Ruth reached over to give Mary and Harper a hug.
“Count me in,” Lily said. “Only I feel the same as Mary. This is crazy and dangerous, but I see you have your mind set.”
“Coming all the way from Westport to Denver City was crazy and dangerous,” Ruth argued. “We do what we have to do.”
Patience joined the circle of hugs. “You know I would do anything for you, Ruth, but I’m still concerned about poor Oscar.”
The girls burst into tears, hugging each other. When the moment passed, Ruth wiped her eyes. “Okay. Dylan will be leaving soon. I need those men’s clothes. And a horse.”
“Of course,” Harper groused. “A horse. And me without a magic wand.”
Patience had started to dress. “You leave the horse to me. I know where I can find one.”
“I’ll take care of the men’s clothes,” Harper volunteered. “We’ll get some from Pastor Siddons. Me, Lily, and Patience will make him new pants and shirts—I don’t know what we’ll do about the coat and gloves. We’ll find something.”
“I’ll gather enough food for a week—will that be enough?” Mary peered at Ruth.
“I’ll make it last. In a week I should be able to reveal myself to Dylan.”
“Whoooee,” Harper grumbled. “That’s gonna be a day of reckoning. And we’re gonna have to be real careful or our stay in the pastor’s house will be compromised.”
Ruth knew the encounter wouldn’t be pleasant, but she’d face that battle when it happened. “We’ll be careful, and we won’t take anything that we can’t replace or that we haven’t earned.”
The girls flew into action. Patience and Lily went after the horse. They’d take one of Tom Wyatt’s mares; the girls figured he owed them that. Harper gathered warm shirts and heavy pants, tiptoeing softly about the Siddonses’ bedroom as the older couple snored, unaware of the subterfuge taking place under their roof.
“We’ll pay you back, sir and ma’am,” the black girl whispered as she eased out of the bedroom and closed the door. “It ain’t like we’re stealing or nuthin’—we’re just borrowing in a pinch.”
Pink was barely creasing the sky when the girls hefted a boyish-looking Ruth up into the saddle. Handing Ruth a sack of bread and cheese and a canteen of water, Mary smiled. “Be careful—our prayers go with you.”
“Turn around and come back if you see this isn’t going to work. Promise?” Lily grasped Ruth’s hand tightly.
“Word of honor.” Ruth returned the pressure. With a smile, Ruth whirled the mare and galloped off.
The women listened until the sound of hoofbeats disappeared into the mountainside. The sun broke through over the mountaintop, giving birth to a new day.
“This makes me as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” Harper breathed, wrapping herself tighter in a heavy shawl. Her breath came in frosty whiffs. “That girl’s got David’s courage.”
“Yes,” Patience murmured, “but this time I fear she’s taken on more than a giant.”
Ruth rode well to the rear of the marshall’s path. Sheer elation fueled her, and she discovered a new world in the heady, brisk mountain air. The small mare was an easy ride, and she had no trouble keeping pace.
As brilliant warmth spread over the hillsides, she spotted a herd of elk feeding in a valley. The magnificent animals’ young gathered close, but apparently they scented no threat as Ruth passed by on an upper ledge. Deer grazed in nearby thickets. Blue jays chattered noisily overhead. Her first day out was an adventure Ruth would never forget.
She tipped her face to the sun’s rays and thanked God that she had escaped marriage to Oscar Fleming and that she would soon be reunited with family—albeit distant—she had gained the day two Sioux braves had dropped her at the orphanage after her parents died. She tried to picture Milford from the tintype the Norrises had kept on their parlor table. He’d always looked the bookish sort. His eyesight was poor, to the extent he’d worn glasses since an early age. His frail body didn’t appear very manly, but he had a poet’s heart, Mrs. Norris claimed. Not exactly the exciting sort of man to turn a woman’s head, but a very good man. Ruth would be glad to meet Milford for the first time, and she fervently hoped he would react kindly to her unexpected visit.
