Beauty for Ashes

by Dorothy Love

“I don’t want to take him. He’s such a baby.”

  “Well,” Griff said mildly, “do you think it’s fair that Mrs. Daly has to do all the work around here and still keep up with your little brother?”

  “She’s got you to help her.”

  Griff laughed. “I can fix a roof and chop kindling with one arm, but I’m no good at all at keeping a house or looking after children, even with two.”

  Caleb started for the door. Carrie stopped him with a hand on his arm. “I do need you to take Joe along. I have a lot of work to do today.”

  He glared at her, his expression hard, and stomped up the stairs to wake his brother.

  Carrie shook her head. “I don’t know what to do about Caleb. Everything I ask him to do turns into a battle of wills.” She tied on her apron and started clearing the table.

  Griff continued to sit, nursing his cup. “I was like that at his age—angry, willful, rebellious. I grew out of it.” He grinned. “For the most part. I expect Caleb will too. In the meantime, patience is the order of the day.”

  Carrie grimaced. “I’m afraid I’m all out of patience.” She picked up the milk pitcher. “And out of milk too.”

  “I can milk Miranda if you like.”

  “I don’t mind doing it. It’s one of the less odious chores around here. If you can bring in some more wood, I’d be grateful. The wood box is nearly empty again.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Carrie?” Mary’s plaintive voice drifted into the kitchen.

  “Go see what she needs,” Griff said. “I’ll tend to the boys.”

  Carrie hurried down the hallway. By the time she had helped Mary change her nightdress, Griff and the boys were gone.

  Taking up the milk pail, Carrie headed for the barn, where Miranda stood patiently in her stall. The cow seemed to be in no hurry to be milked, so Carrie set aside her pail and went about tidying Griff’s bed. In the week since his accident, he hadn’t complained once about having to sleep on a thin mattress on the barn floor. In fact, he had sent for his bags from the inn and made himself right at home. Beside his bed was a stack of books, a Bible, and a leather pouch. A pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses lay beside his lantern. Carrie straightened his blankets and caught a faint scent of hair tonic and tobacco. One sock fell from the tangle of blankets. She folded it and left it next to his books.

  Miranda shook her head, jangling her bell.

  “All right, girl. I’m coming.”

  Carrie milked the cow and took the fresh milk to the springhouse. For a moment she stood there in the cool dimness, savoring the quiet. Though farm life was never easy, it seemed less trying with Griff by her side. But she couldn’t linger here when more work awaited. She pushed open the door and headed up the path to the house.

  As she neared the back garden, she heard the sound of a woman crying and stopped short. Land o’ Goshen, what was wrong now? She closed her eyes and prayed not to lose her temper with Mary. But when she turned the corner, she saw Rosaleen standing in the shelter of Griff’s arms, sobbing as if her heart would break.

  The way Griff held her, as if he was familiar with every curve of her body, sent a wave of pure jealousy racing through Carrie. Then she thought of Nate. Had something happened to him? Why else would Rosaleen have driven clear out here?

  Torn between worry and curiosity, she ducked into the shadows. It was impossible to return to the house without being seen. And something in Rosaleen’s manner suggested that whatever had gone wrong was for Griff’s ears only.

  In the still of the mountain morning, Rosaleen’s voice carried, so Carrie couldn’t help overhearing.

  “I never thought my sister could give away a baby.”

  “Are you certain that’s what happened?” Griff’s voice. Steady and low.

  “The Pinkerton detective said so. He said Nola brought her here and dumped her at the orphanage. But now it’s closed, and nobody can tell me what happened to her.”

  “So that’s why you came to Hickory Ridge.”

  Rosaleen sniffed and nodded. “I certainly never expected to see you here.”

  “That was quite evident the first day I saw you at the Verandah.”

  “Yes, and you were so mean to me about that loan. But then when I tried to pay it back, you refused. You’ve changed, Griff. The man I knew would have taken that money and never looked back.”

  “Maybe,” he said, “although back then I was more generous with you than you deserved. But why drive all the way out here to tell me your troubles? Everything was finished between us years ago.”

