Ruth (12 page)

Darkness closed around the woman, injured man, and child. Fifty yards away the smoking rubble burned low. She’d gathered enough firewood to last the night, then dragged the older man’s body farther away—far enough that she could no longer see him.

Over and over, Ruth mashed bits of dry berries into the little girl’s gums, but she only spat the bitter fare out and cried harder. “I know it isn’t milk, but you have to cooperate,” Ruth cried in frustration. “We’re both making sacrifices here.” She’d been at this process for over an hour, and she was crying as hard as the baby. She couldn’t get enough of the sustenance into the child to ease her hunger.

She got up and walked the baby around the fire, jiggling, jostling. For the first time in her life she was actually thankful that God had spared her from motherhood. She definitely would have been an abject failure! As darkness fell, a cold chill settled over the campsite. She took the coat from the dead man and laid it over Dylan. She was cold; the baby was chilled and crying. She sat down, staring at the campsite. She would have sworn hell had more flames—but then she’d been wrong about other things, too.

In the wee hours of morning, Ruth couldn’t take the child’s agony any longer. She decided to try nursing her. She had no idea if she could sustain the infant until she could find a source of food, but she was down to her last option. The child hungrily suckled. Ruth’s eyes smarted at the infant’s vigor. Nursing hurt! After a while, she settled back, listening to the blissful silence. Whatever fluids the child was getting, the effort had worked, for now.

Ruth rested against a rock and closed her eyes as exhaustion overcame her. Dylan couldn’t die—the idea was simply too horrific. Though their wills clashed, she didn’t wish him harm. The thought of his dying almost stopped her heart. She was afraid, so terribly afraid to check his reedy pulse. She had no idea what he was doing out here with a baby and an old man, but he must have had his reasons. Jackson thought highly of the marshall; Dylan must possess some redeeming features. Instantly his smile came to mind, his teasing voice, the way he’d helped protect the wagon train of girls on the trail. . . . Just because he got under her skin was no reason not to see the good in this man.

Her gaze turned back to check on the sleeping man, and she felt something inside her soften. This insane, intense notion that strong men—particularly men like Edgar Norris and Dylan McCall—would take care of women wore on her. She didn’t like the direction her thoughts were taking. She felt almost pity for the marshall . . . perhaps it was just deep compassion.

She gazed down at the now sleeping baby warmly cuddled against her bosom and fought back a burgeoning wave of pride. She had to be careful about this; the baby was an unwanted responsibility, just like Dylan. She couldn’t let herself fall in love with the black-haired cherub.

The sound of wind first penetrated Dylan’s awareness. The wind was rising, howling through the passes. Recoiling from the feverish pain in his left shoulder, he realized he was lying in the dirt. What was he doing on the ground? His brain refused to function, and when it did, he was ambushed by images—the wagon, the old man. Comanches. And then came the pain. Searing, blinding pain.

He lay with his eyes closed, listening. Where was he? He heard the wind—and a woman’s soft murmur . . . sounds, not words. Who? What?

Summoning the courage, he slowly opened his eyes and saw sky. It was early morning and he was cold—very cold. There was a blanket—no, a man’s coat—over him. Then he saw her.

Ruth.

Ruth sat across the fire, bent over something small she held in her arms. He blinked to clear the haze from his sight. A tiny hand—a baby. Ruth was holding an infant.

She glanced up and saw him, and relief momentarily crossed her face. “You’re awake,” she said softly. She laid the infant on the ground and moved around the fire to kneel beside him. Her touch was gentle, almost caring, as she lightly brushed the backs of her fingers along his forehead.

“Your fever isn’t as high. Would you like a drink of water?”

His throat was a hot, dry bed of pain. He nodded.

She reached for the canteen and took off the lid. “Is the pain bad? I’m sorry; I don’t have anything to treat the injuries—I tried.”

“Water,” he whispered.

“I know. Here. Drink.” She lifted his head and allowed only tiny bursts of relief to fill his parched throat. “Careful. You haven’t had anything to drink or eat in a while. Slowly . . . slowly,” she encouraged. He hungrily lapped at the moisture trickling into his mouth.

“I found a spring yesterday—there, over that rise,” she said, pointing to the east.

He laid his head back, warring with the threat of losing consciousness again.

“There,” Ruth said in a hushed voice. “You should feel better now. You may have more in a few minutes.” She twisted the lid back on the canteen and set the container aside. Bending close, she adjusted the coat more tightly against his neck. He watched her movements, wanting to ask why . . . when . . . but pain stole the effort.

It was dark when he opened his eyes again. Ruth was holding a baby. How and why was Ruth with a baby? His thoughts refused to come together.

“How did you get here?” he croaked.

She jumped, apparently startled by his voice. When she recovered, she modestly turned so that her back was to him. “I could ask you the same thing. I saw smoke and found you and another man full of arrows and the wagon on fire. How did you happen to be here?”

