Ruth

by Lori Copeland

  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.”

  Patience’s hand closed tightly around Ruth’s. “Don’t say that, Ruth. This might very well be an answer to prayer. At least you’ll have someone to care for you. The rest of us face very uncertain futures.”

  All four of the women nodded.

  “It could be a blessing, Ruth.” Lily stood behind, smoothing Ruth’s back.

  Ruth shook her head mutely. God wouldn’t be so cruel. He had revealed his will for her life when the doctor told her she was missing a uterus and could never bear children. No children. She was trying to accept the doctor’s words, but the knowledge still stung. Now? Marrying Oscar would give her a temporary home, but it would never give her love and children, the things she’d once wanted most in life. It would take a miracle from God to give her those things now, and at this moment her faith couldn’t stretch far enough to believe she’d merit such favor.

  “Oh, it might be fun,” Patience encouraged. “Oscar could be like—like a dear grandfather. You could sew and cook and keep his house clean while he sat in the rocking chair in front of the window, drinking in the warm sunlight… .” Her words trailed as Ruth turned withering eyes on her.

  Patience smiled lamely. “Look on the bright side—isn’t that what Jackson told us?”

  “There isn’t a bright side, Patience.” Ruth drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head on them. Lily gently tucked Ruth’s skirts around her.

  Harper humphed. “More like she’d get her exercise with the old coot chasing her round the house twenty-four hours a day.”

  The eyes of all five girls turned as round as boiled eggs. Silence shrouded the room.

  Suddenly Ruth threw her petticoats aside and straightened her hair.

  “Where are you going?” Lily tried to restrain the determined woman as she got off the bed.

  Shrugging Lily’s hand aside, Ruth marched to the door. She hadn’t wanted to resort to dire actions, but if ever there was a time for urgency, it was now. She couldn’t let this ride another minute. She had to see Oscar and apologize for the misunderstanding and inform him she would not marry him. Then she would face Pastor Siddons and his wife, Minnie, in the morning and explain why she had turned down a perfectly good marriage proposal, further imposing upon them during the long winter, when the Siddonses already had four additional mouths to feed.

  “You’re not going anywhere.” Ruth’s four friends formed a physical barrier, blocking the bedroom door. “You have to at least promise to sleep on this and pray about it.” Patience’s eyes firmed. “In the light of morning you may discover that there could be a worse fate than marrying Oscar Fleming.”

  Ruth met the women’s eyes stubbornly. She would rather have this out tonight and get it over with, but if they were going to be adamant about it, then so be it. Marching back to the bed, she dropped into it and yanked the covers over her head.

  The candle went out. Silence fell over the crowded bedroom. Ruth felt the springs give as Mary crawled between the sheets on her side of the bed. Guilt gnawed at Ruth; she tossed and turned. The Siddonses had been kind enough to take all five women in until spring. By then other arrangements for Mary, Patience, Lily, Harper, and herself would have to be made. The good Lord knew the aging couple couldn’t afford to feed five extra mouths. If Ruth wasn’t so selfish, she’d marry Oscar. Maybe he would offer to look after Lily and Patience, or Mary and Harper. That would leave only two extra mouths for the Siddonses to feed during the long winter.

  Patience had said to pray about it. Ruth tried … but images from her nightmares came back to her. Oscar chasing her around the house… . What if God wanted her to marry Oscar? She couldn’t. She just couldn’t marry that old prospector.

  Cousin Milford. The name popped into Ruth’s head. She hadn’t thought of Milford in years. He was Edgar’s youngest brother’s son, and Edgar had always spoken highly of him. Milford lived in Wyoming—somewhere. Pear Branch, Wyoming, if she remembered correctly. Milford would be in his late twenties by now, probably married with a wife and children. If she could get to Pear Branch, Milford would take her in for the winter. She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of him before!

  Now, how could she get to Pear Branch with winter coming on? She had to use logic. The weather would be formidable, but with the proper clothing and a good horse she might make it. She had to think of a plan… .

  She heard the hall clock chime two. Easing from beneath the warm sheets, she covered Mary more securely, then tiptoed to the door. A minute later she crept down the stairway, wincing at the telltale creaks. Pastor and his wife slept in the downstairs back bedroom.

  Ruth fumbled in the darkness to pull on Mary’s boots and the coat she’d left in the hallway. She slipped out the front door, closing it softly behind her. Moonlight lit a path on the ground. The sleepy town was quiet at this hour. The hotel where Dylan and the newlyweds were staying was dark as pitch when she approached.

  She couldn’t believe what she was about to do. But desperate straits called for desperate measures. Hadn’t her biblical namesake done something similar with Boaz?

