Beauty for Ashes (30 page)

“I might be wrong, but I don’t think that arm is broken,” the doctor told Griff. “Your shoulder’s dislocated, and you’ve got a devil of a sprain. Not to mention a bad concussion.”

Griff nodded. “Need to get out of here.”

“Nope. You aren’t going anywhere until I’m sure there’s no damage to your innards.”

Griff closed his eyes. “My ship to Australia . . . sails from San Francisco . . . couple of weeks.”

“Then it will sail without you, my man. Even if you made it to California in time, you’re in no shape for such a long journey.” From his bag, the doctor took a small bottle of pills and a tin of salve. He looked up at Carrie. “Do you have anything I can use for a sling?”

“I’ll find something.”

Inside the house, she rummaged through her belongings, settling on a clean but threadbare sheet that was too far gone for mending. She ripped it into long strips and took them back to the barn. As she approached the door, she heard a long, agonized moan and then Griff’s loud “Ahhh!”

She rushed inside to find the doctor positioned behind Griff, both feet braced on the side of the wagon, pulling on Griff’s shoulder with all his might. Carrie heard a loud snap, and the doctor released his patient. “There. That should do it.”

Carrie handed him the strips of cloth. He expertly fashioned a sling for Griff’s injured arm. “You ought not to use that arm for a couple of weeks. Let that shoulder heal. Otherwise it might not ever be quite right.”

Griff nodded vaguely, his eyes drifting closed.

“I gave him some more laudanum,” the doctor told her. “Did you . . . that is . . . where had you planned on letting this man sleep?”

“I’ve an extra mattress in the attic. I can bring it out here.”

“That’ll be fine. In a minute he won’t care where he is. Why don’t you fetch it, and I’ll help him off this wagon.”

Minutes later Carrie dragged the mattress into the barn. She covered it with blankets and fluffed the pillow. Then she and the doctor half dragged, half carried Griff off the wagon. Griff barely roused as they settled him on his makeshift bed. After setting his water and dipper within easy reach of his uninjured arm, they closed the door and returned to the yard.

“I admire you, Carrie, taking on another invalid when you’ve got your hands full with Mary and those boys.” Dr. Spencer tossed his medical bag into his rig.

Suddenly dizzy with fatigue, she closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “He needed help, and people seemed reluctant to come to his aid.”

He climbed into his rig and picked up the reins. “Folks may have a different view of Mr. Rutledge once the news gets out.”

“News?”

“According to the sheriff, Rutledge told Mr. Gilman he intends to donate some of his prize money to the town to hire a teacher for the school.”

Carrie felt a small frisson of satisfaction, imagining Mary’s reaction to this news. After all the fuss Mary had made about the lack of a teacher in Hickory Ridge, she wouldn’t dare criticize the man who had made one possible. “This is good news. Joe will be thrilled.”

“It’ll make a big difference for the few families we’ve still got left here.” He shook his head. “If this blasted depression goes on for much longer, the entire country will dry up and blow away. But I reckon that’s what we get for electing that Yankee Ulysses Grant as president.” He tipped his hat and turned the rig around. “I’ll be out in a few days to check on Rutledge and on Mary. In the meantime you should keep them both quiet, let them rest.”

“Dr. Spencer?”

He looked up. His horse stamped and snuffled.

“Mary’s worried that she’s seriously ill. Is she? Is the baby—”

“I can’t find any medical reason for her complaints. But taking on a new husband, a new home, and then being left with a baby on the way is a lot for any woman to handle. Plain old nervous exhaustion is my best guess.”

“My brother had no choice but to look for work elsewhere.”

“I’m not blaming him.” He shifted on the seat. “Mrs. Bell is too thin. She needs to eat.”

“I make meals every day, but mostly she refuses them.”

He nodded and flicked the reins. “Do the best you can.”

Carrie went inside, exhausted from the long day and from the prospect of preparing for the coming winter. After the first hard frost, it would be hog-killing time. She’d find someone to take care of that horrific chore and set up the smokehouse for curing bacon and ham. Last week she’d noticed a few apples in the orchard. They could be dried and put away. Maybe some of last year’s potatoes were still in the hills—if they hadn’t rotted dead away. She hadn’t had time to look. As long as the cow gave milk and the chickens produced eggs, they could make do until spring.

It would be a struggle. But once Mary’s baby came, once Henry was home, life would be infinitely better. All she had to do was hang on a little longer. Then she could move back to town, work for Mrs. Whitcomb again. Or expand her bread-baking enterprise.

She lit the lamp in the kitchen and finished washing the dishes. Maybe it was unrealistic to cling to such hopes. Maybe this life was the only one she’d ever know.

But if that was true, she feared she’d fall into a black pit of despair from which there was no escape.

Dear Mary,

At last we got paid. It wasn’t as much as we were promised, but Mr. Sullivan, the foreman, says that with so many railways going out of business we’re lucky to get anything. I am sending you every bit of it except what I need for food and rent.

Mary, I know you have your heart set on leaving Hickory Ridge and settling here, but Chicago is not the way it looks in the magazines and newspapers. It is full of noise and smoke and steam. The air is black even in the middle of the day, and the city smells like dead pigs. At night the gaslights make everything seem yellow. On my way to work I walk past bars, gambling houses, and worse. It is not a place to raise children. I pray that by the time our baby comes this depression will be over and I can find work in Hickory Ridge again.

Take care of yourself, my dear wife. Kiss the boys for me. Tell them their new papa misses them. And as always, remember me to Carrie.

Your husband, Henry Bell.

