She lay back, staring at the sky—one she hadn’t seen in days. “I was only four when my parents died of cholera, horse. For some reason God spared my life. Mrs. Galeen, the orphanage mother, told me God had spared me for a reason, that he had a plan for my life.”
Ruth glanced at the mare, who appeared to be listening. She smiled and continued. “I tried my best to believe that, but sometimes, particularly right now, the kindly woman’s words are hard to accept. Still, God did spare me when the circumstances seemed hopeless. Mrs. Galeen told me that two Sioux braves found me crying in the wagon, my parents and two brothers dead of cholera. Instead of killing me, they took me to the orphanage. Mrs. Galeen saw them early one morning when she had risen to take care of Mary. One of the braves got off his horse, carefully cradling a wide-eyed, dirty-faced toddler, and set me, big as you please, on the orphanage steps. Then he pounded on the door and waited for Mrs. Galeen to recover from her initial fright and summon enough nerve to see what they wanted.
“Anyway, with limited vocabulary and using sign language, the young man informed Mrs. Galeen of the deaths of my whole family. Then he quickly mounted his horse and the two braves disappeared before Mrs. Galeen could ask any questions.
“Mrs. Galeen named me Ruth—” Ruth peered at the mare. “Did you know that?” She lay back. Of course the horse couldn’t have known that. Mrs. Galeen had named her after her favorite Bible character. Ruth had been adopted by Edgar and Beatrice Norris, a schoolteacher and his wife. She lived with them for several years, and they taught her to read, write, and figure her sums. But when Mrs. Norris died in childbirth, the grieving and distraught husband had returned ten-year-old Ruth to the orphanage.
Mrs. Galeen had been sympathetic to Edgar Norris’s grief, but she disapproved of his choice not to keep Ruth with him when he returned East to his family. Edgar explained that he was unable to cope with a child, not even one whom he’d called his own for more than six years.
“It took me weeks to get past grieving myself,” Ruth told the mare. “It was so hard to get over the death of the only real mother I’d ever known and what I then perceived in my childish mind as the betrayal by the only father I had. Mrs. Galeen, bless her kind soul, did everything possible to help me adjust. But I sought escape in books.”
Ruth drew a deep sigh. “The orphanage was the fortunate recipient of any books abandoned by travelers, which afforded the shelter quite a good library of fiction, history, and the classics. I read everything and soon began reading to the younger children at bedtime, which allowed Mrs. Galeen extra time with the older ones.”
Finally Ruth grew to accept that she’d lost not only one set of parents but two. “Mrs. Galeen refused to let me blame God or anyone else for my misfortune. The time came when I accepted the Lord as my Savior and friend, not as someone who caused evil but allowed it for his own purposes.
“God allows events in our lives to take place in order to make us stronger in our faith—that’s what Mrs. Galeen contends. In which case I ought to be really strong. One time I told her so. But Esther Galeen had only said, ‘One day you’ll need to be strong, and you’ll have his strength to comfort you.’”
Well, Ruth thought as she drew the blanket snugly around her shoulders, this must be that day. She found no comfort in the prophecy. She was lost and alone … and it was Dylan McCall’s fault. If he hadn’t just gone off and left her—
Annoyance bloomed anew. What kind of man would just go off and leave a woman alone on an empty mountainside with no help? No one but a rotten, black-hearted, just plain mean kind of man. A man with no heart.
“And I wanted to be strong for that man,” Ruth contended. “I wanted to be the shining light in his life, to prove—in spite of an occasional bout of temper and bullheadedness—that I walk in faith not in darkness. The marshall seemed to be struggling with a limited amount of trust in the Almighty. Mare, you notice that?”
But anger couldn’t drive out her fear. The silence and the darkness began to close in, and tears slid from the corners of Ruth’s eyes. She laid her head on the saddle and drew the second blanket close.
“Please help me, God,” she murmured. “I know I’m foolish and do things and act when I should be asking your guidance. I’m sorry. Truly, truly sorry. But in your mercy, in your forgiveness, please send someone to get me out of this.”
She must have fallen asleep, for when she next opened her eyes, a hazy dawn surrounded her. Ruth slowly unwound from her blankets, groaning as her stiff muscles complained.
