Beauty for Ashes (29 page)

Carrie shuddered and looked at the sheriff. “Nevertheless, he must be taken to his room right away.”

McCracken removed his hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, the tin star on his chest glittering in the afternoon light. “I’d be glad to take him there, Miz Daly, but I understand he gave up his room this morning. Checked out of the inn and bought a ticket on the evening train. Hotel’s plumb full. His room’s already taken.”

The news that Griff had already made arrangements to leave barely registered with Carrie. For now, he needed her help.

“What about the Verandah? Surely Mrs. Whitcomb will make an exception for a wounded gentleman.”

“Verandah’s full up too is what I heard. Good news for Maisy Whitcomb, but a piece o’ bad luck for Rutledge here.”

“Well, he can’t lie here in the street like a wounded animal.”

“No, ma’am. ’Course not.” The sheriff addressed the crowd. “We need somebody to take this man in until he’s tended to and fit to travel. Now who has an empty room to spare?”

The people crowding around looked at one another, murmuring and shaking their heads.

Mr. Gilman pushed through the crowd. “I heard the commotion, but the crowd’s so thick I couldn’t see a thing. After all that planning, I missed the end of the race.” He bent over Griff. “What in the Sam Hill happened to you, boy?”

“Horse spooked and throwed ’im.” McCracken pushed his hat to the back of his head. “He’s out cold. You got room for him out at your house? Every place in town is full.”

“So’s my house. Me and the missus are playing host to the other horse owners, and Sabrina invited a few of her friends too. I sure do hate it, but we’re busting at the seams.”

“Mr. Gilman,” Carrie said. “This entire event is your doing. You hired Mr. Rutledge to ride Majestic. And now you’re unwilling to help him in his hour of need?”

“Not unwilling, ma’am.” His voice carried above the hum of voices. “Just out of room.” He looked around the hushed crowd. “What about you, Jasper? You’ve got that extra room.”

Jasper Pruitt spat a steam of tobacco juice into the street and shook his head. “Jeanne’s mama is stayin’ with us. We don’t have room either. Besides which, this man’s a layabout that’s been gamblin’ and who knows what all down in Two Creeks. I wouldn’t feel safe havin’ him under my roof.”

Carrie’s anger exploded at that. “You people go to church on Sunday and listen to sermon after sermon about helping your fellow man, being the hands and feet of our Savior. And then when an opportunity presents itself to do just that, look what happens.”

The banker motioned to the sheriff. “Eli, can’t you find a place for him in the jail?”

Carrie frowned. “The jail, Mr. Gilman?”

“Just temporarily, of course. Till we can find someplace better.”

She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Sheriff, kindly bring my wagon over here.”

“Carrie.” Mariah hurried over and whispered in her ear, “What are you doing?”

“Taking him to the farm, of course. I can’t leave him here in the street or confined with common criminals.” She glanced at Griff, who still lay pale and motionless in the street. “Not after all he’s done for us.”

Mariah raised her hands in a gesture of surrender and turned away. The sheriff made his way to retrieve Carrie’s wagon as Mr. Gilman mounted the steps and addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, this man will be all right once he’s had medical attention. His accident is an unfortunate blemish on this fine day, but please don’t let it interfere with your enjoyment of the rest of the festivities. There’s plenty more to see and do before the dance in the park tonight.”

The band struck up a lively tune. The crowd murmured and drifted away. Sheriff McCracken drew Carrie’s wagon to a stop. He and the undertaker and a couple of burly sawyers lifted Griff into the wagon.

Caleb arrived, red-faced and out of breath. Joe, teary-eyed and dirty, trailed behind his brother, his broken slingshot dangling from his pocket.

The sheriff strode over to his office and returned to press a small brown bottle into Carrie’s hand. “This will help the pain. I’ll send Doc Spencer out there as soon as he gets back from Owl Creek.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Carrie allowed the sheriff to help her onto the wagon seat. She picked up the reins and the boys clambered up, their expressions solemn.

“For what it’s worth, Miz Daly, I admire what you’re doing. I’d have bunked him here in the jail, like Gilman said, but it’s crammed with drunks and rowdies. It isn’t a fit place for an injured man.”

Carrie nodded and turned the wagon for home. As they passed the train station, the whistle blared, reminding her of Majestic. Surely someone would look after the horse. Griff would be more worried about the colt than himself. She guided the wagon around a rut in the road, but she couldn’t avoid jostling her injured passenger. Griff moaned. Joe leaned against Carrie and sobbed.

Carrie’s anger flared again. “Stop your whimpering, Joe Stanhope. This is all your fault.”

“I know it,” he blubbered, his thin shoulders shaking. “I was only tryin’ to help Griff win the race.”

“By shooting that infernal slingshot at Majestic?”

“No. That old hound dog was running for the horses. He already nipped one of ’em right before the race, and I was scared he’d bite Majestic. I was tryin’ to scare him off. But I missed.”

“I told you to be careful with that thing. I told you—”

“Stop scolding him.” Caleb balled his fists. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to do it.”

“He made a decision. Decisions have consequences.”

“You’re mean,” Caleb said. “I hate you.”

Carrie bit back a reply. Why did this boy always seem to bring out the worst in her? She drove the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the farm, she sent the boys inside to check on Mary. Then she jumped off the wagon, lifted the bar on the barn door, and drove the wagon inside.

She unhitched Iris and led the mare into her stall. Then she turned her attention to Griff. Until the doctor could come and help her move him, Griff would have to remain where he was. She lifted his head and managed to get a few drops of the laudanum into his mouth, then went inside for blankets.

