by Dorothy Love
Ada’s lovely gray eyes widened. “Surely Mr. Rutledge hasn’t declared himself already?”
“Good heavens, no. I’ve spoken to him only twice . . . well, three times counting the day he saved me from being trampled. But there’s something about him, Ada. I think about him more often than I should. I can’t explain it really.”
“What does your brother think of all this?”
“I haven’t spoken to him since the day I moved out.”
“Oh, Carrie. I understand Mary Stanhope can be most difficult, but I hate to see anything come between you and Henry.” Ada placed a hand on Carrie’s arm. “Can’t you forgive Mary and make your peace with the situation? Our Lord requires—”
Carrie nodded. “I know what I’m supposed to do, but it isn’t that easy.” She bit into her tart and watched a noisy blue jay darting in and out of the trees. “I don’t blame Henry. He’s entitled to a life of his own. And he’s caught in an impossible situation, trying to please both Mary and me. I’m not angry with him. But I can’t go home and allow Mary and her rude children to rule my life either.”
“Of course not.” Ada polished off her tart and wiped her fingers on her handkerchief. “Perhaps after some time has passed, you can have a talk with them. Give Mary another chance.”
Carrie shrugged.
“Does Nate know about all of this?”
“Yes. He hasn’t said much, but I feel he disapproves too.” Carrie got to her feet. “It’s all a big mess. I don’t know what’s right anymore.”
“I know how you feel. When Wyatt first proposed I was terribly confused, even though I loved him more than anything.” Ada put an arm around Carrie’s shoulder. “I nearly lost him because of my own fears. Pray about this, my dear, and then have the faith to act.”
“I have prayed about it. But I feel more uncertain than ever.” A gust of wind loosened the ribbons on her hat, and she reached up to retie them. “Maybe I’m asking God the wrong questions.”
“Sometimes I feel that way too,” Ada said. “That’s when I pray the prayer that never fails: Thy will be done.”
“Maybe.”
“It would break my heart if you lost your chance at happiness.”
Carrie swallowed the hard knot in her throat. What would bring her true happiness? Would she even recognize happiness if it came calling?
Ada consulted the tiny gold watch she wore in a chain around her neck. “I should get back. I promised Wyatt I’d be packed and ready by four o’clock.”
“You’re leaving today?”
Ada nodded. “This evening.”
So soon? Carrie felt like bawling, but she kept her voice light. “You’d better write to me. I can’t wait to hear what Sophie is up to and how Wade liked staying with his grandpa.”
They crossed the park, climbed into Ada’s rented rig, and returned to the Verandah.
“Good-bye, Carrie.” Ada squeezed Carrie’s hand. “Nate is a good and decent man, but all men have their limitations. It isn’t in their nature to postpone their desires indefinitely.” Ada smiled. “Don’t make him wait too long.”
Carrie got out of the rig. “Thank you for the tart. And the advice.”
Ada waved, turned the rig, and headed down the street to the Hickory Ridge Inn. Carrie shaded her eyes and watched her friend drive away. Was Ada right? Was she in danger of losing her chance at happiness? She tried to imagine herself as Mrs. Nate Chastain, but it was Griff Rutledge’s face that rose in her mind.
Ridiculous. She shook off the preposterous thought and climbed the steps to the hotel.
Griff finished a breakfast of eggs, grits, and biscuits and downed his second cup of coffee. He shaved and then donned the gray wool suit he’d sent out to be freshened. He tucked the report he’d received by wire into his pocket and descended the stairs just as an attractive woman in a stylish feathered hat entered the lobby. He nodded, then stopped short. “Well, hello. It’s Mrs. Caldwell, isn’t it?”
She looked up, startled. “Mr. Rutledge.”
“How kind. You remembered. Wasn’t that wedding something? I can’t remember the last time I saw such a beautiful cake.”
“Mrs. Daly is an accomplished baker.”
“So I gathered.” He bowed. “It was lovely seeing you, Mrs. Caldwell. Please forgive my haste. I’m late for an appointment.”
She nodded.
Leaving the inn, he crossed the street and hurried past Gilman’s bank, the bookshop, and the mercantile, which was already buzzing with customers. At the entrance to the Verandah Hotel, he paused to collect his thoughts. When it came to doing business with a man, he considered himself a master. Women, however, were a different matter entirely.
He opened the door and went inside.
SEVEN
She sat in the parlor dressed in a bright yellow frock that contrasted with her dark hair, so engrossed in her game that she hadn’t heard his approach. On the table in front of her, next to a chipped coffee mug, a deck of cards fanned out. Watching her nimble fingers flip the cards, Griff felt as if no time at all had passed since their last encounter. He doubted she even remembered.
“Hello, Rosaleen.” His voice echoed in the empty room.
Her hands stilled. “Griff.”
Her head came up. Her lips curved into a sardonic smile. “I figured you’d find me sooner or later. But I didn’t expect it would be here.”
“You didn’t make it easy for me.”
She shrugged. “A girl has to make a living. After what happened in New Orleans—”
He tamped down his anger. “I wouldn’t bring up New Orleans if I were you.”
She tossed the cards onto the table. “Want some coffee? It’s bitter as sin, but—”
“No thank you.”
“A brandy then. I think Mrs. Whitcomb has some around here somewhere.”
“I don’t drink in the morning. Quit stalling. You know why I’ve come.”
“Yes, Griff, I believe I do.” She sashayed over to him and planted a firm kiss on his mouth. “Aren’t you going to say a proper hello? It’s been a long time.”
“Yes. Much too long.” He drew a paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “Recognize this?”
Her eyes clouded. “You know I do. But surely you aren’t going to hold me to that silly old IOU.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“Because I’m poor as a church mouse and you have plenty of money.” She handed the paper back. “You won’t miss this paltry sum at all.”
“I had money, but there was a war. You might have heard about it.”
“That’s ridiculous. Your family still owns the plantation on the river and that beautiful old house in Charleston, not to mention all the money you earned from—”
“Why, you little minx. How is it that you know so much about my holdings? Have you been checking up on me?”
“No. Well, maybe a little. But, Griff, don’t be mad.”
He laughed. “I’m not mad. I admire your acumen. But the fact remains that you owe me money. Quite a lot of money. And now I need it.”
“Well, I don’t have it.” She swept one arm around the room. “Do you think I’d be living here if I could afford anything better? And you’ve obviously been checking up on me too.”
He didn’t deny it. “What in the Sam Hill are you doing in a town like Hickory Ridge? Far as I can tell, there’s not a gambling house between here and Nashville.”
She sent him a mysterious smile. “There is if you know where to look.”
“Nevertheless. I know you. You didn’t come all this way to cheat the good people of Hickory Ridge out of a few dollars. There’s some other reason you’re here.”
She glanced away. “What if there is? It has nothing to do with you.”
“You’re right. It doesn’t.” He caught her chin in his hand. “All I want from you is my money. And soon.”
“All right. I’ll get your blasted money.” She grabbed a handful of cards and flung them at him. “You’re
certainly no gentleman, Griff Rutledge.”
“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?”
“O
nly 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?
