Beauty for Ashes
By Dorothy Love
Thomas Nelson
Copyright © 2012
Dorothy Love
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59554-901-3
Chapter One
Hickory Ridge, Tennessee
May 1876
Carrie Daly watched a knot of people hurrying past the dress-shop
window and tried to think of something—anything—except the
wedding. These days, everybody in Hickory Ridge made a point of
speaking to her about it. For Henry's sake, she smiled and thanked
them for their good wishes, ignoring the creeping dismay at the
bottom of her heart.
"Hold still a minute longer, Miz Daly. Almost done here."
Jeanne Pruitt, the wife of the mercantile owner and the new proprietress
of Norah's Fine Frocks, knelt on the floor to attach the lace
trim to the hem of Carrie's dress.
In her stocking feet, Carrie balanced on the small step stool
and listened to Mrs. Pruitt's detailed recounting of her recent visit
to her sister's place in Muddy Hollow. The new dressmaker wasn't
as stylish as Norah had been. She was, however, a magician with
needle and thread. The ladies of Hickory Ridge kept her busy
repairing seams, restyling old frocks, and occasionally making a
new dress from scratch. Now, with a final snip of her scissors, she
finished both the hem and her tale and got to her feet. "You're all
set, dear. Take a look."
Carrie crossed to the cheval glass in the corner and studied
her reflection. The dress, a pale robin's-egg-blue silk, featured wide
ruffled sleeves and a neat bustle in the back. A row of tiny mother-of-pearl
buttons graced the bodice. It was much too fancy for farm
life—once the wedding was over, where would she ever go to wear
it?—but Henry had insisted that she have the best. "It's beautiful,
Jeanne. You outdid yourself."
"I'm glad you like it. That color exactly matches your eyes."
Jeanne's gaze met Carrie's in the mirror. "Things must be busy at
the farm these days."
Turning sideways, Carrie eyed the bustle and smoothed it with
her fingertips. "Everything's ready except for baking the cookies.
And the cake."
Jeanne grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. "Every last
soul in Hick'ry Ridge is hankering for an invite to the wedding
just to eat a piece of your coconut cake. And to see the Caldwells,
of course. I hear they're due in from Texas tonight."
The prospect of seeing her dear friends took Carrie's mind off
her apprehensions, if only temporarily. She nodded. "Wyatt sent a
wire from Nashville yesterday afternoon. I can't wait. I'm only disappointed
they aren't bringing Wade and Sophie."
"It's a long way to bring a little one on a train but I'm sure this
won't be their last trip to Hick'ry Ridge." Jeanne folded a scrap of
lace and placed it on a shelf. "Wyatt Caldwell may not own the
lumber mill anymore, but he can't stop caring about it."
"I'm glad
someone cares." A tiny frown creased Carrie's forehead,
and she absently rubbed the small bony protrusion on her
wrist, the result of a fall from the hayloft the summer she turned
nine. Hard times at the mill had everyone worried. Only last week
Henry had mentioned that orders had slowed to a trickle. And the
Chicago Yankees who now owned the place, safe and secure in
their distant lakeside mansions, were talking about letting some of
the mill hands go. Why Henry wanted to get married now, taking
on so much responsibility when times were so uncertain, was the
mystery of the ages. But his mind was made up.
Jeanne patted Carrie's shoulder. "Why don't you change out of
that dress and I'll box it up for you."
Carrie stepped around a muslin-draped dressmaker's dummy
and a scarred pine table laden with fabric samples and pattern
books. Behind the folding screen, she shucked out of her new dress,
draped it over the top of the screen, and slipped into her everyday
green calico.
Jeanne folded the new frock, nestled it into layers of tissue
paper, and tied the box shut with a length of yellow ribbon. "There.
Hang it up as soon as you get home so the wrinkles won't set."
Carrie picked up her bag, her parasol, and the dress box. The
bell above the door tinkled as she stepped out onto the boardwalk.
