Beauty for Ashes (40 page)

She rose. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

“There’s one thing you might consider if you want to sell that land to Stevens.”

“I don’t
want
to sell it, but I have four other mouths to feed. Besides, you said the land is worthless.”

“No, I said a farmer might not need it for crops. Rumor has it that plans to build a resort here just might work out. That Blakely fellow from Baltimore is keen on the idea. If he decides to build, that land will be worth ten times what it is today . . .”

She saw him hesitate. “But?”

“It might be years before the resort is actually built. Wat Stevens is no fool, though. He knows what that land will be worth then.” He steepled his fingers and smiled up at her. “Sounds to me as if you can’t afford to wait. You need cash right now.”

“Yes. Desperately. I can’t earn enough baking bread.”

“Stevens can afford to buy that land and hold on to it. If the resort comes in, he can sell it off and make a tidy profit. If it doesn’t, he’s still sitting on some of the finest farmland in the county. When this depression ends, he’ll double his yield. If it was me, I’d ask ten dollars an acre. Firm.”

“Ten dollars?” It was a fortune.

“He can afford it. Don’t let him tell you any different.” His voice softened. “I’m real sorry about that jewelry.”

She left the bank and headed for the Stevens farm. Situated on a winding dirt road halfway between town and the lumber mill, it lay in a broad valley bordering the river. A series of wooden fences marked the boundaries and led upward to the Stevenses’ log farmhouse.

Carrie halted the wagon in the side yard and climbed down. The smell of burning fields teased her nose. In the distance, Wat Stevens walked behind a team of plodding horses, plowing up a cloud of black dust.

She rounded the house. Mrs. Stevens, a faded woman in a brown dress and a threadbare blue apron, was out back slopping hogs. They grunted and rooted in the long wooden trough near the barn. A line of laundry flapped in the March wind.

“Carrie Daly.” Mrs. Stevens set the slop bucket aside and pushed her sunbonnet off her head. “Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. What brings you clear out here?”

“I need to speak to your husband. If he can spare the time.”

“What about?”

“Last year he asked my brother about buying some land.”

“Then maybe your brother ought to be the one doing the talking.”

“My brother is dead.”

The woman frowned. “Henry Bell is dead? How in the world—”

“An accident in the rail yard.” Briefly Carrie filled her in. “We didn’t know about it until Christmas.”

“Well, if that don’t beat all.” She shook her head. “Living way out here, we’re the last to know anything. I sure am sorry to hear it.”

She put her fingers in her mouth and emitted a piercing whistle that reverberated across the valley. Wat halted the team and looked up. His wife motioned him over.

He took off his hat and wiped his face with a crumpled bandanna. “Miz Daly.”

“Henry Bell went and got himself killed in Chicago,” Wat’s wife informed him. “It happened clear back in December, and we must be the last people in the county to know about it. I declare, Wat Stevens, you have got to do something to get us another preacher. Without church on Sundays, we don’t hear about anything.”

Wat squinted at Carrie. “That’s real bad news, all right. But you didn’t come all this way just to tell us about it.”

“I’m going in the house to get us something to drink,” Mrs. Stevens said. “My mouth is dry as dirt.”

Carrie watched her go. Her own mouth felt dry too. Bargaining with Wat Stevens would not be easy. But there was no sense in beating around the bush. “Last year you were interested in buying the twenty acres we own down by Owl Creek. Now that my brother is gone, the farm is too much for me to handle. I’m wondering if you’re still interested.”

“Maybe.” He leaned against a fence post, crossed his ankles, and studied her through narrowed eyes. “How much you askin’ for it?”

“Twelve dollars an acre.”

“Twelve . . . what on earth have you been swilling? There ain’t a tract of land in this whole county worth that kind of money.”

“Maybe not now, but I’m sure you’ve heard about the resort coming to town.”

“I’ve heard
maybe
there’s a resort coming to town. That’s a big difference.”

“But suppose it does happen? You could sell that land for twice what I’m asking.”

“Then why are you willing to let it go?”

“My brother is dead. I have to support his sickly wife and three growing children. I can’t plant it all, and I can’t afford to wait.” She crossed her arms. “It’s the best bottomland in the county. You know it’s worth it.”

“I wouldn’t buy heaven itself for twelve dollars an acre.”

Carrie waited. Surely he would make a counter offer. Whether Henry sold off a corn crop, a sow, or a wagon, he always started at a price higher than he was willing to accept. Bargaining was an expected part of doing business. But as the silence stretched out, broken only by the song of the little finches flitting through the hedgerow, she grew worried. What if she had squandered her best chance to sell the land at any price?

“Nine dollars an acre,” Wat said at last.

“But Mr. Gilman said—”

“I wouldn’t listen to him I if was you. I ain’t never met a banker yet I could trust. They all got bad reputations. Maybe he meant well, but twelve dollars an acre is outrageous. I’d be the laughing stock of the county if I paid that much for farmland in times like these.” He kicked at a dirt clod. “Now I’ve made you a fair offer. You can take it or not.”

“That land is worth ten dollars an acre, resort or no resort. It’ll be worth more when the depression ends.”

“Gilman said that, did he?”

“It’s only common sense, Mr. Stevens. But I can see you are not willing to make a fair deal. Perhaps someone else will be amenable to my price.” She headed for the wagon, determined not to let her disappointment show. She wouldn’t be cheated out of her birthright. She’d find some other way to make ends meet.

