Ruth (18 page)

She got up and looked out of the window again. Was Dylan negotiating for a second horse? She could hardly bear to think about walking a mile—much less five or six—if that was the remaining distance to Sulphur Springs. They couldn’t depend on Nehemiah to have told them the truth. She’d learned that much from her experience in the past few days.

She bit her bottom lip, her worry increasing. Dylan had been gone too long. Something was wrong.

Ulele returned to the cabin with the baby. At Ulele’s direction, Ruth started to scrub down the walls while the old woman entertained the baby.

The lye soap ate into her hands and water ran down her arms, wetting the front of the shirt Ulele had loaned her. Ruth could hear the baby cooing in response to the woman’s native tongue. She wished she could understand what Ulele was saying. Ruth scrubbed harder. Where was Dylan? They needed to be on their way before the day was over.

Just before sundown Ruth saw the marshall coming toward the cabin. By now Ruth was sick with worry. Nehemiah must have stopped off to take care of something in the barn because she didn’t see him immediately, which was unusual. Dylan’s strides were measured, his shoulders stiff. His posture told Ruth that her suspicions were right: all was not well. The fact that he hadn’t come back this morning was troubling enough. Had the marshall changed his mind and consented to stay the day and leave tomorrow morning?

Ulele was busy with the baby, so Ruth picked up the water bucket and slipped out the door to meet the marshall at the edge of the water barrel. His face was pale and his eyes sunken with shadows as he began to wash up. Was it pain or fury that burned like hot coals in his blue eyes?

Ruth shivered as the icy wind whipped around the edge of the cabin. The sky was pewter gray with the lowering clouds. Snow clouds? She prayed that another storm wasn’t brewing. “Did you talk to Nehemiah?”

“Yes.” The marshall’s voice was clipped and concise.

“What did he say?”

Dylan took a deep breath, and a flash of pain marred his features.

Ruth felt so bad for him she almost reached out to touch him. Standing back, she allowed him a moment to recover. “What happened?” she asked.

“He laughed.”

Ruth blinked in surprise. “Laughed? He
laughed
? Why?”

“He said we shouldn’t be so easily fooled next time.”

Ruth didn’t understand. “Fooled? What did he mean?”

“He meant he tricked us. We’re getting nothing. We’ve worked for
nothing
, Ruth.”

“For nothing?” she echoed. The words refused to register. They had toiled for five days of relentless labor. For nothing?

“You mean you’ve worked so hard that you’ve nearly killed yourself, for nothing? He’s giving us
nothing
?”

“That’s what I said.” Fury tinted Dylan’s cheeks, and his hands, now calloused and red from labor, made fists at his sides.

Ruth whirled and pretended to dip water as he splashed his face and dried it with a towel. Ruth could hardly believe that anyone—even Nehemiah—could be so deceitful. Dylan had worked from sunup to sundown, working through the fever of infection, hardly able to stand, and Nehemiah was refusing to pay him? He had apparently delighted in his little game, duping them into doing his work when he never
intended
to pay up. She’d never known anyone so dishonest—except the Wyatts. What was wrong with people out here? Were they all out for personal gain at the expense of anyone and everyone?

“I wanted to kill him, Ruth. For the first time in my life I wanted to shoot a man down in cold blood and leave him lying in the snow,” Dylan admitted through gritted teeth.

“You should have.” Ruth knew the words were uncharitable, callous and cold, but at the moment she couldn’t feel anything but hatred for Nehemiah Ford.

“I didn’t have a gun.” Dylan stared at the horizon, which was fast disappearing as night approached. “The horse and goat are ours, and I’d say he owes us supplies. I’ve already taken what we’re owed.”

Ruth wanted to wring her hands, but instead she kept calm. Bursts of temper had gotten her here in the first place. “I think you’re right. We made a bargain and Nehemiah reneged. He agreed to the terms. That’s a bargain, whether Nehemiah Ford chooses to honor his words or not.”

Dylan met her gaze. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ruth nodded in agreement. She picked up the bucket of water; Dylan started off for the barn.

The baby was on the floor playing while Ulele stirred a pot of beans on the stove. Ruth set the bucket of water in its usual place behind the stove, pretending all was normal. When the old woman turned her head, Ruth quickly scooped up the two bedrolls, but when she turned for the child, she found herself staring down a double-barreled shotgun.

