by Dorothy Love
She went to the kitchen for some lard to sooth her blistered feet. Up in her room, she soaked her feet in cool water from the ewer, dried them gingerly, and applied the lard. She turned up the wick in her lamp and examined the soles of her feet. Her skin was red, but at least it wasn’t broken. Defeated and bone weary, she was unable to stop a rush of bitter tears. How on earth could anyone get along with Mary and Caleb?
They were part of her family now. Christ commanded her to love them. But she felt so overwhelmed and confused that she didn’t even know how to pray about it. How could God help her if she didn’t even know what exactly it was that she needed or how to ask him about it?
“The Holy Spirit talks to God for us, when we can’t find the right words.” So said Granny Bell as she lay dying in her little cabin in Muddy Hollow, when grief had stopped the words in Carrie’s mouth. “The Good Book says the Spirit makes intercession for us with groanings that cannot be uttered.”
For the second time this long night, Carrie found herself in prayer before falling into sleep—a prayer without words.
In the morning, moving gingerly on her sore feet, she made flapjacks with the last of the flour. The boys devoured them, even though there was no butter or molasses. Caleb took his plate to the sink and headed outside.
“Where are you going?” Arms akimbo, Carrie blocked his path.
“Mama told me to draw you some water for doing the washing. I already brought the big kettle into the yard. And I brought some wood for the fire.”
“Speaking of fires.” She pinned him with a hard stare until he blinked and looked away.
“It was an accident. I already told Mama I’m sorry.”
“You should be. You could have burned the house down last night, Caleb. And then what would we do?”
“You wouldn’t care.” He crossed his arms over his thin chest. “You don’t like us.”
“What I don’t like is the way you are behaving. I’m doing my best to help your mother and look after this place. I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t make my job any harder than it is.”
Joe let out a loud burp. “Carrie Daly, is there any more flapjacks?”
“I’m afraid not, Joe.” She looked around the bare kitchen. “Not until I can make a trip to the mercantile.”
“Can I go?”
“We’ll see. For now, I need you to go upstairs and bring down everything that needs washing. And that includes your—”
“Carrie?” Mary’s voice was sharp enough to shatter glass. “I need you. Now.”
Caleb went outside, letting the door slap shut behind him. Carrie shooed Joe up the stairs and hurried to Mary’s room. “What is it?”
“These . . . buttons. I can’t reach . . .” A soiled nightdress, stinking of sweat and vomit, lay in a heap on the floor. Mary struggled to get into another one.
“Here.” Carrie fastened the buttons and helped Mary to the chair by the window. “Sit here while I strip the bed.”
She removed the dirty linens and fluffed the feather mattress. “Where do you keep the clean sheets?”
“In the trunk. But there aren’t any clean ones. I—I got behind on the washing.”
An understatement if there ever was one. “Then the bare mattress will have to do until the laundry’s done.”
Mary glanced out at the bright sunlight streaming through the trees. “It’s such a beautiful day. September is my favorite month. Maybe I’ll sit here for a while and read. Doc Spencer said I could, if I’m careful.”
“I made flapjacks.” Carrie bundled the dirty laundry. “You should eat something.”
Mary lifted one thin shoulder. “I don’t really want to.”
“For mercy’s sake. I don’t really want to be here cooking and cleaning and doing washing and looking after your rowdy boys. But I’m here—because of that little baby that’s coming. That baby who is a part of my brother. You’re his mother. Think of him for a change. If you care nothing for your own health, at least have the grace not to deprive the child of his.”
Tears welled in Mary’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I guess I never considered it that way.”
“I’ll be back.”
Carrie took the laundry out to the back porch. To her surprise, Caleb had stacked the wood for the fire and set the laundry kettle on top. Now he was busy filling it with water from the well.
She lit the fire to start the water heating and went inside to prepare Mary’s plate. While Mary picked at her food, Carrie went out to milk Miranda, grateful that at least the animals hadn’t been neglected. Caleb apparently had remembered some of Henry’s lessons.
