Beauty for Ashes (21 page)

A blob of black ink mushroomed over the Race Day flier she’d just finished. Crumpling the ruined page, Carrie tossed it onto the table, capped her inkwell, and stared out the window. On the corner, Mariah and Eugenie were deep in conversation, the brims of their fall hats shadowing their faces. Moments earlier, Rosaleen, clutching a handful of papers, had sashayed by in her pink wedding costume on her way to the train station. Clearly the new Mrs. Chastain cared not one whit for Molly Scott’s opinion.

Carrie rose and went to the kitchen to check on the bread dough she’d left rising on the counter. Everyone else had a role to play for Race Day, and she was relegated to the sidelines because of her friendship with Griff. She hated being at cross purposes with Mariah and Eugenie, and yet she could not walk away from Griff even if she wanted to. She didn’t understand it, really. Why did she always want the thing she could never have? She returned to the parlor and flopped onto the dusty sofa.

Here lately, she’d spent a lot of time thinking about the choices she had made. Mrs. Whitcomb had counseled her not to give up hope, and she hadn’t—not totally, anyway. But time was slipping past, and still God was silent.

Lucy Whitcomb slid down the banister and picked up the shawl she’d left on the bottom stair last night. “Where’s Aunt Maisy this morning?”

“At the mercantile, buying cleaning supplies.” Carrie swept her arm around the dusty, cobwebbed room. “This place needs scrubbing top to bottom before Race Day—in case the inn fills up and the Verandah must accommodate an overflow crowd.”

The girl shuddered. “How can you stand it? The very thought of washing windows and scrubbing floors makes me break out in hives. I’d rather spend a week in purgatory with the Grayson twins.”

Carrie stifled a grin. “And who’s going to scrub your floors in Montana?”

Lucy shrugged. “Want to meet Rachel and me for a sweet at the bakery?”

“I don’t think so, but I appreciate the invitation.”

“I heard about what the other ladies are saying about you and I don’t think it’s fair.” Lucy circled the room, evidently looking for something. “Mr. Rutledge seems perfectly lovely, and I don’t see why you can’t see him if you want to.” She spotted her reticule tucked beside the sofa and picked it up. “If they want to be mad at somebody, they should be mad at Rosaleen for stealing Nate from right under your nose.”

Carrie rose and placed one arm around the young girl’s shoulders. “Thank you, Lucy. But a man can’t be stolen away unless he wants to be.”

Lucy took an apple from the bowl on the side table and polished it on her sleeve. “Ma’am?”

“Mr. Chastain and I were great friends, but in the end we didn’t love each other enough for marriage.” She smiled. “My granny used to say that the only thing worse than being alone is being married to the wrong man.”

Lucy bit into the apple. “All I know is, if anybody tried to take Jake away from me, I’d claw her eyes out.”

The ink had dried on the Race Day fliers. Carrie gathered them and set them on the table.

“I can put one of those up on the Graysons’ barn if you want,” Lucy offered. “It’s on the main road, and everybody passes by there sooner or later. Mrs. Grayson says—”

“Carrie Daly! Carrie Daly!” A voice, urgent and high pitched, preceded its owner into the Verandah’s front parlor. Caleb Stanhope, Mary’s older boy, stumbled in, his hair plastered to his head with sweat, his face red with exertion. “Mama said to give you this letter right away. She said it’s a matter of life and death.”

Lucy stuffed a Race Day flier into her reticule and headed for the door. “I must go. Tell Aunt Maisy that Rachel and I will be late for supper tonight.”

Carrie nodded and looked down at the red-faced boy. “Now what’s this about life and death?”

He shoved the letter into her hands. “Fer mercy’s sake, just read it.”

Carrie sank onto the sofa in the parlor and opened the note. She skimmed it quickly, then read it a second time more slowly, swallowing the sudden churning in her stomach.

“Well?” Caleb stood over her, the expression in his eyes a mixture of fear and expectation. “Are you going to help us or not?”

EIGHTEEN

“She asked you to do
what
?” Nate leaned back in his chair, his pipe clenched in his teeth.

Carrie watched a cloud of blue smoke encircle his head. “She wants me to move back to the farm.”

“I’m sure she does. She’s made no secret of her disdain for farm life.” Nate shook his head. “I have a lot of respect for your brother, but for the life of me I can’t figure out why he thought Mary Stanhope was marriage material.”

She felt a sudden stab of anger. Though she had entertained those same thoughts herself, she didn’t want anyone, not even Nate, to criticize her brother’s choices. “Some people might wonder the same thing about you and Rosaleen.”

“Touché.” He set his pipe on the corner of his desk. “What are you going to do?”

Carrie shrugged. She’d tried to see a way out of the situation, but the truth lodged like a stone in her shoe: she had no good choices, only painful ones.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you said no,” Nate said.

“There are special circumstances. Mary is . . . with child and—”

“Already?”

She nodded. “Dr. Spencer has ordered her to bed until the child is born.”

Nate counted on his fingers “When will that be?”

“Late February, Mary thinks.”

“Does Henry know?”

“I’m sure she’s written to him. But even if he could arrange for Mary and the boys to go to Chicago, the doctor wouldn’t allow it.” She gazed out the window. “This child is my brother’s first. Given Mary’s delicate constitution, maybe his only one. After all he has done for me, I must do everything possible to see that the baby comes safely into the world.”

“I suppose so. But I sure do hate to think of your spending the winter out there with only those two little boys to help run the place.”

“Before he left, Henry told me he planned to hire someone to help with the heavier tasks, but I don’t know whether he found anyone. Most of the men in Hickory Ridge have gone to look for work elsewhere.”

