Ruth (13 page)

Ruth marched toward the thicket with the rifle under her arm. She wasn’t going to nurse the child today; she was going to shoot something and cook it. Later she returned with a small bird and a lighter attitude. She would survive—with God’s help and Dylan’s gun.

Ruth awoke early the next morning. The feel of snow was in the air. She looked over at Dylan; he was getting up slowly, testing his strength. He looked stronger today.

“We have to move on,” he said.

She set the baby aside and went to him. “Yes, we do. We need food. Real food. What little I provide for the baby isn’t enough.” She frowned. “But are you ready—are you capable of traveling this soon?”

“If Mary can do what she does, I can match her.” Dylan’s smile at the mention of Mary’s name caused a twist of jealousy inside Ruth. Why, Dylan McCall had a soft spot for Mary!

“I’m not sure how far Sulphur Springs is,” he admitted. “But the weather isn’t going to hold any longer—we have to get you and the baby to shelter soon.”

Ruth already knew time was now of the essence. Each day got colder and more miserable. They could easily freeze to death in this climate if hunger didn’t take them first. Not to mention Dylan’s injuries.

“I haven’t seen any sign of human life for over two weeks,” she conceded. “Other than you and the baby.”

“Houses are few and far between up here. It’s not likely we’ll see anyone.”

Her heart fell. What were they going to do?

“Sulphur Springs is a mining community—almost defunct now. I rode through about a year ago, and the veins were drying up. A few families should still be around, though. If I remember right, the community’s less than twenty miles from here.” He turned to study the sun. “To the west. If we start now, we should make it in a few days.”

“If your strength is able to hold out.” With pity, Ruth watched the baby try to pick up a dry leaf. After the first few days of nearly inconsolable crying, she was mostly quiet now. Probably getting weak. She needed food, milk. Ruth’s hunger was never satisfied, and Dylan needed better fare in order to gain his strength. The few wild game she’d managed to kill hardly sustained them. They were in trouble—real trouble. Moving on was their only hope.

The baby deserved to grow up and have a good life. Ruth deserved . . . well, nothing, actually. She was fortunate God had let her come this far. “Then let’s get started,” Ruth said.

They only had Ruth’s mare, and Dylan would have to ride. The stench of dead horses filled the air, but Ruth knew she had to get Dylan’s saddlebag off his horse to take with them.

Working with grim determination, she stripped the saddle off, tugging at the cinch until the belly strap came loose. They couldn’t take the saddle with them, but she could hide it somewhere so at some point he might be able to come back for it. A good saddle was nothing to be sneezed at even if it was government issue.

Once she had both saddlebags and bedrolls on her horse, Ruth helped Dylan to his feet. Pain etched his craggy features, and she silently applauded his bravery. They had to move. Dylan knew it; she knew it, but knowing it didn’t make his injuries any less painful.

Dylan slumped in the saddle, his face pale, his mouth thin with pain. Ruth carried the baby, whose eyes were wide with question. She wished she could set her on the horse in front of Dylan, but he was too weak to balance her. If she had a sling or a carrying board . . . but she had neither. Maybe given another day she could depend on Dylan not to lose consciousness and fall off the horse or on the baby. Then he could help.

When Ruth had her charges prepared to travel, she drew a deep breath and tucked a warm blanket around Dylan’s waist. “West, did you say?”

“Head straight toward those mountains,” he grunted. He held on to the saddle horn.

“Okay.” Ruth straightened her shoulders and set off. She held the baby in one arm and led the horse, praying with every step.
You must be with us, Lord. How else would we have made it this far?

What a sight they must be. A seriously wounded U.S. marshall, who might at any moment die from his injuries. A baby, who needed to be fed and cared for. A young woman, who felt grimy and whose clothes were full of burn holes, suffering from still-painful burns on her shoulders, arms, and hands. Ruth realized she must look at least as bad as Dylan. What she wouldn’t give for a bath, hot food, and clean clothes. She was sick of pants and boots and half-raw meat.

Sulphur Springs meant new hope. The Comanches had stripped nearly everything of value from the wagon and from the two men, so the travelers were penniless. All they had left was Dylan’s badge, which might convince a merchant to advance them credit, should they reach the community. Ruth’s mind examined all the possibilities as she mechanically put one foot in front of the other. A town. She put her mind to imagining a town over the next rise.

But by late afternoon she was just hoping for shelter. Somewhere—anywhere—warm where she could rest her aching feet. Snow had started to fall, making travel even more laborious. Head bent, Dylan gripped the saddle horn, speaking only when spoken to.

Ruth wondered if her life would end this day—here, on a snowy, windswept mountainside.
Ironic,
she thought as she trudged through a narrow pass. If her life was over this day, wasn’t it odd that God had chosen to let her die with a man she could easily love under different circumstances and a baby she could deeply love if she allowed herself—two precious fundamentals she was most certain never to achieve in life?

Odd? Or was it God?
she wondered with overpowering gratitude. Just when she thought she knew what God was up to, he proved her wrong once again.

A day later, Dylan motioned for Ruth to mount the horse in front of him. By now she looked tired enough to drop, and she was limping. She didn’t argue. Two adults and a baby on the horse was a tight fit, but Dylan figured there was little choice. “The mare can carry us,” he told her.

He cut the animal off the traveled path to save distance and rode through thicket until Ruth complained that the brambles were cutting her legs. The thick trousers did little to protect her from the prickly briars. Her disguise was adequate; only the most discerning traveler would notice that she was a woman. Dylan alone knew that feminine beauty lay beneath the wool and denim. Had he been half the man he was a week ago, the lady might be in trouble. . . . He must be getting better.

