Beauty for Ashes (32 page)
He rubbed a hand over his smoke-stung eyes and turned onto his side, rustling the ticking in the mattress. Somebody would have to build Carrie a new smokehouse. Heaven knew she couldn’t afford to pay anyone to do it. She’d insisted on repaying him for the food he’d bought at Pruitt’s store, and he was certain there was very little money left to tide her over until more arrived from her brother.
The barn cat, tired of the chase, padded over and settled against his chest. He stroked her head, pondering the way the smallest of decisions could completely alter the course of a man’s life and lead to the most complicated circumstances. Every time he planned to leave this town—and Carrie Daly’s patchwork family—something else happened to make him stay.
Carrie lit a lamp against the dreary November afternoon and stoked the fire to ward off the chill. Through the kitchen window, she watched Caleb scampering up and down the ladder, taking armloads of shingles up to the smokehouse roof. The building was nearly finished—a fact only slightly more miraculous than the change in Caleb. Thanks to Griff, since the night of the fire, Caleb had become more cooperative and less combative. And that was surely a blessing because, as Mary’s confinement dragged on, she became even more irritable and difficult to please.
Carrie set the kettle on the stove to boil and took cups from the cupboard, trying to stave off another wave of sadness. Last week Deborah had visited again, bringing news that Mayor Scott and the town council were almost ready to announce the hiring of a new teacher for the Hickory Ridge school. When that was done, and the last of the smokehouse shingles were nailed into place, Griff would have fewer reasons to stay on in Hickory Ridge.
The kettle shrieked. Carrie set the cups on a tray. A few minutes earlier, Mary had awakened from a long nap, demanding her daily cup of slippery elm tea. Taking up last week’s edition of the newspaper, Carrie went down the hall and opened Mary’s door.
Her sister-in-law was propped against her pillows, rubbing her swollen belly. She offered Carrie a rare smile that seemed nearly serene. “She’s moving around a lot today.”
Carrie drew her chair close to the bed and handed Mary a cup of tea. “How do you know it’s a girl?”
“Because I asked God for a daughter this time.” Mary sipped her tea and closed her eyes. “Haven’t you always wanted a little girl to dress in pretty frocks? I declare, my boys can run around in rags and be perfectly happy.”
Mary’s words were a shot to the heart. Carrie swallowed a sudden tightening in her throat. “If I could have a child, it wouldn’t matter if it were a boy or a girl.”
The bitter truth ached like a bad bruise. She had neither husband nor children in a world that considered the roles of wife and mother the most important things in a woman’s life. But perhaps Frank had been her one chance at real love. She thought of Wyatt and Ada Caldwell. Anyone who spent ten minutes around them could plainly see how much Wyatt adored his wife. She despaired of ever finding another man who would care so deeply for her.
Shaking off her sadness, she unfolded the paper. “Here’s the
Chronicle
. Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Only if there are any happy parts. I’m feeling gloomy these days. I wish Henry would write again.” Mary sipped her tea. “I don’t mind telling you, I am not looking forward to Christmas without him. I dreamed we’d spend it together with the boys . . . and with you too, of course. But now . . .” Her voice trailed away.
Carrie fought a wave of apprehension. It had been weeks since they’d heard from Henry, and she was getting worried. But it wouldn’t do any good to upset Mary.
“Here’s something amusing.” She held the newspaper toward the light. “Thieves broke into the Knoxville Livery and stole two horses. But both were apprehended when the riders, in their haste to make their escape, collided outside the sheriff’s office. The horses were unharmed, but one of the thieves suffered a broken arm.”
“They ran into each other, trying to get away? Dumb criminals.”
“Is there any other kind?”
Mary laughed, and Carrie found herself joining in. She had forgotten how good it felt to share a laugh with someone.
“Thank you, Carrie,” Mary said. “I needed that.”
She looked so vulnerable that Carrie felt a hitch in her chest. Perhaps Mary missed laughter too. “Would you like me to rub your feet?”
“If you don’t mind. They’ve been so swollen lately.”
