Beauty for Ashes (18 page)

The horse tamer touched the brim of his hat and smiled down at her. “Good morning, Mrs. Daly. You’re up and about early.”

She shifted the crate. “I’m moving these things to the Verandah.”

“Is that so? It seems that every time we meet, you’re moving somewhere.” He grinned. “The proverbial rolling stone.”

Her breath caught. Heavenly days, why did he have to look so utterly charming at such an early hour? The attraction she’d felt for him from the very beginning rushed over her like a rogue wave. Carrie felt herself smiling. “It does seem that way.”

“Allow me.” He reached for her crate and placed his bundle of laundry on top.

“That’s kind of you, but I can manage.”

“I’m afraid I must insist. How would it look if people saw me letting you tote your own things?”

“Very well. If it’s a matter of preserving your reputation.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m afraid it’s much too late to worry about my reputation. I’m a lost cause.”

Carrie studied him as they started down the street. There seemed plenty about him that was worth saving, from his genuine concern for others to his way with horses and his impeccable manners. Not to mention his good looks. But Mr. Rutledge seemed resigned to his fate, cheerful about it even. Perhaps he cultivated his role as a charming rogue. Perhaps, deep down, he reveled in it, preferring isolation and disapproval to being merely ordinary. And Griff Rutledge was about as far from ordinary as a person could get. Whatever his motives, the fact remained: when he was around, she couldn’t look away.

They reached the mercantile just as Jasper Pruitt came out with his broom, a wet rag stuffed into his back pocket.

“Good morning, sir.” Griff nodded to Jasper.

The storekeeper narrowed his eyes and frowned at Carrie before spitting a stream of tobacco juice onto the street. He swept the sidewalk in front of his store, took the rag from his pocket, and washed the window till it gleamed, all without saying a word.

“You see?” Griff shifted the crate in his arms as they continued toward the Verandah. “Folks around here don’t like me very much. Even the storekeeper disapproves.”

“Don’t judge everyone by Mr. Pruitt,” Carrie said. “It takes him a long time to warm up to strangers.”

They neared the barbershop and the bank. Mr. Gilman arrived just as they were passing. He jumped from his rig, tethered his horse at the rail, and waved Griff over.

“How’s Majestic doing? I meant to get home in time yesterday to see you work him, but I got tied up here. Good morning, Miz Daly.”

“Mr. Gilman.” Carrie glanced down the street toward the bookshop and the sheriff’s office at the opposite end of the street. All was quiet at the bookshop, but Eli McCracken reined in, unlocked his office, and disappeared inside. Two men waited outside the livery. Tantalizing smells emanated from the bakery. Everyone had something important to do, someplace to be. Except her.

“. . . will be fine by Race Day,” Griff said. “A bucked shin is common in young horses that aren’t fully grown and are being trained heavily. I may have pushed Majestic a bit too hard.”

“But he will be all right?”

“Absolutely. I’ve been resting him the last few days, working the soreness out. In another day or two he’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

The banker nodded. “I’m counting on you, Mr. Rutledge. Only yesterday I received a telegram from the Winstons over in Lexington. Arthur Winston intends to enter Bold Prince in our little race. It would give folks quite a thrill if Majestic could beat that Kentucky Thoroughbred.”

“I’ll do my best.”

A train chugged into the station, the engine heaving and hissing. A cloud of steam billowed upward into the trees. Mr. Gilman checked his pocket watch. “Reckon I ought to get to work. My teller’s out with the grippe today. Good day, sir.” He tugged the brim of his hat. “You too, Miz Daly.”

Moments later Carrie and Griff reached the Verandah. Mrs. Whitcomb was up; the smells of coffee and fatback permeated the air. Footsteps, followed by girlish laughter, sounded overhead. Lucy and Rachel were awake too. Carrie dreaded facing them, but where else could she go?

“Where do you want this crate, Mrs. Daly?” Griff smiled down at her, his gaze full of admiring interest.

“The parlor will be fine. And thank you for your help. It was very kind of you.”

“No trouble at all.” He set the crate on the floor by the staircase. The parlor clock chimed the hour. “I suppose you’ll be getting back to the bookshop. I understand you’ve become indispensible to Mr. Chastain these days.”

