by Dorothy Love
“For what it’s worth, Miz Daly, I admire what you’re doing. I’d have bunked him here in the jail, like Gilman said, but it’s crammed with drunks and rowdies. It isn’t a fit place for an injured man.”
Carrie nodded and turned the wagon for home. As they passed the train station, the whistle blared, reminding her of Majestic. Surely someone would look after the horse. Griff would be more worried about the colt than himself. She guided the wagon around a rut in the road, but she couldn’t avoid jostling her injured passenger. Griff moaned. Joe leaned against Carrie and sobbed.
Carrie’s anger flared again. “Stop your whimpering, Joe Stanhope. This is all your fault.”
“I know it,” he blubbered, his thin shoulders shaking. “I was only tryin’ to help Griff win the race.”
“By shooting that infernal slingshot at Majestic?”
“No. That old hound dog was running for the horses. He already nipped one of ’em right before the race, and I was scared he’d bite Majestic. I was tryin’ to scare him off. But I missed.”
“I told you to be careful with that thing. I told you—”
“Stop scolding him.” Caleb balled his fists. “It was an accident. He didn’t mean to do it.”
“He made a decision. Decisions have consequences.”
“You’re mean,” Caleb said. “I hate you.”
Carrie bit back a reply. Why did this boy always seem to bring out the worst in her? She drove the rest of the way in silence. When they reached the farm, she sent the boys inside to check on Mary. Then she jumped off the wagon, lifted the bar on the barn door, and drove the wagon inside.
She unhitched Iris and led the mare into her stall. Then she turned her attention to Griff. Until the doctor could come and help her move him, Griff would have to remain where he was. She lifted his head and managed to get a few drops of the laudanum into his mouth, then went inside for blankets.
Mary was awake. Her high, thin voice carried into the hallway. As Carrie gathered blankets, salve, towels, and a washbasin, she heard Caleb describing the crowds, his trip to the mercantile for candy, and the race. “And then Mr. Rutledge fell off, and guess what? Carrie Daly brought him home with us.”
Carrie hurried out before she could hear Mary’s reaction to that bit of news. Returning to the barn, she removed Griff’s boots, covered him with blankets, and slipped a pillow beneath his head.
The medicine had taken effect. He was a dead weight in her arms. She drew a bucket of fresh water from the well and gently washed the dirt from his face. The tiny white scar above his lip was stark white against his tanned skin. A huge bruise bloomed on his cheek, and his forehead was scraped raw.
She smoothed salve onto his scrapes. His eyes fluttered. He tried to speak, but she shushed him. “Don’t worry. I’m here.”
He fell back against the pillow.
She put a bucket of water and a dipper within his reach. If he woke before the doctor arrived, at least he would have fresh water. She stood beside the wagon for a moment, watching the movement of his closed eyes behind their curtain of thick black lashes and the rise and fall of his chest.
The irony of the situation was not lost on her. Only this morning she had prayed that she might have more time with this man for whom she was beginning to care so deeply. That prayer had been answered.
Unfortunately, Griff was out like a light. She sighed. Maybe she should have been more specific.
Pain traveled along his arm and lodged in his head. His lips and throat felt parched, his tongue swollen and tasting of copper. Every bone ached, every knotted muscle throbbed. His nostrils filled with the scent of hay and manure. Taking deep ragged breaths, he fought against the black fog enveloping his brain and soon was lost in myriad images that seemed so real he could touch them.
He was standing on the piazza of his father’s house in early summer. The fecund smells of the low country—pluff mud, fish, salt—filled his nose. He watched the glittering river, framed by the branches of the ancient oaks, snaking toward the sea. Then it was October, and the slaves were digging potatoes, their shovels flashing silver against the brown fields. He was driving his rig down a lane lined with sweet bay and cypress, his sprightly little mare stepping smartly along, with nothing but rice birds and swamp sounds for company. He heard his father’s voice, low and urgent, but the words were muffled. He called out, but there was no reply.
