Beauty for Ashes by Dorothy Love Page B

Grayson ever cope with such a horrific loss?
    She returned to the parlor with the alum and the water. Rosaleen was busy tearing an old sheet into long strips. Mrs. Whitcomb held smelling salts beneath the child’s nose. The little girl revived and whimpered as Mrs. Whitcomb bathed the deep, ragged cut and poured the alum into the wound. Rosaleen paled and rushed from the room.
    Carrie smoothed the child’s hair off her face and murmured to her while the hotelier bound up the cut. Lucy, as white-faced and shaken as her charge, took a piece of candy from her pocket and offered it to the child. The little girl licked the candy, fat tears sliding down her cheeks.
    Lucy collapsed onto the sofa beside the child, her shoulders sagging. “Thank you for your help. I was so scared I couldn’t even think.”
    “You did all right,” Mrs. Whitcomb said. “I raised six boys of my own,” she told Carrie, “and one or the other of them was always getting hurt.” She patted the little girl’s shoulder. “This cut looked worse than it really is.”
    The little girl turned her teary eyes on the hotelier. “I gots Miss Lucy’s dress messed up.”
    Lucy cradled the child. “Oh, honey, it’s all right. Don’t worry about that.”
    “Mama is going to be awful mad,” the child said.
    “No doubt,” Lucy muttered. “How will I ever find another job?”
    “It was an accident,” Mrs. Whitcomb said, “pure and simple. And you got help for the child right away. I’m sure I don’t know what more the child’s mother can expect.”
    “I should have paid more attention,” Lucy said. “But the children are so noisy and energetic, it’s more than I can handle.” She brushed her hair off her face. “I must go. I left the oldest boy in charge of the others, and there’s no telling what trouble they’re into by now.”
    She settled the little girl on her hip and headed for the door. “Tell Rosaleen I said thanks for her help too.”
    Mrs. Whitcomb looked around. “Where is Rosaleen? She was here a minute ago.”
    She followed Lucy out onto the porch. Carrie gathered the rest of the bandages and the tin of powdered alum and carried the pan of bloody water to the back door to empty it.
    Rosaleen sat on the back steps, her arms looped around her drawn-up knees, sobbing as if her heart had shriveled to nothing and blown away.
    “Rosaleen?” Carrie dropped onto the step beside her. “Are you all right?”
    Rosaleen shook her head and waved her away. Carrie rose and went back inside. Perhaps Rosaleen was upset over her meeting with Griff Rutledge. Perhaps her tears were the result of seeing the little girl in so much pain, though her anguish seemed deeper than that. She wept as if grieving for one of her own.

EIGHT
    “Carrie?” Rosaleen poked her head into kitchen where Carrie was busy kneading bread dough. “Mr. Chastain is waiting for you in the parlor.”
    “Nate’s here?” Carrie felt a stab of guilt. In the weeks since moving to the Verandah, she’d hardly seen Nate. True, he’d been busy, but she should have made more of an effort. After all, it wasn’t as if she had anything to do aside from reading, moping, and waiting for letters from Ada.
    She dusted the dough with flour, covered it with a towel, and set it in the pan to rise.
    “There you are.” Nate rose as she entered the parlor, a smile creasing his round face. “I’d about decided you’d left the country. Figured I’d best check and see.”
    She grinned. “Still here.”
    He squeezed both her hands, and she squeezed back. It was good seeing him. Why had she neglected him these past weeks? From now on, she’d pay more attention to him.
    “I was hopin’ I could take you down to the bakery for a sweet”—his gaze swept over her flour-smudged face—“but I reckon that wouldn’t be much of an occasion for you.”
    She dabbed at her face with her handkerchief. “I’ve been baking bread this morning.”
    He nodded. “Can we take a