by Dorothy Love
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 a
nd 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?”
“You’ve never been out here before?”
“Only in passing from time to time. I really never noticed how beautiful it is. I can imagine how lovely it would be to live here. Can’t you?”
He studied her face. Was she fishing for clues, assessing his potential as a husband? After all, that cad Chastain had broken her heart. And the honest truth was, Carrie Daly was no longer a girl. He looked past her shoulder to the barn, now bathed in late summer sunlight. “It’s a pretty place, all right. Good as any, if a man is the settling-down sort. But that isn’t the life for me.”
“I see.”
Was she disappointed, or was he flattering himself? “I guess I was just born restless, Carrie. My father tried to settle me down. I was in and out of boarding schools until I was nearly grown. But I always found some way to get myself dismissed.”
“You’re not the scholarly type then.”
“Oh, I liked the classes well enough. And I made some good friends along the way. It was the rules and expectations I couldn’t abide. I like to come and go without explaining myself to anyone.”
She looked up at him, an odd light in her eyes. “What are you running away from, Griff?”
“Is that what you think?”
“It’s what it sounds like to me.”
“Well, you’re wrong about that. I want to experience as much of life as possible, so I won’t have any regrets when the candle finally burns down and flickers out. That’s easier to do when other people aren’t depending on me.”
They reached the road. He helped her inside the rig and handed her the reins. “If you promise to come back, I’ll—”
He broke off as another rig rattled along the road.
Carrie turned. “It’s Mrs. Spencer and Mariah Whiting. I wonder what they’re doing out here.”
“They’re probably wondering the same thing about you.”
Mrs. Spencer halted the rig in the road. “Carrie Daly? I thought that was you, but then I said to Mariah, surely—”
Carrie hid her mud-caked shoe beneath her skirt and straightened her hat. “Hello, Eugenie. Mariah.”
Mariah nodded, her expression wary.
“You remember Mr. Rutledge. You met him at Henry’s wedding.”
“We remember,” Eugenie said.
Griff nodded and crossed his arms, waiting as Mariah took in Carrie’s dusty skirt and hastily tied hat. “Mrs. Spencer, Mrs. Whiting. A pleasure seeing you both again.”
“Carrie,” Mariah said at last, “Do you think it’s proper, being out here alone with someone we hardly know?”
Griff didn’t wait for Carrie’s answer. He smiled at both women and said, “I don’t blame you for being concerned about your friend, but I assure you nothing untoward happened.”
Eugenie sniffed. “I don’t wish to be rude—”
“Then don’t be.” Carrie picked up the reins and smiled at Griff. “Thank you for the riding lesson, Mr. Rutledge. I quite enjoyed myself.”
SIXTEEN
The flour bin in the Verandah’s kitchen was nearly empty. Carrie sprinkled a scoop onto the wooden pastry board and made a mental note to remind Mrs. Whitcomb to buy more. After church last Sunday, Reverend Patterson had asked for volunteers to bake bread for several farm families who were having a hard time keeping food on the table, and Mrs. Whitcomb had signed her up. She finished knea
ding the dough and set it aside to rise. She’d have preferred being asked outright, but she was too grateful for something useful to do to make a fuss about it. Without her work at the bookstore, she felt aimless and unsettled.
At least there was plenty to do around the hotel, and she was grateful for the modest pay Mrs. Whitcomb offered. While she waited for the dough, she tidied the kitchen, filled the oil lamps, and swept and dusted the parlor. When the dough was ready, she lifted it from the yellow crockery bowl, punched it down, sprinkled on more flour, and picked up her rolling pin, Granny Bell’s voice a whisper in her ear.
“Baking bread is a lot like growing your faith in the Lord, Carrie Louise. You mix together the best ingredients you can find and wait for the mixture to mature, but it’s the heat of the oven that makes dough into something of worth and of substance. The same way the tribulations of this world mature a person’s faith.”
Carrie fitted loaves into greased pans and placed them in the oven to bake, wincing as a sore muscle protested. The morning after her ride with Griff, she had noticed a fist-sized bruise ripening on her thigh. Now it was fading, but the soreness remained. Still, the exhilaration of flying along the pasture aboard Griff’s horse, her arms wrapped around his firm middle, had been worth every bit of discomfort, even worth Mariah’s disapproval. She’d needed that brief respite from the tribulations of her own life.
She wiped her floury hands on her apron and wandered toward the front of the house, thinking of everything that had happened since Henry’s wedding. Was Granny Bell right? Could God use her hurts and disappointments to mold her into a woman of substance?
The clock in the parlor chimed. Lucy Whitcomb, hat in hand, slid down the banister and landed with a thump on the hallway carpet. She grinned at Carrie, a playful look on her face.
“It’s a trick I learned from the Grayson kids. But don’t tell Aunt Maisy. She’d have a conniption fit.” Lucy retrieved her hat from the rack in the corner. “She thinks I should behave like a lady.”
Carrie fought a stab of envy. Despite the difficulty of looking after so many children, Lucy seemed to be enjoying her life. Never in her own life had Carrie felt young and carefree.
