Ruth (8 page)

“Oh yeah?” He shifted his weight to the other foot. “How do you figure that? I could leave your worthless hide out here and ride off.” The idea was more than tempting—it lay in his brain like the thought of a steak dinner. “Someone might find you next spring. Then again—” he turned sinister now—“the buzzards would have picked your hide clean by then.”

Her eyes bulged at the suggestion. She cleared her throat.

“But you won’t because your conscience and duty as a U.S. marshall won’t allow it, and if you turn around and take me back to Denver City, you’ll be late for your appointment.” She sent him a smug smile from beneath the brim of the tattered hat.

His eyes raked the man’s clothing she wore. “You look ridiculous.”

“Thank you. You don’t look so spiffy yourself.”

His hand self-consciously smoothed a bearded three-day growth. “What if I just took the gun away, shot you, and left you for the crows to eat? Seems to me that would take care of both problems.”

Her eyes narrowed and she steadied the gun with both hands. “You can’t do that. I won’t let you.” Her clasp tightened around the pearl handle.

He smiled diabolically. “Oh, but I could.”

Inching closer, she pushed the barrel into the tip of his tender nose. “Just try it, mister.”

He stared at her, teeth clenched. One swift move and she’d be flat on her back. But cool reasoning prevailed and made him hold off. He couldn’t shoot her, could never gun down an innocent woman.

His sense of adventure began to override his annoyance. How far would she go? He’d bide his time and find a way to scare some sense into her. His features relaxed. “Okay, you got me. What now?”

Ruth jerked her head toward his waiting horse. “Reckon we’ll have to ride double until we can find my mare.”

“And if we don’t find your horse?”

The tip of the gun mashed the end of his nose. “Then you walk.”

“To Wyoming?” Again his temper flared. If she didn’t move that gun, she was a dead woman. His eyes skimmed her clothing a second time. “Why are you dressed like that?”

“If I’m dressed like a boy, no one will know that I’m a woman. My reputation won’t be ruined, Mr. McCall. Not that I had one to uphold. Nobody knows me, and I’ll never pass this way again. When I reach Milford and his family in Pear Branch, no one will be the wiser.”

He shifted the gun barrel out of his face. “Saddle up. We have a long ride ahead of us.”

She trained the pistol on his back as they walked toward the waiting animal. Dylan’s horse shied as he reached for the reins. Dylan imagined the stallion wasn’t fond of its own smell any better than he was. “But we should get out of these clothes first,” he said.

“No time. Let’s go.” Ruth motioned for him to mount. Once he complied, she climbed up and slid on behind him, gun pressed to his ribs. He peevishly adjusted the barrel more to the left for comfort.

“You’re not supposed to do that,” she snapped. She rammed the gun back into place.

He moved it. “Do you want to lead?”

“I
could
.”

“But you’re
not
, so hold the gun in a more comfortable position.”

She complied finally, grumbling under her breath about “remembering who was boss here.”

He kicked the horse’s flanks. Ruth yelled when her teeth slammed into her bottom lip. She grasped on to his coattail.

He calmly turned to peer at her over his shoulder. “Sorry—I thought you were in a hurry.”

Ruth’s mare was grazing on a hillside when they spotted her. The fog was thinner at this altitude. Dylan tied the mare to his bridle, and they rode on. Ruth insisted she ride behind him and hold the gun in place. Dylan knew the woman must be exhausted. Once or twice he’d felt her nod off, only to quickly straighten. By nightfall, his job should be easy pickings.

At the end of the long day, Dylan made camp and built a fire near a mountain stream. Though he could tell she hated the thought, Ruth suggested they take turns bathing. Clothes needed to be washed, and the manure stench had given them each a headache.

“You go first,” Ruth ordered, her teeth chattering in the cold wind as they approached the water. Tall aspens lined the bank but provided little protection from the weather.

He feigned reserve. “Modest, Ruthie?”

Her reticence was apparent as she looked away. “Keep your clothes on. You’ll have to wash them and yourself at the same time. Throw your coat onto the bank.” The gun came up. “And don’t try any monkey business!”

“Don’t worry; this will be quick. I promise, Miss—” he paused—“what
is
your last name?”

“Priggish.” Ruth answered.

Silence. Then, “You’re kidding. Ruth Priggish?”

She lifted the gun another notch.

He grinned. “May I call you Priggy?”

“Just get yourself and your clothes washed quickly.” She clamped her eyes shut. “And don’t try anything. I’m not looking, but it will only take me a split second if you try anything.”

She was smarter than he thought and pretty smug about it, Dylan conceded.

Muttering something that made her blush, Dylan stepped into the water and started to lather up.

While the marshall splashed and cursed his heritage, Ruth, and the icy water, Ruth moved deeper downstream, listening for his location. At the edge of the stream she removed her coat and scrubbed off all the manure she could. She did the same with Dylan’s coat. She could hear him, apparently adjusted to the icy water now, singing at the top of his lungs. She couldn’t help smiling at his antics.

In pants and shirt, she waded into the stream, biting down hard on her swollen lip to keep from screaming. Ducking beneath the water, she surfaced quickly, holding her breath as she scrubbed her hair, body, and clothing free of manure stench.

