Ruth (16 page)

“A marshall, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

After a while, Nehemiah leaned back and said quietly, “Well, I got a proposition for you, Marshall. I got some work to be done around here before winter sets in. Don’t look like I’m gonna get it done myself. Say you work for me a few days, earn a couple of horses, some supplies—even a bit of cash money? Maybe a week or so, depending on how fast you work.” He glanced at Ruth. “My woman here, she can use an extra hand, and yore wife looks like she could stand some help with the baby.”

Ruth held her breath. Should they tell the Fords how they came to have an Indian baby? She wasn’t sure how much they could trust these two peculiar people, though it seemed they must.

Dylan glanced at her, his ready answer evident in his eyes. It appeared the good Lord had just laid a miracle at their doorstep—the perfect solution to their problem. With the weather so bad, they couldn’t move on—at least Ruth hoped the Fords wouldn’t expect them to leave until the storm broke.

But Dylan couldn’t work; he could barely hold his head up, so Ruth was surprised at the old man’s offer. “You’re not well enough to work,” she reminded the marshall softly.

Dylan glanced at the Fords, then back at her. Lowering his voice, he said calmly, “I’m sure Mr. Ford understands my condition, but I can work some, Ruth. A good night’s rest, solid food—I’ll be better in the morning.” His eyes silently urged her. “So will you. Your feet are raw. You can’t go another step. Think of the baby—we’re lucky she’s made it this far without enough milk or warm clothing. We’ll be better off here for the time being.”

Ruth knew he was right, though she was still leery of the terms. The offer seemed odd—couldn’t the old man see that Dylan was in no condition for physical labor?

Dylan’s jaw firmed. “I don’t see that we’ve got any other choice. We either stay here a few days or we start walking again. We can’t walk a mile, much less another five, to reach Sulphur Springs.”

“Shame you didn’t come along earlier,” Nehemiah observed. “You coulda rode into town with me, but I won’t be going back till spring now.”

Of course Dylan was right; he always thought more clearly than she did. But Ruth still didn’t like the circumstances. Yet, the child was warm and had something other than milk in her tummy—albeit nauseatingly so—and she wasn’t crying so much.

“All right,” Ruth reluctantly agreed. “But I still don’t know how you’re going to be of much help to Nehemiah.” She would try to do more than her share to help Ulele as a trade-off.

“I’ll do what has to be done. We don’t have a choice,” Dylan said.

Admiration swelled within Ruth for the marshall’s continuing concern for her and for the baby. He’d never once grumbled about taking care of the infant, though he had to wonder why she wasn’t tending to the child more. Still, he hadn’t asked. He’d kept pushing on when she knew he was too weak to walk and in terrible pain. Dylan McCall was, she had to admit, a man of true grit.

“We’ll stay,” she agreed. Not that she’d ever had any real say in the matter. The set look on Dylan’s face told her he was only being polite; they would stay no matter what she felt.

“We’ll be glad to work for you,” Dylan told Nehemiah.

The old man nodded. “We’ll start at daylight then. You two can put your bedrolls over there in the corner.”

The accommodations weren’t the best, but at least the weary travelers were inside and warm. Ruth managed to eat a piece of buttered bread with her coffee so her stomach didn’t growl. Her eyes were growing heavy when Ulele motioned toward her feet.

“Go,” she said.

Ruth didn’t understand.

“I think she wants you to take off your boots,” Dylan said.

“Why?”

“The missus is good with herbs and such,” Nehemiah said. “She can do something for those feet of yours, as well as for Dylan’s back.”

Ruth was still apprehensive. Dylan bent and began unlacing her boots.

She drew back. “I can do that.”

“Don’t look,” he advised her. Ruth met his gaze and realized that her feet were in worse condition than she thought.

She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes against the pain as Dylan gently worked off each boot. Her stockings were worn through, her broken blisters raw and bleeding.

Ulele shook her head when she saw the damage.

Dylan’s face clouded and he swore under his breath.

“Don’t,” Ruth whispered, stifling back a groan. “I can just imagine what your shoulder looks like now.”

Ulele brought a small tub with warm water and motioned for Ruth to immerse her feet. Ruth couldn’t hold back the moan this time as she very gingerly put her toes into the pan.

While Ruth soaked her feet, Ulele motioned for Dylan to remove his shirt. Ruth winced as he pulled the fabric loose from the wounds that were raw and puffy. Tonight it looked like infection had set in again; from Ulele’s grunt the woman agreed.

