Beauty for Ashes (11 page)

“Then the town council approved Mr. Gilman’s plan?”

He nodded. “They took a formal vote Tuesday night. Mr. Gilman is beside himself because Rutledge is sticking around to ride that black colt of his.” Nate paused. “So will you help me with the shop? I can’t pay much but—”

“Of course I’ll help, but I won’t charge you a cent.”

“We’ve been over all that. I wouldn’t feel right not paying you when you need the money.” He took her hands and smiled into her eyes. At moments like this, she truly loved him. Loved his quiet affection and innate goodness. What more could a woman ask for? Ada was right. She was a fool for putting him off for so long.

“Maybe you can save the money for your trousseau,” he went on. “I hear ladies like to buy all sorts of fancy things when they’re going to be married. In a way that’d be like giving the money back to me. When you finally set a date.”

She blushed. “All right. Thank you, Nate. I
can
use the money. And I would like something more constructive to do than listen to the gossip at the hotel.”

He rose and helped her to her feet. Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her back to the road. “I’ll let you know when the books get here. In the meantime, I hope you’ll think about what I said and talk to your brother.”

Griff climbed the fence and dropped to the ground. Majestic snorted and lifted his head at the sound, but he didn’t shy or run. With slow, deliberate movements, Griff unwound a light lead, and the horse trotted over. Griff grinned and rewarded him with an apple and a pat on the neck.

Resting his head against the three-year-old’s hard, warm neck, Griff breathed in the smells of horseflesh and manure and fought another wave of homesickness. By now the summer social season in Charleston would be well underway. Garden parties, beach picnics, Sunday walks in White Point, and the endless round of gentlemen’s sporting outings had never much appealed to him, but he’d feigned interest for his father’s sake. Not that it had made any difference in the end. He and his father were simply too different. Still, he felt a powerful longing for his roots, ambushed by his long-denied need for a home.

He thought of Carrie Daly. Every time he caught a glimpse of her coming and going from the post office or the mercantile, something about her touched a chord in his heart. How would it feel to hold her silky hair in his hands? To hear her bright laughter? He worried about her. She had seemed so bereft the day he helped her to leave the Bell farm. He knew all about family estrangement, and it wasn’t something he would recommend to anyone.

He wasn’t sure why Carrie’s situation mattered so much to him. After all, he’d be gone from Hickory Ridge once the race was done. Once he’d collected his money from Rosaleen.

Rosaleen. One thought of her, and the peace of the warm summer afternoon vanished like a dream. He could certainly use the money that was still in limbo in London, but he wasn’t exactly destitute. It was the principle of Rosaleen’s unpaid obligation that gnawed at him. The way he saw it, people ought to keep their commitments. He saddled the colt, slipped a bridle over Majestic’s head, and led him out of the corral and into the Gilmans’ side meadow.

If he knew Rosaleen Dupree, she wouldn’t merely hand over the money. She’d want to play cards for it. And there had been a time when he’d have been only too happy to oblige her. He’d grown up in a city where everyone gambled and no one was thought the worse because of it. But he’d long since lost his taste for cards and for women like her.

What he hadn’t lost, though, was a deeply ingrained sense of right and wrong and an even deeper aversion to being played for a fool. He swung into the saddle and nudged Majestic into a brisk trot. If settling an old score meant spending time in places he’d rather not be, dredging up old memories better forgotten, so be it.

NINE

Dozens of books, still in their shipping crates, filled every nook and cranny of the cluttered shop. Where on earth would she put them all?

Carrie pried open a crate of history books and stacked them on a splay-legged table beneath the window. India jumped into the window, and Carrie stopped her work to run her fingers over the cat’s smooth back.

Despite the dusty clutter, working in Nate’s shop lifted her spirits. Bright sun streamed through the window. The scent of pipe tobacco, old leather, and the strong coffee he brewed in the store room; the squeak of the pine floor beneath her feet; and India’s throaty, contented purr filled her with a sense of peace.

She pried the lid off another crate of history books, noting titles about the diminishing buffalo herds on the western plains and the founding of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. A hefty volume caught her eye:
The Old Regime in Canada
. She flipped the pages and skimmed a few random passages. Perhaps she should buy it for Henry. He loved history, loved to read, though he’d never had a chance to finish his schooling.

After their parents and Granny Bell died, he and Carrie lived with a cousin in Maury County, where Henry did well in school. But he’d been determined to hold on to the family farm in Hickory Ridge. So as soon as he was old enough, he brought Carrie home. And over time, he’d learned how to do everything on the farm. He planted by the signs as Granny had taught them. Potatoes and carrots went into the ground during the dark moon; corn, tomatoes, and beans in the light. He could mend a broken plow, a leaky roof, a downed fence. He took pride in knowing there was nothing he couldn’t fix.

Carrie sighed and set the book aside. Despite his skill, Henry couldn’t repair the rift between her and Mary, a rift that had spilled over into his relationship with Carrie too.

The door opened and Nate came in, his arms weighted with another crate of books. Behind him, the driver of the freight wagon plopped yet another crate onto the pine table Carrie had just finished dusting.

The driver pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to Nate. “That there’s the last of the load, I reckon. How do you want to settle this bill, Mr. Chastain?”

Nate set down his crate and mopped his brow. “Just a minute. I’ll get the cash box.” He retrieved it from beneath the counter and paid the driver. “Appreciate your help.”

