by Dorothy Love
Shaking off her sadness, she unfolded the paper. “Here’s the Chronicle. Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Only if there are any happy parts. I’m feeling gloomy these days. I wish Henry would write again.” Mary sipped her tea. “I don’t mind telling you, I am not looking forward to Christmas without him. I dreamed we’d spend it together with the boys . . . and with you too, of course. But now . . .” Her voice trailed away.
Carrie fought a wave of apprehension. It had been weeks since they’d heard from Henry, and she was getting worried. But it wouldn’t do any good to upset Mary.
“Here’s something amusing.” She held the newspaper toward the light. “Thieves broke into the Knoxville Livery and stole two horses. But both were apprehended when the riders, in their haste to make their escape, collided outside the sheriff’s office. The horses were unharmed, but one of the thieves suffered a broken arm.”
“They ran into each other, trying to get away? Dumb criminals.”
“Is there any other kind?”
Mary laughed, and Carrie found herself joining in. She had forgotten how good it felt to share a laugh with someone.
“Thank you, Carrie,” Mary said. “I needed that.”
She looked so vulnerable that Carrie felt a hitch in her chest. Perhaps Mary missed laughter too. “Would you like me to rub your feet?”
“If you don’t mind. They’ve been so swollen lately.”
Carrie rubbed Mary’s feet with lavender oil until the afternoon light waned and Mary’s eyelids drooped.
“I suppose I should see to supper.” Carrie tucked the blanket around Mary’s feet and picked up the tea tray. “Would you like me to leave the paper for you?”
“I’m too tired to read. Maybe Mr. Rutledge will want it.”
“I expect so.”
“Carrie?”
Carrie paused, the tray in her hands. “What do you need?”
“Nothing. I wanted to say thank you for taking care of me and looking after the boys. They can be a handful at times, but they’re good boys.” She smoothed her covers. “Joe especially loves you. He says you’ve been reading to him every night before bed. He looks forward to it.”
“So do I.” Just last night they’d read “Jack and the Beanstalk” again. Joe had leaned his warm little body against her side, his eyes huge with wonder as Carrie read about the brave boy and the fearsome giant. Reading with him reminded her of her own childhood. Somehow sharing stories with Joe made her miss Henry a bit less.
“Shall I bring you some supper?” she asked as she left the room.
“I’m not really hungry. Just see to the boys. And to Mr. Rutledge, of course.”
Carrie went to the kitchen to start supper. Darkness fell. Wind whistled through a crack in the windowsill. She lit another lamp, turning up the wick before making a potato soup, thick with fresh cream. She buttered a slice of bread and munched it as she set the table. She should check with Mrs. Whitcomb at the Verandah. Perhaps business had picked up by now and the hotelier would need more bread for her boarders. Though Mrs. Whitcomb paid next to nothing, Carrie was grateful for anything. The last of Henry’s money was dwindling fast, and Christmas was coming.
When the soup was done, Carrie opened the back door to call Griff and the boys in, but they had disappeared. Sighing, she grabbed her shawl and hurried across the yard to the half-finished smokehouse.
A thin shaft of light from within spilled across the burned-out grass. She heard Caleb’s shout and Griff’s deep laughter. Standing on tiptoe, she peered through a narrow opening beside the door.
Griff and the boys were seated around an overturned washtub that held a flickering lantern, a jumbled deck of cards, and a pile of small stones.
“But I don’t get it, Griff.” Caleb scratched his head. “I thought aces were the best cards in the whole deck.”
“Not in triple draw. Deuce to seven, remember?”
“Oh yeah. So a seven is better’n an ace.”
“In this game, it sure is.”
Joe made an attempt to fan his cards and sent them scattering across the smokehouse floor. “I want three new cards.”
Griff grinned. “You can’t get any new cards until the first round of betting, Joe. So how many rocks are you willing to bet?”
Joe shrugged. “Three, I guess.”
“Three it is.” Griff tossed three stones into the pile in the middle of the table. “And I’ll see that bet with three of my own.” He looked at Caleb, one eyebrow raised. “How about you, son? In or out?”