Moments later she waded out. Her teeth chattered as she wrapped herself in a blanket she’d brought. She tiptoed back to the tree line.

“Can I come out now?” Dylan sang in a false contralto. “The big, bad marshall is freezing!” The fog was again so thick he was only a voice in the swirling mist.

“I left a blanket on the shoreline. You can wrap yourself in it. Properly!” she demanded. She heard him noisily wade out. There was a moment of silence before he appeared swathed head to foot in the blanket.

She herded him up next to the fire. They both sat there until their teeth stopped chattering. Then Dylan disappeared behind a thicket to change into dry clothes. Ruth did the same, keeping him in sight. He fashioned a makeshift clothesline from tree branches and hung their wet clothes near the campfire to dry. A few minutes later, Ruth smelled fresh coffee perking and fatback frying in a pan. Her stomach growled from hunger. Cheese and bread had been her only food for days. Would he offer to feed her? Well, she had the gun. . . .

Force proved to be unnecessary. He filled two tin plates with fatback and buttered toast. Handing her one of the plates, he turned and poured two tin mugs of steaming coffee.

Closing her eyes, Ruth bit into the meat, deciding she had never eaten anything that tasted so good. The rich, hot coffee trickled down her throat, warming her insides.

They sat beside the campfire, eating in silence. Ruth felt guilty for tricking the marshall this way. She’d be certain to ask God’s forgiveness tonight in her prayers. Yet Dylan would be a free man when he dropped her off in Wyoming. Had she stayed and married Oscar Fleming she would have been indentured to the old prospector for the rest of her life—or at least the rest of his life. In that context, what she was doing didn’t seem so ugly.

The hot coffee and warm meal began to take effect. Ruth’s eyes drooped. She was so tired, so tense from holding the gun on Dylan all day, frightened to death he would physically take it away and leave her here in the mountains, alone. In the distance a mountain lion screeched. Was it waiting until she slept to pounce? No matter. Sleep was out of the question—she had to stay awake and watch Dylan.

Dylan unrolled their bedrolls close to the fire. Dumping the last of his coffee on the ground, he turned and threw a couple more logs on the fire. “It’s time to turn in.”

She shook her head. “I’m not going to sleep. You go ahead.”

“You’re going to stay awake all night?”

She nodded, taking another fortifying sip of the black coffee. “I’ve done it before.”

One time she’d sat up two nights straight taking care of Mary. She’d dozed occasionally, but she had known the moment the girl’s cough worsened. She glared at the big brute climbing into the thick warmth of his sleeping roll. Her eyes stole to her own bedroll.
Oh, my . . . that does look tempting. A bath, warm food, warm blanket . . .

She snapped back to alertness. “Just don’t try anything. I’ll be watching you every moment.”

“Okay,” he agreed. “Make sure I don’t do anything to upset you.” He pulled his bedroll up to his chin and turned his back toward Ruth.

Ha, ha,
she thought. He was a clown too.

The campsite was quiet except for the fire popping and logs slipping lower into white ashes. Fog veiled the sky, so Ruth couldn’t see the stars clearly. The night was as still as a corpse. Taking out her journal, she wrote about the day’s events:

Dear Lord,

I wasn’t very nice today. But as you know, I’m desperate. I’ve discovered desperation doesn’t make you feel any better about doing something you shouldn’t. It makes you feel worse.

A yawn made Ruth fumble for her coffee cup. The tin tipped, and the contents spilled out and seeped into the ground. Yawning again, she realized that she didn’t have the energy to refill the mug.

Reaching for her Bible, she opened to the book of Isaiah. Words blurred as she tried to focus on reading about the potter and the clay. But tonight her mind wouldn’t function—it refused to make the connection or find comfort in the passage.

Climbing into the comfort of her bedroll, she prayed for Mary, Patience, Lily, and Harper. She asked for kind husbands and gentle fathers for their children. Each girl was loyal and good . . . any man should be honored to marry any one of them. She prayed for Glory and Jackson. Then her mind turned toward the marshall. Now there was someone who definitely needed prayer. What, if anything, did he believe in?

Ruth yawned again, allowing her eyes to close momentarily.

Dylan’s voice drifted to her. “Better go to sleep, Priggy. We have a long ride tomorrow.”

“Don’t call me Priggy—nobody has ever called me Priggy.”

“Don’t know why not. The name suits you.”

She ignored the rather obvious affront.

“Better not go to sleep,” he reminded sleepily. “I’ll get the upper hand if you do.”

“I won’t, so stop wishing. I should think you would worry about your own welfare!”

“Well, you’re right again. I am. I’m very concerned about this situation.”

She rolled over into a more comfortable thinking position. Since she’d be up all night, she might as well think through her plans. Wyoming was still a long way off. She yawned, patting her mouth gently.

“Never underestimate a determined woman,” she reminded the marshall.

“So they tell me.”

Midnight rolled around. Ruth could hardly keep her eyes open. The wind whistled and the warmth from the fire was nice.

She shoved the gun to the middle of her bedroll—close enough to grab but far enough to keep from accidentally blowing off a toe. She prayed for the Siddonses . . . and the nice people of Denver City . . . as she drifted off to sleep.