Ruth (27 page)

“I’ll take the saddlebags to my room.”

“Thank you.”

Ruth prayed that the laudanum would take effect quickly. She’d given him enough to fell an elephant, and even though he hadn’t finished his coffee, she hoped it would do the trick. She heard him leave the house, then return. When she didn’t hear him come back down the hall, she waited several more minutes, then tiptoed to the door of his room.

Listening outside, she heard his soft snores and grinned. Success. In a flash she darted into her room, tucked her long dark hair beneath her hat, and ran back to the kitchen to check on Rose. She might be as foolish as Dylan, but she was healthy—at least for now. She was saving the marshall’s life, she told herself.

Bert would throw her in two seconds. She was light, and if the fall didn’t break her neck, she could withstand the impact. She’d been thrown by a horse before and had learned how to fall. But Dylan, she knew, would try to win—and that meant he could die. This way, they’d lose the cow for sure. But they had enough money to buy another one, and no amount of money could replace Dylan McCall.

She pulled on Dylan’s gloves, eyeing the sleepy baby. She’d have to take Rose with her and ask one of the men to watch her while she rode. They would find the situation curious, but she was good at bluffing. At least she’d had lots of practice along those lines over the last few weeks.

“Come on, Rose. Let’s go save Daddy.” She picked her up, then went to make sure Dylan was all right. He was out cold, breathing evenly, stretched out across the bed as if he’d fallen over asleep. She hoped she hadn’t given him too much laudanum, but enough to keep him down for at least a couple of hours.

This was her first opportunity to study him. He was always on the move, except for the days he’d been unconscious after the attack. But then she’d been afraid to look for fear he was dying, and she’d had the baby to care for as well. But now, oh, my. Dark lashes against tan skin, the faint shadow of beard, defined cheekbones and square jaw . . . she sighed. She was risking her neck to keep him alive for another woman. She frowned.

Soon he’d be an angry man.
Furious
wouldn’t describe what he’d be when he woke up and found that she’d tricked him. But he’d be alive and thanking her when he cooled off.

At the last minute, she decided to take his boots. She set Rose down on the floor. Straddling Dylan’s unconscious form, she tugged, finally dislodging the left boot, then the right. She tucked the boots under one arm and hurried out of the room with Rose, closing the door behind her.

When she reached the corral, the cowboys were gathered to watch the stallion try to rid himself of his first rider. Ruth was careful to carry Rose the way a man would, letting her head bob like an apple in a barrel. She carried Dylan’s boots tucked beneath her right arm.

Hank must have shown up, because nine men turned to watch Ruth approach. She dropped the boots and shifted the baby to her right hip, then turned and spit in the snow. The spittle wasn’t enough to make a blotch, but it made a convincing show. Swiping her hand across her mouth, she said gruffly, “Me and the marshall decided I’d best do the competin’.”

The men cast a glance at the boots and then back toward town as if they expected to see the marshall approaching.

Ruth eyed them harshly. “Any problem with that? The cow’s still up for grabs.”

The men shrugged. “No problem,” they chorused.

“Guess not.”

“Suits me.”

“Care to keep an eye on the young’un whilst I ride?” She hawked up another wad and spat on the ground, gagging. Whew. That tasted awful! Why on earth did men find it necessary to do that all the time?

The men grumbled under their breath. Finally one agreed. “I’ll keep an eye on the kid.”

The cowboys turned back to the corral, where the rider was picking himself up from the ground. Over to one side Bert snorted and pawed the frozen ground. Ruth kept both eyes on the horse, swallowing against a dry throat.

Lord, have mercy on my soul.
How did that horse come by his name?

She stood by, jiggling the baby as the second man prepared to ride. Grasping the stallion by the mane, he swung up as two men tried to control the angry beast until the rider was set. At his signal, they let go and bolted for the fence.

The stallion gave a couple of spirited bucks with a twist and sent the rider flying over its head. The cowpoke sprawled in the snow, looking dazed.

Contestant number three mounted a few minutes later.

One by one Ruth watched Bert pitch each rider in record time. She cringed, turning away as the fourth rider flew past her over the fence, taking out a row of oak pickets. He rose out of the snow, trying to shake off the blow. A front tooth hung by its root.

“Hey, kid,” someone yelled at Ruth. “You’re next!”

Ruth swallowed and handed the baby to the man standing next to her. She ran her tongue lightly over her front teeth, praying she could keep most of them.

“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”
She prayed silently as she dragged her feet toward the four-legged keg of dynamite.
“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he . . . he . . .”

The stallion turned a jaundiced eye in her direction, seeming to smirk, as if he was amused at the idea that she’d even think of getting on him. He looked meaner than Satan himself.

Approaching the animal, Ruth caught her breath and tried to hoist herself onto the broad back. It took three men to hold the horse now. Bert snorted, his eyes wild. After several minutes of her feet flailing the air and failing to get a leg up, someone took pity and hefted her onto the brute’s back.

For a moment the stallion stilled. Taking a deep breath, Ruth dug her hands into the mane to get a firm grip. Then she waited.

The men stepped back, freeing the horse.

The stallion stood meek as a lamb.

She flashed a lame grin. What was wrong here? Praise God! The Lord had seen her point and he was assisting—

Suddenly the horse lunged, jarring Ruth’s teeth. Horse and rider shot out into the middle of the corral. Bert jumped straight up, as if someone had lit dynamite under him, and landed stiff-legged. Ruth’s brain ricocheted against the top of her head. Bert, all twelve hundred pounds of him, jumped again, humping his back and twisting in midair. Ruth slid to one side but by some miracle managed to right herself when the horse went the opposite direction on the next jump. She saw stars, then planets shattering around her. Stark terror of being pounded into the ground beneath Bert’s hooves was all that kept her hanging on to his mane.