“Hard times, all right. But my daddy used to say that nothing lasts forever. Good times eventually end, but so do the bad times. Hickory Ridge will recover from this, you’ll see.”

“I hope so.” She paused. “I came to ask you to help me move my things back to the farm.”

Nate sent her a quizzical look. “Rutledge isn’t available?”

“It shouldn’t matter to you now.”

He blushed. “You’re right. But I still care a great deal about what happens to you. I want you to be happy.”

Her irritation transformed into a rush of affection for her old friend. “I know you do. And I wish the same for you.”

India jumped into his lap, and he stroked her from head to tail. “Can I ask you something? Does Rosaleen seem . . . a bit secretive?”

“I couldn’t really say. I didn’t see much of her when she lived at the Verandah. But I do know that she and Mr. Rutledge knew each other before they got here.”

He took up his pipe, looking thoughtful. “Doesn’t that seem odd to you, that the two of them would end up here at the same time? After all, Hickory Ridge is off the beaten path, as they say.”

“Maybe.” She paused, remembering. “Rosaleen said a strange thing to me the night you came back from Chicago. She said, ‘I’m so sorry’ ”.

“Doesn’t seem strange to me. She knew we were courting. I guess she felt guilty about coming between us.” He puffed on his pipe. “Despite what some folks think of Rosaleen, she can be tenderhearted. And she was impressed with your book discussion society. I suppose she hated hurting your feelings.”

“Perhaps.” Carrie rose. “I must go. I promised Mrs. Whitcomb one last batch of bread before I leave.”

“Soon as Rosaleen gets back from the train station, we’ll hitch the wagon and come for you. Rosaleen doesn’t like to be on the road after dark.” He shook his head. “I declare, that woman sure is skittish. Almost like she’s looking over her shoulder, waiting for somebody.”

“You could ask Sheriff McCracken to look into it. People still talk about how he tracked down Charlie Blevins for terrorizing Ada and burning the Spencers’ chicken coop.”

“But how would that look? A newly married man checking up on his beloved?”

Carrie had no answer for that. Instead, she placed a hand on Nate’s arm. “Thanks for helping me out. I’m grateful.”

He nodded. “Always happy to help you, my dear. Save me a loaf of that bread, all right? Rosaleen is a pretty little thing, but she can’t cook worth spit.”

They headed for the front of the bookshop, and he waved a hand toward the shelves. “You might want to take some books with you to the farm.”

“I expect I’ll be much too busy and too tired to read.”

“Still, I don’t like to think of you out there with nothing to occupy your thoughts. You may as well take whatever suits your fancy. Lord knows I’m not selling many of them these days.”

Carrie looked around the shop. How she would miss the neat rows of books, the tables laden with magazines and newspapers, the smells of lemon wax and Nate’s pipe tobacco. India’s warm weight in her lap. “Maybe I will take a few, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”

She chose a couple of new novels, two histories, and a biography she’d wanted to read. At the last minute she added a Horatio Alger tale, a book of fairy tales, and the copy of
Two Hungry Kittens
to the pile. Perhaps those books would occupy Mary’s boys in the evenings, affording her a few moments of peace.

“Leave them on the counter,” Nate said. “No use toting them all the way to the Verandah. I’ll box them up and bring them when we come to pick you up.”

Nate’s wagon jostled over the rutted road. Next to him, Rosaleen, decked out in a parrot-green silk frock, drew a delicate embroidered shawl about her shoulders and turned around to smile at Carrie. “Saints in a sock, but it’s chilly today.”

“You all right back there, Carrie?” Nate asked.

“Fine.” But her insides were taut with apprehension and bitterness. Only months ago she had embarked upon a new life, one that allowed her to do as she pleased. But God had seen fit to send her back to where she came from.
Why?
she had asked in her nightly prayers.
What am I to learn, Lord, from this experience?

Nate flicked the reins. “Let me know if you want to stop and rest a minute.”

“I will.” The whole situation seemed strange and awkward, but he acted as if it was natural to be driving along with the woman who had promised to marry him and the one who actually had.

Carrie inhaled the fresh September air and looked out at the distant mountains. The trees already wore a few splotches of red and gold, mixing with the green. Flocks of birds darted through the wisps of fog collecting in the cool hollows. Perhaps none of this was God’s doing and everything happened by chance. If so, then why pray at all? Regardless, she had agreed to look out for Henry’s family. She would see it through.

They passed the country church, and Carrie felt a pang of homesickness for the days when Pastor Dennis preached every Sunday and the quilting circle met to sew and share the latest news from Hickory Ridge. Now Ada was in Texas with Wyatt. Mariah was barely speaking to her, and Lillian Willis rested in the graveyard. So many losses piled one upon the other left her feeling numb.

Another few minutes’ journey brought them to the farm. Despite her fears, Carrie’s heart lifted at the sight of the white clapboard house with its long, deep porch and shuttered windows. Behind the house, surrounded by a picket fence, sat the neat barn she and Henry had raised only three years before. The garden was another story. The remnants of the summer produce lay in a brown tangle overgrown with weeds.

Nate brought the wagon to a stop in the yard. Caleb and Joe ran out to meet them. “Carrie Daly!” Joe shouted. “Make Caleb give me back my slingshot.”

Carrie closed her eyes and stifled a rebuke. This endless pettiness was what she had to look forward to for the foreseeable future. She lacked the patience for it. Maybe God was right to deny her a chance at motherhood.

“Where’s your mother?” Carrie asked the older boy as Nate lifted her from the wagon.

Caleb stared at her with a mutinous look on his face. “It’s
my
slingshot. I made it by myself. It isn’t his.”