Ruth (23 page)

Look, God, if you’re going to show your hand, do it now. I don’t ask anything for myself. I deserve my own fate, but it’s not fair to let the woman and child die—

Dylan’s thoughts broke off abruptly when he spotted a light in the distance. The glow was dim, but it was a light. Sulphur Springs. They had made it! “There it is,” he shouted to Ruth above the howling wind. “There’s the town!”

Her feeble grip tightened on his shoulder. “Thank you, Father.”

Yeah,
Dylan thought as he urged the horse through a drift.
Much obliged. I owe you one.
For the first time in his life, something warm stirred inside him, and he didn’t have a name for it.

Ruth stretched out on a feather mattress, exhaustion invading every limb. Transfixed, she stared at the ceiling, reliving the sheer bliss of soaking in warm water up to her neck. She’d sat in the porcelain tub in the bathroom at the end of the hall for over an hour—until feeling returned to her hands and feet.

“Dear God, thank you for your grace,” she murmured, for she knew full well that it was only his grace that had brought them this far.

Outside the boardinghouse window, snow continued to fall heavily, mounting on branches and porch railings. Wind howled through alleyways, battering storefronts on Main Street.

At first Ruth had thought she was hallucinating when she’d spotted the outcropping that appeared to be in the middle of the road. The horse was laboring heavily under their weight as they plowed through deepening snow. Once she had suggested that they get off and give the horse a rest, but Dylan had said that was a sure way to die. So they kept moving. The mare had earned a dry stall and the dinner of sweet prairie hay she was now enjoying.

Ruth had resolutely prepared to die in the blizzard. Dylan had taken the baby from her and cuddled the infant inside his coat, grief visible on his frozen features. Ruth had heard his halting prayer for help become a litany. When she’d recognized that he was praying, pure elation filled her. Then fear, the likes of which she’d never known, took over. If Dylan was scared, that meant her mounting anxiety wasn’t groundless.

Yet she had refused to give in to panic. Dylan had made the long trip from Colorado to Wyoming more than once, he’d reminded her. But never in winter, and never with an infant and a woman to look after. Or a grave wound in his shoulder. As wind shrieked and snow blew in random bursts, they had pushed on.

Ruth sighed, closing her eyes. She was safe in a warm bed now, wearing one of Annabelle’s long, flannel nightgowns that smelled of soap and had been warmed on the woodstove. Images of snow still whirled through her head as she recalled entering Sulphur Springs.

The first building they’d seen happened to be the livery stable. They’d pounded on the wide doors until they roused someone. The door eventually opened, and a small round man with a long white beard and twinkling blue eyes appeared. “Why, he looks like Santa Claus,” Ruth had marveled. Eyes widened below the white bushy brows, the friendly man ushered in the nearly frozen strangers. Later Tom Ferry, the town blacksmith, bundled up tightly against the blowing storm, had walked the shivering travelers to the boardinghouse.

Sulphur Springs didn’t have such an establishment until last year, proprietor Niles Seaton had explained. Two years ago the town was chosen by Welborne & Sutton Stage Lines as an overnight way station—provided the Seatons turned their residence into a boardinghouse. The town council liked the idea of the stage coming through town, so Niles and his wife, Annabelle, had done a little remodeling and created this right nice place for weary travelers. Folks would spend the night in a spacious bedroom, and the next morning Annabelle Seaton would send them on their way with a hot meal and a friendly smile.

Mrs. Seaton was a solemn woman who had stoically gone about heating water for the weary guests. She mixed oatmeal in a pan of warm milk and fed the baby. The thin, spry woman had offered little in the way of chatty conversation, but Ruth was ever so grateful for the woman’s hospitality. Both Niles and Annabelle saw to the guests’ immediate needs and never asked about their circumstances other than to offer them comfortable rooms. Neither Ruth nor Dylan had explained why two rooms were necessary; Ruth guessed she should do that in the morning when she was thinking more clearly.

Ruth settled into the bed, drinking in the smell of clean linens. Pot roast and rich brown gravy filled her stomach. She felt so drowsy she could hardly stay awake long enough to properly thank God for sparing them. She remembered how Annabelle had insisted that she and Dylan have a hot meal, a warm bath, and go right to bed.

“I’m too weary to argue,” Ruth said. “Thank you . . . thank you so much.”

Annabelle nodded. “I’ll lay out towels and soap.”

Over Dylan’s protest, Ruth had insisted that he bathe, be cared for, and put to bed first. That he allowed her to win the argument attested to his grave condition.

The town didn’t have a doctor, but at Niles’s request, Tom Ferry went to fetch a Mrs. Fallaby to look after Dylan’s injuries. Gert Fallaby had breezed into the room on a gust of cold air, her hearty laugh filling the boardinghouse. After she examined Dylan’s wounds, she clicked her tongue and shook her head, then cleaned the aggravated wounds and applied a vile-smelling salve. Ignoring Dylan’s skeptical looks, Gert made him open his mouth, and she administered a large teaspoon of laudanum for his pain.

Twisting the cap back on the bottle, she grinned. “That ought to hold you a spell.”

“I hope it’s nothing like Ulele’s locoweed,” Dylan muttered.

Gert only smiled. “Let’s just say you won’t be feelin’ much of anything until morning.”

Ruth was so thankful Dylan would spend a night free of pain. So thankful. . . . Now he was resting comfortably down the hall from her room. She gratefully pressed both feet against the hot-water bottle Annabelle had thoughtfully placed beneath the covers and thought she’d never be cold again.

