Ruth (20 page)

“You’ve milked a few cows in your life.”

“Raised on a farm,” he said.

She wondered where he’d been raised, and how, but it didn’t seem a subject he wanted to open so she left it. There was a lot about Dylan McCall she didn’t know, and it seemed, a lot more he wasn’t willing to share. At least not with her.

Dylan stood up and stretched. “We’d best move on. I don’t want to take a chance on Nehemiah catching up. He’s crazy enough to try and snatch the baby and shoot us in the process.”

“You think he’d come after us?” Ruth’s eyes searched the road they traveled.

“I don’t know what that old man might do,” Dylan replied, a remnant of his former anger still evident in his tone. “And I don’t want to know.”

At noon they fed the baby from the canteen again. She cooperated and soon dropped off to sleep in Dylan’s arms.

At midafternoon, when Ruth was about to close her eyes from need of sleep, Dylan’s soft voice woke her. “Well, well, look at this.”

Ruth peered around his shoulder. A wagon drawn by a team of bays was coming toward them. She could see a heavyset woman at the reins. Dylan halted the mare just off the trail, and the woman stopped the wagon beside them. Four children, ranging in age, Ruth guessed, from around ten to four years, peered up at her. Their faces were smudged, as if they’d eaten candy before their ride, their eyes wide with question as they looked up at Dylan.

“Afternoon,” Dylan greeted.

“Mama,” the youngest whined.

“You hush,” the mother admonished.

“But, Mama—”

The woman reached around the three others and thumped the boy on the head. His eyes immediately smarted with tears. Ruth’s heart went out to the child as she wondered what the little boy had wanted.

“Mama, Davy needs to—”

“Didn’t I tell you all to
shut
yore piehole?”

The youngest child sniffed and swiped his sleeve across his runny nose. The woman turned back to focus on Ruth and Dylan. “What are you two doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

The woman wore a much-washed blue dress with a round collar. A wool cape hung on her shoulders, and she wore a broad-brimmed bonnet. Her face was rosy from the cold air. The children’s clothes looked worn and wrinkled, as if they’d traveled some distance since the morning, and none of them wore a coat that fit properly. Thin arms stuck out of threadbare sleeves, and not one had a coat buttoned up.

Dylan addressed the woman. “We’re going to Sulphur Springs. I understand it’s not too many more miles.”

“Just three or four. Just came from there. Heading to my folks’ place,” the woman said. “Marge Donaldson’s my name.”

“Dylan McCall. This is Ruth.”

Mrs. Donaldson nodded. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Mama, Davy—”

The woman elbowed the oldest child back into his seat.

“Where’d you come from?” another child queried.

“Joshua, you just sit back there and shut up—”

Ruth studied the woman’s strong face. She saw a woman worn down from hard work and too many mouths to feed, but she took a chance. “We have a baby who needs a home.” The words slipped out before Ruth could stop them. Surprise crossed the woman’s face.

“Let’s see him.”

Dylan glanced at Ruth over his shoulder and then held the sleeping baby up for the woman’s perusal. “It’s a her.”

Marge frowned. “That’s an Indian baby. Where’d you come by it?”

“Her—she’s a her, and I rescued her from a burning wagon after an Indian attack,” Ruth explained.

The woman’s frown turned into a scowl. “The red heathens didn’t take the kid with them?”

“I don’t believe they knew the child was there,” Ruth said shortly.

“Well, well. Ain’t that somethin’.” Mrs. Donaldson’s eyes ran over God’s perfect creation like she was inspecting rancid meat. And with just about the same emotion.

“Mama—”

“Sharon, I told you to sit down and be quiet!” She smacked the little girl hard and shoved her back into her seat in the corner of the wagon, where one of her brothers quickly moved to shield her.

Ruth wondered if the children ever wished they could disappear. She’d been raised without parents, along with the other children at the orphanage, except for the time she’d lived with the Norrises. She’d been spared this kind of treatment.

“So yore lookin’ for a home for the baby?”

Ruth glanced at Dylan.