On the next buck she lost her grip. A wicked spiral of the stallion’s back sent Ruth sailing though the air, straight toward a water barrel. She crashed into its side, splitting the timber wide open. Icy water gushed everywhere, and she landed in the snow face-first.

The last coherent sounds Ruth heard were the men hesitantly, but politely, clapping.

Silence. Dylan heard nothing. Why was there no sound? For weeks now the first sound he’d heard every morning was either the baby or Ruth.

His eyes popped open. He didn’t recognize where he was at first and then remembered they were in Shadow Brook. A boardinghouse. He rolled over, wincing when his shoulder reminded him he wasn’t healed yet.

He groaned.

His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, his mouth dry. When he sat up, he couldn’t focus. He blinked, trying to clear his head. He tried to stand, but his legs and arms didn’t feel a part of his body. He stumbled and nearly fell face-first into the braided rug. Holding on to the bedpost, he managed to remain upright but felt on a tilt. What was wrong?

Drugged. Someone had slipped him something!

Ruth. What had she done to him this time?

Hearing a commotion outside, he looked out the window to see a number of cowboys hightailing it out of town . . . toward the corral. Now, why did instinct tell him that whatever was going on involved Ruth?

His mind began to clear. Jamming his hat on his head, he took a step toward the door before realizing he was in his socks. His boots were nowhere in sight. He’d had them on when he—

Ruth. She’d taken his boots. If she thought that would stop him, she had another think coming. If she thought she could talk the cowboys out of holding the cow as collateral for his bet or use his injuries as a reason for letting him out of the competition . . .

The more he thought about her embarrassing him, the madder he got. Thankful that he hadn’t stabled the horses yet, Dylan mounted and galloped toward the corral, intent on stopping Ruth before she made a fool of him.

As he neared the corral, he heard yells and calls. His horse skidded to a halt and Dylan slid off, dropping the reins. The sound of men’s laughter and hooting filled the charged air.

Walking gingerly across the snow-packed ground, Dylan gravitated toward the noise. Something told him that the answers to why he’d been drugged—and where his boots were—were there. The closer he got to the melee, the more certain he was of it.

He reached the corral in time to see Ruth fly through the air and into the water barrel tied to the corner fence. He winced when he heard the dull thud of her body hitting wood and bouncing off like a rag doll, her black hair flying when her hat flew off.

Two men jumped off the fence and ran to divert the still-bucking bronco, while two other hands grabbed Ruth’s arms and dragged her outside the fence.

Rage cleared the last of the fog from Dylan’s mind. Rage and cold fear—fear like he’d never experienced before. Had the woman lost her mind?

Ignoring his stocking feet, he jumped the fence and sprinted across the corral in the direction they’d dragged Ruth. She lay unconscious, her head cushioned by her crushed hat. A cowpoke bent over her, patting her cheek in an attempt to bring her around.

“You okay, girlie?”

Dylan jerked the man away from Ruth and dropped to his knees to pull her into his arms. Feelings he’d never had before washed over him. Warmth. A need to protect. A need to love.

Too late. Ruth was dead. Crazy, stubborn, misguided Ruth. Ruth, who’d rescued Rose from fire but had tried her best not to love her. Ruth, who had stubbornly followed him across a territory with the idea of finding some distant cousin. Ruth, who had bullied him, saved his life, stood beside him, cared for him. Ruth. His Ruth.

Closing his eyes, he rocked, tenderly cradling her close to his chest, her coal black hair spilling over his arm.

“I’m sure sorry,” one of the cowhands said. “We had no idea she was a woman. Then when we realized she was a girl dressed like a boy—”

Dylan looked up at him. “Couldn’t you tell she was a woman? How could you miss it?”

“Well, we didn’t know at first,” another put in, “but then when we did, it was too late to stop her.”

“You let her ride that horse anyway?”

“She was determined,” another said.

“We didn’t think she’d get hurt,” the first added.

Dylan bit out, “You should have known she wasn’t an experienced rider. The bet was for
me
to ride!”

The men looked at each other. “We just thought . . . well . . . we thought we’d play a little trick on her, ’cause she dressed like a man, tried to fool us—”

“She wanted to keep me from losing the cow,” Dylan said softly, “and keep me from killing myself.”

He continued to rock Ruth gently, his mind filled with memories. Memories of this woman on the wagon train taking care of the other girls, reading her Bible, teaching Glory to read and write, trying to persuade Glory to take a bath. Ruth laughing in the firelight, sunlight tingeing her hair.

He saw a spirited Ruth determined to follow him though she hadn’t a clue how to survive on the trail. But she
had
survived. Ruth, who wouldn’t hold the baby more than she had to, but still found a gutsy way to keep her alive those first few days. A furious Ruth facing an irate Ulele and then jumping on a horse and making a run for it, clinging to him like she’d never let him go.

Never let him go.

But she had let him go. Why? Perhaps she
did
love him. Had she taken his wounds because she loved him?

Tears stung his eyes and he held her closer, the pain of loss nearly suffocating him. He’d never wanted to care. Not about her. Not about anyone. He’d pushed her away because she got to him. Made him hope for things that were impossible. He’d been ornery and rude to her, made her think he’d ridden off and left her to fend for herself in an unforgiving land, but she’d stood her ground all the way. He’d been surprised by her determination, shamed by her willingness to take on the responsibility of a homeless child. She was a good mother, once she got used to the idea. Then she’d taken to it like a bee took to honey.

She’d pulled those arrows out of his shoulder when a weaker woman would have fainted. She had refused to let him die. She had found water, worked day and night to bring down his fever. When he was sharp with her, unreasonable, she’d stood up to him and gave back as much as he dished out. He’d never met a woman like her.