Mary was awake. Her high, thin voice carried into the hallway. As Carrie gathered blankets, salve, towels, and a washbasin, she heard Caleb describing the crowds, his trip to the mercantile for candy, and the race. “And then Mr. Rutledge fell off, and guess what? Carrie Daly brought him home with us.”

Carrie hurried out before she could hear Mary’s reaction to that bit of news. Returning to the barn, she removed Griff’s boots, covered him with blankets, and slipped a pillow beneath his head.

The medicine had taken effect. He was a dead weight in her arms. She drew a bucket of fresh water from the well and gently washed the dirt from his face. The tiny white scar above his lip was stark white against his tanned skin. A huge bruise bloomed on his cheek, and his forehead was scraped raw.

She smoothed salve onto his scrapes. His eyes fluttered. He tried to speak, but she shushed him. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”

He fell back against the pillow.

She put a bucket of water and a dipper within his reach. If he woke before the doctor arrived, at least he would have fresh water. She stood beside the wagon for a moment, watching the movement of his closed eyes behind their curtain of thick black lashes and the rise and fall of his chest.

The irony of the situation was not lost on her. Only this morning she had prayed that she might have more time with this man for whom she was beginning to care so deeply. That prayer had been answered.

Unfortunately, Griff was out like a light. She sighed. Maybe she should have been more specific.

Pain traveled along his arm and lodged in his head. His lips and throat felt parched, his tongue swollen and tasting of copper. Every bone ached, every knotted muscle throbbed. His nostrils filled with the scent of hay and manure. Taking deep ragged breaths, he fought against the black fog enveloping his brain and soon was lost in myriad images that seemed so real he could touch them.

He was standing on the piazza of his father’s house in early summer. The fecund smells of the low country—pluff mud, fish, salt—filled his nose. He watched the glittering river, framed by the branches of the ancient oaks, snaking toward the sea. Then it was October, and the slaves were digging potatoes, their shovels flashing silver against the brown fields. He was driving his rig down a lane lined with sweet bay and cypress, his sprightly little mare stepping smartly along, with nothing but rice birds and swamp sounds for company. He heard his father’s voice, low and urgent, but the words were muffled. He called out, but there was no reply.

A copper-haired angel in blue cradled his head, her breath soft on his ear. Her skin smelled like vanilla and wild jasmine after a low-country rain. He felt light and profoundly peaceful. Astonished to discover that despite all his mistakes he had arrived in heaven, and it wasn’t half bad.

He stopped fighting and let the darkness take him.

TWENTY-FIVE

Returning from the barn, Carrie spotted Mary standing at the back door, peering into the late afternoon shadows, a frown creasing her pinched face. Well, it was just too bad. Mary would have to live with the consequences of her son’s actions.

Gathering her last bit of strength, Carrie brushed past Mary and entered the kitchen. Caleb and Joe were nowhere in sight. The remnants of a hastily concocted supper littered the table.

“The boys told me what happened at the race today.” Mary poured herself a cup of coffee but made no move to offer Carrie one. She slumped at the table in her limp dressing gown, her straw-colored hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I’m sorry Joe caused that horse to throw Mr. Rutledge, but surely you know he can’t stay here. It isn’t proper.”

“He is here. He had no other suitable place to go.” Carrie poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped. Bitter as sin and lukewarm to boot.

“Nevertheless, Mr. Rutledge is not the kind of person we want in Hickory Ridge.”

“Oh, you mean the person who put food on this table, and paid attention to your children, and rode in a race to benefit the town?” Carrie set her cup down and began stacking the dirty plates. Otherwise she’d start throwing them at Mary. “I suppose you’re exactly right. Surely it takes a terribly indecent and unprincipled person to commit such unspeakable acts.”

Despite her illness and fatigue, Mary smiled. “I imagine he was well paid for training and riding that horse.”

“As any other man would have been.” Carrie poured water into the dishpan and began scrubbing plates.

“I’d expect you to defend him. The whole town knows you’re in love with him. Henry would be appalled.”

“You have no idea what my brother would—”

“Mama, somebody’s coming.” Joe pounded down the stairs.

“See who it is, please.” Mary raked her hair away from her face. “And tell them I am much too tired for visitors.”

Joe peered out the window. “It’s the doctor.”

“Thank goodness.” Carrie dried her hands. “I’ll take him out to see Mr. Rutledge.”

But Joe opened the front door and ushered the doctor into the parlor. Ennis Spencer removed his hat and nodded. “Mrs. Bell. How are you feeling?”

Mary shook her head. “Tired as ever.”

“How about the nausea?”

“The same.”

“Any more pain?”

“It comes and goes.”

He regarded her over the top of his spectacles. “Then what are you doing up running around?”

“I was just going back to bed.”

“Good. If you want this baby, you’ll stay there.” He turned to Carrie. “Now what’s this I hear about Rutledge?”

Carrie recounted the accident and the undertaker’s assessment of Griff’s condition. “He’s lying in my wagon in the barn.”

“Let’s have a look.”

She accompanied the doctor to the barn. Griff had awakened and was leaning against the side of the wagon. He’d obviously tried to drink some water. The front of his shirt was wet, and the dipper lay overturned at his side.

While the doctor probed and prodded and asked a hundred different questions, Carrie brought water and oats for Iris and dragged the wheelbarrow into the stall. Mucking it out, though, was Caleb’s job.