That night Ruth camped early, following the marshall’s lead. She could see smoke from his campfire through towering bare aspens. She did not build a fire; though she craved the warmth, the risk of attention deterred her. She ate cold cheese and bread and drank water from the canteen. Then she opened her journal and while it was still light wrote:
Day One
It has been a most wondrous day, Lord. Thank you for keeping me safe thus far. I saw elk, deer, birds, and a wild turkey just before dusk. Dylan is unaware of my presence. The weather is mild for the eighth day of November; the sky is crystalline blue. I am tired but very happy as I write this.
Sighing, Ruth repacked the journal and rolled up into her sleeping bag to read the Bible by the last rays of light.
The wind picked up as Ruth saddled up and rode out of camp the next morning. She’d been awake since long before dawn. She didn’t want to lag too far behind Dylan, and she wasn’t sure what time he’d leave. So she’d played it safe, waking long before he would wake up. She waited until sunlight barely streaked the sky before she set out.
Within the hour she picked up fresh horse tracks. Smiling, she settled back in the leather saddle to enjoy the day. Animals seemed to be scarce today; by midmorning she spotted a lone hawk flying low to the ground. The wind blew harder and dark clouds skidded across a pewter-colored sky. By late morning she was clinging to the pommel, trying to hang on as a gale cut across mountain passes and howled like a banshee. Nothing fell from the threatening sky, but Ruth knew she would be fighting rain or snow before nightfall.
In the middle of the afternoon, Ruth stopped to water the horse and eat. Both of her arms felt like wet sponges from gripping the saddle horn. As she climbed back on the horse and tied herself in the saddle, she silently thanked Lily for the piece of rope she had thoughtfully included. Twice she’d considered turning around and going back, but then Oscar would pop into her mind. She couldn’t go back—she couldn’t fail. The wind would eventually die; then things would be better.
By nightfall, Ruth untied herself and fell out of the saddle onto the hard ground. Exhaustion seized her. A heavy rain fell. In the distance she spotted the soft curl of smoke coming from Dylan’s campfire. Closing her eyes, she breathed in, certain she could smell roasting meat. Had they traveled far enough for her to reveal herself? Two days of moderate riding. Was that enough to delay Dylan from his duties—so much so that he wouldn’t insist on taking her back to Denver City?
She didn’t know; her reasoning was clouded. Best to wait one more day—to make certain. He would not waste three whole days to take her back. Teeth chattering, she ate cheese and bread, drank from the canteen, and then hurriedly opened her journal before light gave way. Huddled beneath a dripping pine, she scribbled:
Today wasn’t so good. The wind’s been blowing so hard I could barely keep my hair attached to my head. Finally I tied myself in the saddle. Then it started to rain. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I held on and prayed the horse would follow the path by instinct.
Dylan is still unaware that I’m following him. Am I doing the right thing? The weather will be better tomorrow—I’m told that weather changes fast in these parts. I have encountered no other traveler, but even if I did, I would be in no danger. Lily said I looked exactly like a boy with my denims and plaid shirt and my hair pulled up under my hat. I feel like a man tonight. Dirty, smelly like a plow horse. But the bother will be worth it when I see the look on Mr. Smart Aleck McCall’s face when he realizes he’s been tricked. Ha, ha. We’ll see who has the last laugh.
Ruth shut the rain-smeared journal and huddled deeper into her wet coat. Her eyes followed the steady downpour. They’d just see who had the last laugh.
&
nbsp; Ruth awoke to fog. Thick-as-pea-soup fog. Gray mist swirled around her like pieces of dirty lint. The air was so thick the mist on her face threatened to turn to a coating of ice. Her lips were cold and tight, and the air was so heavy it was like breathing water.
This morning Ruth couldn’t tell up from down; only silence surrounded her. Even the sound of the mare’s hooves was muffled.
Peering ahead in the hope of finding some clearing in the mist, Ruth urged the animal forward. She’d been able to stay a safe distance back from Dylan until now, but in order not to lose him she’d have to ride closer today. She had to hope he didn’t look back over his shoulder or hear her horse. The fog would hinder him—he couldn’t possibly see her, could he? And if he did, he’d think she was a fellow traveler.
Still, with the marshall’s tendency to caution if he suspected anyone on his trail, he wouldn’t leave the identity to speculation. U.S. marshalls were paid to be vigilant; he’d investigate. She would have to exercise caution, though common sense warned her to close the distance.
