been, held no special charms for him. But the rice plantation on the Pee Dee was the site of the few truly happy memories from his growing-up years. The thought of that property passing out of Rutledge hands left him feeling unsettled. He toyed with a coin and set it spinning on the polished desktop. “No doubt River Place is a ruin after all these years. But by the saints, Philip, it’s our family’s ruin, and I expected to have some say in what happens to it.”

  Philip scratched his head. “Well, this is a surprise. First time I’ve seen any hint of sentiment from you.”

  “I always loved River Place more than anywhere else. Except Pawley’s Island.”

  “Father sold the island cottage right after Mother passed on. He said it was a business decision, but I think it was too painful for him, holding on to the place that was Mother’s favorite.”

  Griff smiled, remembering. “Even as she complained mightily about the inconveniences of getting there.”

  Philip looked around the hotel room, and Griff saw it through his brother’s eyes—the genteel shabbiness, the quaint, small-town attempts at elegance. “So this is where you’re hanging your hat these days.” Philip shook his head. “What’s the matter? The cards are not falling your way?”

  “I’m just passing through. After the horse race I’m off to try my luck in Australia. Ranching maybe.”

  “You? A rancher? You’ll last all of ten minutes.”

  “Maybe. But it’s no concern of yours.”

  Philip glared at him. “All I care about at the moment is Father. I see now that I shouldn’t have come all this way to talk to you. Your heart is as unyielding as ever.”

  “A wire or a letter would have done just as well.”

  “I doubted you’d bother reading it. Aunt Alicia said her last three letters to you were never answered. It broke her heart.”

  “I’m very sorry for that. Aunt Alicia was a great lady. Aside from Mother, the greatest.”

  “You shouldn’t have ignored her because you hate Father.”

  “I don’t hate him. We simply never understood each other. It’s best for both of us this way.”

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you. But I thought you should know Father is dying.”

  Griff shrugged. “We’re all dying, little brother. Some of us faster than others, but dying nonetheless.”

  Philip’s gaze hardened. “Do you ever let anyone into your heart, Griff? Or are you this unfeeling with everyone?”

  Griff thought of the night in Two Creeks when he had forgiven Rosaleen’s debt. He had felt sorry for her, wanted to protect her, despite her duplicity. And Carrie Daly—that woman had somehow managed to lodge herself in his heart—not that his attraction to her was going anywhere. He was quite capable of tender feeling, even when there was no future in it.

  Philip stood, rattling the coins in his pocket. “So long as I’m delivering family news, there’s something else you ought to know. I’ve asked Susan Layton to marry me, and she has accepted.”

  “You don’t say.” Griff laughed. “So, Father and Thomas Layton will have their way after all. I suppose when one’s aim is to join two parcels of land, any Rutledge will do.”

  “That isn’t fair, Griff. I happen to think very highly of Susan. She’d have made a fine wife for you, as I know she will make for me.”

  Griff leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “When’s the happy day?”

  “We haven’t set a date. Susan wants to spend this winter with her cousins in Atlanta. We’ll pick a date after Christmas. Not that it will matter to you.”

  Griff rose and offered Philip his hand. “I wish you and Miss Layton every happiness.”

  “I’m sure we will be.” Philip consulted his pocket watch. “I still have time to make the last train. I can see my own way out.”

  Waves of guilt and regret pushed hard in Griff’s chest. He clasped the younger man’s shoulder. “Despite what
you might think, I’m very glad to see you. And I apologize for sounding so harsh. It took courage to come here, knowing how I feel about everything. And, of course, I most sincerely hope for Father’s recovery. Please tell him I said so.”

  Philip nodded and headed for the door. “Take care of yourself, Griff. Send me a letter from Australia. I promise not to return it unopened.”

  Griff parted the curtain and watched Philip hurry toward the railway station. Remembering their shared childhood he felt, despite the bad blood between them, a stab of affection for his younger brother. The news of their father’s failing health and of Philip’s impending marriage filled him with unexpected sadness.

  Through the window he watched the banker lock the door and hurry to his waiting rig. Across the street, Mrs. Daly exited Chastain’s bookshop.

  He resisted the urge to go after her. Her intended, Mr. Chastain, had made his contempt for Griff quite clear. As drawn to her as he was, Griff didn’t wish to cause Mrs. Daly any trouble.

  He let the curtain fall and opened a letter from his friend in Australia. Warren had filled several pages with descriptions of his work at the seminary and a recent trip to the seaside, but the minister’s glowing report failed to cheer him.

  He tossed it aside.

  How on earth had he wound up so utterly alone?

  Carrie locked the bookshop and hurried along the street toward home. The last few days at the Verandah had been strange indeed. Though Lucy and Rachel had been much in evidence, Rosaleen seemed always to be somewhere else. On Sunday, while Rosaleen apparently slept in, Carrie attended the town church with Lucy. She liked the way Daniel Patterson wove a poem or the words of a hymn into his message and the quiet way his wife, Deborah, welcomed her with a nod and a smile at the beginning of the service. Though Deborah always slipped away as the benediction was read.

  After church Mrs. Whitcomb joined them for an afternoon in the park. That night Carrie had heard footsteps in the corridor and the closing of doors, but neither Rosaleen nor Rachel had called out their customary good night. Perhaps they’d feared it was too late and they would wake her.