“I have a question first.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“I’m not saying that I have these cards, but supposin’ somebody had a two and a three plus a four, a five, and a six.”
“Then that somebody’d be in a fair amount of trouble, my man. Deuce to six is a straight, and in this game that’s about as worthless a hand as there can possibly be. Now, how much are you willing to bet?”
Caleb tossed his cards onto the makeshift table. “None, I reckon.”
Griff reached over and clapped Caleb’s shoulder. “Smart move. Never bet on a losing hand, Caleb, and never bet more than you can afford to lose. Even when you’re holding a good hand, there’s always the possibility someone else has better cards.”
Carrie frowned. Wasn’t it hard enough to bring those boys up without Griff’s teaching them bad habits? Hickory Ridge was a different place than Charleston. And besides, the boys were too young to learn such things. She’d have to speak to him about that. But not now, in front of the boys. Not when they so obviously adored him.
Clearly, he relished his role as their teacher, and Caleb and Joe basked in his attention. Not wishing to spoil their moment, Carrie retreated to the back porch before calling them in to supper.
Griff ate two bowls of soup and three slices of bread. Between bites, he took turns with Caleb describing their work on the smokehouse. “If this weather holds, we should finish in another few days.”
“We appreciate your help.” Wary of appearing to serve him, she gave the boys slices of vinegar pie and set the pie tin on the table.
Griff helped himself to a generous slice. “Caleb’s a fine worker. His new pa ought to be proud of him.”
Joe’s fork clattered onto his plate. “Hey, Carrie Daly, guess what?”
“Joe,” Griff interrupted. “What did we talk about today?”
“Oh yeah. Sorry.” Joe gobbled another bite of pie. “Aunt Carrie, guess what?”
Aunt Carrie. Her heart twisted. How could Griff have known how much the simple honorific would mean to her? She met his gaze over the boy’s tousled head, and he winked at her.
“Griff showed us how to play poker.”
“Oh?”
“Yes’m. He showed us how to bet and everything. Griff says—”
Caleb thumped Joe’s forehead. “Shut up, blabbermouth. We promised not to tell.”
Joe frowned. “We promised not to tell Mama. Carr—I mean Aunt Carrie won’t care.”
Griff’s dark eyes glinted with mischief. “Every man ought to know how to swear, ride a horse, play poker, and hold his liquor.”
He looked so earnest, so appealing, that despite her disapproval she couldn’t stay cross with him. “Undoubtedly very useful skills, Mr. Rutledge, but perhaps better left until the boys are older.”
“Caleb already knows how to swear,” Joe said. “But I ain’t s’posed to tell.”
Griff’s rich laughter rang out in the small, warm kitchen. Carrie couldn’t help wishing their time together could go on forever. But there was nothing more to keep him here in her house. In her life.
Horses’ hooves sounded on the road. Moments later came a knock at the door.
“I’ll see who it is.” Joe jumped up, nearly knocking over his chair, and ran to the door. Carrie and Griff followed.
Dr. Spencer stood on the porch, pressing his hat to his head in the sharp wind. “Hello, Mrs. Daly. May I come in?”
“Of course.” Carrie stood aside.
The doctor came in, nodded to Griff. “I was out this way tending to the Patchetts’ baby and thought I’d check on Mary before I head home. How is she?”
“Better, I think.”
“May I check on her?”
Carrie nodded, and he went in.
“Come away, boys. I need wood and water.” Carrie ushered Caleb and Joe down the hall. Griff picked up the newspaper and retired to the parlor.
By the time the boys returned to the house, the doctor had finished his examination. “You’re doing a fine job, Mrs. Daly. The baby seems strong enough. But you must keep Mrs. Bell on bed rest and continue encouraging her to eat more.”
Joe frowned at the doctor. “When in the Sam Hill is that baby going to come out? It has been in there forever.”
Dr. Spencer grinned. “Not too much longer, Joe. I’d say that about seven weeks after Christmas, the baby will make his appearance.”
