Beauty for Ashes Page 0,1

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