Ruth (19 page)

Ruth didn’t see how the marshall could hold up or how they could feed the baby. They’d left in such a hurry, they’d forgotten the goat. They needed help and needed it badly.

She walked to the brook and wet a cloth, then returned to clean and apply poultices to Dylan’s shoulder. Anything placed on the raw flesh made him wince, but this was necessary. The marshall endured the treatment twice daily only by gritting his jaw and turning his head away. It hurt her to hurt him.

“I don’t know why you won’t let me give you something for the pain.” On the second night at the Fords’, she’d given him some of the sleeping weed from the store that Ulele kept. When Dylan first drank it, his mood had improved, but in a strange way. His eyes would go wide and soon he would think that he saw spiders running up the wall. The first time it happened, Ruth jumped up and grabbed a shoe, her gaze searching for the offensive bug. But there had been no spiders. Dylan was out of his mind. His hallucinations had lasted for hours until she had given up. She threw the shoe in a corner and let him rave.

After two doses, he had refused any more of the medicine. “I don’t want any more of that locoweed!”

He winced now as she applied the herbs. Their eyes met over the firelight. Tonight she found it impossible to break the look, and her touch lingered far too long to be polite. The baby slept nearby, warm beside the fire. “I’m sorry you’re hurt,” she said. “I feel very responsible.”

“Responsible?” His gaze softened. “You had nothing to do with me riding to the old man’s defense. When I topped a rise and saw Indians attacking the wagon, I acted out of instinct—I should have realized I was outnumbered. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

She wound a clean bandage around his shoulder. Such a nice shoulder—broad and heavily corded. The past few days he’d lost more weight, but he was still a large, well-muscled man.

“I should thank you, Ruth. I doubt that I would be alive tonight if you hadn’t stopped to help.”

She smiled. “It was nothing—I would have done it for anyone.”

Truth be known, she didn’t want to examine too closely what she’d done. If she had known it was Dylan lying near death, would she have passed on without a single backward glance? She didn’t want to think so, but at the time she well might have. She was ever so grateful that she hadn’t let her fear override kindness. She was glad she’d been able to pull Dylan back from the jaws of death. He was, after all, a decent man.

Perhaps if they had met under different circumstances . . .

But they
had
met under different circumstances—on the wagon train—and Ruth well recalled the marshall’s arrogance, the endless teasing when she came into his sights. Yet tonight Dylan McCall was nothing like that man. He was soft-spoken, respectful and, yes, humble. She didn’t know how to react to this new man. She was more comfortable with the ornery side of Marshall McCall.

At any rate, she no longer felt animosity toward him, just empathy—for his wounds, for the fact that he had been saddled with a woman and baby so he couldn’t carry out his duties. But his trials would be over in a few days, God willing, and hers would have just begun.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

She glanced up. Could her feelings possibly show on her face? “Oh, they wouldn’t be worth a penny.”

“They might. Are you worried?”

She shook her head. “I’m not worried about me, only about you and the baby.”

“I told you I’d help you find a home for the baby when we reach Sulphur Springs.”

“I know. It’s just that I feel so overwhelmed by the task. I want the child to have a good home, to be raised by Christian parents. What if we make a mistake and give her to the wrong family?” She glanced at the baby, who dozed beside Dylan. The child needed care and love—most of all love.

Tonight’s feeding had been an ordeal. Without the goat’s milk, Ruth had been forced to chew the baby’s food for her. The primitive food chain was unpleasant and sickened Ruth, but the child accepted the fare without protest.

“Tomorrow we’ll find another cow or goat,” Dylan promised. Was he a mind reader? No, he wouldn’t still be with her if he could read her mind.

“It isn’t that.” She set the roll of bandages and herbs aside and helped him struggle back into his shirt. “I know the baby and I are keeping you from your work.”

He shook his head. “I’ll wire my boss when we reach Sulphur Springs and explain what happened. There won’t be a problem.”

