Ruth (26 page)

Niles and Annabelle had stood on the front porch of the boardinghouse and waved them off. Ruth had to laugh when she thought of how Rose had melted Annabelle’s heart. The night they’d arrived, Annabelle had been woken from a sound sleep and seemed distant, but oh, how she had warmed to Rose and Ruth and Dylan while they were there. Why, by the time they left the woman was practically conversational.

A part of Ruth regretted leaving Sulphur Springs. But another part, the bigger part, felt a rightness about being with Dylan and Rose. There was hope for her future, wherever she ended up. Hadn’t she just read Jeremiah 29:11? “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the Lord, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end.” She clung to the hope that God would do good things for them, and that God would lead her to her expected end—a new life, either in Deer Lick or in Wyoming. Perhaps she could find a job in Deer Lick that would allow her to support Rose. . . .

Dylan had agreed that when they reached Deer Lick, he would see a doctor about his wounds. If the doctor said he needed more time for them to heal, he would stay, even though she knew he was eager to move on and not lose Dreck Parson. What if there was nothing for her in Deer Lick? Well, she’d just have to go on to Wyoming with Dylan after all. How long had he said it would take to reach Wyoming? Two or three weeks, depending on weather. It could take two months.

Ruth smiled. Thanks to Ed French and the new shelves Dylan had built in his mercantile, Dylan had a few dollars in his pocket, and the saddlebags bulged with enough food to last them well into the next territory. They had two fresh horses, a cow for fresh milk for Rose, and a pocketful of dreams. At least she had dreams. Dreams that someday a man like Marshall McCall would fall in love with her and she— She stopped the thought. Whether they reached Deer Lick or Wyoming, she would just be plain Ruth again. Ruth the orphan. Ruth, the woman who was destined to spend the rest of her life alone.

Oh, God, why did you allow me to experience the joy of motherhood—of loving one man so much that I don’t think I will be able to exist when he leaves me? It would have been so much better for me to have never met Dylan, never known the joy of little Rose.

Was it possible she had misunderstood God’s direction? Her pulse hammered at the idea. Yes, it was possible . . . but not likely. Once they reached Deer Lick, once they found a suitable home for Rose . . .

Then she must concentrate on building a new life, the one she’d hoped to find in Denver City. Those days seemed so long ago, though it had only been a few weeks. She glanced at the baby nestled in Dylan’s coat, wisps of dark hair peeping out from under her wool cap. Already her arms ached to hold her . . . to hold the man who carried her.

She angrily shook the notion away. She had never held Dylan, not in the truest sense. Never close to her heart, whispering all the hidden longings bursting inside her.

“Cold?”

Ruth jerked at the sound of the marshall’s voice. Shaking her head, she took a firmer grip on the reins of her horse and rode ahead a short distance. She needed to put distance between herself and this man she had come to cherish.
You’re daydreaming, Ruth. Of all people, you should know better than to daydream.

By midafternoon they were approaching the small community of Shadow Brook when Ruth spotted a small gathering ahead. Men on horseback. She peered in the distance, wondering if bandits had waylaid some innocent traveler. She set her jaw. They were not stopping this time. She reined up abruptly and allowed Dylan to catch up.

He rode up beside her and asked, “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Look—ahead.” Eight figures gathered in a tight circle. Ruth noticed a corral to the left—with a horse standing by the railing.

Dylan leaned over and handed Rose to her. “You and the baby stay here. I’ll find out what’s going on.”

Fear shot through Ruth. “Dylan! Remember what happened the last time you rode to a stranger’s aid!”

“Yeah.” He glanced at Rose. “The best thing that’s ever happened to either one of us.” Her protest fell on deaf ears as Dylan kicked his mare into a gallop.

The snow had thinned to almost nothing as they had ridden west, and Ruth was grateful. It certainly made the trip easier. She grew almost ill every time she thought about how close to death they’d come before reaching Sulphur Springs. Dylan couldn’t take another setback. She watched cautiously as he rode off, her heart offering a wordless prayer for protection.

The circle of men opened as the marshall approached. He reined in and the men talked. The wind was slight and voices didn’t carry. Ruth wished she knew what was happening, prayed that it wasn’t more trouble.

Finally Dylan motioned for her to join them. Clucking her tongue, she nudged the horse forward. As she rode toward the group, she saw Dylan shaking hands with one man, glancing toward the horse in the pen. Well, at least the strangers were friendly.

