Beauty for Ashes (28 page)

“Carrie Daly!” Joe rushed toward her, his slingshot poking from his back pocket, a paper bag bulging with candy clutched tightly in one hand. “Look what all we got—peppermint and sarsaparilla and licorice and I don’t know what all. Caleb done ate half of his, but I’m savin’ mine till after the race. If Majestic wins, I’m giving him some peppermint. You think he’ll like it?”

“My goodness.” She smiled at the boy. “Slow down, Joe.”

The crowd grew as another train arrived, disgorging people who clogged the street looking for places to sit, opening lunch baskets, getting ready to watch the race. Mr. Platt moved through the crowd, taking more photographs. Carrie watched Sheriff McCracken pose outside his office, one hand on his gun belt. She sent Caleb to fetch their lunch basket from the wagon, and the three of them settled on the steps outside the bank.

Caleb opened the small tin of molasses Carrie had packed and drizzled some over a large piece of cornbread. “Guess who me ’n’ Joe saw in the mercantile.”

“I have no idea.”

“The man from Kentucky that brought his horse for the race. He told Mr. Pruitt that everybody in Tennessee ought to hate Mr. Rutledge because he’s from South Carolina.” Frowning, Caleb bit into his cornbread. “I don’t reckon I understand that.”

Dismayed that old political hatreds should mar the day for a couple of innocent boys, Carrie attempted to explain. “You know about President Andrew Jackson, right? He was from right here in Tennessee.”

Caleb nodded. “We studied him in school way back when I was little. He ran the British clear out of New Orleans, and he was a famous Indian fighter too.”

“That’s right. When he was president, one of the men who didn’t like the job he was doing was Mr. Calhoun from South Carolina. He and Mr. Jackson fought about one thing and then another all the time.”

Joe made a fist and pounded his brother’s shoulder. “Sort of like me and Caleb. Except we usually strike hands and make up. Mama makes us.”

Carrie smiled. “Too bad she wasn’t there to make Mr. Jackson and Mr. Calhoun make up. Some folks around here and in South Carolina too, I suppose, still hold grudges against one another because of those old disagreements. But it has nothing to do with today. All of that happened more than forty years ago.”

“Jumping junebugs.” Caleb wiped a blob of molasses off his chin. “And you still remember it?”

Carrie didn’t know whether to laugh or feel insulted. “I’m not that old. It happened before I was born.”

Caleb broke off another handful of cornbread. “Mr. Pruitt said there’s some folks in Hickory Ridge that don’t like Mr. Rutledge ’cause he plays cards instead of working.”

“Mr. Rutledge used to play cards, but he works for Mr. Gilman now, training Majestic.”

Carrie brushed Caleb’s hair from his eyes and he pulled away. “And we shouldn’t judge others.”

“No, ma’am. I know that. But Mr. Pruitt said Mr. Rutledge keeps company with the wrong kind of women.” Caleb chewed and swallowed. “I don’t reckon I understand that either.”

Carrie’s could well imagine the gossip making the rounds in town today concerning her and Griff Rutledge. Fine. If they wanted to think of her as the wrong kind of woman, so be it. Their attitude said more about them than it did about her. She had done nothing improper. Nothing she should be ashamed of.

She and the boys finished their meal. Caleb took the basket to the wagon and ran off to find his friends. Joe perched on the rail outside the mercantile and dug into his sack of candy.

“Carrie?”

She turned to find Deborah moving awkwardly through the crowd. A couple of men stepped aside for her and tipped their hats.

“Deborah. Hello.” The sight of her friend’s serene smile lifted Carrie’s heart. If only she possessed Deborah’s unassailable faith.

“I saw you with the photographer.” With her good hand, Deborah clasped her useless one. “He’s very persistent, isn’t he? Even Daniel finally relented.”

“Mr. Platt isn’t easily discouraged.” Carrie made room on the steps. “Want to watch the race with me?”

