Ruth

by Lori Copeland

  She gazed down at the now sleeping baby warmly cuddled against her bosom and fought back a burgeoning wave of pride. She had to be careful about this; the baby was an unwanted responsibility, just like Dylan. She couldn’t let herself fall in love with the black-haired cherub.

  The sound of wind first penetrated Dylan’s awareness. The wind was rising, howling through the passes. Recoiling from the feverish pain in his left shoulder, he realized he was lying in the dirt. What was he doing on the ground? His brain refused to function, and when it did, he was ambushed by images—the wagon, the old man. Comanches. And then came the pain. Searing, blinding pain.

  He lay with his eyes closed, listening. Where was he? He heard the wind—and a woman’s soft murmur … sounds, not words. Who? What?

  Summoning the courage, he slowly opened his eyes and saw sky. It was early morning and he was cold—very cold. There was a blanket—no, a man’s coat—over him. Then he saw her.

  Ruth.

  Ruth sat across the fire, bent over something small she held in her arms. He blinked to clear the haze from his sight. A tiny hand—a baby. Ruth was holding an infant.

  She glanced up and saw him, and relief momentarily crossed her face. “You’re awake,” she said softly. She laid the infant on the ground and moved around the fire to kneel beside him. Her touch was gentle, almost caring, as she lightly brushed the backs of her fingers along his forehead.

  “Your fever isn’t as high. Would you like a drink of water?”

  His throat was a hot, dry bed of pain. He nodded.

  She reached for the canteen and took off the lid. “Is the pain bad? I’m sorry; I don’t have anything to treat the injuries—I tried.”

  “Water,” he whispered.

  “I know. Here. Drink.” She lifted his head and allowed only tiny bursts of relief to fill his parched throat. “Careful. You haven’t had anything to drink or eat in a while. Slowly … slowly,” she encouraged. He hungrily lapped at the moisture trickling into his mouth.

  “I found a spring yesterday—there, over that rise,” she said, pointing to the east.

  He laid his head back, warring with the threat of losing consciousness again.

  “There,” Ruth said in a hushed voice. “You should feel better now. You may have more in a few minutes.” She twisted the lid back on the canteen and set the container aside. Bending close, she adjusted the coat more tightly against his neck. He watched her movements, wanting to ask why … when … but pain stole the effort.

  It was dark when he opened his eyes again. Ruth was holding a baby. How and why was Ruth with a baby? His thoughts refused to come together.

  “How did you get here?” he croaked.

  She jumped, apparently startled by his voice. When she recovered, she modestly turned so that her back was to him. “I could ask you the same thing. I saw smoke and found you and another man full of arrows and the wagon on fire. How did you happen to be here?”

  Words refused to form. It hurt to speak. Finally he found his voice. “I … heard the confusion … made my way closer. Comanches … had the old man surrounded. He was under … wagon, behind the wheel … holding them off with a rifle. I started shooting from … behind a rise. I surprised them, but … too many. By the time I worked … close, they overrode us.” His fevered eyes moved to the bundle she was holding. “Where … did you get … baby?”

  Surprise marked her features. “Here. It was in the wagon. Those savages set the wagon on fire with the baby inside it.”

  He closed his eyes briefly. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know there was a baby.”

  The blanket fell away from the infant’s head. Black hair, shiny as a crow’s wing, registered with his dulled senses.

  Ruth changed the infant’s diaper, fastening at the baby’s hips the strips of cloth she’d made from the dead man’s shirt. She spoke in soothing tones as the infant protested the cold intrusion.

  Dylan closed his eyes, pushing pain away. Sometimes he clung to consciousness by a thread; other times he felt almost clearheaded.

  In one lucid moment, he looked at Ruth again. Her hair was in tangles; her clothes had holes burned in them. She looked very different from the girl he’d met on the way to Denver City—older, more tired. Very different from the scared girl he’d backtracked and kept an eye on for the past several days. This Ruth was different from the spitfire he’d left on the trail; this Ruth was tender, warm, and caring.

