Beauty for Ashes (10 page)

“And you, Miss Dupree, are no lady.”

Carrie stood transfixed at the top of the stairs. After bidding goodbye to Ada, she’d gone back upstairs to tidy her room. She’d left it just in time to hear Rosaleen’s voice . . . and Mr. Rutledge’s raised in anger. Obviously they knew each other, a fact that shouldn’t bother her in the least. But it did. She felt disappointed. Maybe even jealous, which was even more ridiculous. Griff Rutledge was a stranger just passing through Hickory Ridge. She had no claim on him whatsoever.

The door slammed shut behind Griff. Carrie squared her shoulders and hurried downstairs. Rosaleen was on her hands and knees in the parlor, picking up her cards.

“Need some help?” Carrie retrieved the jack of diamonds lying beneath the side table.

“Thanks. I’ve got it.” Rosaleen got to her feet, and Carrie saw tears standing in her eyes.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.” Rosaleen straightened her blouse and sniffed. “Just a misunderstanding with an old friend.”

“Mr. Rutledge?”

Rosaleen’s eyes went wide. “You know him?”

“Not really.” Carrie explained the nature of their acquaintance. “I recognized his voice just now, that’s all.”

“I hope we didn’t disturb you.” Rosaleen dropped the stack of cards onto the table and looked up, her expression troubled. “How much did you overhear?”

“Only the barbs you traded as he was leaving.”

Rosaleen seemed relieved. “He didn’t mean it. Nor did I. We’ve always been—”

The door flew open and Lucy Whitcomb rushed in, her skirts blood-soaked, a small, golden-haired girl lying limp in her arms. “Quick, I need bandages.”

“What happened?” Carrie touched the child’s face. It felt cool and dry beneath her fingers.

“I—I turned my back for half a minute.” Lucy gulped air, stifling her sobs. “She picked up the ax and accidentally cut her foot. Please help me. I’m afraid she’s bleeding to death.”

Mrs. Whitcomb rushed down the stairs. “What’s all this commo—oh my heavens, that poor child. Rosaleen, don’t just stand there, go find Dr. Spencer.”

Lucy’s voice trembled. “He’s out at the Rileys’ place. I couldn’t think where else to bring her.”

“Put her on the sofa,” Mrs. Whitcomb said. “And for heavens’ sake, Lucy, bear up. Carrie, bring a basin of water and that can of powdered alum from the kitchen.”

Carrie hurried to pump the water, her heart twisting with worry and pity. Poor child. Poor Lucy. What would happen to her, to her future, if the little girl died? More importantly, how would Mrs. Grayson ever cope with such a horrific loss?

She returned to the parlor with the alum and the water. Rosaleen was busy tearing an old sheet into long strips. Mrs. Whitcomb held smelling salts beneath the child’s nose. The little girl revived and whimpered as Mrs. Whitcomb bathed the deep, ragged cut and poured the alum into the wound. Rosaleen paled and rushed from the room.

Carrie smoothed the child’s hair off her face and murmured to her while the hotelier bound up the cut. Lucy, as white-faced and shaken as her charge, took a piece of candy from her pocket and offered it to the child. The little girl licked the candy, fat tears sliding down her cheeks.

Lucy collapsed onto the sofa beside the child, her shoulders sagging. “Thank you for your help. I was so scared I couldn’t even think.”

“You did all right,” Mrs. Whitcomb said. “I raised six boys of my own,” she told Carrie, “and one or the other of them was always getting hurt.” She patted the little girl’s shoulder. “This cut looked worse than it really is.”

The little girl turned her teary eyes on the hotelier. “I gots Miss Lucy’s dress messed up.”

Lucy cradled the child. “Oh, honey, it’s all right. Don’t worry about that.”

“Mama is going to be awful mad,” the child said.

“No doubt,” Lucy muttered. “How will I ever find another job?”

“It was an accident,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “pure and simple. And you got help for the child right away. I’m sure I don’t know what more the child’s mother can expect.”

“I should have paid more attention,” Lucy said. “But the children are so noisy and energetic, it’s more than I can handle.” She brushed her hair off her face. “I must go. I left the oldest boy in charge of the others, and there’s no telling what trouble they’re into by now.”

She settled the little girl on her hip and headed for the door. “Tell Rosaleen I said thanks for her help too.”

Mrs. Whitcomb looked around. “Where is Rosaleen? She was here a minute ago.”

She followed Lucy out onto the porch. Carrie gathered the rest of the bandages and the tin of powdered alum and carried the pan of bloody water to the back door to empty it.

Rosaleen sat on the back steps, her arms looped around her drawn-up knees, sobbing as if her heart had shriveled to nothing and blown away.

“Rosaleen?” Carrie dropped onto the step beside her. “Are you all right?”

Rosaleen shook her head and waved her away. Carrie rose and went back inside. Perhaps Rosaleen was upset over her meeting with Griff Rutledge. Perhaps her tears were the result of seeing the little girl in so much pain, though her anguish seemed deeper than that. She wept as if grieving for one of her own.

EIGHT

“Carrie?” Rosaleen poked her head into kitchen where Carrie was busy kneading bread dough. “Mr. Chastain is waiting for you in the parlor.”

“Nate’s here?” Carrie felt a stab of guilt. In the weeks since moving to the Verandah, she’d hardly seen Nate. True, he’d been busy, but she should have made more of an effort. After all, it wasn’t as if she had anything to do aside from reading, moping, and waiting for letters from Ada.

She dusted the dough with flour, covered it with a towel, and set it in the pan to rise.

