Beauty for Ashes (26 page)

She shaded her eyes and watched Griff make the turn at the top of the rise. He slowed to a trot and, after a couple of laps around the pasture, halted in front of her. “I think he’s ready.”

He slipped from the saddle and offered Majestic an apple. The horse chomped it and let out a long whinny that made Griff laugh. “See? He knows he’s ready too.”

Carrie smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. “Joe is thoroughly convinced you’ll win.”

Griff wiped his brow with his sleeve. “We’ve got a chance. Yesterday I had Gilman help me measure Majestic’s stride. Best I can calculate, it’s nearly twenty-three feet.”

“I assume that’s good.”

“It’s exceptional.” He opened the gate and they headed for the barn, the big colt plodding confidently between them. “Average on a Thoroughbred is twenty feet. I’ve heard the horse coming from Kentucky has stride of almost twenty-two.” He reached up to rub Majestic’s face. “My boy here should be able to take him. As long as he stays focused. I’m taking him to town every day next week so he can get used to the sound of the train whistle.” He smiled. “We can’t have him knocking down any more pretty ladies.”

Carrie smiled back at him. “I’m glad you were there that day.”

“So am I.” He dropped the reins and took both her shoulders, turning her gently to face him.

Her heart sped up. Her mouth went dry as sand. Clearly he was going to kiss her. And heaven help her, she wanted it. Even though the memory of it, after he was gone, would break her heart clean in two. “Griff—”

He drew her close, slid one arm behind her back, and brought his lips to hers. She was lost, unable to control her reaction to him. Longing moved through her, warm and slow as molten lead. The attraction she’d felt for him on their first meeting sparked within her. She parted her lips for his kiss, and the very air around her seemed to shimmer with promise. Feeling suddenly vulnerable and unsettled, she pulled away. “I should go.”

“I know,” he said, his voice rough with emotion. But he held her a moment longer before helping her into her rig. “Meet me in town for dinner tomorrow. The cook at the inn makes a mean venison stew.”

“I can’t. There’s no one to stay with Mary and the boys. Come to dinner at the farm. Six o’clock.”

A rueful smile lit his face. “Mary Stanhope won’t like that one bit. You know she won’t.”

“The farm was my home long before it was hers. I’m there because she begged me to take care of her. And besides, after your generosity in lending me money for the food bill, she’s hardly in a position to criticize my choices.”

“I’ve told you it was a gift, Carrie, not a loan. But in any case, I accept.” He leaned in and touched his forehead to hers. “I can’t wait until six. How about five?”

“Five is even better.”

He nodded. “Majestic needs tending. I’ll see you then.”

Griff watched her rig disappear at the end of the Gilmans’ lane, the memory of her kiss foremost in his mind. Picking up the reins, he led Majestic to the barn, removed the horse’s tack, and picked up the currycomb. Majestic snuffled and nodded as if he approved, causing Griff to laugh out loud. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so content. Holding Carrie, her soft lips clinging to his, had kindled feelings he’d supposed were gone forever—hope, peace, maybe even the promise of happiness. And to think he had met her by pure chance. If he hadn’t been in town to settle things with Rosaleen, if Majestic hadn’t spooked at the precise moment Carrie emerged from the dress shop . . .

He finished with the currycomb and gave Majestic a bucket of oats sweetened with molasses. Of course he believed in God. He’d never have made it through the war otherwise. But he’d never really believed in miracles . . . until now. Who could have predicted that his life and Carrie’s could so quickly become entwined?

He mucked out the stall, filled Majestic’s water trough, then mounted his rented horse for the ride back to town. The cooling breeze and the crackle of falling leaves reminded him that the ship’s agent in San Francisco awaited his reply. Soon he’d have to decide whether to book passage for Australia.

The lure of the unknown was still a powerful force inside him. And yet the prospect of endless freedom at the bottom of the world somehow seemed far less attractive.

“Did the Yankees shoot at your boat?”

Carrie poured more coffee and smiled at the look on Caleb’s face. The boy leaned both elbows on the table and gazed up at Griff, his expression one of pure awe. Supper was over, and for the last hour Griff had regaled them with stories of his days captaining a blockade runner out of Charleston harbor, delivering cotton to Nassau and Havana and bringing back medicines, ammunition, and clothing for the Confederates.

“We got shot at a time or two, but the
Nightingale
was specially built for the job I had to do,” Griff said. “She sat low in the water, and she was painted gray to blend in with the color of the sea and the fog. On a moonless night I could sail right past the Union ships and they never even saw me.”

Joe laughed. “I bet you were the most famous captain in South Carolina.”

“I don’t know about that. Captain Wilkinson of the
Robert E. Lee
ran the blockade more than twenty times, delivering cotton to Nassau. Everyone admired his bravery. And his luck.”

“I bet he got paid a lot of money for that,” Caleb said. “I bet he made millions.”

“Did you make millions too?” Joe popped a crust of bread into his mouth and looked up at Griff.

Mary frowned at her son in a way that made Carrie’s stomach hurt. “People of quality never talk about money, Joe.”

“That’s all right.” Griff smiled at Carrie and leaned back in his chair, completely at ease in the small, warm kitchen. “Not to contradict your mother, Joe—she has a right to bring you up however she sees fit—but I am not offended in the least. In fact, the subject of my fortune was the talk of the town for quite some time. Still is, among certain of my acquaintance.”