  Ruth eased the establishment’s front door open and crept to the registration desk, where a candle burned low. The old clerk sat back in a chair sound asleep, his snores falling in even cadence. Even wide awake, Mort Carol couldn’t hear himself think, she’d been told. Turning the name register around, Ruth lifted the candle and located Dylan’s name. Room 4. Glory and Jackson
were in room 10.

  The soles of Mary’s thick boots clunked up the uncarpeted stairs. Holding the candle aloft, Ruth tiptoed down the hall and read door numbers. Two … three. Light snores resonated up and down the hallway. Mostly cattlemen stayed the night as they passed through on their way to deliver herds. This time of year the hotel was nearly empty.

  Ruth paused at room 4 and knocked lightly. Holding her breath, she waited. Dylan McCall must sleep like a log. She’d have thought a marshall would sleep lighter, alert to unexpected trouble. So much for Mr. Know-It-All McCall’s abilities—

  She lifted her hand and knocked again. Suddenly the door flew open, and Ruth found herself staring down the steel barrel of a very unfriendly looking Colt. She dropped the candle as her hands flew up to shield her face. “Don’t shoot!”

  She heard a masculine rumble that sounded very unpleasant—like an old bear awakened from hibernation—before she was physically yanked inside. After kicking the door shut, Dylan reached for his shirt. “What are you doing creeping around here in the middle of the night!” He jerked the shirt on, then lit a candle. His features looked sinister in the shadowy light. “Fool woman.”

  “Fool!” she mocked. “I could have burst in here and shot you dead if I’d wanted. You didn’t hear my first knock.”

  “I heard it.”

  “You did not.”

  He glowered at her.

  Ruth quickly decided she wasn’t making any points with him, and that was her sole purpose for being here in the middle of the night. Pastor Siddons would faint if he knew she was visiting a man’s hotel room at this hour. Brushing past the glowering marshall, she moved deeper into the room. “I have come to ask a favor.”

  “No.”

  “Just like that? No?”

  Dylan calmly buttoned his shirt. “Maybe … if you come back in the morning.”

  She whirled to face him. “You’re leaving in the morning, aren’t you?”

  He sat down on the side of the bed, running his hands through rings of tousled curls. The gesture reminded her of a young boy—a very good-looking, young, impatient lad.

  “So?”

  “I need your help.”

  He looked up. “My help.” He laughed.

  “Your help.” Taking a deep breath, she clunked over to where he sat. “You have to take me with you in the morning.”

  For a moment he frowned; then the cad threw back his head and laughed harder. “In a pig’s eye. I don’t want to upset your fiancé.”

  Bravado crumbling, she knelt before him. “Please, Dylan. I can’t marry Oscar Fleming—I can’t. If I remain here in Denver City, I’ll have no alternative.”

  His eyes hardened, and for a moment he reminded her of a spurned suitor. An illogical sense of elation filled Ruth, then dissipated just as quickly when she realized that the arrogant boar was only showing his usual insolence.

  “Then why did you agree to marry the man?” His tone was flat and final.

  “I didn’t agree to marry him! Oscar misunderstood!”

  “Misunderstood?” He pffted. “How does a man misunderstand yes from no?”

  A hot blush crept up Ruth’s neck. “I didn’t exactly say no … I said, ‘Oscar, I’m honored,’ and he took it to mean yes.”

  Dylan stared at her. “‘Oscar, I’m honored.’ Hmm. Wonder how he mistook that for a yes.”

  “Honored but,” she argued. “I was going to say but I can’t marry you. No! I was going to say a firm no.”

  “Then why didn’t you? How hard is it to stop and say, ‘No, you misunderstood’?”

  Ruth knew he had a valid point. She should have stopped Oscar, but she was dumbfounded by the proposal, and the crowd was pushing around her, and Oscar was jumping up and down crowing like a proud rooster. She had bolted like a coward, leaving Oscar with the impression, no doubt, that she was suffering from a hefty dose of shyness and premarital jitters.

  Desperate now, she grabbed both of Dylan’s hands. “Look, I’ll work my way. If you’ll take me as far as Wyoming, I’ll cook, wash your clothes, be your servant.” Ouch! It galled her to say that, but she was a woman in dire straits.

  “Take you with me?” he scoffed. “With winter setting in—take you to Wyoming? You are out of your mind.”

  “I’m not out of my mind; I’m desperate. Can’t you see that?” She sprang up, her temper flaring. “You insensitive jackal! I can’t stay here and marry Oscar Fleming. You have to take me with you—it’s—it’s the only gentlemanly thing to do!”

  Maybe if she appealed to his chivalrous side. She knew he had one because she’d seen him turn on the charm with more than one unsuspecting woman. She was prepared to use anything in her arsenal—within reason—to make him relent and see the necessity.

  “If I can get to Milford, he’ll take me in!”

  “Milford?”

  “Milford—my cousin.”

  “You’ve never mentioned a Milford.”

