Ruth (22 page)

“The Lord loves you, Dylan. You can fight the knowledge all you want. Whether you accept it or not, it won’t change how he feels about you.”

“Good night, Ruth.”

“Good night, hardhead.”

Ruth stared into the fire, thinking how differently life had treated both of them and how differently they looked at life as a result. Dylan absorbed the hurt and let it isolate him from everything and everyone around him. He had built steel barriers around his heart, afraid to let himself care about anyone or anything other than his job. For a moment—just a moment—Ruth let herself resent the woman who’d done this to Dylan. He was a fine man, but a man who couldn’t give of himself for fear of being hurt; and that woman, in her zealousness, had taught him hate without realizing it.

Ruth tried to imagine fifteen-year-old Dylan going out into the world to make his own way. She wondered what he’d done between that age and when he’d become a marshall. Had anyone cared about him? Had he ever allowed anyone to get close? Her heart ached for the marshall, for the blessings he’d missed by daily living with bitterness toward Sara Dunnigan—and mistrust toward women in general. He had to put aside that bitterness and accept that not all who professed to follow God knew the truth of his love. Truth is precious, enlightening, and enriching. Truth in the heart crowds out hate and bitterness.
“And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

She’d experienced that freedom. When Edgar Norris had taken her back to the orphanage, she’d hated him for abandoning her. She’d railed against the unfairness of losing parents not once but twice. She’d blamed God for forgetting about her. But Mrs. Galeen had refused to let her wallow in self-pity or blame God. For a long time Ruth had refused to accept the guardian’s insistence that God had a plan for her life and all she needed to do was let him unfold it before her. Over time, by giving of herself to others, Ruth had learned to let go of her bitterness and count her blessings. Dylan had not had anyone in his life to encourage him, to teach him God’s ways. As a result, he saw only what he’d lost.

“I always wanted parents,” she whispered. She knew Dylan heard, but would he answer? “Someone to take care of me.” In the firelight, she saw his face was still set with bitterness even though his eyes were shut.

“When my parents died, that was bad. But I was found by two kind Indians who knew of the orphanage. They didn’t take me to their people, where my future wouldn’t have been certain. They took me to the orphanage, which was a good thing.

“Then Edgar and Beatrice Norris came to the orphanage, seeking a child. They were both teachers. I went to live with them, and I remember them fondly. Beatrice was so pretty.” Ruth turned on her side, her thoughts going back many years. “The Norrises taught me to read and write and to appreciate books. That was a blessing. But Beatrice died and Edgar was so grief stricken that . . . well, he couldn’t stay at the school that held so many memories of her.”

“But you hated him for taking you back to the orphanage.” Dylan’s voice intruded on her musings.

“I did,” she admitted. “For a while, but then I saw that I was needed at the orphanage. I helped take care of the little ones, read to them, taught them their letters and numbers, helped them with their lessons when they started school.”

“So you made yourself believe that his abandoning you was a good thing.”

Ruth observed him in the firelight. “Yes, I suppose I did. But it was better than hating him. Hate hurts only the one hating, not the one it’s directed toward. It’s a waste of effort.”

She could see he was skeptical.

“I don’t suppose you could put a good spin on old Oscar’s proposal?”

Ruth had to grin. “No, I can’t quite get around that one. But I do have to wonder what God wanted me to do about Oscar. Maybe he wanted me to marry the old prospector, and I refused to obey. If so, I will be the loser, not God.”

Pessimism was apparent in the marshall’s tone. “Why would God want you to marry a man old enough to be your grandpa, an old coot that chews and might take a bath twice a year?”

Ruth suppressed a shiver. “I don’t know. I didn’t bother to ask God, and that was wrong.”

“I don’t know about a God who would want to give a pretty young woman to an old codger,” Dylan said. “That seems a little unfair—not only to the woman but to the man.”

“There could be a reason,” Ruth contended. “After all, I’m not someone who will probably ever have a family.”

“Why not?”