Words refused to form. It hurt to speak. Finally he found his voice. “I . . . heard the confusion . . . made my way closer. Comanches . . . had the old man surrounded. He was under . . . wagon, behind the wheel . . . holding them off with a rifle. I started shooting from . . . behind a rise. I surprised them, but . . . too many. By the time I worked . . . close, they overrode us.” His fevered eyes moved to the bundle she was holding. “Where . . . did you get . . . baby?”

Surprise marked her features. “Here. It was in the wagon. Those savages set the wagon on fire with the baby inside it.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know there was a baby.”

The blanket fell away from the infant’s head. Black hair, shiny as a crow’s wing, registered with his dulled senses.

Ruth changed the infant’s diaper, fastening at the baby’s hips the strips of cloth she’d made from the dead man’s shirt. She spoke in soothing tones as the infant protested the cold intrusion.

Dylan closed his eyes, pushing pain away. Sometimes he clung to consciousness by a thread; other times he felt almost clearheaded.

In one lucid moment, he looked at Ruth again. Her hair was in tangles; her clothes had holes burned in them. She looked very different from the girl he’d met on the way to Denver City—older, more tired. Very different from the scared girl he’d backtracked and kept an eye on for the past several days. This Ruth was different from the spitfire he’d left on the trail; this Ruth was tender, warm, and caring.

Though he’d been so blindingly furious at her, he hadn’t ridden far before he realized he couldn’t leave her alone. He’d circled back each morning to make sure she was traveling in the right direction. She had piqued his exasperation even more by staying put the first day. She’d delayed him so long he wondered if he’d ever reach his destination. She’d stall, but then the determination that drove Ruth Priggish marched out like ants at a church picnic, and she was off again. He’d made sure he was riding far enough ahead that she couldn’t detect him. He wanted her to stew in her own gravy—make her think that she was lost and alone and had no way out. Her reckless behavior warranted a few anxious days, but he’d known all along he’d be the one to see her safely to Wyoming—on his terms.

Now here they both were: Dylan with two holes in his shoulder; Ruth sitting there in a charred shirt and scorched trousers, nursing a Comanche baby. He closed his eyes and wished that he had the strength to ask how she’d fallen into this one, but he didn’t. Maybe later . . .

The answer was sure to confuse him.

Dylan next woke to find the fire blazing and Ruth bustling about the campsite, talking to the baby. Somehow he had lived through another night. Because of Ruth’s prayers? He doubted it.

His smothered groan drew Ruth’s attention, and she quickly set the child back on its blanket and returned to his side. “Would you like more water? I know you must be hungry. So am I. When you feel well enough to keep an eye on the baby, I’ll search for food.” Her eye fell on the rifle. “Perhaps I can shoot something . . .” She tipped the canteen to his dry lips. “I’m sorry I can do so little, but I have nothing to work with.”

“Is the baby all right?” Dylan asked between drops.

“As well as she can be under the circumstances.” Ruth cocked her head to one side in query. “We need to find a town, to find suitable food for her.”

He weakly pushed the water aside. “Sulphur Springs . . . we can’t be too far.”

Her face brightened. “There’s a town nearby?”

“Not nearby, but within fifteen, twenty miles.” He shifted and then closed his eyes as the world spun. “Three—maybe four days’ ride.”

She got up and threw another stick on the fire. “You should be happy I came along. Otherwise, you’d be dead.”

“You’re lucky you’re not dead as well.”

Comanches were a fierce lot, and the band that attacked the wagon had been bent on destruction. Dylan’s blood ran cold when he thought of Ruth and the child unprotected. He was as weak as a newborn—there was nothing he could do to help her or the baby in his present condition.

“I hope you’ve . . . consulted your God . . . about our state.”

Ruth glanced over as she picked up the baby. “He knows our state.”

“Yeah?” Dylan closed his eyes, trying to picture a man big enough to manage the universe and have time left over to care about his predicament. His sense of logic fell short.

As Ruth spent the next day searching for berries and nuts in the Colorado wilds to feed her newfound family, she couldn’t help but think about Thanksgiving. She wondered if Patience, Mary, Harper, and Lily had thought about her as they gathered around the Siddonses’ bountiful harvest table to return thanks.

Ruth concentrated on what she could give thanks for. Though it was approaching the end of November, the weather was holding . . . Dylan and the baby were still alive, and . . . and there was the hope that God had not abandoned them. That’s all she could think of.

She made frequent trips to the spring to carry water back to camp. Despite Ruth’s best efforts to produce some kind of nourishment for the child, she cried endlessly.

Dylan grew stronger, but when Ruth plopped the baby next to him later that morning, doubt filled his eyes.

“You watch her while I hunt for food.”

Without waiting for an answer, she walked away, praying the baby wouldn’t need anything while she was gone. But she had to get away from both the man and the child. She’d grown to care about the baby, and that wouldn’t do. She couldn’t care about her—or Dylan. When the marshall gained sufficient strength to travel, they would move on to Sulphur Springs. There Ruth would turn the child over to the sheriff, who would find a suitable home for her. A good home. Some place where the little girl would have a mother and a father and grow up graceful and lovely.