She set the milk in the spring house to cool. When the wash water was hot, she added the clothes, tossed in a hunk of lye soap, and stirred the bubbling cauldron with the wooden laundry paddle, lifting steaming skirts, drawers, shirts, and bed linens into the clear rinse water.
She set Joe and Caleb to wringing out the clean clothes while she stirred another load. It was noon before everything was washed, rinsed, wrung out, and pegged to the clothesline to dry. Carrie raked her hair from her face. Her dress was damp and wrinkled, her hands raw. The soles of her feet burned. She massaged the ache in her shoulders. Oh, for a bath and a nap. A glass of lemonade and a quiet hour in the company of a good book.
“Carrie Daly, I’m hungrier than a grizzly bear,” Joe said. “What’s for dinner?”
“Yeah.” Caleb squinted up at her. “We’ve been working like a couple of slaves all morning.”
“Go check the henhouse. Maybe there are some eggs. And we have milk.”
“Eggs again?” Caleb frowned, but he headed off with his brother.
Watching them cross the sunny yard, their arms swinging, Carrie felt a wave of compassion for them. It couldn’t be easy, growing up without a father’s guidance. She rounded the house and sat on the steps to cool off. A lazy breeze drifted across the porch. A flock of chickadees winged across the meadow. She closed her eyes. Please, Henry, we need you desperately. Please hurry home.
The next thing she knew, someone was gently shaking her shoulder. She started and gasped. “Mr. Rutledge.”
“Sleeping beauty.” He touched the brim of his hat and smiled his rogue’s smile that never failed to make her weak in the knees. “Pleasant dreams, I hope.”
She got to her feet and smoothed her hair, hating that she looked so unkempt. What must he think of her? “I finished the washing, and I must have dozed off.” She looked around. “The boys—”
“Are happily occupied with Majestic. I may never be able to pry him from their grasp.”
Carrie looked past his shoulder. Caleb and Joe stroked the black colt’s forehead, talking softly to him. Majestic stood perfectly still, his magnificent tail swishing at a cloud of flies.
“What are you doing here?” Carrie smoothed the wrinkles in her dress.
Griff grinned. “That’s not the most gracious greeting I’ve ever had.”
“I’m surprised to see you is all. What brings you all the way out here?”
“Majestic needed a change of scenery. And I heard that you ended your exile and moved back here, so I came to see for myself.”
“I didn’t want to, but Mary is quite ill, and my brother is working in Chicago, so—”
“I admire you, Carrie. I’m afraid I lack your sense of duty.”
“You’d do the same for your family.”
“Maybe.” He looked around. “Any chance you could slip away and go riding with me? Just for a little while?”
“I wish I could. But I must make a trip to the mercantile. I’m out of everything, and the boys are ravenous.”
He laughed. “Reminds me of myself at that age. I could eat half a dozen eggs for breakfast without blinking an eye.”
“Carrie!” Caleb shouted as Joe let out a scream. “Joe fell off the fence.”
Carrie and Griff rushed across the yard. Joe was sitting up, but a deep gash had opened on his forehead. Blood trickled into his eye. He was gasping, trying no
t to cry.
“I wanted to ride Majestic,” he said. “I stood on the fence to jump into the saddle, but I missed.”
“Here.” Griff knelt beside Joe and pressed his clean white handkerchief to the gash. “Hold it there for a minute, son, and the bleeding will stop.”
“It hurts.”
“I know it does, but you’ll feel better soon. I promise.”
Carrie rubbed the bony spot on her wrist and watched a red blob form on Griff’s pristine handkerchief. How much trouble could two small boys generate? Why did Joe have to get hurt when there was still so much to do? She’d cry too if it would do any good.
Griff lifted Joe and carried him to the porch swing. “You sit right here, my friend, and your brother will fetch you a drink of water. Won’t you, Caleb?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll be glad to.” Caleb headed inside.
Carrie blinked. Was this the same rude, rebellious child who defied her at every turn? Griff Rutledge evidently had a way with boys as well as with horses.