A copper-haired angel in blue cradled his head, her breath soft on his ear. Her skin smelled like vanilla and wild jasmine after a low-country rain. He felt light and profoundly peaceful. Astonished to discover that despite all his mistakes he had arrived in heaven, and it wasn’t half bad.
He stopped fighting and let the darkness take him.
TWENTY-FIVE
Returning from the barn, Carrie spotted Mary standing at the back door, peering into the late afternoon shadows, a frown creasing her pinched face. Well, it was just too bad. Mary would have to live with the consequences of her son’s actions.
Gathering her last bit of strength, Carrie brushed past Mary and entered the kitchen. Caleb and Joe were nowhere in sight. The remnants of a hastily concocted supper littered the table.
“The boys told me what happened at the race today.” Mary poured herself a cup of coffee but made no move to offer Carrie one. She slumped at the table in her limp dressing gown, her straw-colored hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I’m sorry Joe caused that horse to throw Mr. Rutledge, but surely you know he can’t stay here. It isn’t proper.”
“He is here. He had no other suitable place to go.” Carrie poured herself a cup of coffee and sipped. Bitter as sin and lukewarm to boot.
“Nevertheless, Mr. Rutledge is not the kind of person we want in Hickory Ridge.”
“Oh, you mean the person who put food on this table, and paid attention to your children, and rode in a race to benefit the town?” Carrie set her cup down and began stacking the dirty plates. Otherwise she’d start throwing them at Mary. “I suppose you’re exactly right. Surely it takes a terribly indecent and unprincipled person to commit such unspeakable acts.”
Despite her illness and fatigue, Mary smiled. “I imagine he was well paid for training and riding that horse.”
“As any other man would have been.” Carrie poured water into the dishpan and began scrubbing plates.
“I’d expect you to defend him. The whole town knows you’re in love with him. Henry would be appalled.”
“You have no idea what my brother would—”
“Mama, somebody’s coming.” Joe pounded down the stairs.
“See who it is, please.” Mary raked her hair away from her face. “And tell them I am much too tired for visitors.”
Joe peered out the window. “It’s the doctor.”
“Thank goodness.” Carrie dried her hands. “I’ll take him out to see Mr. Rutledge.”
But Joe opened the front door and ushered the doctor into the parlor. Ennis Spencer removed his hat and nodded. “Mrs. Bell. How are you feeling?”
Mary shook her head. “Tired as ever.”
“How about the nausea?”
“The same.”
“Any more pain?”
“It comes and goes.”
He regarded her over the top of his spectacles. “Then what are you doing up running around?”
“I was just going back to bed.”
“Good. If you want this baby, you’ll stay there.” He turned to Carrie. “Now what’s this I hear about Rutledge?”
Carrie recounted the accident and the undertaker’s assessment of Griff’s condition. “He’s lying in my wagon in the barn.”
“Let’s have a look.”
She accompanied the doctor to the barn. Griff had awakened and was leaning against the side of the wagon. He’d obviously tried to drink some water. The front of his shirt was wet, and the dipper lay overturned at his side.
While the doctor probed and prodded and asked a hundred different questions, Carrie brought water and oats for
Iris and dragged the wheelbarrow into the stall. Mucking it out, though, was Caleb’s job.
“I might be wrong, but I don’t think that arm is broken,” the doctor told Griff. “Your shoulder’s dislocated, and you’ve got a devil of a sprain. Not to mention a bad concussion.”
Griff nodded. “Need to get out of here.”
“Nope. You aren’t going anywhere until I’m sure there’s no damage to your innards.”
Griff closed his eyes. “My ship to Australia . . . sails from San Francisco . . . couple of weeks.”
“Then it will sail without you, my man. Even if you made it to California in time, you’re in no shape for such a long journey.” From his bag, the doctor took a small bottle of pills and a tin of salve. He looked up at Carrie. “Do you have anything I can use for a sling?”
“I’ll find something.”
Inside the house, she rummaged through her belongings, settling on a clean but threadbare sheet that was too far gone for mending. She ripped it into long strips and took them back to the barn. As she approached the door, she heard a long, agonized moan and then Griff’s loud “Ahhh!”