Distant thunder convinced her that she’d best take shelter from the approaching storm. Struggling with the weight of the saddle, Ruth managed to get the heavy leather over the horse that peered over her haunch with a pained expression, as if to ask what Ruth thought she was doing.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, tightening the cinch. “But I can’t sit here and wallow in self-pity a moment longer.”
By the time the mare was saddled, Ruth was trembling with exertion. She would have to find substantial food soon or she’d be too faint to ride. Urging the horse toward an outcropping of rocks, Ruth sought cover in a small cave. She squeezed the mare through the tight opening and thanked God for safety as the skies opened up in a torrential cloudburst.
She spotted the skunk the same instant it spotted her. Lifting its tail, it sprayed the area before Ruth could flee. She turned the mare, but it was too late. Throat choking, eyes burning, she clung to the saddle, barely able to hang on to the skittish horse.
“Oh!” she managed, gagging and blinking through tearing eyes.
The horse snorted repeatedly, trying to clear her nose of the suffocating stink. Ruth clung to the bridle and tried to breathe. Wind drove the falling rain back into the cave.
Easing the horse into the rain, Ruth galloped to an aspen, dismounted, unsaddled the mare, and looped the tether rope around a rock. Then she ran under an overhanging ledge. She sank to the ground and stared at the worsening downpour. She was tired, so weary her bones ached. She stank; her clothes reeked of varmint. Her stomach ached for hot food. She wanted a real bed, not blankets on the cold ground. She wanted someone to find her, to rescue her.
She stared at the falling rain, but she didn’t cry. She was long past mere tears.
Her life couldn’t possibly get any worse.
Chapter Five
Ruth clung miserably to the rock all night. When daylight broke harshly over the mountain range, she grudgingly opened her eyes to face a new day. Her bones felt frozen beneath the soggy ledge. The rain had stopped, but the air was damp and a chilly wind whistled through the gorge.
A noise caught her attention, and she glanced at the ridge below her. Eyes darting back and forth, she scanned the shelf. Undoubtedly there were all sorts of wildlife in these parts. She’d ridden by deer, elk … skunk. Her nostrils still stung from the unpleasant encounter. Late last night she’d moved farther away from the original experience and changed clothes, but the odor still lingered in the crisp mountain air.
She heard it again: a soft rustle—down below. She knew there were bears in Colorado—and mountain lions. Glory had skinned an elk once to save her and Jackson’s lives when they were lost in an early blizzard.
Ruth waited, holding her breath, nervous now. Imagination, Ruth. It’s only your imagination. Out here you can imagine that you hear anything.
She rolled to her feet and rubbed circulation into her arms. Fumbling with the knapsack, she removed the last of the cheese. Only enough rations to last the day. Then what? She didn’t know what.
Crouched beneath the overhang, she ate her breakfast and pondered her actions. Actually, the marshall had every right to deny her demands, she decided. Marshall McCall had been thinking clearly. In the light of sanity Ruth realized that emotions had ruled her heart. A single man escorting a young lady across two territories would be disastrous to the lady’s reputation and highly improper, however obscure Ruth considered her standing.
She took a bite of ch
eese.
Dylan was acting properly. It was she who had been demanding and difficult, and she would apologize if she ever crossed the marshall’s path again.
Yet she wouldn’t be here—stranded, alone, unprotected—if Dylan hadn’t been so infuriatingly close-minded. Mulish pride it was. He’d behaved even more irresponsibly than Ruth—scoffing at her, playing her for a fool, biding his time until he could seize the advantage. Not to mention leaving her out here to die! She bit into the cheese again, yanking a hunk free with her teeth. A gentleman would never act as Dylan McCall had acted.
Remorse ate at her. Why had she fallen asleep and allowed him to escape? She was certain she had been watching the campfire flames lick at the burning wood, totally attentive.
She ripped off another bite of cheese.
Next thing she knew, Mr. McCall had fled like the rogue he was and left her with an embarrassing note—and egg on her face!