“I’d love to, but we can’t stay. Mr. Musgrove expired last night and we must call on the family.” Deborah nodded and waved to a family of four settling down outside the post office. “It’s a long ride out to their place. But at least the weather’s nice.”

“Too bad you’ll miss all the excitement.”

“I don’t mind. Mrs. Musgrove will need comforting. And going with Daniel on such visits makes me feel useful.”

Carrie nodded. How typical of Deborah. Instead of letting her horrific experience break her, she used it as a way to help others. “Mary and I enjoyed your visit last week. We get so few callers at the farm.”

Deborah’s gaze held Carrie’s. “You certainly didn’t stay around long. Did you enjoy your afternoon with Mr. Rutledge?”

Carrie blushed. “How did you know—”

Mr. Gilman and the mayor mounted the steps outside the sheriff’s office. The banker took up a speaking trumpet and raised his hand for silence. “Ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of Mayor Scott and the entire town of Hickory Ridge, I welcome you to Race Day.”

“Oh, there’s Daniel.” Deborah stood on tiptoe and waved to him across the crush of onlookers. “I must go. Enjoy the race.” She patted Carrie’s hand. “For your sake, I hope Mr. Rutledge wins.”

Carrie watched her friend disappear into the crowd. Caleb and Joe hurried over and plopped down beside her.

The band Mr. Gilman had hired for the occasion played a rousing march as horses and riders made their way to the starting line outside the sheriff’s office. Mr. Gilman pointed out the race course. Beginning at the sheriff’s office, the horses would race to the far end of the main street, then turn onto the road leading to the park. From there they would race the entire length of the park, following the river, then return to main street, round a set of Mr. Pruitt’s empty pickle barrels lined up outside the Verandah, and return to the starting line.

Carrie shaded her eyes and surveyed the crowd lining the course as the banker explained the rules of the race. The entire town, usually so quiet and orderly, was transformed into a noisy sea of color and movement. Out-of-towners in fancy hats and brightly colored silks and farm wives in sunbonnets and faded calicoes stood shoulder to shoulder with businessmen, farmers in rough jeans and work boots, and mill hands smelling of sweat, hair tonic, and sawdust.

Children played along the edges of the crowd, laughing and chasing one another. A few older boys blew on homemade noisemakers, a shrill sound that set a couple of stray dogs to barking. Peddlers moved through the crowd hawking candies and souvenirs. The photographer bustled about, setting up his camera near the finish line. If Griff won, Carrie intended to purchase a photograph, something to hold on to once he was no longer a part of her life. Pushing away the sadness brought on by that prospect, she turned her attention back to the banker.

After acknowledging the visiting dignitaries seated in a special viewing stand at the far end of the street, Mr. Gilman introduced the riders and their horses—two from Maryland, one from Kentucky, and one from Tulip Grove, near Nashville. And, finally, Griff and Majestic. All the horses looked magnificent, their coats gleaming, gaily colored silk ribbons woven into their thick manes, their riders well dressed, with boots buffed to a mirror shine. But Carrie had eyes only for Griff. She hoped he’d seek her out in the crowd, but he kept his head low, his hands relaxed on the reins, all of his attention focused on communicating with his mount. A straggly looking black-and-tan hound trotted into the street, barking and nipping at the horses. The Tulip Grove horse snorted and shied, but Majestic remained calm, his withers quivering in anticipation.

“Ready, gentlemen?” Mr. Gilman called. Griff and the other riders nodded. One of horses whinnied as if in answer, and the people standing nearest Carrie laughed. The sheriff drew his pistol and fired. The shot reverberated along the crowded street. The horses thundered down the dirt track. The crowd rose as one, yelling and cheering.

“Come on, Bold Prince!” A woman in an enormous pink touring hat jumped up and down, jostling Carrie. “Don’t let a Tennessee horse beat you.”

“Tennessee horses can beat anybody,” Caleb yelled. “Run, Majestic.”