Ruth’s blood froze.

The Cherokee woman held the wide-eyed infant in the crook of one arm. In the other arm she steadied the shotgun. The baby looked at Ruth curiously, clearly happy and healthy after a few days of care and nourishing food. Ulele had taken good care of the child, but the baby wasn’t hers to keep.

Swallowing her fear, Ruth remained where she was. Would the old woman really shoot her? The shotgun would rip her in two. She had to be brave. Dylan was just outside the door. She had to measure up.

God, help me,
she prayed.

“We’re leaving,” she said, though she knew the woman didn’t understand a word. “Give me the baby.” She held out her hands, demanding the infant.

Ulele shook her head no.

Ruth nodded yes, keeping her eyes glued to the gun. “Yes,” she ordered, still holding out her hands.

Ulele shook her head. No. The woman refused to relinquish the child, and the shotgun never wavered.

Ruth felt her bottom lip quiver. Suddenly she was angry. Fighting mad. How dare this woman think she had a right to keep this child! Nehemiah and Ulele Ford were mean, deceitful heathens. Nehemiah had noted her Christianity when she’d thanked God for Nehemiah’s appearance on the trail, but not once had he offered a prayer before meals or at bedtime. Not once had either Ford said thank you for anything. And now Nehemiah thought he could keep them here by force? By not giving them the horse and supplies they earned? And Ulele thought she could steal this child by holding Ruth at gunpoint?

I don’t think so,
Ruth decided. Ulele motioned Ruth toward the door with the barrel of the shotgun. Bracing herself for a fight, Ruth lunged for the gun, catching the Indian woman off guard. Ruth grabbed hold of the gun barrel, shoving it toward the ceiling, but Ulele wasn’t letting go. While she held on to the gun barrel, Ruth tried to take the baby from Ulele, but the woman was older, taller, and stronger.

All Ruth could do was hold on and fight to gain control while protecting the child. “No,” Ruth grunted with effort, “you’re not keeping
her
.”

Ulele responded with a guttural word. The baby was howling now.

Suddenly a masculine hand swooped down and grabbed the gun, yanking it out of both Ruth’s and Ulele’s grip. Before Ruth knew what had happened, Dylan shouldered Ulele aside and snatched the baby out of her arms. Shoving the child at Ruth, he snatched up the two bedrolls, grabbed her hand, and dragged her out of the cabin.

Hand in hand, they sprinted for the waiting horse, on which Dylan had managed to load meager supplies. He hoisted Ruth and the baby atop of the animal and then sprang onto the mare behind them.

“Keep low,” Dylan shouted, shoving Ruth down. He covered her and the baby with his body while he held the reins.

A bullet whizzed over their heads, and Ruth buried her face in the smell of leather. She clung tightly to the baby, who was wailing. Glancing beneath Dylan’s arm, she saw Ulele standing in the doorway, her hands over her face, the old farmer running a few steps before stopping to fire again. Ruth closed her eyes and concentrated on holding on. They rode at full gallop as far as the horse could safely go carrying double weight.

Finally Dylan drew the animal to a standstill beneath a bare aspen and slid off. He helped Ruth down. “Are you okay?”

“Scared half to death, but I’m fine.” Ruth gazed down at the baby, straightening her blankets so they covered her shoulders.

Dylan grinned. “Was that a fight I just witnessed between two women over one baby?”

Ruth’s chin rose a notch. “She wasn’t keeping this child.” She wouldn’t admit that she would have fought a whole tribe of Indians before she’d see this baby fall into the wrong hands. A hundred years would pass before she’d openly acknowledge that she cared for this tiny life—cared so much it hurt.

Part of Ruth wanted the small girl so badly she couldn’t stand it, but another, stronger, part of her knew she would never be her mother. The baby needed a home with two parents; that was only fair for the child.

As Ruth gazed at the child in her arms, love nearly suffocated her. “Maybe I should have let Ulele keep her,” she backtracked. “After all, she is an Indian baby.”

Then why had she fought to keep the child? She should have grabbed the bedrolls and run, and not put the baby in danger again.

Well, she’d done it for Dylan, she told herself.