  “I know that. But I can’t tell Nate why I’m here. He already suspects that I have a secret. If he knew the truth, who knows what he would think of me?”

  Carrie’s stomach dropped as one by one the pieces of the puzzle clicked into place. A child abandoned at the Hickory Ridge orphanage. Rosaleen’s constant probing for information about Hickory Ridge and its past. Her coffee-with-cream skin, and those extraordinary green eyes . . . Carrie had seen those eyes before. She shivered.

  “I don’t see what I can do that the detectives can’t,” Griff said.

  Carrie peeked around the side of the barn. He was standing apart from her now, arms folded across his chest.

  Rosaleen took a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her nose. “I was hoping for another loan so I can keep looking for them. I’ve spent my last cent on detectives, and I dare not ask Nate for the money.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I swore I wouldn’t leave Hickory Ridge until I knew the truth. And—”

  “If they haven’t surfaced by now . . .” Griff rubbed his chin. “It’s a big country, Rosaleen. You may have to accept that you won’t ever know what happened. Too much time has passed.”

  “So you won’t help me.”

  “I’m trying to help you—by encouraging you to let go of this.

  Go home. Be a good wife to the bookseller. Perhaps in time—”

  Rosaleen whirled around, her bright yellow skirts stirring the dust. “Thanks for nothing, Griff Rutledge.”

  She disappeared around the side of the house. Moments later Carrie heard the clop-clop of hooves as Rosaleen drove away.

  Carrie stood in the shadows watching Griff split firewood, her mind reeling. A cold kernel of fear formed in her stomach. Could her suspicions possibly be true? Was Rosaleen Sophie Robillard’s mother?

  TWENTY-SIX

  Mary was sick twice during the afternoon. Carrie was exhausted from cleaning up, helping Mary change her nightdress, and brewing endless cups of slippery elm tea. Joe and Caleb returned from the river covered in mud and smelling like dead fish. Worst of all, at supper, Griff seemed distant and ill at ease.

  Carrie watched him from the corner of her eye as she served the boys another helping of fried potatoes. Had she done something to offend him? Or was he troubled by his conversation with Rosaleen? Most certainly he and Rosaleen had once meant something to each other. Did he miss her now? Want her back even though she was wed to Nate? That thought was the most disturbing. Because heaven help her, despite his earlier warnings, she couldn’t stop imagining a future with him.

  “More coffee, Mr. Rutledge?”

  She pushed back her chair, but Griff got to his feet. “Don’t get up. I can get it.”

  Wordlessly he poured himself another cup, refilled hers, and set the pot back on the stove.

  “Some pie then.”

  “No, thank you.” He leaned against the door frame sipping his coffee, but his expression said that he was a thousand miles away.

  “I want some pie,” Joe said. “Me and Caleb are starving.”

  Carrie gave them their dessert and sent them outside to do their evening chores. Taking her apron from the peg beside the door, she slipped it on and began scraping their plates. Griff grabbed his own plate off the table and raked the remnants of his dinner into the slop pail.

  “Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.”

  “Yes, I do.”
He set his empty cup on the table. “You made my bed this morning. Folded my lost sock too.”

  She glanced at him. “I was out there anyway, to do the milking.”

  “I appreciate your bringing me out here when I got hurt. But I don’t want you looking after me.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  His gaze locked on hers. “But I do.”

  Heat rushed to her face. She had enjoyed the small intimacies his presence afforded. Nursing him in his illness, making his meals, touching the fabric that touched him—all had made her feel closer to him. But now he was pulling away, putting distance between them.

  “I’ve been thinking that in another few days I should go,” he said. “My shoulder’s much better; my strength is back. I’ve relied on your good graces much too long.”

  It wasn’t exactly news. Hadn’t he intended to leave town on Race Day? Even so, tears misted her eyes. “I suppose you’re eager to leave Hickory Ridge. It must seem too tame to a man like you.”

  He picked up a clean towel and dried the serving platter she had just washed. “I might stay in town awhile longer. I’ve missed my sailing from San Francisco anyway.” He set the platter aside and picked up a plate. “The day I arrived here, Mr. Gilman made me a proposition. Now I’ve got one for him. And I have a few other bits of business to attend to.”