Before Carrie could reply, Rachel and Lucy pounded down the stairs. They barely nodded to Griff before Lucy blurted out, “Carrie. I can’t believe Mr. Chastain has up and got himself married. You must be heartbroken, you poor thing.”

“So,” Griff murmured. “That’s why you moved your things.”

“The nerve of him, running off like that and leaving you in charge of his store while he cavorted in a fancy hotel with his new wife.” Lucy’s eyes flashed. “I cannot believe someone as refined as Nate would marry a woman like Rosaleen.”

“Rosaleen?” Griff barked the word, causing Carrie to jump. “The bookseller has married
Rosaleen Dupree
?”

Rachel gave an emphatic nod that sent her curls dancing around her face. “They eloped to Chicago. I helped.”

“Saints in a sock.” Griff shook his head before bursting into laughter. “The old girl has done it again.”

“Done what again?” Rachel asked.

“Never mind. If you ladies will excuse me, I must be going.” He nodded to Carrie and started for the door, shaking his head and muttering to himself. “Rosaleen, Rosaleen, what in the world are you up to now?”

FIFTEEN

Griff wiped sweat from his forehead and shaded his eyes against the brilliant late-August light. In the distance, a thick layer of gray-blue clouds hung like smoke above the mountains. The forested hillsides were a smudge of amber and green, a precursor to autumn color. An old ache rose in his chest, a longing for autumn in the Carolina low country, when the spartina grass undulated in the marshes like fields of wheat and the breeze off the Atlantic turned sharp and cool. Maybe the folks down there were already thinking ahead to their Race Week too.

Did they still hold such events? Probably not. He hadn’t much of an idea what life in Charleston entailed anymore.

Leaning against the fence, Griff watched Majestic trotting through the pasture. The soreness he’d worried about had healed. Tail swishing, Majestic raced around the pasture, tossing his head as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Griff blew on the tin whistle he’d bought from the mercantile. The resulting blast was not as loud as an actual train whistle, of course, but he hoped the sound would acclimate Majestic and cure the horse’s skittishness in town. There was nothing worse for a rider than a mount who spooked at the starting line.

The sound of horses’ hooves drew his attention. Carrie Daly guided her rig along the road, her copper-colored hair beneath her smart straw hat shining in the light. He waved, and she drove up the long curving lane to the Gilmans’ place.

Griff mopped his face with his handkerchief and ran his fingers through his windblown hair. “Mrs. Daly. What a wonderful surprise. What brings you all the way out here?”

She halted the rig and stepped out, smoothing her skirts as she crossed the short distance between them. “You do, Mr. Rutledge.”

His brows went up. “Me?”

She nodded. “Some time ago you invited me to watch you training Majestic, but then I was not at liberty to accept. Now I am.”

“I see.” He stuffed his riding gloves into his back pocket. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Mr. Chastain, would it?”

Her eyes flashed. “Of course not. I’ve been curious about that horse ever since he nearly ran me down. So I rented a rig from Mr. Tanner’s livery and came out to see for myself how you tame such a high-spirited mount.”

Griff tried but failed to hide a smile. “The same way one tames a spirited woman, I reckon. With infinite patience and affection.”

Carrie frowned. “Is that how you think of the fairer sex, Mr. Rutledge? As beasts to be molded to your will?”

He grinned. “Begging your pardon. A poor choice of words.” His gaze traveled to the pasture, where Majestic stood cropping grass. “I’m about to give him some practice running with other horses.” He gestured toward his own horse standing placidly at the gate. “Perhaps you’d like to ride with me.”

He watched the color creeping into her cheeks. Was it wishful thinking? Had he embarrassed her with his comment, or had she taken a liking to him?

“I haven’t ridden much since I was a child, and then it was only our farm horses. Maybe I’d better sit here and watch.”

“Sit and watch? Now, there’s a way to waste a perfectly good life. Where’s your sense of adventure? It isn’t that hard. Besides, you’ll be riding behind me.” The wind lifted her curls and set the ribbons on her hat to dancing. He couldn’t help noticing how young and vulnerable she looked. “I won’t let you fall, Carrie.”

