Ruth (3 page)

His gaze moved back to Ruth. She was now conversing with a tall, lanky man who looked to be somewhere in his late twenties. The couple made a striking pair. The young man’s carrot-colored hair and mahogany eyes complemented Ruth’s black tresses and wide blue eyes. But Ruth was going to be trouble for any man who took her on. She was as prickly as a porcupine—and as quick to raise her defenses. Made a man wonder what was inside her.

Not him, of course, but some man—some good man looking to settle down.

Patting his round belly, the pastor chuckled softly as he followed Dylan’s gaze to the couple. “They make a fine-looking pair, don’t they? Conner lost his wife a couple years back. Fine man, Conner Justice, so young to lose a mate. Lost Jenny in childbirth . . . baby was stillborn. His wife’s death was mighty hard on him. Conner is only now coming back to community socials.”

Dylan’s gaze narrowed. It appeared to him that Conner Justice was recovering quite nicely. He was standing a bit too close to Ruth for manners. The sound of Ruth’s lilting laughter floated to him, a sound he hadn’t heard often. She was enjoying herself for the first time since he’d met her.

Well, good for Ruthie. Maybe Conner Justice needed a new challenge, and the saucy brunette would certainly provide him one.

The pastor patted his belly again. “Well, the bride and groom will be cutting the cake soon.” He stuck his hand out to Dylan. “Guess you’ll be moving on?”

“I have to be in Utah by the end of the month.”

“Worst time of the year to travel.”

“I’m used to it.”

Dylan preferred to travel in better weather. But when he’d decided to help Jackson deliver the brides to Denver City, he knew he’d be delaying his trip to Utah and would probably face bad weather. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been inconvenienced, nor would it be the last.

“Take care of yourself,” Pastor Siddons said.

Dylan smiled. His eyes involuntarily returned to Ruth and Conner, while the pastor wandered toward the cake table. Ruth looked like she was having a fine time.

“Well, I am, too,” he told himself, but right now he couldn’t have proved it.

Chapter Two

Shadows lengthened over the Rockies as the wedding guests danced and laughed the festive afternoon away. A grinning bride and groom, their faces flushed by wind and excitement, cut the wedding cake while the sun sank behind the mountaintops.

Crimson tinged Glory’s cheeks as she smiled up at her husband and fed him the first bite. With good-natured humor, he fed her a piece; then one of the women invited the guests to step up and eat their fill.

Ruth felt herself being shuffled along with the crowd. Today’s events had been magnificent—one of the best times she could remember. An aura of love surrounded the newlywed couple, and Ruth allowed the special feelings to seep through her pores. In her life, Ruth had known little love. When Edgar Norris, the only father she’d ever known, took her to the orphanage when his wife died, he’d left Ruth with a glowing promise that he would soon return. To a ten-year-old,
soon
meant “not very long.” She remembered crying and holding on to his leg, begging him not to leave her. She didn’t see how she could live without Paws—that’s what she called Edgar—to greet her when she came home from school each day.

But Edgar Norris had lied to her.

He didn’t come back; Ruth never saw the man again. Five years had gone by, and she didn’t know if Edgar Norris was dead or alive. She made herself believe that she didn’t care, but the Bible said she was to honor father and mother. Her real Mama and Papa died when she was four, and she had been adopted by the Norrises. But she had no idea how to honor a man who had deserted a child he’d promised to raise.

“What say, little missy? Is this our dance?”

Ruth froze when she recognized Oscar Fleming’s feisty intonation.
Rats.
She’d been on the lookout for Oscar all afternoon, terrified he would seek her out. He’d tried to dance with every woman in attendance, including poor Mary, who had finally begged off and slumped down in the nearest chair to catch her ragged breath.

Summoning a pleasant smile, Ruth whirled, confronting the nuisance. “Why, Mr. Fleming—here you are again.”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. He opened both scrawny arms and extended them wide. “What say? Saved the best for last?”

“Oh, Mr. Fleming, I know you must be worn-out—”

“Oscar! Call me Oscar, my beauty.” He moved in closer. “They’re playing our song!”