“It better not be a girl. That’s all I got to say.”
“That’s up to the Lord.” Dr. Spencer donned his hat and picked up his medical bag. “Oh, some good news today. The town council has convinced Ethan Webster to return to Hickory Ridge as schoolmaster. The school will reopen in January.”
Griff appeared in the doorway, newspaper in hand. “This Mr. Webster. Is he any good?”
“He’s strict, but very good,” Carrie said. “Everyone thought it was a shame when Bea Goldston ran him off all those years ago.”
“She was the first schoolteacher in Hickory Ridge,” the doctor told Griff. “But not a week after Mr. Webster left, she left town quite unexpectedly too. What was it, Mrs. Daly? Three years ago?”
“Four.” Carrie shuddered at the memory of Bea’s violent attack on Ada, which had led to the schoolteacher’s abrupt departure.
“We hired another teacher, but after the panic of seventy-three she left too. We’re much obliged to you, Mr. Rutledge, for providing the means to get Mr. Webster back.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“And I’m sorry that not all of our citizens have welcomed you to our town. They’re mostly good-hearted. It just takes some folks awhile to warm up to newcomers.”
Carrie crossed her arms. It was more than a simple case of warming up to Griff. But he merely shrugged. “I understand. It’s all right.”
“Well, I ought to be going. Eugenie will be wondering what’s become of me.” With a nod to Carrie, Dr. Spencer left the house.
Joe danced around the parlor. “We’re finally goin’ to school.”
“I wouldn’t be so happy about it if I was you,” Caleb said. “Jimmy D. Washburn said old man Webster is mean as a snake. Jimmy D. said Webster takes a cane to you if you don’t follow his rules. But he’s not the boss of me.”
“He is when you are in his classroom,” Griff said quietly. “And I’ll be very disappointed indeed if I hear that you haven’t treated him with respect.”
Caleb blushed. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s late,” Carrie told them. “Both of you go on up to bed. And, Joe, don’t forget to wash behind your ears. I’ll be up later to check.”
“Will you read ‘Jack and the Beanstalk’ again?”
“We’ll see. Go on now.”
Joe rushed over and threw both arms around her legs, burying his face in her skirts. “Good night, Aunt Carrie.”
She stroked his hair. When had she begun to need these children as much as they needed her? “Good night, Joe. You too, Caleb.”
He ducked his head and pounded up the stairs.
Carrie returned to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes. Griff followed. She was aware of his sheer size in the small kitchen, the clean soapy smell of his skin. She poured water into the dishpan and scrubbed a bowl harder than was necessary.
“Good news about the school.” He picked up a towel and dried a glass.
“Yes. We’ve been without a teacher for so long, I’m afraid Mr. Webster will find the children have a lot of catching up to do.” She scoured the soup pot and set it on the sideboard. “I suppose you’re eager to be off at last. We’ve kept you here much longer than you intended.”
“Yes, but it hasn’t been at all unpleasant. I’ve enjoyed the boys.”
“They look up to you.”
“I’d like to think so.” The look in his dark eyes softened. “I’ve never had anyone look up to me. Philip, my younger brother, always looked to our father, not to me.”
“And whom did you admire?”
He shrugged. “I never really looked to anyone until the war. Then it was the other blockade runners I grew to admire. But of course by then I was long past the need for heroes.”
“I don’t think we ever outgrow our need for heroes.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He smiled down at her, and her heart stuttered. “Who are your heroes, Carrie?”
She considered. “My grandmother Bell. My husband Frank. And Henry, of course. I don’t remember very much about my parents. I was still a child when they died.”
The kitchen went too quiet.
“I was hoping I might have made that list.”
His smile made her stomach drop. Of course she admired him, as much as anyone she knew. She loved everything about him. But now he was leaving her, going away forever. Why tell him how she felt?
A gust of wind blew through the cracked windowsill, guttering the lantern. Griff ran his fingers over the rotted wood and sighed.
“What?” She hung her apron on a peg and dried her hands.