Griff checked the gash on Joe’s head. “There now. The bleeding’s just about stopped. You’ll live, my man.”
Joe grinned.
Griff folded his handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. “If you’ll make up a list, Carrie, I’ll be glad to fetch your supplies from town.”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all. I’m glad to be of service.”
“Thank you. I would hate to leave with both Joe and Mary feeling unwell.”
She went inside for pencil and paper and a few minutes later handed Griff a long list. “Ask Mr. Pruitt to put these things on my bill.”
“Back before dark.” He swung into the saddle.
“You’ll stay for supper?” Carrie asked. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Appreciate the offer, but I doubt your sister-in-law would be pleased to see me. I sure would like to take you to supper at the inn sometime, though.”
Filled with heat and an inexplicable lightness, Carrie nodded. But then reality intruded. Her future spooled out in front of her, an endless procession of dreary days that left no time for even the simplest pleasures.
Would she ever have a life of her own?
TWENTY-ONE
The smell of baking bread and the spill of bright October sunshine coming through the kitchen window brought Carrie a rare moment of contentment. Until she remembered the reason for the three loaves of bread just coming out of the oven. A frown creased her brow.
“What’s the matter?” Mary shuffled from her bedroom to the kitchen, one hand pressed to the small of her back, and sat down heavily at the table. “You look like you’re angry at the whole world.”
Carrie set the last of the loaves on the windowsill and tossed her towel onto the counter.
“I told you. We’re almost broke. Another week, and the cupboards will be bare again. And I hate asking Mr. Pruitt for more credit.”
“I thought Mr. Chastain paid you to work in the bookshop. Surely you haven’t squandered it all.”
“Paying rent at the Verandah took nearly everything I had.”
“Well, that was foolish of you, wasn’t it? To pay rent to live in that rat’s nest when you had a perfectly good home right here.”
Carrie removed the loaves of bread from the pans. “You know full well why I didn’t stay.”
“Because of the boys and that silly snake?”
“It went a lot deeper than that.” Carrie took off her apron and hung it on the peg beside the door. “Is there anything you need, Mary? I must get ready and take this bread into town.”
“A fool’s errand, if you ask me. Do you really think you’ll sell it, with the bakery standing right there in the middle of town?”
“Two of the loaves are promised to Mrs. Whitcomb. She says my bread is much better than the bakery’s. I’m planning to give the other one away.”
“Give it away? When we’re down to our last dollar? What kind of sense does that make?”
“Race Day is coming up in two weeks. Jasper Pruitt is planning on making up lunchboxes to sell from the mercantile. If he likes this bread, maybe he’ll place an order.”
“Which is all well and good, but what about when Race Day is over? Assuming anyone even shows up for it. Who’ll buy your bread then?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps we will have heard from Henry by then.”
“But what if we don’t? You should have planned for this from the first.”
Carrie whirled around. “I should have planned? If you had put up the summer crops like you were supposed to, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Don’t yell at me. It’s bad for the baby.”
Carrie spun on her heel and headed up the stairs. Joe was sitting on the top step, the book of fairy tales open on his lap. He looked up with a gap-toothed grin. “Carrie Daly, can you read me a story?”
“Not now, Joe. I must go into town.”
“Can I go with you?”
“Not this time.”
“Can I go on Race Day? I want to see Majestic win. Griff says he runs like the wind.”
Despite her irritation with Mary and her worry, she couldn’t help smiling. Joe Stanhope had a way of charming her out of her darkest mood. “Mr. Rutledge says there are four other horses who may be just as fast. Majestic might not win.”
“He will. You know why? Because Griff is the best trainer in the whole world.”
Carrie opened the door to her room. Joe jumped up and followed her. “Griff said some trainers force their horses to obey, but he says it’s better to show the horse what you want and reward him when he gets it right. He believes in natural horsemanship. He says—”
“Joe?” Carrie put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m in a hurry. Maybe we can talk more when I get back. For now, why don’t you go play with Caleb?”