  Was Rosaleen one of those bits of business? Carrie didn’t dare ask. She needed to talk to someone about her suspicions, but clearly Griff didn’t want her getting close enough to confide in him. The thought was as painful as walking on broken glass. But what had she expected, really?

  She scoured the frying pan and set it aside. Granny Bell often said that God’s good could be found in everything that happened. That he had a purpose for everything under the sun but that sometimes you had to really look for it. Well, she’d tried to see the purpose in every bad thing that had happened in her life, but her eyes had grown weary with looking.

  She forced a smile. “The boys and I will miss having you around. You’ve made quite an impression on Caleb. He—”

  “Carrie Daly.” Caleb burst through the door, his eyes wide. “Joe’s done gone and set the smokehouse on fire. The door’s jammed, and we can’t get him out.”

  Griff tore out of the house, leaving Carrie and Caleb to follow. He sprinted to the barn, grabbed a horse blanket, and soaked it in the water trough beside the barn. Tenting it over his head. he kicked open the smokehouse door and ran inside.

  “Caleb, get the water buckets. Hurry.” Carrie ran into the barn for the milking pail, filled it at the trough, and doused the flames leaping toward the smokehouse roof. The air filled with the stench of old grease and burning wood. Caleb returned with two buckets, and they took turns throwing water on the fire. A towering wall of hot, blinding smoke rushed toward her, choking her breath.

  A section of the roof caved in. Sparks leapt into the darkness.

  “Come on, Carrie. We’ve got to get more water!” Caleb yanked on her sleeve.

  She stood motionless, speechless with horror as a wall came down. There was no sense in trying to save the building. The fire had won. She screamed Griff’s name.

  Caleb began to cry. In the flickering light he looked like an old man, hunched over and defeated. “It’s my fault. We were pretendin’ to smoke cheroots. Joe didn’t mean to do it. He’s just a dumb little kid.”

  Carrie grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Didn’t you learn anything from the last time? Didn’t I tell you both not to play with fire? Now Joe and Griff might be dead.”

  Then she saw a dark shape moving through the thick smoke. Griff emerged, sooty and gasping for breath, holding tightly to Joe. Her knees buckled.

  “He’s scared half to death,” Griff rasped. “But he’s all right.”

  She collapsed onto the ground.

  Joe patted her shoulder. “Don’t cry, Carrie Daly. Griff saved me.” He climbed into her lap and wound both arms around her neck. “I’m all right.”

  Carrie buried her face in his sooty little shoulder and sobbed. Griff and Caleb hurried back and forth from the well and the trough, pouring more water onto the smoldering ruin until the last of the flames died.

  Griff touched her shoulder. “Come inside. Everything’s all right now.”

  He helped her to her feet. Leaving the blanket spread on the fence to dry, he led them into the house.

  Carrie turned up the wick in the lamp and examined Joe. He was covered head to toe with a mixture of tears, ashes, and soot. His hands were raw with blisters, but otherwise he was unharmed. Carrie bathed his face, smoothed salve on his burns, and sent him and Caleb to wash up. Then she stole a glance at Griff. His hands and forearms were red and blistered, and he had a nasty scrape on his cheek. His shirt was torn. Carrie longed to tend his wounds, to repair his shirt, but he’d made it clear that her attention wasn’t wanted. She handed him the tin of salve. “Thank you for saving Joe. I don’t know what I’d have done if . . .”

  He nodded, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his expression grave. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save your smokehouse too. You’re going to need it once that hog is butchered.”

  She sank onto a chair, suddenly so weary her legs wouldn’t support her. “I’ll speak to Sage Whiting. He’ll know someone at the mill who can rebuild it.”

  With a quick nod he headed for the barn. Carrie watched him cross the yard, a dark silhouette against the still-smoldering embers, and wiped away bitter tears. Would her troubles never end? She tried so hard to do the right thing, to be the person everyone expected her to be, and yet her whole life consisted of nothing but mourning and ashes.