Springing to her feet, Ruth flung the last bit of cheese into the wind. Apologize to him? Never! Wild horses couldn’t drag an apology out of her. If an act of contrition was in order, Marshall McCall should do the apologizing. She just ought to write the United States government and inform them exactly what kind of man they employed! And she would, the moment she could get her hands on suitable writing paper—not a page from a journal.
She started as a mountain lion suddenly appeared on the ridge below. The cat stood for a moment, green eyes assessing her. Then he lunged toward her, his sleek body sailing through the air.
With a high-pitched squeal, the mare bolted and scrambled over the rocky shelf. Ruth froze. She could feel her heart beating in her chest like a trapped sparrow.
The cat landed not twenty feet in front of her. It didn’t move; nor did she. Eternity passed while beast and woman faced off.
Ruth’s life flashed before her eyes. Early childhood—Papa bouncing her on his knee; Momma, beautiful Momma, thrashing about, pale and hot in the back of the wagon.
Years in the orphanage when she sat at the window and watched the road for any sign of Edgar Norris. He’d promised to come back; he’d said he needed her to help him begin a new life without Beatrice. But he’d ridden off. Ruth had waved and waved until she could no longer see the schoolteacher’s slumped form in the saddle.
Other images raced by: the hot, dusty journey across Missouri and Kansas. Patience, Lily, Harper, Mary, and Glory—the only family she knew—laughing across the campfire as the girls cooked and washed dishes after the evening meal. Ruth didn’t want to die—she didn’t want to heap even more heartbreak on the girls—even if the women might never know her fate.
Ruth suddenly straightened, stretching taller than her five feet two inches. She was too young to die, but die she would before she’d run. She glared back at the cat, pasting her most determined look on her face.
Then as suddenly as he’d appeared, the animal turned and softly padded away. It took a moment for the act to register. Ruth dropped to her knees in relief and gratitude and burst into tears. But still, her resentment toward Dylan was so strong she felt faint.
After a while she harnessed her emotions. Picking up the knapsack and the saddle, she set off in search of the horse. The mare hadn’t wandered far; she grazed in a small valley about a quarter mile from camp. Ruth threw the heavy saddle onto the ground and collapsed in a heap on the leather. Her arms ached from dragging the burdensome load, and her heartbeat had only now slowed to normal. However could she survive? She was a woman alone in the wilderness. A woman without a man’s protection—curse that Dylan McCall’s rotten hide.
Later she rose slowly and dampened the tip of her finger to test the wind. Should she ride back east, where she knew Oscar Fleming waited, or ride northwest, where her future was less certain?
She saddled the horse and turned northwest. As long as she kept her bearings and watched the sun, she should reach—what, Mexico? In a year? No, Mexico was south. Maybe she’d wander into Alaska—she had no idea where she was going, but she must keep going. She would have to work along the way, but she was capable of earning her keep. She knew how to cook, clean, sew—do whatever a new start required.
That night, as she warmed herself over a small campfire, Ruth decided God was taking care of her after all. She’d made it this far without any real harm. It was still possible she would find Cousin Milford. Then again, the effort might surely prove as futile as her demands on the marshall. Wyoming was a large territory. She hadn’t had contact with Milford since his last letter five years ago; he could be dead for all she knew. She had to stop this wishful thinking and concentrate on reality.
Turning a page in her journal, she wrote:
Dear God,
Though I must try your patience, please forgive me. I know that you keep your promises and I unthinkingly break mine. Forgive me for my uncharitable feelings toward Dylan McCall. He must surely feel very proud of himself tonight. But his thoughts don’t matter. You have protected me from harm as surely as you protected Daniel, who continued to worship you morning, noon, and night, even when King Darius sadly agreed to throw him to a pack of starving lions. I shall continue to worship you, too, and I give you praise and thanks. I am very tired tonight, but because of you, my hope remains intact.
The days started to blur. Ruth rode backcountry, wandering aimlessly at times. When the sun shone, she studied the cooling sphere, as its warmth grew more distant from the earth. Each rustle, each unexplained crackle, sent her hopes spiraling. Dylan. He had come back for her!