Before Ruth could invent an excuse, Oscar swung her onto the platform and waltzed her around the wooden deck in a breakneck fashion. The old prospector certainly had oomph!

Ruth hung on to the squatty miner as pins flew out of her hair and landed beneath other dancers’ feet. She flashed a smiling apology to couples who slipped and stumbled when their feet encountered the shiny hair fasteners. One man whirled to denounce her as he helped his partner up from the dance floor.

“Hee, hee, hee,” Oscar hooted as he cut between two jigging couples, nearly tripping them with his wild maneuverings. “I knew I’d found me a ringtailed molly!”

This ring-tailed molly was about to break her neck! Ruth, not accustomed to dancing, struggled to keep her slippers on her feet and her tangled hair out of her eyes. She caught a brief glimpse of Patience, Lily, Harper, and Mary on the sidelines, holding their hands over their mouths, amusement flashing in their eyes. She managed to get off a silent, beseeching look before Oscar gave her a couple of swift turns and then jumped in the air and clicked his heels.

“By gum, but you’re a filly!”

Ruth lamely smiled, anxious for the dance to end. Instead, guitars and banjos shifted into a slow waltz. It took Oscar a couple of beats to make the physical adjustment. He jigged, then jagged, and then grasped her so tightly she couldn’t breathe. His breath was stale and his clothes smelled of sweat. Ruth closed her eyes, praying for deliverance. She opened them again, instinctively searching for Dylan. She found him surrounded by a captive group of women as he leisurely ate a piece of wedding cake and exchanged friendly banter. Typical. Where was the courtly gentleman when she really needed him?

“You’re one of them orphans Wyatt sent for, aren’t you?”

Ruth’s thoughts snapped back to Oscar, and her feet tried to keep time with his stomping boots. “Yes—I was on the Montgomery wagon train.”

“Pity.” The old fellow shook his head. “Wyatt’s a known polecat around these parts. I could have told you him and his boys was up to no good.” He swung her around, then propelled her roughly back into his arms—highly irregular for a waltz, as even Ruth knew.

“I like your name, Ruthie.”

“Ruth,” she corrected. “Nobody calls me Ruthie. My name is Ruth.”

“Like in the Bible.”

“Like in the Bible—only I’m not nearly as virtuous as that Ruth.”

Oscar nodded as if that suited him. “You want to be a bride, do ya?”

Ruth felt heat shinny up the back of her neck. His foregone conclusion that she wanted to be married cheapened her forced decision. She hadn’t
wanted
to be married; the orphanage had strongly advised her to agree to Wyatt’s offer. She knew now that if a husband had awaited her in Denver City, the marriage would have been short-lived. Once the new groom learned that she was not able to conceive, he would have left for greener pastures. But she had no intention of confiding such personal information to Mr. Fleming. Now if only she could think of some way to abort this dance without hurting the old man’s feelings.

“Do ya?”

“Do I what?” she asked sweetly, hoping to change the subject.

“Do you want to be a bride?”

“I suppose,” she murmured, giving the expected response, though it wasn’t entirely true.

“Well, hot diggity dog!”

Horrified, Ruth watched the prospector jump straight up in the air and click his heels again, then land on both knees in front of her on the wooden platform. He grasped her hand, his rheumy eyes peering intently into hers. The music started to fade and people stood rooted in place, all eyes focused on Oscar Fleming.

“Ruth . . .” Oscar paused and scratched his head. Then he brightened. “. . . whatever your last name is. Will you be my wife?” He grinned, flashing red gums.

A collective gasp came from the crowd. Ruth heard a drum beating in her ears and realized it was her heart. Harper’s distinct giggle filtered through the beat.

Ruth’s hand came up to her forehead as she tried to form a coherent sentence. Marry Oscar Fleming? A man old enough to be her grandfather! Her senses turned numb. No! She looked around, panic setting in. No!

But how could she tell Oscar no in front of all these people, people who were most likely his friends?

Her eyes darted for refuge, but there was none. Patience shook her head vehemently. Lily, Harper, and Mary all indicated the negative with their eyes.

Oscar peered up at Ruth hopefully.