  Griff stripped to the waist and washed away a layer of sweat and soot. His injured shoulder hurt like the devil, his blistered hands throbbed, his raw throat burned. He’d come perilously close to losing Joe. The fire inside the smokehouse was so intense he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Only the sound of Joe’s whimpers guided him to the boy’s hiding place in the back corner. He grabbed the child and tossed the wet blanket over them just as the roof caved in. He kicked a hole in the rear wall, and they escaped only moments before the rest of the structure collapsed.

  He smoothed salve onto his cheek and hands, toed off his boots, and lay down on the mattress, listening to the scratching of mice in the walls and the low growl of the barn cat chasing after them. His nose filled with the comforting scents of neat’s-foot oil, straw, and manure. He was dead tired, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Carrie. He could well imagine what he must look like to her, and he didn’t like what he saw.

  After everything she’d done to help him, he had hurt her, and he regretted that. But he could see that she was already a little in love with him. He had feelings for her too, and that complicated matters considerably.

  He couldn’t deny the wanderlust that still tugged at him every time the train whistle blew. As appealing as Carrie was, a part of him still wanted to be on that train, exploring new places, unencumbered by duty or love. But the rootlessness that had seemed so attractive to him in his younger days was also beginning to feel like a burden. He could ride the rails from city to city until the tracks gave out, but at the end of the line the truth remained: he belonged nowhere, mattered to no one.

  He rubbed a hand over his smoke-stung eyes and turned onto his side, rustling the ticking in the mattress. Somebody would have to build Carrie a new smokehouse. Heaven knew she couldn’t afford to pay anyone to do it. She’d insisted on repaying him for the food he’d bought at Pruitt’s store, and he was certain there was very little money left to tide her over until more arrived from her brother.

  The barn cat, tired of the chase, padded over and settled against his chest. He stroked her head, pondering the way the smallest of decisions could completely alter the course of a man’s life and lead to the most complicated circumstances. Every time he planned to leave this town—and Carrie Daly’s patchwork family—something else happened to make him stay.

  TWENTY-SEVE
N

  Carrie lit a lamp against the dreary November afternoon and stoked the fire to ward off the chill. Through the kitchen window, she watched Caleb scampering up and down the ladder, taking armloads of shingles up to the smokehouse roof. The building was nearly finished—a fact only slightly more miraculous than the change in Caleb. Thanks to Griff, since the night of the fire, Caleb had become more cooperative and less combative. And that was surely a blessing because, as Mary’s confinement dragged on, she became even more irritable and difficult to please.

  Carrie set the kettle on the stove to boil and took cups from the cupboard, trying to stave off another wave of sadness. Last week Deborah had visited again, bringing news that Mayor Scott and the town council were almost ready to announce the hiring of a new teacher for the Hickory Ridge school. When that was done, and the last of the smokehouse shingles were nailed into place, Griff would have fewer reasons to stay on in Hickory Ridge.

  The kettle shrieked. Carrie set the cups on a tray. A few minutes earlier, Mary had awakened from a long nap, demanding her daily cup of slippery elm tea. Taking up last week’s edition of the newspaper, Carrie went down the hall and opened Mary’s door.

  Her sister-in-law was propped against her pillows, rubbing her swollen belly. She offered Carrie a rare smile that seemed nearly serene. “She’s moving around a lot today.”

  Carrie drew her chair close to the bed and handed Mary a cup of tea. “How do you know it’s a girl?”

  “Because I asked God for a daughter this time.” Mary sipped her tea and closed her eyes. “Haven’t you always wanted a little girl to dress in pretty frocks? I declare, my boys can run around in rags and be perfectly happy.”

  Mary’s words were a shot to the heart. Carrie swallowed a sudden tightening in her throat. “If I could have a child, it wouldn’t matter if it were a boy or a girl.”

  The bitter truth ached like a bad bruise. She had neither husband nor children in a world that considered the roles of wife and mother the most important things in a woman’s life. But perhaps Frank had been her one chance at real love. She thought of Wyatt and Ada Caldwell. Anyone who spent ten minutes around them could plainly see how much Wyatt adored his wife. She despaired of ever finding another man who would care so deeply for her.