The baby’s cries were weaker this morning. He had to find a cow or goat, and soon. Despite Ruth’s efforts to feed the baby, it didn’t look as if she could nourish her herself. Sulphur Springs was still a few days’ ride away. Would they make it through the endless miles of trees and falling snow?

With each jounce in the saddle, Dylan sensed the wounds in his shoulder give way. He’d lost a lot of blood. He felt the warm stickiness seep through his shirt fabric.

He was late for his appointment with Kurt Vaning, but surely his boss would know he had a good excuse. Trouble was common in these parts this time of the year. Kurt wouldn’t start to worry for a few weeks if Dylan still didn’t show up, but the assignment would go to another marshall. That Dylan resented. He’d been on Dreck Parson’s trail for months. He wanted to be the one to haul the outlaw in for justice. Now that wasn’t going to happen.

“The baby is so hungry,” Ruth said. The three fit in the saddle snugly: woman, man, child—and supplies. Dylan felt uncomfortable with the close proximity. Despite his earlier assurance to Ruth, he doubted the animal could take the load for much longer.

“The first thing we do when we reach Sulphur Springs is get you to a doctor,” Ruth said.

“The first thing we do is get the baby milk.”

“Fine. I’ll get the milk while you see a doctor.” Worry tinged her voice as the sharp wind caught it and flung the words over her shoulder.

“What about you?” Dylan asked.

“What about me? I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not fine. I see the way you favor your shoulders—you have some burns, don’t you?”

“Nothing serious,” she contended. “Nothing worth even mentioning.”

Dylan bet otherwise. If she had climbed around in a burning wagon searching for the child, the wounds had to be more than minor. But she had not complained once.

“We’ll both see the doctor in Sulphur Springs,” he said.

“If it’s a small community, they might not have one.”

“They’ll have someone who can help.” He cut the mare back to the path, which was deepening with snow.

He’d see a doctor about his wounds and make sure Ruth and the baby were okay. They’d rest up a few days, ask around about couples interested in taking a child. He’d have to send a wire to Kurt . . . then what? What would he do with Ruth? Take her with him? Over his best judgment, he’d gotten close to the pretty nursemaid the past few days. The strange bond hammered a dent in his plans to leave her and ride on once he was stronger.

He cleared his throat. “Be on the lookout for a cow or goat.”

They were all hungry. Ruth hadn’t complained, but he knew she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in more than a week. Only what she could run down, pick, or accidentally kill with his rifle. But she wasn’t a whiner. That both surprised and relieved him. If she’d been a complainer on top of a nuisance, he would have ridden over the first cliff.

He felt her nod in agreement as she shifted the baby in her arms. He noticed that she never held the infant close. She kept the little girl at bay, almost as if she feared intimacy. A slow smile started at the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t imagine this strong-willed woman fearing the devil himself. But a tiny baby had her on edge. Why? Didn’t most women take to mothering?

Toward dusk, Ruth and Dylan dismounted and walked. Dylan offered to carry the crying baby, but Ruth refused. “You can’t carry a child.”

She walked ahead, breaking a path for him, her flushed features marked with grit. When they spotted a cow grazing on the side of the road, they stopped and stared. Some farmer had a fence down, and the last of the fall grass poking up near the roadside had proved too tempting.

Their breaths came in foggy vapors. “Am I dreaming?” Ruth murmured.

“If you are, I am too.” Dylan noticed the cow’s bag, tight with milk.

The cow lifted her head and met their stunned eyes as she chewed her cud.

“I’ll get her,” Ruth said without moving her lips.

“I’ll get her,” he insisted. He wasn’t an invalid, though he was close.

Before the matter was settled, Ruth handed him the baby and slowly approached the cow. “Here, Bossie.”

“Bossie?” Dylan shook his head. “Now you’ve insulted her.”

“What’s wrong with the name Bossie? I knew a lovely woman named Bossie who brought fresh vegetables to the orphanage every week during the summer.” Ruth crept toward the cow.

The animal mooed, startling the baby, who started crying.

Ruth approached the animal cautiously. At least she had enough sense to know that if the cow bolted, they wouldn’t see it again. She walked slowly, speaking softly under her breath.

“Good Bossie. Good girl. We just need to borrow a little milk—you have lots to spare, don’t you?” She peered around the cow’s fat sides, eyeing the bulging treasure. “Well, look at that. You sure do. How about that—and I suppose a nice cow like yourself wouldn’t have strong objections to sharing a quart or two—would you? Thank you, I thought not. You’re very kind.”

Dylan frowned, focusing on Bossie’s udder, swollen with rich, creamy, life-giving substance. “Go easy,” he warned.

Ruth turned to look at him. “Do I look like I want to scare her?”

“Just go easy—don’t make her bolt.”

She eased close enough to reach out and hook her arms around the cow’s neck. For a moment Dylan wondered if Ruth planned to ride it to the ground. The animal seemed tame enough. She chewed contentedly, bawling occasionally as if trying to carry on a conversation with the strange-looking creature who had her by the collar.

“Give me your hat,” Ruth called over her shoulder.

Dylan carefully shifted the baby into his left arm and removed his hat. Ruth took it, and seconds later she knelt and buried her face in Bossie’s side, her fingers probing for teats. “Do you just pull these things?”