She rushed inside to find the doctor positioned behind Griff, both feet braced on the side of the wagon, pulling on Griff’s shoulder with all his might. Carrie heard a loud snap, and the doctor released his patient. “There. That should do it.”
Carrie handed him the strips of cloth. He expertly fashioned a sling for Griff’s injured arm. “You ought not to use that arm for a couple of weeks. Let that shoulder heal. Otherwise it might not ever be quite right.”
Griff nodded vaguely, his eyes drifting closed.
“I gave him some more laudanum,” the doctor told her. “Did you . . . that is . . . where had you planned on letting this man sleep?”
“I’ve an extra mattress in the attic. I can bring it out here.”
“That’ll be fine. In a minute he won’t care where he is. Why don’t you fetch it, and I’ll help him off this wagon.”
Minutes later Carrie dragged the mattress into the barn. She covered it with blankets and fluffed the pillow. Then she and the doctor half dragged, half carried Griff off the wagon. Griff barely roused as they settled him on his makeshift bed. After setting his water and dipper within easy reach of his uninjured arm, they closed the door and returned to the yard.
“I admire you, Carrie, taking on another invalid when you’ve got your hands full with Mary and those boys.” Dr. Spencer tossed his medical bag into his rig.
Suddenly dizzy with fatigue, she closed her eyes and massaged her temples. “He needed help, and people seemed reluctant to come to his aid.”
He climbed into his rig and picked up the reins. “Folks may have a different view of Mr. Rutledge once the news gets out.”
“News?”
“According to the sheriff, Rutledge told Mr. Gilman he intends to donate some of his prize money to the town to hire a teacher for the school.”
Carrie felt a small frisson of satisfaction, imagining Mary’s reaction to this news. After all the fuss Mary had made about the lack of a teacher in Hickory Ridge, she wouldn’t dare criticize the man who had made one possible. “This is good news. Joe will be thrilled.”
“It’ll make a big difference for the few families we’ve still got left here.” He shook his head. “If this blasted depression goes on for much longer, the entire country will dry up and blow away. But I reckon that’s what we get for electing that Yankee Ulysses Grant as president.” He tipped his hat and turned the rig around. “I’ll be out in a few days to check on Rutledge and on Mary. In the meantime you should keep them both quiet, let them rest.”
“Dr. Spencer?”
He looked up. His horse stamped and snuffled.
“Mary’s worried that she’s seriously ill. Is she? Is the baby—”
“I can’t find any medical reason for her complaints. But taking on a new husband, a new home, and then being left with a baby on the way is a lot for any woman to handle. Plain old nervous exhaustion is my best guess.”
“My brother had no choice but to look for work elsewhere.”
“I’m not blaming him.” He shifted on the seat. “Mrs. Bell is too thin. She needs to eat.”
“I make meals every day, but mostly she refuses them.”
He nodded and flicked the reins. “Do the best you can.”
Carrie went inside, exhausted from the long day and from the prospect of preparing for the coming winter. After the first hard frost, it would be hog-killing time. She’d find someone to take care of that horrific chore and set up the smokehouse for curing bacon and ham. Last week she’d noticed a few apples in the orchard. They could be dried and put away. Maybe some of last year’s potatoes were still in the hills—if they hadn’t rotted dead away. She hadn’t had time to look. As long as the cow gave milk and the chickens produced eggs, they could make do until spring.
It would be a struggle. But once Mary’s baby came, once Henry was home, life would be infinitely better. All she had to do was hang on a little longer. Then she could move back to town, work for Mrs. Whitcomb again. Or expand her bread-baking enterprise.
She lit the lamp in the kitchen and finished washing the dishes. Maybe it was unrealistic to cling to such hopes. Maybe this life was the only one she’d ever know.
But if that was true, she feared she’d fall into a black pit of despair from which there was no escape.