“Oscar,” she began, searching for strength and compassion. She didn’t want to hurt the old prospector’s feelings; he knew she had previously been receptive to marriage to a man she’d never met. What answer could she give that wouldn’t wound the poor man’s spirit yet leave no doubt of her refusal?

“I am very honored . . .”

“Hot doggedy!” Oscar bound to his feet and swept her up in his skinny arms, his face ecstatic. Ruth’s eyes grew wide as he whirled her around and around. “I got me a
bride
!”

The crowd burst into a smattering of hesitant applause. With Oscar’s declaration, Dylan McCall turned and set his cake plate on the table. A frown creased the corners of his blue eyes.

“No, Mr. Fleming!” Ruth protested when she realized the old miner had misunderstood. The band swung into an upbeat tune, and dancers flooded the platform to congratulate the newly betrothed couple.

“But I didn’t . . .” Ruth protested with each congratulatory slap and sly wink Oscar received. Women stared in pity, and men grinned with an ill-concealed pride.

“Didn’t think you had it in you, Oscar!”

“You old goat! Suppose we’re going to be calling you ‘Papa’ before long!”

The crude remark brought a round of masculine guffaws that shook Ruth to her toes. She broke free of the crowd and ran toward the parsonage, holding a handkerchief to her mouth for fear she was going to be ill. Upon entering the Siddonses’ foyer, she slammed the door behind her and took the stairs two at a time. Marry Oscar Fleming! She couldn’t! She entered the upstairs bedroom and fell across the bed she shared with Patience and sobbed until exhaustion overcame her.

She dropped into a fitful sleep, her dreams filled with old prospectors spitting tobacco on clean kitchen floors. Oscar chasing her around the kitchen table, wearing a gummy grin, reaching for her . . . the stale smell of his breath . . .

Images floated in her dreams. Voices warned her:
Ruth, you can’t marry that man, regardless of your desperate situation.

“No,” Ruth murmured, thrashing about on the bed. The thought of marrying a man nearly seventy years old was so dreadful that her head pounded and knots gripped her stomach. “I can’t . . . please, God . . . I can’t. . . .”

“Ruthie?”

Ruth stirred, opening her eyes. The room was pitch-dark, and she took a minute to gather her thoughts. Her eyes felt sore and swollen. Then the afternoon’s events came rushing back—Oscar, the proposal, the old man’s misunderstanding.

“Ruth?” A match flickered, then caught a wick. Candlelight penetrated the darkness. Mary, Harper, Patience, and Lily gathered close around the bed, their eyes solemn with worry.

Burying her face in the pillow, Ruth began to cry. Patience sat down on the side of the bed and held her hand. “Oh, Ruth. What are you going to do? Everyone thinks you’re going to marry that old man.”

Ruth bawled harder. What
was
she going to do? Did Oscar’s misinterpretation constitute a promise? It couldn’t—yet everyone knew the girls were orphans and in dire need of husbands. How could Ruth refuse a legitimate marriage proposal and not appear to be self-centered and ungrateful? Oscar’s age didn’t matter. He was so old that he couldn’t possibly consummate the vows. . . . The image of the old man jumping up and clicking his heels together—the way he threaded in and out of the dancers like a man half his age—oh, goodness! She sobbed even harder.

“Now, now,” Mary soothed. She sat down opposite Patience. Each girl patted Ruth’s back soothingly. “It isn’t that bad. Why, Mr. Fleming seems to be kind . . . and lively.
Very
lively for a man his age.”

Harper nodded her head, her dark eyes troubled. “A little too lively, if you ask me.”

Lily shot her a censuring look. “No one did ask you, Harper. And Mr. Fleming can most likely provide Ruth a very good home,” she added.

Ruth flung the pillow aside. “Then
you
marry him.”

Lily drew back as if bitten by a rattlesnake.

Bolting upright on the bed, Ruth wiped her eyes and blew her nose on the handkerchief Patience pressed into her hand. “I
won’t
marry that old man. I won’t. Even if it means I have to work my fingers to the bone and maybe even starve to death. I won’t marry Oscar Fleming.”