  Though he’d been so blindingly furious at her, he hadn’t ridden far before he realized he couldn’t leave her alone. He’d circled back each morning to make sure she was traveling in the right direction. She had piqued his exasperation even more by staying put the first day. She’d delayed him so long he wondered if he’d ever reach his destination. She’d stall, but then the determination that drove Ruth Priggish marched out like ants at a church picnic, and she was off again. He’d made sure he was riding far enough ahead that she couldn’t detect him. He wanted her to stew in her own gravy—make her think that she was lost and alone and had no way out. Her reckless behavior warranted a few anxious days, but he’d known all along he’d be the one to see her safely to Wyoming—on his terms.

  Now here they both were: Dylan with two holes in his shoulder; Ruth sitting there in a charred shirt and scorched trousers, nursing a Comanche baby. He closed his eyes and wished that he had the strength to ask how she’d fallen into this one, but he didn’t. Maybe later …

  The answer was sure to confuse him.

  Dylan next woke to find the fire blazing and Ruth bustling about the campsite, talking to the baby. Somehow he had lived through another night. Because of Ruth’s prayers? He doubted it.

  His smothered groan drew Ruth’s attention, and she quickly set the child back on its blanket and returned to his side. “Would you like more water? I know you must be hungry. So am I. When you feel well enough to keep an eye on the baby, I’ll search for food.” Her eye fell on the rifle. “Perhaps I can shoot something …” She tipped the canteen to his dry lips. “I’m sorry I can do so little, but I have nothing to work with.”

  “Is the baby all right?” Dylan asked between drops.

  “As well as she can be under the circumstances.” Ruth cocked her head to one side in query. “We need to find a town, to find suitable food for her.”

  He weakly pushed the water aside. “Sulphur Springs … we can’t be too far.”

  Her face brightened. “There’s a town nearby?”

  “Not nearby, but within fifteen, twenty miles.” He shifted and then closed his eyes as the world spun. “Three—maybe four days’ ride.”

  She got up and threw another stick on the fire. “You should be happy I came along. Otherwise, you’d be dead.”

  “You’re lucky you’re not dead as well.”

  Comanches were a fierce lot, and the band that attacked the wagon had been bent on destruction. Dylan’s blood ran cold when he thought of Ruth and the child unprotected. He was as weak as a newborn—there was nothing he could do to help her or the baby in his present condition.

  “I hope you’ve … consulted your God … about our state.”

  Ruth glanced over as she picked up the baby. “He knows our state.”

  “Yeah?” Dylan closed his eyes, trying to picture a man big enough to manage the universe and have time left over to care about his predicament. His sense of logic fell short.

  As Ruth spent the next day searching for berries and nuts in the Colorado wilds to feed her newfound family, she couldn’t help but think about Thanksgiving. She wondered if Patience, Mary, Harper, and Lily had thought about her as they gathered around the Siddonses’ bountiful harvest table to return thanks.

  Ruth concentrated on what she could give thanks for. Though it was approaching the end of November, the weather was holding … Dylan and the baby were still alive, and … and there was the hope that God had not abandoned them. That’s all she could think of.

  She made frequent trips to the spring to carry water b
ack to camp. Despite Ruth’s best efforts to produce some kind of nourishment for the child, she cried endlessly.

  Dylan grew stronger, but when Ruth plopped the baby next to him later that morning, doubt filled his eyes.

  “You watch her while I hunt for food.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she walked away, praying the baby wouldn’t need anything while she was gone. But she had to get away from both the man and the child. She’d grown to care about the baby, and that wouldn’t do. She couldn’t care about her—or Dylan. When the marshall gained sufficient strength to travel, they would move on to Sulphur Springs. There Ruth would turn the child over to the sheriff, who would find a suitable home for her. A good home. Some place where the little girl would have a mother and a father and grow up graceful and lovely.

  Ruth marched toward the thicket with the rifle under her arm. She wasn’t going to nurse the child today; she was going to shoot something and cook it. Later she returned with a small bird and a lighter attitude. She would survive—with God’s help and Dylan’s gun.