P.S. Try not to be sad that we will be apart at Christmas. Think about next year, when we will be together again.

Mary handed the letter to Carrie. “He hasn’t even been gone three months, and already he’s decided he doesn’t like Chicago.”

“It does sound dreadful.”

“Any place is dreadful when you’re poor. Henry is smart. There’s no reason why he can’t someday become a foreman himself. Then we could live in the better part of town. The boys would have a decent school and get on in life.”

Carrie tamped down a surge of anger. Did Mary care anything for Henry at all, or was he simply the means to an end? To avoid another disagreement, she changed the subject.

“The town council is looking for a new teacher for our school.” She rose and picked up Mary’s breakfast tray. “Thanks to Griff Rutledge.”

Mary studied her reflection in her hand mirror. “I will admit, donating his prize money was generous of him. And I appreciate that he’s been helping out around here. At least he isn’t a complete drain on everyone.”

Carrie rolled her eyes. Mary Stanhope had a way of tossing out a compliment with one hand and taking it back with the other. “Speaking of Mr. Rutledge, I must make his breakfast.”

“What’s he doing this morning?”

“Fixing a hole in the smokehouse roof. Caleb is helping him.”

“Caleb is spending entirely too much time with that man.”

“Caleb would disagree. Last night he told me Mr. Rutledge is teaching him to whittle. They’re making a box for his rock collection.”

Mary pinned her hair and set her mirror aside. “So long as he doesn’t teach my son to drink and . . . oh.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and, with the other, motioned frantically for the chamber pot.

Carrie held Mary’s head as she cast up her accounts and collapsed onto the pillows, exhausted and perspiring.

Wordlessly Carrie poured water from the ewer, bathed Mary’s face, and took the pot outside to empty it. Shading her eyes with one hand, she looked across the meadow to the smokehouse. Caleb steadied the ladder as Griff climbed down, his arm still in the sling. Griff looked up and raised his good arm in a little wave. She waved back.

Caleb ran over, scattering the chickens, his hair sweaty, his cheeks pink from the sun. “I slopped the hog this morning, then me and Griff fixed the roof. We’re hungry.”

Carrie smiled as Griff caught up to the boy. “I’ll bet you are. Come inside, and I’ll make breakfast.”

Griff strode onto the porch, smelling of hay and dust and wood shavings, and held the door for her. “After you, ma’am.”

While he and Caleb washed up, Carrie sliced the bread she’d baked the day before, fried bacon and eggs, and made a pan of gravy. She poured milk for the boy and coffee for Griff and joined them at the table. This morning’s episode in Mary’s sickroom had stolen her appetite, but she treasured these quiet moments with Griff. The golden sunrise sliding over the mountains, the sharp autumn air coming through the window, the sounds of chickens in the yard filled her with a sense of contentment. On such mornings it was easy to pretend that this farm was truly her home. That she and Griff belonged to each other.

Griff made short work of his eggs and gravy and settled back with his coffee cup. “Thank you, Carrie. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed food as much as I have here.”

“My brother always said hard work makes food taste better.”

Caleb scraped his chair back. “I’ve got to go. Jimmy D. Washburn is waitin’ for me at the river. We’re goin’ fishing.”

“What about Joe?” Carrie sipped her coffee.

“I don’t want to take him. He’s such a baby.”

“Well,” Griff said mildly, “do you think it’s fair that Mrs. Daly has to do all the work around here and still keep up with your little brother?”

“She’s got you to help her.”

Griff laughed. “I can fix a roof and chop kindling with one arm, but I’m no good at all at keeping a house or looking after children, even with two.”

Caleb started for the door. Carrie stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I do need you to take Joe along. I have a lot of work to do today.”

He glared at her, his expression hard, and stomped up the stairs to wake his brother.

Carrie shook her head. “I don’t know what to do about Caleb. Everything I ask him to do turns into a battle of wills.” She tied on her apron and started clearing the table.

Griff continued to sit, nursing his cup. “I was like that at his age—angry, willful, rebellious. I grew out of it.” He grinned. “For the most part. I expect Caleb will too. In the meantime, patience is the order of the day.”

Carrie grimaced. “I’m afraid I’m all out of patience.” She picked up the milk pitcher. “And out of milk too.”

“I can milk Miranda if you like.”

“I don’t mind doing it. It’s one of the less odious chores around here. If you can bring in some more wood, I’d be grateful. The wood box is nearly empty again.”

“Consider it done.”

“Carrie?” Mary’s plaintive voice drifted into the kitchen.

“Go see what she needs,” Griff said. “I’ll tend to the boys.”

Carrie hurried down the hallway. By the time she had helped Mary change her nightdress, Griff and the boys were gone.

Taking up the milk pail, Carrie headed for the barn, where Miranda stood patiently in her stall. The cow seemed to be in no hurry to be milked, so Carrie set aside her pail and went about tidying Griff’s bed. In the week since his accident, he hadn’t complained once about having to sleep on a thin mattress on the barn floor. In fact, he had sent for his bags from the inn and made himself right at home. Beside his bed was a stack of books, a Bible, and a leather pouch. A pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses lay beside his lantern. Carrie straightened his blankets and caught a faint scent of hair tonic and tobacco. One sock fell from the tangle of blankets. She folded it and left it next to his books.

Miranda shook her head, jangling her bell.

“All right, girl. I’m coming.”

Carrie milked the cow and took the fresh milk to the springhouse. For a moment she stood there in the cool dimness, savoring the quiet. Though farm life was never easy, it seemed less trying with Griff by her side. But she couldn’t linger here when more work awaited. She pushed open the door and headed up the path to the house.