“He don’t like to play with me. He thinks I’m a baby.”
Carrie pinned her hair and picked up her hat and shawl. “Well, he’s wrong about that. You aren’t a baby at all.”
Joe grinned, his eyes shining. “I’m a better shot than Caleb. You just wait till I get my new slingshot. I’ll show you how good I can aim.”
He followed her down to the kitchen and watched her wrap up the bread, still warm from the oven. She set the loaves into her basket and checked on Mary, who was sleeping soundly, fists curled to her chest. Then she went out to hitch Iris to the rig. “If I’m not back by five, remind Caleb to milk the cow.”
“Yes’m.”
“And feed the chickens. Caleb forgot yesterday. If we don’t feed them, they’ll stop laying.”
“Yes’m. And don’t worry about Mama. When she wakes up, I’ll get her some water or something.”
“Good. I appreciate it.”
She climbed into the rig and set off through the crisp fall afternoon. The trees formed an arch above her. Sunlight filtered through the branches, throwing coins of gold on the fallen leaves swirling across the road. Despite her money woes, the beauty of the afternoon and the rare solitude brought her a sense of peace.
Too soon, she entered town. She halted the rig outside the Verandah and went inside to find Mrs. Whitcomb on a ladder in the parlor, washing windows. The rug was rolled up in a corner. Newly washed curtains flapped on the line behind the hotel.
The hotelier climbed down and tossed her wet rag into a bucket of soapy water. She wiped her hands on her threadbare apron and eyed Carrie’s bread basket. “Please tell me those loaves are mine.”
“Two of them are. The third is a sample for Mr. Pruitt.”
“Well, I’m about to starve. I’ve been up since dawn working on this old place. No amount of scrubbing can make up for plain old decrepitude, though.” She led the way to the kitchen and motioned Carrie to a chair. “I reckon I should have sold this place when my husband died, but he set such store by it, I never had the heart to get rid of it. The old girl sure could use a coat of paint, but I can’t afford it.”
&nbs
p; “Maybe you’ll fill up for Race Day.”
“Not likely to have too many ladies traveling alone to watch a horse race. Reckon I might have to lower my standards and let the men in here.” She sliced the bread and set out a jar of blackberry jam and a crock of butter. “How about some tea?”
“I’d love some.”
Mrs. Whitcomb set the kettle on to boil and took two cups from the cupboard. “I’m glad to see you, Carrie. Things haven’t been the same since you left. Lucy misses you too. I guess you heard that Rachel Ryan left town last week.”
“No, I don’t get much news out at the farm.” Carrie spread jam onto the bread and took a bite.
“Rachel’s husband finally got a job at that pencil factory in North Carolina, and last Saturday he showed up for her, out of the blue.”
“I’m sure she was happy about that.”
“Yep, and I’m happy for her too, although her leaving means another empty room to fill. Once Lucy’s gone west, it’ll be just me and the Provost sisters rattling around in this old shell of a place.” Mrs. Whitcomb made the tea and sat down opposite Carrie. “I was over to the bookshop last week. Not that I can afford to buy anything these days, but I like to look.”
Carrie stirred her tea and smiled. “I know what you mean.”
“Nate’s right worried about Rosaleen.”
“Oh?” Carrie recalled her last talk with him about his new wife, but it wasn’t something to share with Mrs. Whitcomb.
“He says she’s been actin’ kind of strange. Writing letters to people he never heard of and poking around the town hall. Betsy Terwilliger said Rosaleen came into the mayor’s office last week, wanting to know if they still had copies of the Hickory Ridge Gazette.” She shook her head. “Can’t fathom what anybody would want with old newspapers.”
“Maybe she wants to learn more about the town, now that Hickory Ridge is her home.”
“Maybe. But land’s sakes, if that’s all it is, why don’t she stop all that mysterious detective work and just ask somebody? Mayor Scott has been here forever. He could tell her anything she wants to know.”