Reining in, she smiled as Dylan made the introductions. Pointing to Ruth, he said, “This is . . . Jim, and the baby’s name is Rose.”

Ruth still wore trousers and boots as well as two layers of flannel shirts because they were warmer and it was easier to ride astride in pants. By now she was accustomed to receiving odd looks, but it still made her slightly uncomfortable. The cowboys acknowledged the greeting by ducking their heads, their gaze sweeping over her and the child. Rose and a bulky coat hid Ruth’s telltale curves from the men’s views.

Dylan grinned at her. “They’re having a contest.”

Lowering her voice the best she could, Ruth repeated, “A contest?” She turned and looked at the horse prancing nervously in the corral, his low whinnies edgy. When she looked back, Dylan met her gaze. “They’ve invited me to join in.”

An alarm went off inside her. “What kind of contest?”

He motioned toward the waiting stallion. “A riding contest.”

Her eyes darted to the corral, then back to Dylan. “Riding what?”

“That horse there. Bert.” He nodded toward the spirited animal. “Fifty dollars to the man who can ride him the longest.”

Ruth’s jaw dropped. “Dylan—”

The marshall quickly took her mare by the reins and pulled her aside. Out of earshot, he pleaded with her. “I can double our money, Ruth. I can ride that horse longer than any man here.”

Ruth was aghast. Gamble? She didn’t hold with gambling—the Good Book clearly advised against it!

“How could you think of such a thing?” she demanded. “We have enough money to last us to Wyoming if we’re frugal. Besides, you’re a sick man! Your wounds have barely begun to heal!” she hissed, staring over his shoulder at the horse in question. Why, riding a bucking stallion would be suicide for him. “What is wrong with you? I thought you had better sense—I will not allow you to kill yourself or squander money on a horse!”

She looked at the prancing stallion. He was lively for an animal bearing the innocuous name of Bert. Bert. He wanted to ride a horse named Bert. True, it would be easy money, but clearly against God’s instructions.

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Since when do you make my decisions?”

She met his gaze stringently. “Since you clearly lost your mind.”

“I can ride that stallion, Ruth.” His stance softened. “Okay, look. I won’t wager the money—I’ll put the cow up for entry fee.” He stepped closer, his eyes shifting to the waiting men. “Shadow Brook is only a half mile or so away. Even if I lose the cow—which I won’t—we’ll make it there this afternoon and I’ll buy you another cow.”

“No.” She looked away. “You’re not wagering the cow or the money. Rose needs her milk, and I won’t risk you losing the cow on some silly man thing. I forbid it.”

Dylan’s jaw firmed. “You’re not going to make me look like a henpecked husband—I’m riding that horse.”

“You are not! And I couldn’t make you look like a henpecked husband because I look like a boy, Dylan, and even if I didn’t, we’re not even—” She caught herself and lowered her voice when the men turned to gawk in their direction. “You’re not riding that horse. Now let’s go.”

“You’re right. We’re not married.” Throwing her a defiant look, he turned and rode back to the men. “Gentlemen,” he announced—loud enough for the dead to hear, Ruth noticed—“I’d be honored to take your money if you’ll accept the cow as entry fee.”

Ruth fumed; she was mad enough to spit nails. How could he! How could he do this to her and the baby? Just when he showed signs of thawing, the conceited worm threw her a curve hard enough to flatten her.

“Okay,” she yelled, “have your own selfish way! Go ahead, kill yourself and starve poor Rose to death! See if I care!”

The marshall shot her a withering look. The men shuffled their boots, looking to Dylan for explanation. He met their puzzled gazes. “When do we ride?”

“Be a couple of hours yet,” one of the men said, glancing at Ruth. “We’re waitin’ for Hank Grisham to show up.”

The marshall nodded. “I’ll be ready.” He turned his mount and rejoined Ruth.

Ruth gritted her teeth. If the man wanted to kill himself, there was obviously nothing she could do.
I told you not to get your hopes up, Ruth. Dylan McCall cares nothing for you or the baby. Hasn’t he just proved it?

Dylan was checking the cinch on his saddle, purposely ignoring her, which stirred her temper even more. Was he being stubborn or was it a man’s pride? She didn’t have the right to order him around, and this was his stubborn way of showing her that he answered to no one—most certainly not a woman.