Ruth smothered a groan as she stretched her aching back in the hard saddle. Only a fool or a desperate imbecile would be out in this weather, and she and the marshall seemed to qualify on both counts. Shifting in the saddle, she flexed her numb toes in the tight boots and kept pushing forward.
The mountainous range was unfamiliar. There wasn’t a clue, not a road marker, not a bent tree, nothing to guide her. Her only hope was Dylan. She needed to see him—even a speck of him—to make certain that she was riding in the right direction, but at the moment she could barely see her hand in front of her face.
Minutes seemed like hours. The mare carefully picked her way over the rocky terrain, clearly no more comfortable with walking blind than Ruth was. Leaning forward in the saddle, Ruth peered into the swirling haze until her eyes burned. Her muscles were so tense her whole body ached.
Was that faint sound ahead coming from Dylan’s horse? The light pick of hoof against stone could have come from behind her as well as ahead. Fog made direction impossible to discern.
Suddenly the sound seemed right in front of her. Startled, Ruth reined in. She was too close! Dylan would hear her and turn back to investigate, and she’d be discovered! He’d take her back to Denver City and Oscar without a second thought. She recoiled at the idea. She had to be more careful. She’d never seen a man more determined to take a wife—to take her as his wife—than Oscar Fleming. Returning to Denver City and Oscar wasn’t an option, no matter what uncertainties lay ahead.
Frightened as a snared rabbit, Ruth prodded the mare forward. Maybe she was foolish to think she could do this—foolish to think she was smart enough, cunning enough, strong enough to carry out this plan. She hadn’t thought about fog so impenetrable she could neither hear nor see. She hadn’t thought about there not being a clear trail. For all she knew she was going in circles. She blinked back tears.
Wyoming was north—of that she was certain—but with all the fog she couldn’t tell north from east. She might as well be standing still for all the progress she was making. Tears stung her eyes. Why wouldn’t the fog lift?
Fear was a hand at her throat. She couldn’t breathe. Panic captured her. She was drowning—
Ruth halted the mare again and closed her eyes. “Get ahold of yourself,” she repeated. “Don’t panic. You never panic. Dear Lord, help me not to panic. Forgive me for being foolish. Show me the way. Please—I admit I’ve been a fool.”
She nudged the horse forward, but the animal was as reluctant as she was to move. Only the fear of losing Dylan made her keep urging the horse along.
Ruth’s fingers seemed frozen to the reins. Her legs ached and the pain in her lower back now extended to between her shoulder blades. She needed to get off this horse and walk around, gain some feeling back into her feet, ease the tension in her back and legs, but she was reluctant to lose time.
“Eat something,” she murmured, refusing to surrender to the fear that threatened to paralyze her.
She reached down and fumbled for the saddlebag, then drew her hand back. The thought of food made her stomach roll. Nothing she could force down would promise to stay down until she knew she was safe, until she could pick up Dylan’s trail again.
If she could find him again.
“Defeatist thoughts, Ruth. You can’t stop now. You’ve come too far and you would never find your way back, even if you could face Oscar,” she muttered to herself.
Cold seeped into every bone. If she didn’t come across Dylan’s trail soon, she was afraid she was going to freeze to death.
Suddenly she hit something big and solid—smack! The mare’s high-pitched scream pierced the air. Before Ruth could control the reins, the horse reared, throwing her from the saddle. She somersaulted into the air and landed hard, the impact of solid ground jarring her teeth.
Dazed, she rolled over once before realizing she’d been catapulted into a pile of—
She sniffed, her hand reaching out to probe the steaming, warm …
She clamped her eyes shut, gritting her teeth. No! It couldn’t be! This couldn’t happen! But there was no mistaking the stench. She groaned and would have flung herself down on the ground in exasperation except she was already flat on her back.
Manure. Fresh manure at that—clinging, stinking manure.
Manure meant cattle. Cattle and a manure pile meant a farm or ranch. Hope bloomed in Ruth’s heart. God had heard her prayers! But why would a cow be in these wild parts? Unless …
Shrieking in frustration, Ruth bounded to her feet. Her screech made her already nervous mare bolt and gallop toward the swirling haze. Slamming her fists on her hips, she yelled, “Well, if this isn’t a fine howdy-do!” The animal disappeared, swallowed by the murky, gray mass.