Dylan had taken to the child; she could see it in his smile, though it did seem odd. He was a marshall, a man accustomed to being alone. He liked his solitary life. He’d said so not once but many times. But she’d watched him holding the child, talking to her every night. While the baby slept, she’d caught him smoothing down the thatch of black hair that persisted in standing straight up. She’d seen him cup that tiny head with his large hand . . . and she had ached with the knowledge that his hard heart was softening toward the child but not so much toward her.

“Ulele wasn’t going to let me have her. I knew you’d be upset if I didn’t get her.”

“Me? Upset?” He looked incredulous. Then he laughed. Hooted, in fact.

The baby started to howl, and Ruth shoved her toward Dylan. He automatically took her, staring at Ruth with puzzlement.

Ruth wouldn’t look at either of them. “She likes you better,” she said. Her heart ached because she knew it was true. And the knowledge hurt.

Chapter Nine

“The man should be horsewhipped,” Dylan observed as they ate bread and cold meat over a small fire that night.

Ruth agreed, wondering how anyone got to be that mean; it would surely take work and the devil’s help. How many other unsuspecting travelers had the Fords ensnared?

Ruth steadied the marshall’s cup as she poured coffee. Dylan’s hands were trembling—a sure sign of his rage. When a person’s hand trembled from anger, there would be a price to pay.

Ruth knew the consequences of anger. Lately, hadn’t she let flashes of emotion overrule good sense more often than not? She hated the feeling of not being in control; she’d prided herself on using good judgment, relying on the Lord, but lately she’d failed miserably. The rigid set of Dylan’s jaw reminded her of her own short fuse. But who wouldn’t be angry? Nehemiah Ford was an evil man, so evil Ruth doubted the devil would lay claim to his own.

Once when Ruth was small, there’d been a man who tried to take advantage of Mrs. Galeen’s goodness. Ruth had been young, barely able to remember the incident. Mrs. Galeen had paid the worker to help pick apples in the small orchard behind the orphanage. They had agreed on a full day’s work—sunup to sundown. Shortly after noon break, Mrs. Galeen had caught the young man snoozing beneath a low, spreading branch ripe with fruit. Ruth could still recall the woman’s reaction. She’d whacked the boy smartly on the bottoms of his thin boots. When he’d jumped up in surprise, she’d paid him for the work he’d done and escorted him off the property in a dead run.

The woman had been demanding but fair and compassionate. Character traits Nehemiah Ford wouldn’t have recognized.

“Men like Ford should be strung up by their heels,” Dylan said. “Shot like a rabid animal.”

Ruth released a breath of relief. It was good to know that he was angrier with the Fords than with her. “Well—” she turned to pick up a clean bandage—“maybe not shot. The Good Book says an eye for an eye, but I’ve never quite understood how far a person could actually go without receiving God’s disapproval.”

She’d never shot anything but necessary food—and she wouldn’t—except she would be mighty tempted right now if Nehemiah Ford caught up with them.

Dylan took a drink from the cup, eyeing her. When he continued to stare, Ruth looked up. “What?”

“You actually believe in the Lord and this Good Book, don’t you?”

Ruth gaped at him. “You don’t?”

Though in her mind she’d accused the marshall of being a heathen more than once, she supposed she didn’t really believe he was. He’d had the tenacity to keep going, to protect her and the baby as best he could under the circumstances. A lesser man might have rid himself of the problem long ago. She didn’t know if she could have done all that without the Lord’s help, so she had begun to wonder if maybe Dylan was starting to trust more than he knew. He didn’t speak coarsely—at least not as much lately—and never the way Nehemiah had gone on, taking the Lord’s name in vain with every breath. Though Dylan sometimes made her so angry she couldn’t see straight and his stubbornness drove her to distraction, she had to admire his tenacity.

Dylan looked away from the fire. “Never had an occasion to believe in anyone other than myself.”

Sorrow twisted in Ruth, deep and hurtful. She hated the way she was softening toward this man. Ruth might not be alive at all if it weren’t for this wonderful man. He was a good man. Yet something in Dylan’s childhood must have stifled his ability to believe. Some bitterness from his past seemed to haunt him.

Dylan had functioned under incredible odds. Only through God’s grace had he managed to travel with his injuries, yet he couldn’t seem to see that. The five days at the Fords’ place had been torturous.

Dylan was still in no condition to travel. Neither was she; it wouldn’t take much to start her feet bleeding again. Could they possibly make it the five or six miles to Sulphur Springs?