Oh, Sara Dunnigan, if you were alive, I could cheerfully wring your coldhearted neck,
Ruth stewed.
You’ve made the man distrust all women, when in truth only one woman has betrayed him. You.

Ruth knew she shouldn’t have pushed him. But somehow, someway, she had to stop Dylan from killing himself to prove to her he was his own man. Straightening in her saddle, she turned to face the marshall, who was stoically going about his business. “Dylan,” she called sweetly.

He glared at her.

“If you’re going to do this, could we go into town first? The baby will be hungry soon, and I’d like to feed her some warm mush. Might as well get a room for the night, if there’s a hotel or boardinghouse.” She left the “because you lost the cow” go unsaid.

He shrugged his agreement. Leaving the cow behind, they rode to Shadow Brook, which could hardly be called a town. The main street was a rutted track. Half a dozen cow ponies were tied to hitching rails in front of a mercantile, and another building stood farther down. The travelers stopped at the general store, and Dylan went inside to ask about a place to stay the night. He learned that there was a boardinghouse located just behind the saloon.

The establishment was smaller than the Seatons’, but it looked nice enough. When Ruth and Dylan approached, the owner, Jess Clark, was just leaving to go care for his sick brother.

“If you don’t mind fending for yourselves,” he said, “you’re welcome to stay the night. You being a U.S. marshall,” he told Dylan, “I trust you not to run off with the family silver.”

Dylan laughed as they went inside. “We’ll need two rooms—the baby’s crying keeps me up at night.”

The clerk barely raised a brow, but Ruth kicked Dylan in the shin for the ridiculous explanation.

They paid for a night’s lodging and chose rooms on the first floor, handy to the bathing room and kitchen. Jess Clark had let the fire in the woodstove burn down to coals. Ruth poked the flames alive and fed the fire kindling as she plotted how to keep Dylan from killing himself on that horse.

When a rosy flame burned, she bit her lower lip and prepared to do battle. Dylan was going to be awfully mad at her, but he was going to be awfully alive when this was over.

Dylan sat at the table playing with Rose, who was settled contentedly on a soft blanket on the floor. Ruth laid her hand lightly on his broad shoulder as she paused beside his chair. She meant the touch to be warm and comforting, though still he tensed. “Dylan.”

He eyed her suspiciously. “What?”

“If you insist on doing this, please let me clean your wounds and apply fresh bandages. I’ll bind the injuries tightly so they won’t break open again.”

She looked at him pleadingly, using all of her feminine wiles. She didn’t feel good about tricking him, but she loved him enough to do anything to keep him alive. If those wounds broke open again, he might not be so fortunate this time. Didn’t the marshall realize his mortality? Or was he so intent on besting her that he was blind to danger?

“Please?”

“Gert said I was healing okay. I don’t need new bandages.”

“For me?” she insisted. “I would feel better if I knew the wounds weren’t likely to break open.”

He didn’t want to appease her; that was evident when resentment flared in his eyes. But maybe the part she’d hoped existed—the tiny part of him that was finding it increasingly hard to ignore her—finally made him consent.

“All right.”

She released a pent-up breath. “Thank you. And why don’t we have a cup of coffee before you ride? Something hot would make us both feel better.”

He shrugged.

The smell of fresh-perked coffee saturated the air as Ruth cleaned and rebandaged his wounds. She worked quickly, her nimble fingers now familiar with the task. Dylan sat stoically, refusing to confront her. When she finished, she got two mugs from the cabinet and poured coffee. As she handed him a cup, she suddenly turned toward the baby, who was happily chewing on her fist.

“Oh . . . I think she’s choking, Dylan!”

When Dylan turned his full attention to Rose, Ruth reached in her pocket and withdrew the bottle of laudanum and dumped a healthy dose into Dylan’s cup. She hurried to screw the cap on and shoved the bottle back in her pocket before the marshall turned around.

“She wasn’t choking.”

“Honest? Sorry.”

She picked up her cup and took a sip, eyeing him over the rim. He watched the baby a few moments before he took his first sip. He grimaced. “This is the worst coffee I ever tasted.”

Ruth shrugged. “I’ve had better, but at least it’s hot. Dylan, why don’t you go lie down a minute? I’ll wash these cups and feed Rose.”