“You need to see a doctor before you do anything else.”

He grinned, buttoning the shirt. “Yes, Mama. And I’d suggest that you send a wire to your cousin Milford so he will be expecting you.”

She dropped her gaze and grinned. He could be as charming as an old-maid aunt when he wanted. “I might very well do that, smarty.”

And she would,
if
she had any inkling of how to contact Milford. Regardless, she had made up her mind that she was no longer going to be a burden to the marshall. When Dylan left Sulphur Springs without her, it would be with her blessing and prayers.

They turned in for the night. Her bedroll was on the opposite side of the fire, but when she lay down, she met Dylan’s gaze. They looked at each other for a long time. Love stirred inside Ruth; she pushed it down. It was only natural under these circumstances to feel gratitude and yes, even a smidgen of affection for her protector. Dylan had not wanted the job, certainly never asked for it, but he was fulfilling the role admirably. If she was foolishly falling in love with him, it wasn’t his fault.

The fire burned low. Overhead a cloudy sky stripped the night of any light. Dylan’s eyes closed with fatigue, and he cradled the baby to his chest protectively. Ruth smiled. How she envied that child . . .

Rolling to her back, she closed her eyes.
Don’t think that way, Ruth. You’re getting soft.
She opened her eyes when she heard Dylan singing now—a soft lullaby—Irish, wasn’t it? Ruth had heard the song before but didn’t know where. Perhaps from her father’s lips.

“Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

“From glen to glen, and down the mountain side . . .”

Melancholy stole over her as she listened to the rich baritone softening the darkness. Her thoughts turned to the only family she knew now: Patience, Mary, Lily, Harper. What were they doing tonight? Was Mary’s asthma worse? Would Mary ever find a man to love her—to adore her the way Jackson cherished Glory? Would any of the women be that blessed?

The other girls must be worried sick about Ruth, fearing the worst. She’d been gone almost a month and hadn’t written.

She flipped back to her side, stuffing her fist into her mouth to mute her crying. If she hadn’t been so willful, so stubborn, she would be with them tonight, in a warm bed or sitting at Pastor Siddons’s table, or at Oscar Fleming’s. Should she have married the old prospector? The thought still rendered her numb, but maybe God had intended her to marry Oscar. Oscar would be well past the years of wanting children. . . . Perhaps Oscar had been God’s way of providing for Ruth, given her barrenness. She didn’t want to cheat any man by marrying him and not being able to give him children. God had set her path, but in her self-centeredness she had failed to be obedient to his will, instead running off to Wyoming to build her life. Now she was paying the consequences of her folly.

She would never love another man like she loved the marshall. Hard as she tried to put dreams of a family away, sometimes the hope sprang up to strangle her.

Closing her eyes, she prayed silently.
I will do whatever you want, Lord; only you must show me the way. I am truly blind and cannot see which direction to take at this point. I don’t know why I’m here with Marshall McCall and a motherless baby, but I will do my best to find a home for this child and make Marshall McCall’s life a little easier—with your grace.

For some reason God had appointed her—what?—surrogate mother and marshall caretaker? Seemed an unusual responsibility to be given to her, but she didn’t question the Father’s will. She would function wherever he put her.

She drifted off to the sound of Dylan’s singing.

The first ray of light drew Ruth awake and she lay, listening and waiting, reluctant to face what a new day would bring. She could hear the baby cooing as Dylan talked to her. How was it he could relate so well to an infant but triggered her temper so easily? She couldn’t understand that. They could walk together for hours, each seeming to know when the other was tired and needed to rest, always anticipating what the other was thinking. Then Dylan would tease her about marrying Oscar, about her ridiculous decision to follow him, or about her temper, and she would boil over. There was just something about him—

“Do you intend to lie there all day?”

Like now.

“No. But I didn’t fancy rising before sunup.”

“It’s dawn and we’re burning daylight.”

She sat up and looked at him, holding the baby. “She needs milk.”