The stern Cherokee mixed a batch of vile-smelling herbs, forming a poultice, which she applied to Dylan’s shoulder. He hissed in a breath and then relaxed after a few minutes. Ruth wished that she could be the one to administer the care but she didn’t intercede. Her sudden envy puzzled her.

“Feels good,” Dylan conceded, smiling at Ulele.

“The herbs draw out the poison,” Nehemiah said. “The missus is a fair hand at doctorin’.”

A few minutes later Ulele threw down a clean rag and indicated that Ruth was to put her feet on it. She then handed Ruth a small tin of some kind of foul-smelling cream.

“Smells like polecat,” Nehemiah conceded, “but it’s good for raw skin.”

Ruth carefully dried her feet and applied the cream. After she’d warmed the salve in her hand, it was easier to spread on the sores. Within a few minutes the wounds didn’t hurt so much. Whatever Ulele put in the concoction seemed to be working. She sent the old woman a smile of appreciation.

That night, bedded down on the opposite side of the room from Dylan, Ruth listened to Nehemiah’s snores rolling from the bedroom. She stared at the glow of the banked fire in the stove. Ulele had taken to the baby, so Ruth was momentarily free of the responsibility. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. While she didn’t want to become attached to the child, she missed her. She missed the cute smile and the way she clasped on to her finger and held tight. Ulele had taken a drawer from a dresser that stood in a corner and made the baby a makeshift bed, where the child was now sleeping peacefully with a full stomach.

“What are you thinking about?” Dylan whispered.

“About how different this is from last night,” she whispered back. “How is your shoulder feeling?”

“Better. Whatever that old woman put in the poultice, it seems to be working. How are your feet?”

“Better as well.” She hesitated to voice her thought. Deep down she felt guilty for sometimes, in her lowest moments the past few days, secretly blaming God for letting them get into such a life-threatening situation, though part of her knew it was their own fault. “Dylan?”

“Yes?”

“I . . . wanted to take care of your wounds myself, but I didn’t want to ask Ulele.”

It was quiet from his corner, then, “You did?”

“Yes. Would . . . would you have minded?” She held her breath, praying that he wouldn’t.

“No, I wouldn’t have minded.”

She smiled. “Then I will tomorrow.”

The fire popped as she grew drowsy. The heat felt wonderful. She could hear the howling wind battering the thick front door. “God was good to lead us to Nehemiah,” she murmured.

Dylan was silent and Ruth wondered if he agreed. Certainly he must—they were sleeping by a warm fire; the baby had milk and food in her tummy. Ruth’s feet were better; Ulele had given Dylan something in a glass to make him sleep better. Perhaps his silence indicated the herb had worked and he was resting comfortably. She closed her eyes, praying it was so. For so long she had watched his agony.

Turning on her side, she tried to see his face, but the room was dark. “Dylan?”

“Yes?” he said quietly.

“Oh . . . I thought you were asleep.”

“Not yet.”

“You’re so quiet.” She bit her lower lip. “You do agree that we’re better off tonight, don’t you? Nehemiah and Ulele are sort of like our own personal angels.” Everyone had angels; the Good Book said so.

“Angels?” He chuckled and for the first time in a long while he sounded like the old Marshall McCall. “Go to sleep, Ruth.”

Snuggling deeper into her bedroll, Ruth closed her eyes. He could be such a riddle: one moment all tender, a complete gentleman, compassionate to her and the baby’s needs. The next moment he could be as mysterious as God’s workings.

Right now, the chuckle didn’t reassure her.

Chapter Eight

Ulele Ford was a dictator.

Ruth was firmly convinced the woman was a tyrant as she cleaned the old shack from top to bottom. She scrubbed floors down on her knees. Since she’d been here, she’d hauled heavy water buckets up from the creek, cooked three meals a day, and washed the old couple’s clothes in the icy stream. The whole while, Ulele sat in the rocker and talked gibberish to the baby.

On the second afternoon Ruth caught the Indian staring at her.

“What?” she asked, attempting a genial smile. Though she treated Ruth as nothing more than a servant, Ulele, with her strange herbs and tonics, had most likely saved Dylan’s life. Ruth tried to summon gratitude, but mostly she rued the day she and Dylan had accepted the old couple’s help. Ruth was accustomed to hard work, but the labor the old woman forced on her was nothing short of a crime. And Nehemiah worked Dylan like a plow horse.