“Well, I’d surely be willin’ to take her. My husband took off a while back and I’m alone, ’cept for th’ kids. Got a homestead not too far from here, cattle to take care of, garden in the summer. Need all th’ help I can get. Not too many people out here, ya know, so I got to raise my own help. ’Course, it’ll be some time before that one can be anything but a burden, but—”

“Mama, there ain’t—”

“You
sit
down, Jacob, and keep yore mouth shut!”

Taking the baby from Dylan, Ruth drew her protectively to her chest. “Ride on,” she whispered to Dylan under her breath.

“Don’t you have any hands on your place?” Dylan asked.

“Got one. Once in a while some man hidin’ from th’ law will come through, work for food and a place to sleep. I give him a bunk, and he does a few chores until he up and leaves.” She shrugged. “Generally, they don’t stay long.”

“Go,” Ruth murmured, giving Dylan a stern look. “Now. She isn’t the one.”

Clearing his throat, Dylan said kindly, “Well, I think we’ll ride on into Sulphur Springs.”

The woman seemed unfazed by his dismissal.

“Suit yourself—”

“Mama—”

“Jacob, if I have to tell you young’uns to hush one more time,” the woman threatened, turning to catch the ear of the offending youngster and twisting it until the child yowled.

Ruth winced.

Marge looked back. “Say, bet you two could use some grub.”

“No,” Ruth said, glancing up at Dylan. He wagged an eyebrow.

Marge Donaldson turned on the wagon seat and yelled at one of the middle kids. “Boy! You hand me up four ta five of those turnips back there. Where’s yore manners?”

Jacob, his ear fiery red, his eyes brimming with tears an eight-year-old would hate, Ruth guessed, turned and handed the vegetables to his mother.

“Here. Ain’t much, but it’s somethin’ to fill yore belly.”

“Thank you,” Dylan said, leaning down to take the vegetables, which he handed to Ruth.

“You take care now,” Marge advised, then slapped the reins over the rumps of the team.

“Mama!”

“You
hush
!”

As the wagon rattled down the road, Ruth could still hear the children complaining and Marge Donaldson still advising each to “shut up.”

“Oh, my,” Ruth breathed, hugging the baby tightly.

“Wonder why her husband left?” Dylan said, turning to grin at Ruth.

Ruth stifled a giggle. She felt sorry for the children and wished she could do something to make their lot in life better, but she knew that was impossible. At least she and Dylan hadn’t given her the baby to raise and abuse.

“Well, looks like we have our supper,” Dylan said, eyeing the turnips.

“Praise the Lord,” Ruth agreed, feeling good that God had left the baby in her care a while longer.

It wouldn’t be forever, she knew. She accepted that . . . didn’t she?

Chapter Ten

The long day had sapped Dylan’s strength. As Ruth walked, he clung to the baby and to the saddle, careful not to show Ruth his growing feebleness as shadows began to lengthen.

Ruth had carried more than her share lately, and most of their problems were due to him. If he could live that fateful day over when he’d decided to ride to the old man’s rescue. . . . In all likelihood, however, he would make the same decision again, to go in with guns blazing, and that would be all right, but only if Ruth weren’t drawn into the fiasco.

He closed his eyes, grimacing when he thought about dying out there beside that wagon, alone, without ever knowing Ruth, really knowing her. He’d have missed discovering that her stubbornness was part of her strength, her ability to focus on an end result without being distracted by her own pain. She cared for the baby, cared for her without complaint. She’d determined to go somewhere new, to begin a new life—whether in Wyoming or elsewhere—and that’s what she would do in spite of this major setback. The baby and Dylan were only minor detours in her mind.

While he could appreciate that focus, it bothered him as well. He found himself wanting to distract her, wanting her to think about him in ways other than a responsibility—an unwanted one to boot.

But who took care of Ruth? She was the one who had taken on the job of teaching Glory to read and write, to bathe like a cultured young woman, and to acquire manners. Ruth had worried over Mary’s poor health and sat up with her for company and comfort when Mary’s coughs wracked her slight frame.

But who took care of Ruth?

And why did Dylan find himself wanting things to be different right now? Why was he angry because he was injured and couldn’t properly protect Ruth? He wanted to carry the burden of worry and the weight of protection for her and the child. Worry grated on him; she’d had to be the stronger one, even when she had her own problems.

The mental exercise kept his mind off the fact that it was taking four times as long to make the trek to Sulphur Springs as it should have, and that his back felt like a hot poker had caught him between the shoulder blades.