“And I’m fresh out,” Dylan returned, his blue eyes mocking her.

“Grump.”

“Let’s get moving.”

Sometimes he acted like he was running from her as hard as she was running from Oscar.

They rode slowly this morning, sparing the mare since it was carrying double. Ruth sat behind Dylan, who held the baby against his good shoulder. She was careful to avoid touching the marshall’s back, to allow the herbs to do their work. Besides, she didn’t want to touch him any more than necessary because . . . well, just because.

The baby’s serious dark eyes peered at her over his shoulder, and Ruth wished Dylan would change the baby’s position. Guilt still nagged her over the decision to bring the child. But as soon as she thought of Ulele and Nehemiah, she praised God that she’d had the nerve to fight. Surely when they reached Sulphur Springs, there would be a family eager to take her.

“Well, well,” Dylan said, startling Ruth out of her reverie. “God does provide.”

Ruth peered around his shoulder. In the middle of the trail was a cow standing there as if waiting for them to happen along. Ruth could hardly believe her eyes. “Do you think it’s . . . tame?”

Dylan’s shoulders shook with laughter. “Tame?”

“Yes,” she said, stung. “I don’t fancy getting kicked from here to kingdom come.” She’d been lucky; the other cow had been gentle.

“Guess one of us will have to find out. Should we flip a coin?”

He was teasing her again, laughing at her when she was entirely serious. Well, it was up to him to figure out how to catch this one.

Ruth slid off the horse. Dylan dismounted, too, and handed her the baby. Then he took the rope from the saddle and uncoiled it, keeping the horse between him and the cow. The object in question continued to stare at them, chewing contentedly. Ruth was astounded. Was it just going to stand there while Dylan roped and milked it? Somehow she didn’t think so. Finally Dylan stepped back into the saddle.

“What are you doing?” Ruth asked, wondering if he’d changed his mind and decided to ride on. He probably wasn’t eager to reopen the wounds a fourth time—or was it the fifth time by now?

“I’m going to rope a cow,” he said.

He urged the horse forward, moving parallel to the cow. He began to gently twirl the rope above his head. Ruth watched curiously. He did seem to know what he was doing. When he was within three or so yards of the cow, Dylan sent the rope flying with a flick of his wrist. The cow stood quietly as the noose settled around its withers and the horse planted its hooves in the sod. For about three seconds the cow and the horse looked at one another, and then the cow decided she’d had enough of the game.

With a toss of her head, she attempted to rid herself of the rope. She failed. The mare had, at some point, been a good cow pony, because she stood her ground, keeping the rope taut between her and the cow.

“Good job,” Dylan said, patting the animal’s neck.

“Now what?” Ruth asked.

“Now we’re going to see if that cow has some milk for our baby.”

Our baby.
His words hit her like a sandstorm. No. She wouldn’t even entertain the thought. Dylan’s words signified a slip of the tongue—nothing more.

Dylan got off the horse and cautiously followed the rope toward the cow. He spoke gently. Ruth couldn’t hear the words, but the cow watched him warily. In a few minutes he was able to rub the beast’s nose and apparently convince her that he was harmless. He ran a hand down her side, then knelt gingerly beside her. He tested the udder, then gently squeezed a teat.

“We have milk,” he announced softly. “Bring me a canteen.”

Taking a cue from him, Ruth moved slowly and quietly, hoping the baby wouldn’t choose the next few minutes for a screaming fit. Grace was with them. She handed Dylan two canteens and backed away.

Before long the marshall had filled both containers with milk. When he removed the rope from the cow’s neck, he patted her and thanked her for cooperating.

“Well, that wasn’t too difficult,” he announced, returning to Ruth. “Let’s have breakfast.”

The baby drank from the canteen greedily. Dylan offered Ruth the first drink from the second canteen. She’d never drunk milk fresh from the cow before, and the warm taste was different. Not distasteful, but different.