Now what?
Flinging bits of manure off her clothing in all directions, Ruth tried to remain calm. But frustration gave way, and she screamed at the top of her lungs. She was on foot; her food, along with her blankets, was gone with the horse; and she was covered in manure!
What else could possibly happen?
She whirled when out of the fog she heard the last thing a woman in Ruth’s predicament wanted to hear.
A thunderous masculine expletive that was anything but calm.
Chapter Four
Dylan had known that he was being followed an hour after he’d left Denver City. At first he thought it might be some of those pesky rebel Utes that plagued the territory. Then he figured it was more likely someone wanting to get the drop on him. He’d waited nearly three days for the confrontation and was beginning to wonder if he was imagining things.
Suddenly, in the fog, something ran into him. Dylan was thrown from his stallion. Quickly he braced for the intruder to make his move. Instead, a woman’s screams pierced the air. Tense moments passed. Gun drawn, Dylan got up slowly and took a guarded step, then another into the swirling mist. His right boot encountered something slippery and mushy. Frowning, he took another step, and his feet suddenly flew out from under him. Airborne for a split second, he dropped his gun and landed on something squashy—and warm. The stench brought tears to his eyes.
Then the kicker happened—the upheaval of the day: he saw Ruth towering above him.
Ruth was following him? Mentally groaning, Dylan wondered why that surprised him.
Instantly he dived for her, trying to gain the advantage, but she was wiry and quick. He gained his footing first but went down a second time in the slimy quagmire. Gagging from the smell, he shot back to his feet, driving for the gun.
Man and woman wallowed, rolling over and through the manure slick. Ruth broke free and crawled beyond his reach. Dylan rolled to the side, out of the path, his hand still searching for the Colt. Blood pumped from his nose.
Suddenly Ruth stood up and calmly put the gun to his temple. “Don’t make a move, Mr. McCall, or I’ll be forced to shoot you.”
Muttering an oath, Dylan fell back when he realized that she meant it. S
he was desperate enough at this point to do anything.
Cold steel pressed against his temple. “Don’t move a muscle or you’re a dead man.”
Her voice held enough conviction that Dylan decided not to test it. He’d learned long ago to pick his fights, and with a Colt positioned to blow his brains out of his nose, this wasn’t one of them.
“Woman,” he said calmly, “what is it going to take to get loose of you?” He couldn’t see her now, but the firearm convinced him to play along. The fog would have to lift before he could gain the upper hand. Then what?
Throw her to the wolves? The idea appealed to his baser instinct—but then his nobler side kicked in.
“Get up slowly,” Ruth ordered as she slid the menacing gun barrel to a site between his shoulder blades. He could turn and take her; her slight weight would be no match for his. But maybe he’d let events play out, see what she wanted—as if he didn’t know. Play her by the rules of poker until he turned the tables on her.
He pushed slowly to his feet. “I suppose I have to put my hands over my head?”
She cleared her throat—a nervous habit. Oh, it was Ruth—Ruthie—all right. In her most irritating mode.
“That won’t be necessary.”
He pictured her chin lifting a notch. She was close enough now he could make out the wool shirt, faded denims, and battered hat. Who was she trying to impersonate? A man?
The adversaries stood for a moment, reeking of cow manure. After a while, Dylan tired of the wait. She’d make a poor cardplayer.
“Okay. Now what?” He squelched the urge to yell at her—to bring to her limited attention the idiocy of what she was doing. If she had the gun, Dylan couldn’t be the protector. He swallowed back pride.
So she had been the one following him for three days. What did she think? That by following him, threatening to make him late for his appointment, she’d gain her way so he’d have no other choice but to take her to her cousin’s place? Foolish woman. There was nothing to prevent him from wiring ahead to inform his boss, Kurt Vaning, he’d run into trouble and wouldn’t be in Utah when expected. If he did that, though, the trail on Dreck Parson and his gang would turn cold, and he was getting too close to lose the outlaw now.
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