Ruth

by Lori Copeland

“What are you thinking about?” Dylan whispered.

  “About how different this is from last night,” she whispered back. “How is your shoulder feeling?”

  “Better. Whatever that old woman put in the poultice, it seems to be working. How are your feet?”

  “Better as well.” She hesitated to voice her thought. Deep down she felt guilty for sometimes, in her lowest moments the past few days, secretly blaming God for letting them get into such a life-threatening situation, though part of her knew it was their own fault. “Dylan?”

  “Yes?”

  “I … wanted to take care of your wounds myself, but I didn’t want to ask Ulele.”

  It was quiet from his corner, then, “You did?”

  “Yes. Would … would you have minded?” She held her breath, praying that he wouldn’t.

  “No, I wouldn’t have minded.”

  She smiled. “Then I will tomorrow.”

  The fire popped as she grew drowsy. The heat felt wonderful. She could hear the howling wind battering the thick front door. “God was good to lead us to Nehemiah,” she murmured.

  Dylan was silent and Ruth wondered if he agreed. Certainly he must—they were sleeping by a warm fire; the baby had milk and food in her tummy. Ruth’s feet were better; Ulele had given Dylan something in a glass to make him sleep better. Perhaps his silence indicated the herb had worked and he was resting comfortably. She closed her eyes, praying it was so. For so long she had watched his agony.

  Turning on her side, she tried to see his face, but the room was dark. “Dylan?”

  “Yes?” he said quietly.

  “Oh … I thought you were asleep.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re so quiet.” She bit her lower lip. “You do agree that we’re better off tonight, don’t you? Nehemiah and Ulele are sort of like our own personal angels.” Everyone had angels; the Good Book said so.

  “Angels?” He chuckled and for the first time in a long while he sounded like the old Marshall McCall. “Go to sleep, Ruth.”

  Snuggling deeper into her bedroll, Ruth closed her eyes. He could be such a riddle: one moment all tender, a complete gentleman, compassionate to her and the baby’s needs. The next moment he could be as mysterious as God’s workings.

  Right now, the chuckle didn’t reassure her.

  Chapter Eight

  Ulele Ford was a dictator.

  Ruth was firmly convinced the woman was a tyrant as she cleaned the old shack from top to bottom. She scrubbed floors down on her knees. Since she’d been here, she’d hauled heavy water buckets up from the creek, cooked three meals a day, and washed the old couple’s clothes in the icy stream. The whole while, Ulele sat in the rocker and talked gibberish to the baby.

  On the second afternoon Ruth caught the Indian staring at her.

  “What?” she asked, attempting a genial smile. Though she treated Ruth as nothing more than a servant, Ulele, with her strange herbs and tonics, had most likely saved Dylan’s life. Ruth tried to summon gratitude, but mostly she rued the day she and Dylan had accepted the old couple’s help. Ruth was accustomed to hard work, but the labor the old woman forced on her was nothing short of a crime. And Nehemiah worked Dylan like a plow horse.

  The squaw shook her head, which Ruth had come to recognize meant that the woman was in no mood to communicate. Ruth understood little of what the Cherokee woman said, though Ulele made her work instructions very clear.

  “Clean!”

  “Wash!”

  “Cook!”

  “Sit.”

  Nehemiah seemed proud that his wife’s vocabulary was broadening. Ruth preferred the “sit” and “go” commands.

  It was no wonder the woman was a domineering bully. The way Nehemiah treated his wife was shameful. He ordered her around in quick curt sentences, much as he would one of the old hounds lying on the front stoop. The woman did as he ordered and never offered a single rebuke. Ruth would flash a cold stare at the evil man as she dished piping hot stew into bowls. There was no need to speak to a woman in that tone—no need at all.

  Tonight Dylan was sitting by the fire, his head drooped from exhaustion. Ruth laid Ulele’s mending aside and got up to pour a fresh cup of coffee.

  Dylan briefly smiled his gratitude when she closed his hand around the steaming cup. The fire burned low; outside, a cold wind whistled across snow-packed ground.

  “Must you leave so early each morning?” she asked softly. She cast a glance at Ulele, who was preoccupied with the baby. Snores rolled from the old man’s mouth as he slept by the fire, his pungent stocking feet propped on a wooden chair.

  Dylan shook his head. At night it seemed to Ruth that his pain was unbearable. He nodded toward the sleeping tormentor. “He insists we start before sunup.”

  Dylan rose at three thirty and left the house with Nehemiah a short time later. Ruth made sure he had a warm breakfast of oatmeal and thick slices of toasted bread spread with honey, but the marshall ate very little these days. Night covered the land when the two men returned. Dylan said little about his work, but Ruth knew by their scant conversations over supper that he was doing hard physical labor: cutting wood, setting fence posts, working long hours behind the heavy anvil Nehemiah kept in the barn. Her heart ached for the marshall, but there was nothing she could say or do to lighten his load. When she tried to broach the subject, he’d cut her off and remind her they had to have food and protection for the baby.

  Bending close to his ear, she rested her hands on his corded arms and pleaded in a throaty whisper, “We don’t have to do this. We can leave.”

  He closed his eyes. “We need the money, Ruth.”

  Anger rose up and nearly strangled her. Why did he have to be so pigheaded! Nehemiah Ford was killing him. Couldn’t he see that?