  Ruth awoke early the next morning. The feel of snow was in the air. She looked over at Dylan; he was getting up slowly, testing his strength. He looked stronger today.

  “We have to move on,” he said.

  She set the baby aside and went to him. “Yes, we do. We need food. Real food. What little I provide for the baby isn’t enough.” She frowned. “But are you ready—are you capable of traveling this soon?”

  “If Mary can do what she does, I can match her.” Dylan’s smile at the mention of Mary’s name caused a twist of jealousy inside Ruth. Why, Dylan McCall had a soft spot for Mary!

  “I’m not sure how far Sulphur Springs is,” he admitted. “But the weather isn’t going to hold any longer—we have to get you and the baby to shelter soon.”

  Ruth already knew time was now of the essence. Each day got colder and more miserable. They could easily freeze to death in this climate if hunger didn’t take them first. Not to mention Dylan’s injuries.

  “I haven’t seen any sign of human life for over two weeks,” she conceded. “Other than you and the baby.”

  “Houses are few and far between up here. It’s not likely we’ll see anyone.”

  Her heart fell. What were they going to do?

  “Sulphur Springs is a mining community—almost defunct now. I rode through about a year ago, and the veins were drying up. A few families should still be around, though. If I remember right, the community’s less than twenty miles from here.” He turned to study the sun. “To the west. If we start now, we should make it in a few days.”

  “If your strength is able to hold out.” With pity, Ruth watched the baby try to pick up a dry leaf. After the first few days of nearly inconsolable crying, she was mostly quiet now. Probably getting weak. She needed food, milk. Ruth’s hunger was never satisfied, and Dylan needed better fare in order to gain his strength. The few wild game she’d managed to kill hardly sustained them. They were in trouble—real trouble. Moving on was their only hope.

  The baby deserved to grow up and have a good life. Ruth deserved … well, nothing, actually. She was fortunate God had let her come this far. “Then let’s get started,” Ruth said.

  They only had Ruth’s mare, and Dylan would have to ride. The stench of dead horses filled the air, but Ruth knew she had to get Dylan’s saddlebag off his horse to take with them.

  Working with grim determination, she stripped the saddle off, tugging at the cinch until the belly strap came loose. They couldn’t take the saddle with them, but she could hide it somewhere so at some point he might be able to come back for it. A good saddle was nothing to be sneezed at even if it was government issue.

  Once she had both saddlebags and bedrolls on her horse, Ruth helped Dylan to his feet. Pain etched his craggy features, and she silently applauded his bravery. They had to move. Dylan knew it; she knew it, but knowing it didn’t make his injuries any less painful.

  Dylan slumped in the saddle, his face pale, his mouth thin with pain. Ruth carried the baby, whose eyes were wide with question. She wished she could set her on the horse in front of Dylan, but he was too weak to balance her. If she had a sling or a carrying board … but she had neither. Maybe given another day she could depend on Dylan not to lose consciousness and fall off the horse or on the baby. Then he could help.

  When Ruth had her charges prepared to travel, she drew a deep breath and tucked a warm blanket around Dylan’s waist. “West, did you say?”

  “Head straight toward those mountains,” he grunted. He held on to the saddle horn.

  “Okay.” Ruth straightened her shoulders and set off. She held the baby in one arm and led the horse, praying with every step. You must be with us, Lord. How else would we have made it this far?

  What a sight they must be. A seriously wounded U.S. marshall, who might at any moment die from his injuries. A baby, who needed to be fed and cared for. A young woman, who felt grimy and whose clothes were full of burn holes, suffering from still-painful burns on her shoulders, arms, and hands. Ruth realized she must look at least as bad as Dylan. What she wouldn’t give for a bath, hot food, and clean clothes. She was sick of pants and boots and half-raw meat.

  Sulphur Springs meant new hope. The Comanches had stripped nearly everything of value from the wagon and from the two men, so the travelers were penniless. All they had left was Dylan’s badge, which might convince a merchant to advance them credit, should they reach the community. Ruth’s mind examined all the possibilities as she mechanically put one foot in front of the other. A town. She put her mind to imagining a town over the next rise.