Ruth.

What awaited her once they reached town, found someone to take the baby, and he went on his way? He knew he’d been more hindrance than help, but what would she do without him? What would
he
do without Ruth? The fact that they were together had made the circumstances more tolerable—at least to him.

Then
was in the future. Right now Ruth was barely able to put one foot in front of the other. Though it was early, they both needed rest. The baby started to fret.

“Looks like a good place to camp.”

Ruth swayed on her feet. “So soon?” She blinked, holding her hand to her head.

“Are you all right?” The question was stupid; she was obviously far from being all right.

“I’m fine,” Ruth insisted as she took the baby from him. “But I’m grateful we’ve stopped early today.” She gave him a thankful smile.

“Well, you need to thank the Lord special tonight. We have something to eat.” Dylan patted his pockets, which bulged with the turnips Mrs. Donaldson had given them.

“Good idea. Maybe we can both thank him.”

The suggestion made Dylan uncomfortable, but he saw her point. The Lord—or whoever—had had plenty of chances to do them in, but for some reason decided not to. It had to be because of Ruth’s influence, because he still couldn’t bring himself to trust in anyone but Dylan McCall. If he let himself down, he had no one to blame but himself. If Ruth’s Lord let him down—well, he’d been let down in that way before, and he might not take kindly to the situation now.

Ruth helped him drag the saddle off the horse and wipe the animal down with dry grass before staking her out to graze for the night. The winter spring trickling into a small pool provided sufficient water. After starting a fire, Dylan dipped water into their single pot and peeled the turnips with his pocketknife, while Ruth changed the baby’s diaper. He set the pot on the edge of the campfire to boil.

“We should be in Sulphur Springs no later than late tomorrow afternoon, I’d guess.”

“Good,” Ruth murmured. She lay back against a tree and closed her eyes. The dark circles under her eyes troubled Dylan. She needed a comfortable place to sleep, decent boots, and a hot meal. How had he allowed the situation to get so far out of hand? He should have turned around the moment he’d realized that she was following him and had taken her back to Denver City. If he had, none of this would have happened. He’d have missed the old man and the Indian attack by a good two days, and he wouldn’t be here, huddled around a tiny campfire, helpless as a turtle on its back.

But as Sara Dunnigan used to say: If wishes were pickles and
but
s were bread, you’d have a fine sandwich but nothing else.

Ruth got up and unrolled her bed, then collapsed on it in a heap, staring glassy-eyed up at the threatening sky. “I pray we can make it before the weather breaks.”

Dylan turned a skeptical eye on the lowering clouds blocking a weak sun. They held snow, and plenty of it. They would be walking knee-deep in the white stuff by the time they reached Sulphur Springs, but he didn’t bother to tell Ruth. She had her hands full with the baby tonight. The child seemed fussier than usual although she’d drunk her fill of milk.

As the turnips bubbled over the fire, Ruth roused herself enough to dress his wounds. He saw the hollow look in her eyes and wondered if she was getting sick. That’s all they’d need—for both to be incapacitated and leave the baby vulnerable. He set his teeth, sheer will forcing him to remain alert. Wounds that had shown promise of healing yesterday had broken open today and seeped green pus tonight. Ruth shook her head, her eyes solemn as she cleaned the infection and applied the last of the herbs. Her eyes met his, and he wished that he could erase the fear he saw in their depths.

“It’s not good, is it?” He asked the obvious.

“No,” she whispered.

“One more day,” he promised, answering her mute question. “I’ll see a doctor when we get to Sulphur Springs.”

She nodded, tying off the clean strip of bleached muslin. Ulele had been smart enough to know that the wound must be kept clean, yet all the herbs in the world weren’t going to heal these wounds. They’d had such poor care at the first, then had reopened too many times to heal properly. A doctor would have to lance and cauterize the wounds before healing could set in.

Dylan mutely shook his head. Despite his best efforts, disaster had struck. And it would strike again if he didn’t do something to prevent it. Sulphur Springs was only a day away. Yet could they make it?

He had never felt so helpless in his life. How he wished that he believed in Ruth’s God—had her peaceful assurances that someone besides herself controlled the situa-tion.