A horse and wagon rumbled past, a sturdy farm girl at the reins. At
the far end of the street, on the porch of the Verandah Hotel for
Ladies, two residents sat in rocking chairs watching groups of noisy,
barefoot boys congregating outside the bakery. Businessmen in
dark suits and bowler hats hurried toward the railway station, their
valises bumping against their legs. A train whistle blew, two sharp
blasts that echoed against the fog-shrouded mountains. Cupping
one hand to the dress-shop window, Carrie waved another good-bye
to Jeanne and started along the boardwalk to Mr. Pruitt's mercantile,
thinking about what she needed for baking the cake. More
sugar, a pound of butter, a dozen—
"Look out!" A man's booming voice shattered her reverie. She
looked up just in time to see a horse charging toward her, the young
woman in the buggy yanking furiously on the reins. The horse
was immense, coal black and sleek as an eel. His hooves pounded
the street. His legs pumped like pistons. Carrie stood transfixed,
clutching her package as the huge beast thundered toward her,
scattering a group of farm women outside the post office and
nearly colliding with a freight wagon just turning onto the street.
"Whoa," the buggy driver cried, her voice shrill with fear.
"Whoa there."
The horse bore down on Carrie. He neighed and reared, his
eyes wild with fright, his immense front feet pawing the air.
"Move!" the man shouted. Carrie's feet left the ground as he
shoved her aside.
Her shoulder cracked against the boardwalk. Her parasol and
the dress box tumbled into the dust.
"Steady, boy." The man grabbed the horse's silver-studded bridle
and spoke into the beast's ear. Holding tightly to the bridle, he
pressed his head against the horse's neck, speaking so softly Carrie
couldn't hear a word. But whatever he said worked. The horse nickered
and immediately quieted, his powerful legs quivering. The
young woman in the rig buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
A crowd gathered, but the horse tamer quickly dispersed them.
Before Carrie could move, the door to the bank flew open and
the bank president, Mr. Gilman, hurried outside. "Sabrina?" he
called to the weeping girl. "What on earth have you done now?"
"I'm sorry, Daddy." Sabrina Gilman tumbled from the rig, her
straw hat askew. "Old Peter harnessed him for me this morning,
and I thought I could handle him, but when the train whistle blew
he went plumb crazy."
"Old Peter should have known better. I've told you both to stay
away from Majestic. He's high-strung and certainly no carriage
horse. You could have been killed." Mr. Gilman held out a hand to
steady her. "Go on inside and collect yourself."
Carrie felt sorry for the banker's daughter. Her intended, Jacob
Hargrove, had abandoned his family farm in search of work elsewhere,
and the separation had left poor Sabrina in a state of nervous
exhaustion. According to Mariah Whiting, who knew everything
that went on in town, Sabrina had become susceptible to frequent
fainting spells and bouts of the mullygrubs.
The horse tamer hurried over and helped Carrie to her feet.
He touched the brim of his hat in greeting. "A thousand apologies,
miss. I shouted a warning, but you didn't hear. Are you all right?"
"I think so." She straightened her hat and reached for her crushed
dress box.
"Please. Allow me." He retrieved her box and smiled down at
her. Her stomach dropped. Heavenly days, but this man was handsome.
He was nearly a foot taller than she, with sun-browned skin,
full lips, a straight nose, and eyes so brown they appeared almost
black. He stood so close she could see beads of moisture on his
brow and a tiny white scar just above his upper lip. Somehow the
slight imperfection only increased his appeal.
"You're sure you aren't hurt?" He lifted a brow and studied her.
She brushed the dirt from her skirt and took in his attire—a
clean, crisp boiled collar, fine wool trousers that fit him perfectly, and
a coat that accented the set of his broad shoulders. Everything about
him spoke of gentility and old money. He even smelled expensive.
"I'm quite all right, thank you."
Mr. Gilman hurried over and pumped the horse tamer's hand.
"I can't thank you enough for what you did, sir. Sabrina knows
better, she's—" He nodded to Carrie. "Miz Daly. My word, are
you hurt?"
