Beauty for Ashes Page 0,79
into second place as they rounded Mr. Pruitt’s pickle barrels.
Suddenly aware that something was wrong, she searched the crowd, then grabbed Caleb’s shoulder and yelled above the deafening cheers. “Where’s your brother?”
Caleb brushed her hand aside, his eyes never leaving Griff and Majestic. “Around somewhere. He’s all right. Come on, Mr. Rutledge! You can do it.”
The horses entered the home stretch. Majestic and the chestnut mare were running neck and neck as they raced past the bank, a blur of black and brown against the brightly dressed crowd.
“Don’t move,” Carrie told Caleb. “I must find Joe.”
She gathered her skirts and worked her way through the crush of onlookers, keeping one eye out for Joe and the other on Griff. The horses sprinted toward the finish line, still running neck and neck. Then Griff leaned low over the Majestic’s neck and pulled ahead of the others. A great cheer went up.
A slight movement across the street drew Carrie’s attention. She spotted Joe chasing a stray dog, the horses charging toward the finish line. He stopped, pulled his slingshot from his pocket, and took aim.
She pushed frantically through the crowd, praying she would reach him in time. But her legs felt heavy as anvils, her breath came in short gasps. She opened her mouth in a silent scream.
Sitting atop Majestic during the last seconds of the race, Griff felt the familiar exhilaration returning. For a moment it was possible to believe that he was back in South Carolina riding one of his father’s favorite Thoroughbreds, basking in a rare look of approval in the old man’s eyes.
Now, with a subtle shift of his weight in the saddle, he asked the horse for a little more speed. The colt had a lot more in him, a lot more to give. Griff felt Majestic’s effortless stride lengthening beneath him as they covered the final yards of the race, leading by a nose . . . by a head . . .
A tremendous roar went up at the finish line. Griff straightened in the saddle and acknowledged the crowd. The other horses churned up a cloud of dirt behind him. Then Majestic jerked, emitted a terrified neigh, wheeled, reared. And Griff found himself falling.
He felt no pain as his head hit the dirt-covered brick pavement and his shoulder cracked beneath him. Only a blinding light. And then nothing.
TWENTY-FOUR
Pushing her way to the front of the hushed crowd, Carrie saw Sheriff McCracken bending over Griff’s still form. One of the other riders caught Majestic’s bridle, calmed him, and led him toward Tanner’s livery. Joe Stanhope was nowhere in sight. Carrie stood frozen, unable to think or move.
“Where’s Doc Spencer?” McCracken yelled. “This man needs help.”
Eugenie Spencer hurried through the crowd, the pink silk flowers on her brown leghorn hat fluttering in the breeze. “My husband left for Owl Creek before dawn to deliver Mrs. Patchett’s baby. He isn’t back yet.”
A man in a moth-eaten black wool suit knelt beside Griff. “He’s breathing. May have broke some bones, though.” He carefully lifted Griff’s head. “No blood. I reckon that layer of dirt saved him. But he’s going to have a powerful headache when he comes to.”
Carrie spoke at last, her voice high and strange. “Sheriff, please get him to his room at the inn so this doctor can look after him properly.”
The man glanced up. “Oh, I’m not a doctor, missus. Name’s Harlan Wentworth. I used to be the undertaker around here, but I’m over in Knox County now.” He jerked a thumb toward Griff. “I’ve seen enough bodies in my day to be a pretty good judge of what sort of shape they’re in.”
Carrie shuddered and looked at the sheriff. “Nevertheless, he must be taken to his room right away.”
McCracken removed his hat and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, the tin star on his chest glittering in the afternoon light. “I’d be glad to take him there, Miz Daly, but I understand he gave up his room this morning. Checked out of the inn and bought a ticket on the evening train. Hotel’s plumb full. His room’s already taken.”
The news that Griff had already made arrangements to leave barely registered with Carrie. For now, he needed her help.
“What about the Verandah? Surely Mrs. Whitcomb will make an exception for a wounded gentleman.”
“Verandah’s full up too is what I heard. Good news for Maisy Whitcomb, but a piece o’ bad luck for Rutledge here.”
“Well, he can’t lie here in the street like a