But when a squirrel or chipmunk scurried past, storing nuts for the winter, her spirits plummeted. She might never reach a town or a mining community. The prospect that she could very well die here among scented pines and industrious squirrels grew more probable with each passing hour.
Wind whispered through brittle branches. Each morning Ruth noticed evidence of fresh snowfall on distant peaks as she read her Bible. The air had a bitter bite now, yet she marveled at sights she’d never appreciated. Everywhere she looked she saw evidence of God’s hand. Breathtaking land was dotted with pine stands so tall and thick that daylight couldn’t penetrate the ground. Overhead the sky stretched wide, providing an endless canopy. When the sun shone, it glowed with a blinding radiance. Ruth had heard stories about miners going mad in the solitude, and she could understand why. Out here with no one but the horse for company, she was filled with loneliness deeper than she’d ever experienced. Other times, the solitude was her friend, and she communed closer with God than she’d ever thought possible.
Nights she camped earlier and earlier, eating what she could find—bitter berries or an occasional trout she managed to snag from an icy stream.
Nearing noon on the fourth day, she came upon a sight that made her stop the horse dead in its tracks. An old mining road cut through a stand of pines. A canvas wagon pelted with arrows stood ablaze in the middle of the path. From her vantage point, she was able to make out two sprawled forms—men, she thought—lying beside the wreckage. Both dead, from the looks of it.
Shuddering, she eased the mare a safe distance around to pass. She said a silent prayer for the poor unfortunate souls. Indian attacks were less frequent now, but she’d heard that certain rebel bands still carried a deadly grudge. Fear rose like bile to the back of her throat when she realized the attack must have taken place not too long before she came upon the devastation. Her eyes scanned the area. Were the savages still around? Everything in her said, Run! Don’t go near the butchery!
She swallowed back panic as the horse traveled slowly past the gruesome scene. Ruth’s conscience nagged her. What sort of person refused to help a fellow human being? Though both men appeared lifeless, what if they weren’t? What if a speck of breath remained and she rode past?
The poor souls are dead, Ruth. Don’t be foolish. Ride on.
But one could be alive, and it wasn’t as if she couldn’t spare a moment. Maybe somewhere a distraught wife or anxious child prayed for a husband or father, and worried
eyes scanned the horizon looking for him.
Pensively, she slowed the horse. She knew little about nursing, but she might hold the dying man’s hand and pray with him until he drew his last breath.
Every instinct screamed for her to be rid of the obligation. Waves of apprehension rolled over her at the gory sight adjoining the flaming wagon. But words of Jesus rose unbidden to her mind: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” The horse stopped and Ruth studied the situation. The savages could be lying in wait for yet another unsuspecting victim. I’m afraid, Lord. I’m a woman alone, she reminded him. I don’t have a gun.
She listened for God’s answer in the swaying pines.
What if one of the victims was alive? What if by a simple act of compassion she could save a life? Fear so thick she could taste it lay on her tongue. Then anger broke the surface. This was all Dylan’s fault! How was the marshall going to feel if a prospector or some kind stranger found her arrow-riddled carcass picked clean by buzzards? Would he be so proud of his cowardly actions then?
And you, God. Why would you put me at the mercy of such a despicable man! Her bitterness smoldered, working her into an anxious state.
Clucking softly, she nudged the mare closer, aware that her hands were trembling. Well, why not? What hands wouldn’t tremble at the sight before her? Even fearless Harper wouldn’t think twice about kicking the horse into a gallop. Her eyes focused on the task, Ruth urged her skittish mare forward. You can do this, Ruth. Only a heathen would ignore the need. She could at least see if there was a breath of life left in either body. If both victims were dead, she’d set the horse into a gallop and never look back.
The sight before her strung her nerves tight. The only sound was the snap and crackle of the flames eating at the white canvas and Prussian blue wagon body. Whoever had committed this carnage was barbaric. Even the horses had been slaughtered, left lying in their tracks. Dread that she’d suffer the same fate warred with Ruth’s sense of Christian duty. No. There was no reason for the savages who’d done this to come back, she told herself. Every living thing was dead, and the wagon would soon be reduced to ash. Whoever had committed this horrible deed had meant to leave no witnesses or anything of value behind.
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