“That needs fixing before it gets any colder.”
The sill needed attention, true enough, but an old pillowcase stuffed into the hole would suffice until Henry’s return. She studied him beneath her lowered lashes and felt a flutter of hope. Was it possible Griff was looking for a reason to stay?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Griff lit a cheroot and, with a contented sigh, buried himself chin-deep in the steaming bath water. The staff at the Hickory Ridge Inn certainly knew how to take care of a man. Since moving back to town a week ago, he’d enjoyed hot baths, fine meals in the dining room, and an occasional brandy in the gentlemen’s smoking room afterward. It made for a peaceful return to town.
Walking away from Carrie, from her farm and those father-hungry boys, had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done. But it was surely for the best. With every trip to town, he’d felt the townsfolk’s disapproval not only of him, but of the fact that he was staying at the farm with two women who were neither his kin nor his wife. It wouldn’t do for their disapproval to taint Carrie’s standing in Hickory Ridge. She would have to live here once he had moved on.
Besides, truth to tell, the weather had turned too cold to continue sleeping in Carrie’s barn, and he enjoyed his creature comforts. Still, he missed Carrie and the boys, missed the effort required to keep the farm going. He had forgotten the exhilaration of pure physical labor and the quiet satisfaction of a job well done. He missed seeing Carrie across the table in the evenings, the lantern light turning her hair to burnished copper. The bell-like sound of her rare laughter. There had been no laughter on the morning he left the farm, his few belongings tossed into a rented rig. She waved bravely from the porch as he drove away, one arm wrapped around Joe’s shoulder, but he knew her heart felt as empty as his own.
A discreet knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The valet, a tall, powerfully built colored man wearing a white jacket, stuck his head inside. “More hot water for yuh, Mr. Rutledge?”
“Thank you, Isaiah, but I suppose I ought to get going.”
“You goin’ back to the bank again this morning?”
“I am indeed.” He’d mulled over his plans for weeks now, more energized by the possibilities than by anything since his blockade running days. But his dream was still too fragile to talk about with anyone but the banker.
“I’ll get your clothes laid out for yuh.”
Griff nodded, and when the man withdrew he sat for a few momen
ts longer before snuffing out his cheroot and reluctantly rising. He wrapped himself in a thick towel, padded down the carpeted hallway of the gentlemen’s floor, and returned to his room.
He dressed and perused the latest edition of the Knoxville paper that had been delivered on this morning’s breakfast tray. Christmas was only three weeks away, and the paper was full of advertisements for everything from harnesses to chocolates. He thought of Christmases in Charleston—candles everywhere, the tables laden with elaborate centerpieces, glittering crystal and china, and an indecent amount of food. He pictured his father at the head of this year’s table, Philip and Susan basking in the happy glow of their upcoming nuptials. He’d have to send a gift, though Philip and Miss Layton were hardly in need of anything.
He turned the page and skimmed the national news. The notorious Boss Tweed had escaped from jail in New York and absconded to Cuba. The Chicago evangelist Dwight L. Moody was attracting great crowds to his revival meetings. And P. T. Barnum was planning a tour with Jumbo, the elephant he’d recently acquired from the Royal Zoological Gardens in London. Griff searched the article for a schedule for the showman’s traveling circus. What a treat that would be for Joe and Caleb.
He grinned, remembering their earnest attempts to learn poker. He had long since forgiven Joe for shooting Majestic with the slingshot. Though his shoulder still pained him, the accident had resulted in some of the happiest days he’d known in a long time.
A photograph of a white-stockinged bay colt captured his attention. The headline read, “Kentucky Derby Winner Sold to Mr. William Astor, Jr., for the Sum of $7000.” He wondered about the bay’s winning time. He hadn’t timed Majestic before Race Day, but he had a strong feeling that the sleek black colt could hold his own among the likes of Vagrant. If his plans panned out, maybe one day he’d have a chance to test it.
Downstairs, the lobby clock chimed the hour. Griff folded the paper, picked up his key, and headed for the bank.