“All right.” Wat caught up to her. “Ten dollars an acre. To help out a couple of widows and a bunch of children. Come on in, and we’ll write up a bill of sale. We can meet on Friday to sign the deed and transfer the money.”

Carrie followed him into the house in a daze. She had done it. Two hundred dollars would be enough to keep the farm going for a very long time.

Wat pulled out a chair and scribbled out a bill of sale, then he and Carrie both signed it. Mrs. Stevens served buttermilk and slices of chess pie. Carrie finished both and rose.

The Stevenses followed her outside. Carrie climbed into the wagon. “Shall we say ten o’clock on Friday, Mr. Stevens?”

“As good a time as any, I reckon.”

“See you then.” She headed back to town in high spirits. At the Hickory Ridge Inn, she stopped to find Griff. Maybe he would be too busy to take time for her, but she was so relieved to have sold her land that she was unable to contain her good news.

The clerk looked up when she entered the lobby. “Help you, Mrs. Daly?”

“I would like to speak to Mr. Griffin Rutledge.”

“So would I. But he isn’t here.”

“Oh. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The clerk snorted. “I’m not sure he’ll be back. He’s been gone for more’n two weeks, and he left here owing me for his room. Just up and left in the middle of the night.” He shook his head. “I knew he was no good the minute I laid eyes on him.”

Carrie leaned against the counter. Griff had left without even saying good-bye? “Surely there’s a good explanation.”

“’Course there is. He’s a no-good gambler who comes and goes like the wind. Well, nothing I can do ’cept wait to see if he turns up. What was it you wanted to talk to him about? You want to leave a message in case he shows?”

Numb with disappointment, Carrie shook her head. What a fool she’d been. For a while it had felt as if she and Griff were already a team. Despite his recent absence, she had let herself believe that something strong and real had formed between them. But it hadn’t meant a thing.

She left the inn, climbed onto the wagon, and shook the reins. The tears came then . . . because Nate was right. She loved Griff Rutledge. With everything that was in her, she loved him.

If only he could love her too.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her. But she’d plunged headlong into a relationship with him anyway, willing to risk heartbreak for a few months of feeling wanted and admired. What did she expect would happen? For all she knew he might have headed to Australia. Or gone after his old friend Rosaleen.

It didn’t matter. Griff was not the settling-down kind of man, no matter how hard she pretended otherwise. Her dream was over. And she had only herself to blame.

THIRTY-THREE

An hour late, the train huffed into Hickory Ridge, the whistle shrieking. Griff hauled his bags up the narrow aisle of the gentlemen’s car. He glanced at the railway clock and groaned. Gilman would be furious at having to wait.

He left his bags at the inn, apologized to the irate clerk for his abrupt departure, and settled his outstanding bill. A generous tip improved the clerk’s mood considerably, and Griff extracted a promise that a hot bath and fresh linens would await his return. After a quick freshening up and a change of shirts, he picked up his rig at Tanner’s livery and headed for the Gilmans’ place, eager to seal the deal before the banker changed his mind.

Passing the mercantile, he thought about Carrie. How that woman had changed him. A solitary life devoid of commitment no longer appealed to him. His brief time at the farm with her had awakened him to the joys of family life. Carrie was a natural mother. He could see that in the way she dealt with Joe and Caleb, not the easiest boys he’d ever met. She knew not only how to keep a house but to make it a home. At the Bell farm, he’d felt a sense of peace that otherwise eluded him.

Farther along the street, he smelled bread baking and grinned to himself. Carrie Daly was the best baker in the county, to boot. His mouth watered at the memory of breakfasts in her cozy kitchen when the entire room smelled wonderfully of biscuits and warm strawberry jam.

She was pretty too, with those sapphire eyes and russet curls. There was nothing he didn’t like about her. The memory of their kiss seared his heart. During the long journey from South Carolina, he’d imagined growing old with her. Watching the years change her face, walking with her across their own piece of land, knowing they belonged to each other. Maybe it was all a sentimental dream. Maybe she wouldn’t even speak to him after his unexplained absence. But he couldn’t help how he felt.

The question was whether a woman of such strong principles could overlook his past. He hadn’t told her about his connection to Rosaleen. Perhaps when she knew, she’d refuse to have anything further to do with him. But he wouldn’t lie to her. If they were to have a future together, he wanted to begin with a clean slate, no secrets between them.

The day after his father’s funeral, he’d gone to the telegraph office, intending to send Carrie a wire. He stood there for half an hour, composing message after message. But no matter how he tried to explain himself, the terse language of a telegram seemed wrong.

He hadn’t prayed for himself in a long time, but as the horse
clop-clopped
toward the Gilmans’ place, he asked God to give him the right heart and the right words to win the woman he loved.

Mary and the baby were sleeping. Carrie moved through the house quietly, grateful that the boys had not yet returned from school. Though her worries about money soon would be a thing of the past, she still grieved her lost dream. She had no future with Griff. Her future was here, looking after this cobbled-together family.

She removed her shawl and hat, and went upstairs to change her dress. Through the window, she glimpsed a tiny sprig of green among the brown vines on the trellis. The morning glory she’d given up for dead was coming back to life. How beautiful it had looked last summer on Henry’s wedding day.

That day she’d asked God for the grace to accept Mary and the boys into her family. Perhaps Henry’s death, and Griff’s absence, were his way of answering her prayer. She thought of Deborah, of her friend’s willingness to submit herself wholly to God even in the direst of situations. Could Carrie do that? She was tired of struggling, of carrying burdens too heavy for her heart and her head. She perched on the edge of her bed and closed her eyes.