Her thoughts started to blur . . . screeching wind, blowing snow . . . anxiety deeply etched on Dylan’s wind-chapped features. She knew most of his concern had been for the baby, yet the thought that he might, deep down, harbor a tiny speck of concern for her wasn’t entirely impossible. Since leaving the Fords’, he’d been kind and tolerant, barking at her far less than before. She opened her eyes and looked at the little girl sleeping next to her. She seemed none the worse for wear, now that she was warm, dry, and fed.
Thank you, God
.

Sighing, Ruth slid deeper into the goose-down mattress and smiled. For the briefest of moments, she pretended that God had made a rare mistake. She
should
have babies and a loving husband. She
should
love someone here on earth she could truly trust—trust to protect and care for her. Someone like Dylan. Someone like this precious child.

Her lids grew heavier. Annabelle had brought clean clothes for the baby, explaining they were outfits her grandchild had outgrown. Ruth had once more been moved to tears as she’d dressed the child in the flannel gown and crocheted booties. Compared to Ulele, Annabelle was an angel—albeit not a very talkative one.

Ruth was unable to keep her eyes open. Sleet pinged against the windowpane, peppering the glass. They could have been out there in the storm. They could have frozen to death on the outskirts of Sulphur Springs.

Yet she was very much alive, lying here beside the baby. Dylan was sleeping two doors down. Her heart overflowed with gratitude; she hardly knew how to thank God. Dylan wasn’t in pain, the baby was safe, her belly was full, she was clean, and she was sleeping in a wonderfully warm bed tonight.

For the moment, life was good.
No, Lord,
she amended.
Good
was such an inadequate word that it seemed close to a complaint, and she didn’t have a thing in the world to complain about.

Life was perfect. The words of a psalm floated into her head as Ruth drifted off to sleep:
“Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits.”

Ruth didn’t stir until well after sunup. She woke to the sound of the baby cooing at her own fingers. Ruth pushed back the mound of covers and bent over the baby snuggled against her. The infant stared up at her with affectionate, dark eyes. Giggling and kicking, she happily thrashed her arms when Ruth stroked her brown cheek with the back of her finger.

“Yes, you just think you’re a big girl, don’t you?” Ruth cooed. She tickled the baby’s tummy. “Yes, you are; yes, you
are
. You’re a cutie.”

She caught herself up short. A hot flush crept up her neck when she realized she was acting like a silly goose. For heaven’s sake! Shaking her head, Ruth rolled out of bed and yelped when her bare feet hit the icy floor. The baby giggled, waving her fists.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” Ruth tickled the little girl’s tummy. “Well, maybe I’ll just put your feet on the icy floor!” In a moment she had the baby laughing out loud. Her uninhibited giggles made Ruth laugh. A knock sounded at the door. She jerked upright at the sound of Dylan’s voice.

“Ruth?”

Ruth hesitated. “Yes?”

“Is the baby all right? What’s going on in there?”

“We’re both fine. Why?” He’d heard! He’d heard her making a fool of herself! The flush grew hotter.

“Breakfast is on the table.”

Clearing her throat, Ruth kept her tone neutral. “I’ll be right down.”

She dressed and entered the kitchen fifteen minutes later. She avoided Dylan’s amused gaze and walked to the stove to spoon up a bowl of oatmeal for the baby. Dylan was dressed in clean clothing, freshly shaven, and looking incredibly handsome for a man who had spent the last weeks fighting off death. Annabelle and Niles were nowhere in sight this morning.

Dylan poured two cups of strong black coffee. “Sleep well?”

Ruth nodded, afraid to look at him. He’d be likely to ask what all the laughing had been about, and she didn’t want to explain.

“Very well. And you?” She perched the baby on her lap and began feeding her small spoonfuls of oatmeal, resisting the urge to giggle out loud at the sweet smacking sounds she made after each bite.

“I didn’t know a thing until this morning.” He moved his right arm, then his left, working the stiffness in his shoulder loose. He focused on the little girl. “Did she sleep all night?”

“She never woke once, and she slept late this morning.”

Dylan grinned. “That’s good. Cream?”

Ruth nodded. Cream. Such luxury! “And two sugars, please.”

Dylan ladled sugar, then poured cream into her coffee and set the cup in front of her. “I was talking to Mr. Seaton earlier. The storm has shut everything down, but he says Ed French can use me a week or so at the mercantile to build new shelves. They need to be able to stock more for the winter, though folks say it looks to be a mild one. Since we’re not going anywhere until the passes clear, I thought I’d take the opportunity to make up for the money we lost with the Fords, before we move on.”

Ruth looked up. “Are you able?” She thought he might be the only one leaving.

He shrugged. “The wound is healing.” He grinned as he spread thick molasses on a biscuit. When a drop slipped onto his finger, he leaned forward to let the baby lick it off. His grin widened when she giggled and wiggled two chubby fingers to signal she wanted more.

Ruth grinned too. “I think that’s a very sound idea.” She took a sip of coffee, still refusing to meet his eyes, though she did glance at him quickly. “Very noble of you.” Could that be relief she saw in his eyes?

“We’ll stay until the weather breaks—those passes are snow blocked now. Meanwhile we’ll ask around and maybe come up with a home for the child.”

She broke into another smile. “That sounds good to me.” She kept the smile in place even though her mind rebelled at the thought of ever walking away from the child. Could she do it? She
had
to do it. She had no way to care for this child. She needed a mother and a father, a couple with the wherewithal to rear a child.