Her eyes widened at his use of her Christian name, and he was struck anew by her loveliness. Did she know how appealing she looked in her plain blue dress and straw hat, the sun lighting her face?

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” he went on, “but we have known each other for some months now. And I like the sound of your name. It reminds me of Carolina.”

“My formal name is Caroline Louise. After my two grandmothers. Henry’s the one who first called me Carrie.”

“Would you mind so much if I called you Carrie as well?” Mercy, but she smelled good—like fresh bread and fancy soap. And summer flowers. Jasmine maybe. He fought the urge to kiss her.

“I’d like that. If I may call you Griff.”

“Please do.” He tucked her arm through his, and they crossed the shady road to the gate where his horse stood. Griff gathered the reins, swung into the saddle, and reached for her hand. “Put your left foot—no, your other left foot—into the stirrup, and I’ll help you up.”

She managed to get a foothold and reached for his hand. He helped her up, pleased that she hadn’t hesitated to swing her right leg over the saddle. She settled against him, her warmth pressing into his back. He turned his head to look at her over his shoulder. “All set?”

“I think so.”

“Put your arms around my waist and hold on tight.”

He kicked the horse into a gentle canter, and they crossed the meadow. Majestic lifted his head and danced sideways as they approached.

Griff slowed his horse to a walk and stopped alongside the black horse. “Easy there, Majestic. Easy now.”

He leaned out and took Majestic’s bridle, drawing the two horses closer together. Majestic blew out and shook his head. Griff laughed softly and rubbed Majestic’s muzzle. “That’s right. You’ve met Delilah here, haven’t you, boy? You think you can take her in the quarter mile?”

Majestic stood still, muscles quivering beneath his velvet black hide. Griff felt Carrie’s arms stiffen against his back. She was as skittish as the horse. “Relax, Carrie,” he said, his voice low. “Don’t be nervous or you’ll spook him. He’ll think you’re afraid.”

“I am afraid,” she whispered. “It’s a long way to the ground from up here.”

He nodded. Keeping a firm hand on Majestic’s bridle, he turned both horses until they faced a small pond at the end of the pasture. “We’re going to start slow, then let them run. Hold tight.”

He kicked Delilah into a canter. Majestic shied, then steadied and galloped alongside, his thick mane flowing behind him. Carrie leaned forward, both arms clamped tightly around Griff’s middle, her cheek resting against his back. Griff urged Delilah on. The horses flew across the pasture, clouds of gray dust rising up around them. Consumed with an unexpected rush of joy, Griff laughed out loud.

Too soon, they reached the pond. Griff reined in, but Majestic suddenly wheeled and bumped them, sending Delilah scrambling for purchase on the pond’s muddy edge. Instinctively, Griff twisted in the saddle to calm Majestic, and he felt Carrie losing her grip. “Hang on.”

“I can’t!”

He grabbed for her hand, but she slid sideways off the horse and landed with one foot in the pond. Her straw hat rolled across the grass and came to rest in a patch of tall grass. Griff dismounted and bent over her. “Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride.” She sat up. “I’m a little winded is all.”

He helped her to her feet, embarrassment and guilt coursing through him. Why had he been so stupid, wanting to show off for her? “I never should have talked you into this. I’m terribly sorry.”

“I’m not.” Carrie laughed and retrieved her hat.

He grinned, relieved. “You aren’t angry with me?”

“Heavens, no.” She brushed the dirt from her skirt. “This is the most fun I’ve had in years.”

He picked up the reins and led the two horses toward the barn. With every step, Carrie’s wet shoe squished, sending her into peals of laughter. Griff laughed too, wishing this moment never had to end.

He led Majestic into his stall and gave him a bucket of water. “I’ll need to look after them in a minute, but I’ll see you to your rig first.”

Together they crossed the gentle slope leading to the hitching rail. He watched as Carrie took in the sweep of green pasture behind white fences, the towering trees dotting the broad lawn that led to the Gilmans’ house. She turned to him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes bright. “Isn’t this a wonderful place?”