Beauty for Ashes (12 page)

“I thought she might like to see how Majestic’s training is coming along.” He turned to Carrie. “He’s settled down considerably since the day he nearly ran you down.”

“Oh, I would like—”

“She doesn’t have time. Unlike other people who gallivant around the county at will, we have a job to do here.” Nate grabbed a dust rag and attacked the same counter Carrie had polished earlier in the day.

“Of course,” the horse tamer said. “But all the same, I think the lady should make up her own mind.”

Carrie swallowed her growing irritation at Nate. How dare he speak for her as if she were a child? But it wouldn’t do to make a scene. She smiled at Griff. “Mr. Chastain is right. I’m afraid I’m much too busy at the moment. But I hope you’ll visit the shop again and let us know how Majestic is getting on.”

“Wait till you see him race.”

“I’m looking forward to it. As we all are in Hickory Ridge.”

“Well then,” Nate said. “If there’s nothing more we can do for you, Mr.—”

“I’ll be on my way.” Griff offered her a slight nod. “Another time perhaps, Mrs. Daly.”

He let himself out.

Nate pulled out his pocket watch. “It’s nearly five. There’s not much more we can do until I finish building the new shelves you wanted.”

“Fine.” Tamping down her irritation, she snatched up her reticule and the list of books she’d compiled for the discussion group.

“Carrie? What’s the matter?”

“You shouldn’t have spoken for me. I’m a grown woman, capable of making my own decisions.”

“You wanted to go out to the Gilmans’ place with Rutledge?”

“The only horses I’ve ever been around are farm horses. I don’t know the first thing about training racehorses. It would be fun to learn something new, that’s all.”

“And fun learning it from Griffin Rutledge, no doubt.”

“Now that you mention it, yes. I’ve never met anyone from Charleston. I enjoy talking to him.”

Nate grabbed the cash box and shoved it into the safe by the back door. He spun the dial and drew the curtains closed. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“This has nothing to do with us.” Even as she spoke the words, she was filled with doubt. Was that really true? To hide her confusion, she rummaged in her pocket for her room key.

“Tell you what,” Nate said. “Go ahead and keep company with that reprobate if you want to. I don’t care anymore.”

“Thank you for giving me permission.”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t have to think twice about turning down his invitation.”

“Does loving one person mean having to cut everyone else out of your life?”

“No, just other men who have an obvious interest in you. If you’re starved for conversation, talk to Mariah. Or the women at the Verandah.”

“I assure you, Mr. Rutledge has no romantic interest in me whatsoever. And even if he did, nothing would come of it. He doesn’t intend to stay here long.”

“People change their minds.”

She pressed her fingertips to her tired eyes. “Please don’t be cross with me, Nate. He was only being polite.”

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 to 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.