“I . . . I can’t have children.” She whispered the words, saying them aloud for the first time. “A man wants a family—children—and I can’t give a husband children.”

Dylan didn’t answer for a long time. Ruth was certain his reaction was what any man’s would be—aversion. An unexpected sadness, a sense of having lost something special, flooded her, and she blinked back tears. Why had she told the marshall something so personal? She felt like a complete fool.

“If a man’s in the market for kids, then you may have a point. But if a man’s looking for someone to spend his life with, then the problem shouldn’t get in the way.”

Ruth blinked with surprise. How like Dylan to put something so painful so simply. She swallowed back a cry of gratitude. “You . . . you really think so?”

“I know so. Most men want to find the right woman, not a broodmare.”

A light popped on inside her that she didn’t recognize—a kind of blossoming of hope. “Well, guess you would know, you being a man.”

“Go to sleep, Ruth. Tomorrow is a long day of walking.”

“You’re right.” But she would sleep better tonight knowing that not all men would find her condition appalling. Why, maybe someday, through God’s grace, the Lord would reveal such a man to her.

She snuggled into her blankets and closed her eyes. Then they popped open wide. Maybe God already had, and it was Dylan!

She couldn’t let nagging doubt override her earlier joy. If Dylan was right and not all men looked at a woman with the idea of producing children, then perhaps she had a chance of marrying one day, having a home of her own. . . . She wouldn’t allow herself to think about Dylan, to wish—

No. Better go to sleep and keep such nonsense where it belonged: in the wishful-thinking drawer.

“Ruth?”

She turned, sitting up halfway. “Yes?”

“How do you know your last name is Priggish if you were orphaned at a young age?”

“My father’s Bible. The Indian braves brought it with them. My father’s name was written in the front:
Harold Priggish.
I don’t know my mother’s name.”

Chapter Eleven

Dylan opened his eyes to the sight of snow coming down in blowing sheets. The baby reached out to capture a flake and giggled. Her dark brown eyes shone like a child’s on Christmas morning as Dylan handed her to Ruth. A large snowflake lit on the end of the baby’s nose, and she looked cross-eyed at the marvel.

Dylan grinned. “She’s real cute, isn’t she?” Carefully feeding the coals dry leaves, then twigs that he’d dug out from beneath the snow, he soon had a fair fire going.

“The cutest.” Ruth touched her nose to the child’s. “The very cutest.”

“We need something hot in our bellies. I’ll warm the milk for the baby.”

“All right.”

Dylan turned to glance over his shoulder when she didn’t move. “Ruth, we’ve got to get moving.”

She drew the baby close, hugging her tightly. “What if I can’t? I can barely feel my feet this morning.”

Dylan felt his stomach twist with fear. What would he do if she couldn’t walk? He squatted in front of her. “We can’t give up now. We’re going to make it to Sulphur Springs by nightfall.”

As he searched her face, he could see that she struggled to believe him. He suddenly wished he had the time or energy to shave. He scratched the prickly growth of beard and realized why he’d never grown a beard before. It itched.

“I’ll boil some coffee. That’ll make you feel better,” he said.

“Do we have any left?”

“Enough for breakfast.” He broke ice at the water’s edge and filled a coffeepot with water, and then tossed in the last of the grounds and set it on the fire.

Ruth drew her blankets closer to the warmth and changed the baby’s wet clothes, hurrying since she was putting up a fuss about the cold air on her skin. Afterward, she fed the baby half the milk that was left in the canteen. Dylan and Ruth drank their coffee in silence while Ruth jiggled the fussy baby.

As gray dawn broke over the mountains, they mounted up, knowing the horse was about played out and needed a good meal and dry shelter as much as they did.

The early morning passed without a single word between them. Ruth tried to pacify the baby. When the little girl finally fell asleep, Dylan could feel Ruth relax against his back.