"I'm fine, Mr. Gilman."
He eyed her box. "I suppose that's your dress for the wedding?"
"Yes."
"If there's any damage at all, you let me know. I'll make it
right." He turned to the horse tamer. "I don't believe I've heard
your name."
"Griffin Rutledge. Griff to my friends." He winked at Carrie
and her cheeks warmed.
"Rutledge," Mr. Gilman said. "You by any chance kin to Charles
Rutledge of Charleston?"
"He's my father." Mr. Rutledge's face turned stony, but the
banker seemed not to notice.
"Well, well, what a small world, eh?" The banker slapped Mr.
Rutledge's shoulder as if they were old friends. "I knew your daddy
back before the war. Used to go down to Charleston every February
for Race Week. Oh, the times we had with your folks and the
Venables, the Hugers, and the Ravenels. Y'all had some of the finest
horses I'd ever seen." He studied the horse tamer's face. "I remember
Charles's boy Philip, but I declare, I didn't know he had two sons."
Carrie stuck out her bottom lip and blew her rust-colored curls
upward. The day was heating up, her shoulder throbbed painfully,
and she still needed things from the mercantile. But she stood
rooted to the spot, unable to tear herself away from Griff Rutledge.
Which made not one iota of sense. What was the matter with her?
Mr. Gilman went on. "What brings you to Hickory Ridge,
Mr. Rutledge? I hope you're planning to stay awhile."
"Not long."
The banker looked past Griff's shoulder to the huge horse,
now standing placidly in the shade of the building. "Maybe a good
business proposition will change your mind. You got some time to
discuss it?"
"Not at the moment." Mr. Rutledge made a slight formal bow
toward Carrie. "I knocked this lovely woman into the dirt and
crushed her dress box to boot. The least I can do is to see her safely
to her carriage."
Carrie dropped her gaze. The old rig hitched to Henry's plodding
bay mare, Iris, was a far cry from a carriage. But the prospect
of spending a few more moments with the courtly Griff Rutledge
overcame her embarrassment.
Griff offered her his arm. "Which way, Miss ..."
"Daly. Carrie." She pointed. "My horse and rig are over
there."
He glanced at the dress box. "Do I understand that you're about
to be married?"
"Marr—oh. No. My brother Henry is getting married the day
after tomorrow. He insisted that I get a new dress for the occasion."
A grin split his handsome face. "Well, that's surely a big load
off my mind. There's nothing quite so maddening as meeting the
prettiest girl in town only to learn that her heart is already taken."
Carrie blushed. Mercy, but he was forward. Were all Charleston
gentlemen so outspoken?
"If your brother's intended is half as pretty as you, he's a lucky
man indeed."
Overwhelmed by his sheer physicality and the brush of his
shoulder against hers, Carrie went mute.
"I hope your dress isn't damaged," he went on. "I'll bet it's beautiful.
Wish I could be there to see you wear it."
At last she found her voice. "You should come. We'd be delighted
to have you."
Holy hash! What would Nate Chastain say about her inviting
a man to the festivities? More to the point, how would Mary
Stanhope react to the news? Henry's bride was not the most accommodating
woman on the planet. And she put on airs. No doubt
she'd give Carrie a blistering lecture about inviting a total stranger
to a wedding.
It simply isn't done. But it would be worth braving
Mary's wrath to see this man again.
"That's the nicest invitation I've received in a while," he said,
"but I couldn't possibly impose upon—"
"It's no imposition at all," she said quickly. "It's the least I can
do. After all, you practically saved my life."
"Well, when you put it that way—"
"It's to be held the day after tomorrow at the Henry Bell farm.
Just follow the main road a mile or so past the church. The wedding's
at half past ten."
He smiled. "Half past ten. The Bell farm. Thank you most
kindly, Miz Carrie Daly. I'll see you then."
He tipped his hat and sauntered toward the bank. Carrie
climbed into the rig and flicked the reins. Iris plodded onto the
road and across the railroad trestle. What in the world had possessed
her just now? Everyone in Hickory Ridge knew she and
Nate planned to wed ... someday. Everyone said they were a
perfect match.