  But by late afternoon she was just hoping for shelter. Somewhere—anywhere—warm where she could rest her aching feet. Snow had started to fall, making travel even more laborious. Head bent, Dylan gripped the saddle horn, speaking only when spoken to.

  Ruth wondered if her life would end this day—here, on a snowy, windswept mountainside. Ironic, she thought as she trudged through a narrow pass. If her life was over this day, wasn’t it odd that God had chosen to let her die with a man she could easily love under different circumstances and a baby she could deeply love if she allowed herself—two precious fundamentals she was most certain never to achieve in life?

  Odd? Or was it God? she wondered with overpowering gratitude. Just when she thought she knew what God was up to, he proved her wrong once again.

  A day later, Dylan motioned for Ruth to mount the horse in front of him. By now she looked tired enough to drop, and she was limping. She didn’t argue. Two adults and a baby on the horse was a tight fit, but Dylan figured there was little choice. “The mare can carry us,” he told her.

  He cut the animal off the traveled path to save distance and rode through thicket until Ruth complained that the brambles were cutting her legs. The thick trousers did little to protect her from the prickly briars. Her disguise was adequate; only the most discerning traveler would notice that she was a woman. Dylan alone knew that feminine beauty lay beneath the wool and denim. Had he been half the man he was a week ago, the lady might be in trouble… . He must be getting better.

  The baby’s cries were weaker this morning. He had to find a cow or goat, and soon. Despite Ruth’s efforts to feed the baby, it didn’t look as if she could nourish her herself. Sulphur Springs was still a few days’ ride away. Would they make it through the endless miles of trees and falling snow?

  With each jounce in the saddle, Dylan sensed the wounds in his shoulder give way. He’d lost a lot of blood. He felt the warm stickiness seep through his shirt fabric.

  He was late for his appointment with Kurt Vaning, but surely his boss would know he had a good excuse. Trouble was common in these parts this time of the year. Kurt wouldn’t start to worry for a few weeks if Dylan still didn’t show up, but the assignment would go to another marshall. That Dylan resented. He’d been on Dreck Parson’s trail for months. He wanted to be the one to haul the outlaw in for justice. Now that wasn’t
going to happen.

  “The baby is so hungry,” Ruth said. The three fit in the saddle snugly: woman, man, child—and supplies. Dylan felt uncomfortable with the close proximity. Despite his earlier assurance to Ruth, he doubted the animal could take the load for much longer.

  “The first thing we do when we reach Sulphur Springs is get you to a doctor,” Ruth said.

  “The first thing we do is get the baby milk.”

  “Fine. I’ll get the milk while you see a doctor.” Worry tinged her voice as the sharp wind caught it and flung the words over her shoulder.

  “What about you?” Dylan asked.

  “What about me? I’m fine.”

  “No, you’re not fine. I see the way you favor your shoulders—you have some burns, don’t you?”

  “Nothing serious,” she contended. “Nothing worth even mentioning.”

  Dylan bet otherwise. If she had climbed around in a burning wagon searching for the child, the wounds had to be more than minor. But she had not complained once.

  “We’ll both see the doctor in Sulphur Springs,” he said.

  “If it’s a small community, they might not have one.”

  “They’ll have someone who can help.” He cut the mare back to the path, which was deepening with snow.

  He’d see a doctor about his wounds and make sure Ruth and the baby were okay. They’d rest up a few days, ask around about couples interested in taking a child. He’d have to send a wire to Kurt … then what? What would he do with Ruth? Take her with him? Over his best judgment, he’d gotten close to the pretty nursemaid the past few days. The strange bond hammered a dent in his plans to leave her and ride on once he was stronger.

  He cleared his throat. “Be on the lookout for a cow or goat.”

  They were all hungry. Ruth hadn’t complained, but he knew she hadn’t eaten a decent meal in more than a week. Only what she could run down, pick, or accidentally kill with his rifle. But she wasn’t a whiner. That both surprised and relieved him. If she’d been a complainer on top of a nuisance, he would have ridden over the first cliff.