Carrie rubbed Mary’s feet with lavender oil until the afternoon light waned and Mary’s eyelids drooped.
“I suppose I should see to supper.” Carrie tucked the blanket around Mary’s feet and picked up the tea tray. “Would you like me to leave the paper for you?”
“I’m too tired to read. Maybe Mr. Rutledge will want it.”
“I expect so.”
“Carrie?”
Carrie paused, the tray in her hands. “What do you need?”
“Nothing. I wanted to say thank you for taking care of me and looking after the boys. They can be a handful at times, but they’re good boys.” She smoothed her covers. “Joe especially loves you. He says you’ve been reading to him every night before bed. He looks forward to it.”
“So do I.” Just last night they’d read “Jack and the Beanstalk” again. Joe had leaned his warm little body against her side, his eyes huge with wonder as Carrie read about the brave boy and the fearsome giant. Reading with him reminded her of her own childhood. Somehow sharing stories with Joe made her miss Henry a bit less.
“Shall I bring you some supper?” she asked as she left the room.
“I’m not really hungry. Just see to the boys. And to Mr. Rutledge, of course.”
Carrie went to the kitchen to start supper. Darkness fell. Wind whistled through a crack in the windowsill. She lit another lamp, turning up the wick before making a potato soup, thick with fresh cream. She buttered a slice of bread and munched it as she set the table. She should check with Mrs. Whitcomb at the Verandah. Perhaps business had picked up by now and the hotelier would need more bread for her boarders. Though Mrs. Whitcomb paid next to nothing, Carrie was grateful for anything. The last of Henry’s money was dwindling fast, and Christmas was coming.
When the soup was done, Carrie opened the back door to call Griff and the boys in, but they had disappeared. Sighing, she grabbed her shawl and hurried across the yard to the half-finished smokehouse.
A thin shaft of light from within spilled across the burned-out grass. She heard Caleb’s shout and Griff’s deep laughter. Standing on tiptoe, she peered through a narrow opening beside the door.
Griff and the boys were seated around an overturned washtub that held a flickering lantern, a jumbled deck of cards, and a pile of small stones.
“But I don’t get it, Griff.” Caleb scratched his head. “I thought aces were the best cards in the whole deck.”
“Not in triple draw. Deuce to seven, remember?”
“Oh yeah. So a seven is better’n an ace.”
“In this game, it sure is.”
Joe made an attempt to fan his cards and sent them scattering across the smokehouse floor. “I want three new cards.”
Griff grinned. “You can’t get any new cards until the first round of betting, Joe. So how many rocks are you willing to bet?”
Joe shrugged. “Three, I guess.”
“Three it is.” Griff tossed three stones into the pile in the middle of the table. “And I’ll see that bet with three of my own.” He looked at Caleb, one eyebrow raised. “How about you, son? In or out?”
“I have a question first.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“I’m not saying that I have these cards, but supposin’ somebody had a two and a three plus a four, a five, and a six.”
“Then that somebody’d be in a fair amount of trouble, my man. Deuce to six is a straight, and in this game that’s about as worthless a hand as there can possibly be. Now, how much are you willing to bet?”
Caleb tossed his cards onto the makeshift table. “None, I reckon.”
Griff reached over and clapped Caleb’s shoulder. “Smart move. Never bet on a losing hand, Caleb, and never bet more than you can afford to lose. Even when you’re holding a good hand, there’s always the possibility someone else has better cards.”
Carrie frowned. Wasn’t it hard enough to bring those boys up without Griff’s teaching them bad habits? Hickory Ridge was a different place than Charleston. And besides, the boys were too young to learn such things. She’d have to speak to him about that. But not now, in front of the boys. Not when they so obviously adored him.
Clearly, he relished his role as their teacher, and Caleb and Joe basked in his attention. Not wishing to spoil their moment, Carrie retreated to the back porch before calling them in to supper.
Griff ate two bowls of soup and three slices of bread. Between bites, he took turns with Caleb describing their work on the smokehouse. “If this weather holds, we should finish in another few days.”