Midmorning, a speck materialized in the distance. The rocky terrain had leveled to better footing. A small wagon with two figures on the driver’s seat appeared. As they neared, Dylan saw a man and a woman dressed in dark clothing. The woman sat close to the man, eyeing the approaching horse with wide, apprehensive eyes.

“Hallo there,” the young man called, drawing the wagon to a halt. “Didn’t expect to see anyone out here in the storm.”

“Neither did we,” Dylan confessed. Ruth’s free arm tightened around his waist with silent warning. They’d met Nehemiah Ford this same way and look where it had gotten them. Dylan discreetly loosened her grip before inquiring, “How far to Sulphur Springs?”

“Oh, just a couple miles. Should get there this afternoon, but the snow will slow you down if it gets any heavier.”

“We plan to make it,” Dylan assured him.

“We’re gettin’ ourselves to home before it sets in for the night,” the young man said. He stood up to peer at the bundle Ruth carried. “What’s that you got there? A baby?”

Dylan glanced over his shoulder at Ruth. This couple was young—sturdy. The woman looked thin, but kind enough. The child was cold and hungry; she needed solid food, a warm bed, care—care he and Ruth were not able to give. If they didn’t reach Sulphur Springs soon, the child would sicken, perhaps die. His uncertainties reflected in Ruth’s eyes. Could this couple be the answer to the baby’s needs? Would they be willing to love and care for her, give her the things a child needed to grow strong and healthy?

“Is that an Indian baby?”

“Yes,” Dylan confirmed.

The man sat back down, suspicion blooming in his eyes. “Where’d you come up with an Indian baby?”

“Found her in a burning wagon.”

Dylan didn’t think the couple needed to know the particulars of how they’d come in possession of the little girl. He looked at Ruth again and wondered what she thought. Prospective parents? But they didn’t know anything about this couple—they could be fugitives from the law for all Dylan knew. The man had shifty eyes. . . .

And on closer inspection, the woman looked frail—in no condition to care for a small baby. Where were the couple’s children? Home, unattended, while their ma and pa rode about the countryside on a snowy day? That was highly unusual—folks out in a snowstorm when they should be home looking after the family—

Ruth broke into Dylan’s thoughts when she gently nudged him to ride on.

“We’d better be on our way if we’re going to make town before dusk,” Dylan said.

“Good luck to you then.” The man slapped the reins against the horse’s rump and with a wave moved on past.

“I didn’t like them,” Ruth said quietly. “I think they would have traded the baby or passed her on to someone else as soon as we were out of sight because she’s Indian.”

“I didn’t trust them either.”

Dylan urged the horse through deepening snowdrifts as they continued their journey. At noon Ruth fed the baby the last of the milk. Dylan recognized her feeling of helplessness because her face mirrored his own. As each hour passed without a sign of the settlement, he grew more troubled. Snow swirled around them, thicker than before, and Dylan began to seriously doubt that they’d make town before they froze to death. Death was a real possibility, he knew. This was a foolish journey and he was the chief fool.

“Are we going to make it?” Ruth’s question was quietly spoken, which gave her fear more weight.

“I don’t even know if we’re going the right direction anymore,” he admitted.

“Oh, God, help us. You’re our only hope,” Ruth breathed.

Dylan set his jaw. Only Ruth’s God knew where they were or if they would make it. For the first time in his life, he couldn’t depend on his own conviction and abilities to carry them through a dangerous situation. For the first time since he was fifteen years old, he was thinking—hoping—that God was there, that he had his eye on them. Dylan wondered if he was losing his mind, thinking about God and asking for his help. Still, with his head bent into the blowing snow, he silently asked that for Ruth’s sake, God might spare her and the innocent child. What happened to him didn’t matter; what happened to Ruth and the baby mattered a lot.

If you’re there, help her, Lord, because I can’t.

Toward dusk, Dylan was certain that Ruth’s Lord was as fickle as Sara Dunnigan’s. Both he and Ruth had lost feeling in their hands and feet. Ruth’s face would be frostbitten if they remained outside a half hour longer.