The horses pounded past the bakery, the barbershop, and the mercantile, a chestnut mare taking the lead. Griff and Majestic were running third, behind the horse from Maryland. Carrie frowned. What was he waiting for?

She craned her neck for a better look as the horses made the turn toward the park. Then the horses and riders were lost from her view as they flew past the gazebo and the cheering crowd. Standing on tiptoe, Carrie clutched her reticule and waited for Griff and Majestic to reappear. At last they returned, hooves flying, bridles rattling as the riders urged them on. Griff glanced to his right and left and urged Majestic into second place as they rounded Mr. Pruitt’s pickle barrels.

Suddenly aware that something was wrong, she searched the crowd, then grabbed Caleb’s shoulder and yelled above the deafening cheers. “Where’s your brother?”

Caleb brushed her hand aside, his eyes never leaving Griff and Majestic. “Around somewhere. He’s all right. Come on, Mr. Rutledge! You can do it.”

The horses entered the home stretch. Majestic and the chestnut mare were running neck and neck as they raced past the bank, a blur of black and brown against the brightly dressed crowd.

“Don’t move,” Carrie told Caleb. “I must find Joe.”

She gathered her skirts and worked her way through the crush of onlookers, keeping one eye out for Joe and the other on Griff. The horses sprinted toward the finish line, still running neck and neck. Then Griff leaned low over the Majestic’s neck and pulled ahead of the others. A great cheer went up.

A slight movement across the street drew Carrie’s attention. She spotted Joe chasing a stray dog, the horses charging toward the finish line. He stopped, pulled his slingshot from his pocket, and took aim.

She pushed frantically through the crowd, praying she would reach him in time. But her legs felt heavy as anvils, her breath came in short gasps. She opened her mouth in a silent scream.

Sitting atop Majestic during the last seconds of the race, Griff felt the familiar exhilaration returning. For a moment it was possible to believe that he was back in South Carolina riding one of his father’s favorite Thoroughbreds, basking in a rare look of approval in the old man’s eyes.

Now, with a subtle shift of his weight in the saddle, he asked the horse for a little more speed. The colt had a lot more in him, a lot more to give. Griff felt Majestic’s effortless stride lengthening beneath him as they covered the final yards of the race, leading by a nose . . . by a head . . .

A tremendous roar went up at the finish line. Griff straightened in the saddle and acknowledged the crowd. The other horses churned up a cloud of dirt behind him. Then Majestic jerked, emitted a terrified neigh, wheeled, reared. And Griff found himself falling.

He felt no pain as his head hit the dirt-covered brick pavement and his shoulder cracked beneath him. Only a blinding light. And then nothing.

TWENTY-FOUR

Pushing her way to the front of the hushed crowd, Carrie saw Sheriff McCracken bending over Griff’s still form. One of the other riders caught Majestic’s bridle, calmed him, and led him toward Tanner’s livery. Joe Stanhope was nowhere in sight. Carrie stood frozen, unable to think or move.

“Where’s Doc Spencer?” McCracken yelled. “This man needs help.”

Eugenie Spencer hurried through the crowd, the pink silk flowers on her brown leghorn hat fluttering in the breeze. “My husband left for Owl Creek before dawn to deliver Mrs. Patchett’s baby. He isn’t back yet.”

A man in a moth-eaten black wool suit knelt beside Griff. “He’s breathing. May have broke some bones, though.” He carefully lifted Griff’s head. “No blood. I reckon that layer of dirt saved him. But he’s going to have a powerful headache when he comes to.”

Carrie spoke at last, her voice high and strange. “Sheriff, please get him to his room at the inn so this doctor can look after him properly.”

The man glanced up. “Oh, I’m not a doctor, missus. Name’s Harlan Wentworth. I used to be the undertaker around here, but I’m over in Knox County now.” He jerked a thumb toward Griff. “I’ve seen enough bodies in my day to be a pretty good judge of what sort of shape they’re in.”