The squaw shook her head, which Ruth had come to recognize meant that the woman was in no mood to communicate. Ruth understood little of what the Cherokee woman said, though Ulele made her work instructions very clear.

“Clean!”

“Wash!”

“Cook!”

“Sit.”

Nehemiah seemed proud that his wife’s vocabulary was broadening. Ruth preferred the “sit” and “go” commands.

It was no wonder the woman was a domineering bully. The way Nehemiah treated his wife was shameful. He ordered her around in quick curt sentences, much as he would one of the old hounds lying on the front stoop. The woman did as he ordered and never offered a single rebuke. Ruth would flash a cold stare at the evil man as she dished piping hot stew into bowls. There was no need to speak to a woman in that tone—no need at all.

Tonight Dylan was sitting by the fire, his head drooped from exhaustion. Ruth laid Ulele’s mending aside and got up to pour a fresh cup of coffee.

Dylan briefly smiled his gratitude when she closed his hand around the steaming cup. The fire burned low; outside, a cold wind whistled across snow-packed ground.

“Must you leave so early each morning?” she asked softly. She cast a glance at Ulele, who was preoccupied with the baby. Snores rolled from the old man’s mouth as he slept by the fire, his pungent stocking feet propped on a wooden chair.

Dylan shook his head. At night it seemed to Ruth that his pain was unbearable. He nodded toward the sleeping tormentor. “He insists we start before sunup.”

Dylan rose at three thirty and left the house with Nehemiah a short time later. Ruth made sure he had a warm breakfast of oatmeal and thick slices of toasted bread spread with honey, but the marshall ate very little these days. Night covered the land when the two men returned. Dylan said little about his work, but Ruth knew by their scant conversations over supper that he was doing hard physical labor: cutting wood, setting fence posts, working long hours behind the heavy anvil Nehemiah kept in the barn. Her heart ached for the marshall, but there was nothing she could say or do to lighten his load. When she tried to broach the subject, he’d cut her off and remind her they had to have food and protection for the baby.

Bending close to his ear, she rested her hands on his corded arms and pleaded in a throaty whisper, “We don’t have to do this. We can leave.”

He closed his eyes. “We need the money, Ruth.”

Anger rose up and nearly strangled her. Why did he
have
to be so pigheaded! Nehemiah Ford was killing him. Couldn’t he see that?

“Not that badly,” she argued. Her eyes darted to Ulele. She had quit playing with the baby and was staring at Ruth. How much did Ulele understand? Sometimes Ruth thought she understood nothing, but at other times she wondered if the cunning female knew more than she let on.

Dropping her voice even lower, Ruth pressed her mouth next to Dylan’s ear. “We walked for days without food or shelter. We can do it again. We’ll take the goat—the baby will have milk. We can make it.” She pressed closer. “Please, Dylan.”

Being this near to him set off a strange lightness in the bottom of her stomach. The smell of soap, water, and herbs rose from the poultices. She couldn’t bear to watch the way Nehemiah worked a man in Dylan’s condition. The punishment was cruel and uncalled for. Yes, they were at the mercy of strangers, but no mercy had been shown them. She feared if they didn’t leave here soon the old man would work Dylan to death.

“No,” Dylan snapped. “It’s only for a few days. I can make it—I have to make it.” He set his jaw. As if that settled the matter, he got up and went to his bedroll on his side of the room.

Chewing her bottom lip, Ruth sat down and resumed the mending. Her back ached and her eyes blurred from the blue mist that continually hung in the cabin. Her clothes and hair smelled of pungent wood, and she longed for a hot bath. Was that possible? She’d spotted an old washtub hanging on the back of the house. Obviously, by the way the Fords smelled, the tub wasn’t used often. Putting the mending aside, Ruth ran her hand through her hair and scratched. If she only had a brush . . .

She glanced at the Indian woman. “Ulele?”

The woman pretended not to have heard.

“Ulele?”

Ulele grunted.

“Is it all right if I heat water in the morning and take a bath?”

Ulele picked up the baby and shuffled into the bedroom, yanking the thin curtain closed behind her. Ruth resented the fact that the old woman insisted that the baby sleep in the Fords’ room. It wasn’t fair. Ruth wanted the child with her; she was the infant’s caretaker, not Ulele.