  “So? I haven’t mentioned a lot of things,” she said. “Milford being one of them.”

  He laughed humorlessly. “Go back to the Siddonses and go to bed. There’s no way I’m taking you with me, Ruth. It’s too dangerous. And in case you haven’t thought about it, your reputation would be ruined. A man and woman, unmarried, traveling alone together …”

  The look he gave her implied she was as green as grass. Well, Mr. Smart Aleck didn’t know she’d already thought of that objection and had it covered.

  “No one will ever know that I’m a woman.”

  “Yeah, right.” Then the cad actually blew out the light and crawled back in bed. Ruth stood in the dark, fuming. How dare he. How dare he treat her like an unruly child!

  “Let yourself out quietly,” he mumbled beneath the covers. “There are people down the hall trying to sleep.”

  Ruth fumbled her way to the door. Why God let men like Dylan McCall inhabit the earth was beyond her. She lit a candle once she closed the door and stomped back down the stairs. She didn’t bother to be quiet this time—someone could come in and carry off the hotel, and not a soul there would know.

  She let herself out the front door, feeling like she was about to explode on the inside. How one man could get her so worked up and angry amazed her.

  Her eyes focused on the water barrel as the heavy boots clunked down the steps. What an egotistical, self-inflated, pompous—! Her eyes lit on the bucket. Before she thought, she dipped a bucketful of water, then turned and let herself back into the hotel. The old clerk slept on as she pounded up the stairs again, lugging the heavy pail of water.

  Liquid sloshed out, trailing a wet slick down the hallway. When she reached room 4, she paused to catch her breath. She wanted to have plenty of wind when he opened the door. Hefting the bucket waist high, she kicked at the door.

  Dylan’s gruff voice came through the wood. “Go home, Ruth, before I have to insult you.”

  Insult me, huh. She kicked harder. Treat me like a child, will he?

  Voices from nearby rooms sounded. “Hey, what’s going on out there?” “Whoever’s kicking that door is gonna get his head knocked in!”

  In a second the door flew open and an enraged Dylan appeared.

  “You inconsiderate lout!” Taking a wide swing, she heaved the bucket of water, hitting him face-first. Icy tendrils streamed from his hair. Staggering backward, he muttered an expletive under his breath as Ruth turned and ran.

  The clunky boots were too big for her, and she had to squeeze her toes to the front of the leather to keep them on her feet. But she’d forgotten about the water slick. Her feet flew out from beneath her about the same time a large hand clasped around her collar.

  Horrified, she felt herself being lifted into a pair of steel-banded arms. “Now, Dylan … remember, you’re a man and I’m a woman… .”

  “A hooligan,” he corrected. He was drenched from head to foot, his clothes sticking to him.

  She pounded his back as he hauled her, kicking and screaming, over his shoul
der and headed toward the stairway. Doors opened and candlelight glowed. Sleepy-eyed guests gathered in the hallway to watch the fracas.

  Mort Carol stirred behind the counter, licking his lips. His eyes flew wide open at the sight of the marshall carrying a young, screaming woman down the staircase. The back of Mort’s chair smacked the floor as he bolted up. “Here now—what in tarnation is going on? Put that little lady down!”

  Dylan carried Ruth out the door and down the porch stairs and unceremoniously dumped her into the water barrel.

  Ruth’s indignant screams penetrated the late fall air as she hit the icy water. She surfaced, spitting water on him.

  Pointing a stern finger at her, Dylan warned, “You’re stepping on my last nerve, woman!”

  Moments later Jackson appeared on the porch, wearing pants and his shirttail hanging out. “What in the—?”

  Dylan’s gaze moved from the half-dressed bridegroom back to Ruth. She looked like a drowned rat. Her hair hung in tangled ropes, pieces of it clinging to her face; her dress drooped on her like a wet sack, but hot resentment burned in her eyes. He almost laughed.

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning!” Jackson bellowed. “Don’t you two have anything better to do than have a water fight?”

  Dylan noticed a crowd had gathered and now stood in various stages of nightclothes, gaping at them with wide eyes and not a few snickers. Pure fury rose in him. This stubborn, irrational woman had made a complete fool of him.

  “Get away from that water barrel before you both freeze to death!” Jackson stepped off the porch and hauled Ruth out of the water. He propelled her toward the hotel lobby. “Show’s over, folks. Get back to your beds, where sane people ought to be!”

  Jackson stepped inside the lobby and motioned the dripping couple up the stairway. Mort preened his neck over the counter as he cleaned his glasses. “Do I need to get the law?”

  “We have the law,” Jackson called over his shoulder and then glanced at Dylan. “Although I’m sure the government wouldn’t claim him at the moment.” Wet leather boots creaked down the hallway as guests shrank back into the shadows. Doors shut—some softly, others with distinct slams.