“What about the smoke?” Caleb asked, and Carrie saw that he had been working out the details of Griff’s adventures in his head. “From the engines, I mean. How come the Union ships didn’t see it?”

“That’s a good question, Caleb. I like a man with a head on his shoulders.”

Carrie studied the older boy. He seemed intrigued, maybe even flattered, but not as easily won over as his younger brother. Caleb Stanhope sure was a hard nut to crack. If Griff, with his easy charm and adventurous past, couldn’t win Caleb over, no one could.

“Anthracite coal,” Griff said. “It burns without making smoke. Soon as I could see the light on Fort Sumter, I’d cut the running lights, cover the binnacle and the fireroom hatch, and blow the steam off under water.”

Joe grinned. “Like when you take a bath in the tub and you—”

Caleb gaped at his brother and fell off his chair laughing.

“Joseph Stanhope, that’s enough.” Mary blushed and swatted the boy’s leg.

“I should go.” Griff stood. “I’ve kept you up far too long. Thank you for the hospitality of your home, Mrs. Bell.”

Mary offered him a curt nod.

“And thank you, Mrs. Daly, for the fine dinner. Every bite of it was outstanding.”

Carrie fought a nearly unbearable urge to touch him. The more she learned about Griff Rutledge, the more she hungered to know. She smiled, acutely aware of his intense gaze. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

She walked him to the parlor, where he retrieved his hat and coat.

“Will I see you for the race next Saturday?” he asked, his voice low.

“I hope so. It depends on how Mary is feeling.”

He nodded. “Wish me luck.”

“You know I do.”

A shout and a clatter from the kitchen shattered the quiet. She closed her eyes. Mary had been in a foul temper all day. The best thing to do was clean up quickly and put the boys to bed. Their noise and their constant needs seemed to worsen their mother’s mood. And when Mary wasn’t happy, no one in the house could breathe easy.

“Go ahead,” Griff said. “Look after them. I can see myself out.”

She watched him cross the yard and mount up.

In the kitchen, Mary was banging pans into the soapy dishwater, a grimace contorting her thin face. Joe and Caleb had gone to fetch water and firewood.

“You shouldn’t be on your feet, Mary. Doctor’s orders. I’ll take care of the dishes.”

“I wasn’t sure you could tear yourself away from the charming Mr. Rutledge long enough to handle your responsibilities.” Mary wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and draped it over the pie safe. “My lands, the way you’ve thrown yourself at him is a disgrace.”

“Thrown myself at him?”

“You were mooning over him all during supper. And whispering with him in the hall just now. And he was nothing short of a criminal during the war.”

“A criminal? The government paid men to do his job. It was just as important as taking up arms and shooting people.” Carrie tied an apron over her dress, rolled up her sleeves, and banged a few pans of her own. “If men like Griff hadn’t brought in weapons, General Lee’s army would have been in even worse shape.”

Mary looked up from the plate she was scraping. “Don’t use that sainted man’s name in the same sentence with Griffin Rutledge’s. It’s sacrilege.” She stalked to her room and slammed the door shut behind her just as Joe walked in with an armload of firewood. Caleb, toting two buckets of water, was right behind him.

“All the chores are done, Carrie,” Caleb reported. “I brought Miranda up from the pasture. Looks like we might have frost tonight.”

Stunned by his unusually helpful attitude, Carrie smiled. Maybe she should try Griff’s training methods on the boy. “That was good thinking. I appreciate it.”

He set the water on the table beside the door. “Me and Joe was wonderin’ if you’d take us to the race on Saturday. I sure would like to see Mr. Rutledge ride that horse.”

Ah. That was the reason he’d suddenly turned so helpful. “I’m not sure we can go,” Carrie told him. “Who would look after your mother?”

Caleb’s face darkened. “We can’t do anything fun ’cause she’s always sick. But yesterday when the preacher’s wife came, she got all dressed up and had her tea and acted like there was nothing wrong at all.”

Carrie turned away and concentrated on wiping the plates. “Well, you know how your mother likes to do things the right way.”

He leaned against the table, sloshing the water. “Come on, Carrie. Can’t we go, even for a little while?”

TWENTY-THREE

Carrie set Mary’s breakfast tray on the table by the bed and opened the curtains, letting in the pale autumn light. Red and gold leaves drifted from the trees lining the road. In the distance, geese winged over the fog-shrouded mountains.

“What time is it?” Mary stirred and sat up, blinking.

“Almost seven.”

Mary yawned and picked up her cup. “I’m so tired all the time.”

“That’s to be expected at this stage. Or so I’m told. Mariah said she had a lot more energy after the first few months.”

“No. This is something else.” Mary sipped her tea and buttered a biscuit. “Sometimes I’m afraid there is something terribly wrong and the doctor is keeping the news from me.”

Carrie felt an unexpected surge of compassion for her sister-in-law. It couldn’t be easy, being so sick and separated from the man she loved. “I’m sure Dr. Spencer wouldn’t do that. He’s always been the practical sort.” She indicated Mary’s plate. “He wants you to build up your strength for the delivery.”