Dear Mary,
At last we got paid. It wasn’t as much as we were promised, but Mr. Sullivan, the foreman, says that with so many railways going out of business we’re lucky to get anything. I am sending you every bit of it except what I need for food and rent.
Mary, I know you have your heart set on leaving Hickory Ridge and settling here, but Chicago is not the way it looks in the magazines and newspapers. It is full of noise and smoke and steam. The air is black even in the middle of the day, and the city smells like dead pigs. At night the gaslights make everything seem yellow. On my way to work I walk past bars, gambling houses, and worse. It is not a place to raise children. I pray that by the time our baby comes this depression will be over and I can find work in Hickory Ridge again.
Take care of yourself, my dear wife. Kiss the boys for me. Tell them their new papa misses them. And as always, remember me to Carrie.
Your husband, Henry Bell.
P.S. Try not to be sad that we will be apart at Christmas. Think about next year, when we will be together again.
Mary handed the letter to Carrie. “He hasn’t even been gone three months, and already he’s decided he doesn’t like Chicago.”
“It does sound dreadful.”
“Any place is dreadful when you’re poor. Henry is smart. There’s no reason why he can’t someday become a foreman himself. Then we could live in the better part of town. The boys would have a decent school and get on in life.”
Carrie tamped down a surge of anger. Did Mary care anything for Henry at all, or was he simply the means to an end? To avoid another disagreement, she changed the subject.
“The town council is looking for a new teacher for our school.” She rose and picked up Mary’s breakfast tray. “Thanks to Griff Rutledge.”
Mary studied her reflection in her hand mirror. “I will admit, donating his prize money was generous of him. And I appreciate that he’s been helping out around here. At least he isn’t a complete drain on everyone.”
Carrie rolled her eyes. Mary Stanhope had a way of tossing out a compliment with one hand and taking it back with the other. “Speaking of Mr. Rutledge, I must make his breakfast.”
“What’s he doing this morning?”
“Fixing a hole in the smokehouse roof. Caleb is helping him.”
“Caleb is spending entirely too much time with that man.”
“Caleb would disagree. Last night he told me Mr. Rutledge is teaching him to whittle. They’re making a box for his rock collection.”
Mary pinned her hair and set her mirror aside. “So long as
he doesn’t teach my son to drink and . . . oh.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and, with the other, motioned frantically for the chamber pot.
Carrie held Mary’s head as she cast up her accounts and collapsed onto the pillows, exhausted and perspiring.
Wordlessly Carrie poured water from the ewer, bathed Mary’s face, and took the pot outside to empty it. Shading her eyes with one hand, she looked across the meadow to the smokehouse. Caleb steadied the ladder as Griff climbed down, his arm still in the sling. Griff looked up and raised his good arm in a little wave. She waved back.
Caleb ran over, scattering the chickens, his hair sweaty, his cheeks pink from the sun. “I slopped the hog this morning, then me and Griff fixed the roof. We’re hungry.”
Carrie smiled as Griff caught up to the boy. “I’ll bet you are. Come inside, and I’ll make breakfast.”
Griff strode onto the porch, smelling of hay and dust and wood shavings, and held the door for her. “After you, ma’am.”
While he and Caleb washed up, Carrie sliced the bread she’d baked the day before, fried bacon and eggs, and made a pan of gravy. She poured milk for the boy and coffee for Griff and joined them at the table. This morning’s episode in Mary’s sickroom had stolen her appetite, but she treasured these quiet moments with Griff. The golden sunrise sliding over the mountains, the sharp autumn air coming through the window, the sounds of chickens in the yard filled her with a sense of contentment. On such mornings it was easy to pretend that this farm was truly her home. That she and Griff belonged to each other.
Griff made short work of his eggs and gravy and settled back with his coffee cup. “Thank you, Carrie. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed food as much as I have here.”
“My brother always said hard work makes food taste better.”
Caleb scraped his chair back. “I’ve got to go. Jimmy D. Washburn is waitin’ for me at the river. We’re goin’ fishing.”
“What about Joe?” Carrie sipped her coffee.