“There you are.” Nate rose as she entered the parlor, a smile creasing his round face. “I’d about decided you’d left the country. Figured I’d best check and see.”

She grinned. “Still here.”

He squeezed both her hands, and she squeezed back. It was good seeing him. Why had she neglected him these past weeks? From now on, she’d pay more attention to him.

“I was hopin’ I could take you down to the bakery for a sweet”—his gaze swept over her flour-smudged face—“but I reckon that wouldn’t be much of an occasion for you.”

She dabbed at her face with her handkerchief. “I’ve been baking bread this morning.”

He nodded. “Can we take a walk?”

“I’ll get my hat.”

She ran up to her room to retrieve the straw toque Ada had sent her last summer. Draped in soft pink satin and trimmed with a small nosegay of white chenille flowers, it made her feel happier just to wear it. She returned to the parlor to find Nate handing Rosaleen a stack of books.

“Why, Mr. Chastain, how positively wonderful of you. I can’t remember having received a more thoughtful gift.” Standing on tiptoe, Rosaleen kissed Nate’s cheek.

Carrie watched his face turn beet red. Land’s sakes, but Rosaleen was the boldest woman in the entire state. Carrie herself would never engage in such a public show of affection, and she and Nate were promised to each other.

“Carrie.” Rosaleen held up the books. “Look what Nate brought. Isn’t he the most wonderful man?”

“Yes.” Carrie looped her arm through his and smiled up at him. “Simply wonderful.”

Nate blushed again—he never could cope with her teasing—and escorted her onto the street. They skirted a couple of farm women who had stopped to chat outside the post office and headed down the road toward the park.

“What have you—” he began.

“I’m sorry I’ve—” she said at the same moment, and he laughed.

“Ladies first.” He squeezed her hand. “What were you about to say?”

“Only that I’m sorry I haven’t been to the bookshop much lately.”

He smiled. “I’ve missed you. India has too.”

Carrie smiled at the mention of his beloved cat. “I should bring her some catnip next time.”

“Have you been out to the farm to see Henry?”

“No.” She took her fan from her reticule and fanned her face. “I’ve wanted to, but I can’t face Mary and those boys.”

“Don’t you think you should?”

“I’m the one who was wronged, Nate.”

“Because Henry chose to make himself happy?”

She stopped in the road, one hand on her hip. “You know better than that. I’m truly glad he’s found love. But Mary Stanhope has no use for me. And honestly, the feeling is mutual.”

“You surprise me, Carrie. I never figured you for the type of woman to hold a grudge.”

“I’m not holding a grudge. I simply don’t belong at the farm anymore. Besides, Henry comes into town every week to shop at the mercantile. He knows where I am, if he wants to see me.”

“Well, one of you has to make the first move. You can’t let this go on. What if something terrible happened to him? You’d live with the guilt forever. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not. But nothing’s going to happen.”

“Oh, so now you’re God. Now you can predict the future.”

She stopped to stare up at him. “What’s the matter with you today? Did you come to see me just to start a disagreement?”

They reached the park. He plopped down beneath a towering hickory tree and patted the ground. She sat down beside him.

“I apologize. I don’t mean to be cross with you. But I’ll admit I have been feeling peevish lately. I don’t like the way that Rutledge character looks at you. Just yesterday he stood outside the post office and followed your every move, all the way to the mercantile. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

“I noticed. But you shouldn’t worry about it.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she was assailed with guilt. She
was
attracted to Griff Rutledge despite herself. Did it show?

“Are you sure about that, Carrie? I saw the two of you that day at the wedding. And then you asked him to help you move.” He pulled at a blade of grass. “Something as important as that, I figured you might have asked me about it.”

“It was entirely coincidental. I happened upon him on the road and acted on impulse. I was so upset, I wasn’t thinking about who should do the honors. I only wanted out from under Henry’s roof as soon as possible.”

“I guess I can understand that. But maybe you ought to know, some folks are wondering about Rutledge and what all went on before he came here.” His gray eyes sought hers. “I don’t want you to get mixed up with the wrong sort of people.”

“I’m not mixed up with anyone. Mr. Rutledge and I have spoken only a few times since Henry’s wedding.”

“If you say so.” He leaned against the trunk of the tree and squinted at the patch of sky above them. “I sure do feel bad for Henry and the way things have turned out. I don’t like seeing the two of you at odds. Nothing this side of heaven is more important than family.”

Did Nate honestly think she didn’t already know how precious a family could be? She missed Henry terribly. And she felt guilty for storming off the way she had—or she would if she allowed herself to think about it. A rush of anger at Mary Stanhope displaced her sadness. Why did Mary have to be so judgmental? So thoughtless and demanding? If Henry had to marry at this late date, why couldn’t he have found someone sweet and thoughtful, someone like Ada Caldwell?

“. . . anyway, that’s my idea. What do you think?”

She blinked. “Sorry. What?”

“I offered you a job again. While you were woolgathering just now, I was explaining that I’ve bought out a store in Saint Louis. The inventory will be here on the train next week, and I’ll need help sorting it, marking it for sale and such. You’ve seen my shop. It’s all a-jumble.”

“I won’t argue with you there.” She smiled, her thoughts of Mary forgotten. “Even so, there’s something about it that makes me feel good from the moment I step inside.”

“Wish I knew what it was. I’d bottle it like snake oil and make a fortune.”

She caught the look of worry in his eyes. “You told me weeks ago that business is bad. What in the world are you going to do with even more books?”

“I don’t rightly know. But it seemed too good a bargain to pass up. Enrollment at the college is up this year. The students will need books. And I’m counting on the Race Day visitors to buy them too.”