“We appreciate your help.” Wary of appearing to serve him, she gave the boys slices of vinegar pie and set the pie tin on the table.
Griff helped himself to a generous slice. “Caleb’s a fine worker. His new pa ought to be proud of him.”
Joe’s fork clattered onto his plate. “Hey, Carrie Daly, guess what?”
“Joe,” Griff interrupted. “What did we talk about today?”
“Oh yeah. Sorry.” Joe gobbled another bite of pie. “Aunt Carrie, guess what?”
Aunt Carrie. Her heart twisted. How could Griff have known how much the simple honorific would mean to her? She met his gaze over the boy’s tousled head, and he winked at her.
“Griff showed us how to play poker.”
“Oh?”
“Yes’m. He showed us how to bet and everything. Griff says—”
Caleb thumped Joe’s forehead. “Shut up, blabbermouth. We promised not to tell.”
Joe frowned. “We promised not to tell Mama. Carr—I mean Aunt Carrie won’t care.”
Griff’s dark eyes glinted with mischief. “Every man ought to know how to swear, ride a horse, play poker, and hold his liquor.”
He looked so earnest, so appealing, that despite her disapproval she couldn’t stay cross with him. “Undoubtedly very useful skills, Mr. Rutledge, but perhaps better left until the boys are older.”
“Caleb already knows how to swear,” Joe said. “But I ain’t s’posed to tell.”
Griff’s rich laughter rang out in the small, warm kitchen. Carrie couldn’t help wishing their time together could go on forever. But there was nothing more to keep him here in her house. In her life.
Horses’ hooves sounded on the road. Moments later came a knock at the door.
“I’ll see who it is.” Joe jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair, and ran to the door. Carrie and Griff followed.
Dr. Spencer stood on the porch, pressing his hat to his head in the sharp wind. “Hello, Mrs. Daly. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Carrie stood aside.
The doctor came in, nodded to Griff. “I was out this way tending to the Patchetts’ baby and thought I’d check on Mary before I head home. How is she?”
“Better, I think.”
“May I check on her?”
Carrie nodded, and he went in.
“Come away, boys. I need wood and water.” Carrie ushered Caleb and Joe down the hall. Griff picked up the newspaper and retired to the parlor.
By the time the boys returned to the house, the doctor had finished his examination. “You’re doing a fine job, Mrs. Daly. The baby seems strong enough. But you must keep Mrs. Bell on bed rest and continue encouraging her to eat more.”
Joe frowned at the doctor. “When in the Sam Hill is that baby going to come out? It has been in there forever.”
Dr. Spencer grinned. “Not too much longer, Joe. I’d say that about seven weeks after Christmas, the baby will make his appearance.”
“It better not be a girl. That’s all I got to say.”
“That’s up to the Lord.” Dr. Spencer donned his hat and picked up his medical bag. “Oh, some good news today. The town council has convinced Ethan Webster to return to Hickory Ridge as schoolmaster. The school will reopen in January.”
Griff appeared in the doorway, newspaper in hand. “This Mr. Webster. Is he any good?”
“He’s strict, but very good,” Carrie said. “Everyone thought it was a shame when Bea Goldston ran him off all those years ago.”
“She was the first schoolteacher in Hickory Ridge,” the doctor told Griff. “But not a week after Mr. Webster left, she left town quite unexpectedly too. What was it, Mrs. Daly? Three years ago?”
“Four.” Carrie shuddered at the memory of Bea’s violent attack on Ada, which had led to the schoolteacher’s abrupt departure.
“We hired another teacher, but after the panic of seventy-three she left too. We’re much obliged to you, Mr. Rutledge, for providing the means to get Mr. Webster back.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“And I’m sorry that not all of our citizens have welcomed you to our town. They’re mostly good-hearted. It just takes some folks awhile to warm up to newcomers.”
Carrie crossed her arms. It was more than a simple case of warming up to Griff. But he merely shrugged. “I understand. It’s all right.”
“Well, I ought to be going. Eugenie will be wondering what’s become of me.” With a nod to Carrie, Dr. Spencer left the house.