“Anytime.” The driver folded the bill and shoved it into his pocket. “You and Mr. Pruitt over at the mercantile are just about the only cash customers I’ve got left.”

“Things have gotten worse and worse here ever since seventy-three,” Nate said, “and unfortunately, I don’t see how they’re going to improve.”

Carrie closed the cash box and put it away. “I suppose we’re all counting on the horse race this fall to liven things up.”

The driver nodded. “Everybody’s talking about that new fellow riding Mr. Gilman’s horse. Folks say he won Race Week nearly every year, back in South Carolina. He was some hero, all right.” He scratched his head. “Hard to fathom why a city fellow like that would come to a quiet place like Hickory Ridge.”

Nate pried the top off another crate. “If you ask me, it takes more than winning a horse race to make a man a hero.”

“Right enough, I reckon. I’ll be seeing you, Mr. Chastain.” The driver tipped his hat to Carrie and headed for the door. “Ma’am.”

When the door closed behind him, Carrie joined Nate at the table and began lifting books from the crate, dropping them onto the counter with more force than was necessary.

“Whoa, there,” Nate said. “What’s got your petticoat in a twist?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re cross as a wet hen.”

“I’m not cross.”

“Could have fooled me.” He set the last of the books on the counter and shoved the crate aside. “It was because of what I said about Rutledge, wasn’t it? I don’t know why you’re always defending him.”

“Maybe because you’re forever criticizing him. You don’t know the first thing about him.”

“Whereas you know everything there is to know about the mysterious Mr. Rutledge.”

“I don’t know much more than you do. But I believe in giving people the benefit of the doubt. Mr. Rutledge has done nothing to deserve your ill opinion of him.”

“And nothing to earn such admiration from you.” He studied her face. “At least nothing I know about.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He held up both hands, palms out. “I’m sorry. Let’s not fight. I’m dog tired, and there’s so much more to do.”

“You’re right.” As much as she resented his attitude toward Griff Rutledge, she understood Nate’s concerns for his shop. She hated seeing him so worried. And he was paying for her help, after all.

“I’m sorry too.” She indicated a stack of law books she’d shelved earlier that day. “Those won’t sell to anyone except maybe the men at the college. I was thinking we should set up a textbook section in the back, by the storeroom, and use these front shelves for the more popular books.” She indicated a stack of novels by Jules Verne, Mark Twain, and Bret Harte. “All of these are new, within the last two years.”

He nodded. “Good plan.”

“And there’s something else. I want to start a ladies’ book discussion society.”

“A book—what?” He took off his spectacles and cleaned them with his handkerchief.

“They’re very popular in Memphis these days. I was reading about it in the paper only last week. A group of ladies meets once a month to talk about the books they’ve read. The article said the discussions are quite lively. And the meetings stimulate a lot of interest in books. Perhaps our society will encourage more customers to come in and look around.”

“And what will they use for money, even if they find a book that suits their fancy?”

She pointed to an assortment of books stacked in the far corner. “Those odds and ends have been sitting on the shelves for years. We should offer them at a bargain price. Put a sign in the window and invite people in to browse. Even if they sell for only a dime, that’s a dime more than you’re earning while they sit here collecting dust.”

He grinned, admiration and hope shining in his eyes. “Mercy’s sakes, where did all these ideas come from?”

“I want the shop to succeed. It would break my heart if it closed. Yours too.”

He thought for a moment. “All right. Go ahead and organize your book society. Who knows? It might be just the ticket to get things moving again.”

She clapped her hands and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I was sure you’d say yes. Come and see what I’ve done with the old storeroom.”

She took his hand and led him to the small space at the rear of the shop.

“Holy cats.” He looked around, clearly surprised at the changes she made.

She had brought in the rocking chair from the front room and placed it next to the small window overlooking the railway station and the mountains. A couple of plump pillows in shades of pink and blue were stacked on the floor next to a basket brimming with children’s books, including a leather-bound volume of fairy tales and an elaborately illustrated copy of
Two Hungry Kittens
. “It’s for the children of my book society ladies,” Carrie said. “They can read and play in here while we talk.”

“They’ll enjoy it, I’m sure.” He squeezed her hand. “Thank you, my love. I only hope—”

The bell above the door jingled. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

Carrie’s heart stumbled. “Mr. Rutledge?”

She and Nate returned to the front of the store. Nate nodded. “May I help you?”

Griff smiled. “Actually it’s Mrs. Daly I came to see. They told me at the hotel that you’re working here now.”

Carrie rubbed the bony protrusion at her wrist. “Yes. I—that is, Mr. Chastain bought out another store, and I . . .”

Heavenly days. Why did being around Griff Rutledge make her feel as tongue-tied as a silly schoolgirl? “I’m helping to organize things.”

“And doing a fine job of it from what I can see.” Griff swept his arm past the tidy shelves and her hand-lettered signs organizing the books by subject, from Architecture to Zoology.

She blushed, pleased at his compliment, and hoped Nate didn’t notice the color rising in her cheeks. “There’s still a lot to do, especially now that I intend to start a book discussion society. The shop is keeping me very busy these days.”

“Not too busy to accompany me to the Gilmans’ place tomorrow, I hope.”

Nate frowned. “Whatever for, Mr. Rutledge?”