Nate was a fine man, kind, hardworking and intelligent, well
liked in town. Maybe he wasn't the most exciting man in the world,
maybe the sight of him didn't exactly make her heart beat faster,
but she enjoyed his company. So why couldn't she get the image of
Griff Rutledge's handsome face out of her mind?
Halfway home she remembered she still needed flour, eggs,
and sugar for the wedding cake.
* * *
Griff watched Carrie's rig make the turn at the bottom of the
street and whistled softly. What a woman. Hers was not the
half-formed prettiness of a young girl, but the full loveliness of a
mature woman with all the self-possession maturity brings. Her
hair was somewhere between red and gold, the color of a Carolina
sky at sunrise. And those eyes—clear and blue as the Atlantic. She
smelled good too, like the air after a low country rain. He wondered
if there was a Mr. Daly in the picture. Probably so. Women
like that didn't stay unattached for long. Just the same, he was
glad he'd accepted her invitation. Lately he'd spent far too much
time alone.
When the rig disappeared from view, he retraced his steps to
the bank. Though he didn't plan on staying here any longer than
necessary, if a profitable proposition was in the offing, he owed it
to himself to hear the banker out.
The big black colt stood where Griff had left him, tethered
to the rail outside the bank. Griff stopped to admire the horse.
Everything about him, from his height to the shape of his hindquarters
to the proud set of his neck, bespoke quality. Obviously,
the banker had spent no small sum acquiring him.
The horse bobbed a greeting and nuzzled Griff's hand as if
they were old friends. Griff felt a surge of pride. He had disappointed
his father in every way imaginable, but his skill with horses
was the one thing Charles Rutledge had been unable to ignore.
"Beautiful, isn't he?"
Griff turned to find the Gilman fellow standing outside the
bank, puffing a cheroot. "He is indeed. One of the finest I've seen
since the war."
"Come on in." The banker ushered Griff to his private office at
the back of the building and motioned him to a chair. He extracted
another cigar from the humidor on his desk and held it out. "Care
for a smoke?"
"No, thank you." Griff unbuttoned his coat and settled into
the leather chair.
Gilman puffed his cigar, sending a cloud of blue smoke curling
behind his head. "How's your father these days?"
"I wouldn't know. I've been away from home for a long time.
After my mother passed on, I lost touch."
"I see." Gilman eyed Griff across the desk. "What brings you
to this neck of the woods?"
"I've a bit of unfinished business to clear up. Soon as it's done,
I'm headed west."
"Ah, the lure of California claims another son of the South.
Too bad."
"The South we knew is gone, Mr. Gilman. I'm headed much
farther west, to New South Wales. A friend of mine went over in
`fifty-eight. Ever since the war ended, he's been after me to come
down and take a look."
Gilman frowned. "Australia? What on earth for? All they have
there is red dirt and kangaroos."
"I'm told the place is booming since the great gold rush. There's
still some gold to be mined and millions of acres of ranch land available.
I might try my hand at running a cattle station."
Griff paused and gave free rein to his imagination. What would
it be like living amongst a bunch of foreign drovers, fighting off
dingoes in the middle of the night?
"Good heavens, man," Gilman said. "If it's a ranch you want,
I'll put you in touch with Wyatt Caldwell down in Texas. He sold
his lumber mill here in town a few years back, and now he's got one
the finest herds of longhorns in the state. There's no need for you
to go clear to the edge of the known world."
"I appreciate the offer, but my mind is made up." Griff shifted
in his chair. "Maybe we should get down to business."
"Very well." Gilman set his cigar aside. "I'm the head of a committee
looking for ways to bring more money into Hickory Ridge.
Like a lot of other towns these days, ours is declining, and we have
to do what we can to save it."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Beauty for Ashes
by Dorothy Love
Copyright © 2012 by Dorothy Love.
Excerpted by permission of Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.