  “Not that badly,” she argued. Her eyes darted to Ulele. She had quit playing with the baby and was staring at Ruth. How much did Ulele understand? Sometimes Ruth thought she understood nothing, but at other times she wondered if the cunning female knew more than she let on.

  Dropping her voice even lower, Ruth pressed her mouth next to Dylan’s ear. “We walked for days without food or shelter. We can do it again. We’ll take the goat—the baby will have milk. We can make it.” She pressed closer. “Please, Dylan.”

  Being this near to him set off a strange lightness in the bottom of her stomach. The smell of soap, water, and herbs rose from the poultices. She couldn’t bear to watch the way Nehemiah worked a man in Dylan’s condition. The punishment was cruel and uncalled for. Yes, they were at the mercy of strangers, but no mercy had been shown them. She feared if they didn’t leave here soon the old man would work Dylan to death.

  “No,” Dylan snapped. “It’s only for a few days. I can make it—I have to make it.” He set his jaw. As if that settled the matter, he got up and went to his bedroll on his side of the room.

  Chewing her bottom lip, Ruth sat down and resumed the mending. Her back ached and her eyes blurred from the blue mist that continually hung in the cabin. Her clothes and hair smelled of pungent wood, and she longed for a hot bath. Was that possible? She’d spotted an old washtub hanging on the back of the house. Obviously, by the way the Fords smelled, the tub wasn’t used often. Putting the mending aside, Ruth ran her hand through her hair and scratched. If she only had a brush …

  She glanced at the Indian woman. “Ulele?”

  The woman pretended not to have heard.

  “Ulele?”

  Ulele grunted.

  “Is it all right if I heat water in the morning and take a bath?”

  Ulele picked up the baby and shuffled into the bedroom, yanking the thin curtain closed behind her. Ruth resented the fact that the old woman insisted that the baby sleep in the Fords’ room. It wasn’t fair. Ruth wanted the child with her; she was the infant’s caretaker, not Ulele.

  Sighing, she scratched her head furiously. She didn’t care what Ulele thought; in the morning, after the men left, she was taking a bath.
/>
  The next day Ruth washed under Ulele’s watchful eye. The old woman eyed the tub suspiciously when Ruth dragged the wooden bathing apparatus in and set it by the stove, while heavy pots of water bubbled on top. Ruth imagined the device was foreign to Ulele.

  Ruth felt like a new person once she’d scrubbed away weeks of grime. Afterward, she bathed the baby, laughing when the infant cooed and splashed water in her face. She glanced up to see the Indian’s face turn as dark as a July storm cloud. She knew the woman wondered what Ruth and Dylan were doing with an Indian child, but Ruth made no effort to explain their situation. It would only sound worse if the Fords knew that she and Dylan were traveling alone, unmarried. Dylan had been the perfect gentleman, but the Fords couldn’t know that.

  After the baths, Ruth stood by the fire and dried her and the infant’s hair. The baby cuddled affectionately against her bosom, and Ruth felt a rush of maternal pride that rattled her to the very core. She couldn’t do this—she couldn’t lay claim to the child—or to Dylan. Both were only temporary passersby in her life—ones she hadn’t asked for and couldn’t allow herself to love. Their paths would part in Sulphur Springs. She would have to find a home for the baby and then her life would be … what?

  Empty. Empty and unfulfilled. Ruth wondered why the thought bothered her now. She’d never had anyone, and she thought she’d accepted the future she felt God gave her.

  But deep down, she knew the reason: she was starting to depend on the arrogant marshall—to look to him for security. The baby was … well, who could resist a baby?

  That afternoon she wrote in her journal:

  Dear God,

  I am so confused. Sometimes I get so angry at Dylan and his refusal to listen to me—then at other times …

  She stared at the terse paragraph and wondered what she had been about to confide. Whatever it was, the desire now escaped her. Closing the book, she went to start supper.

  When Dylan came in that night, he threw her a look that had her on edge during supper. Was he finally ready to call it quits, to leave these terrible people? She fervently prayed that what she’d glimpsed in his eyes was an end to his patience, silently hoping that he had decided that all the money in the world wasn’t worth what they were going through.

  After supper, Dylan sat by the fire and played with the baby. Ruth smiled when she heard him singing her a lullaby in a soft, resonant baritone. He was very good with children; he would make some lucky child a fine papa some day. He could be tender when the situation warranted, compassionate yet firm when needed.

  Ruth wondered why she couldn’t openly react to the child as easily. She felt guilty if she laughed when the baby laughed, embarrassed if she spent too much time with her. Once Ulele had sternly scolded her—at least Ruth assumed it was scolding—when the old woman caught Ruth carrying the infant under her arm like a sack of potatoes. She had quickly confiscated the child and demonstrated the proper way to hold a baby: gently, cradled against Ulele’s huge chest.

  For the rest of that day, Ruth had carefully toted the baby around like a piece of glass until her back hurt something dreadful. Being a mother was hard work; she supposed that’s why the Lord had decided she wasn’t up to the job.

  The next morning Ruth hauled a basketful of dirty clothes to the stream. A thin sun warmed the frozen ground, so she’d convinced Ulele that the baby needed fresh air.

  Before Ruth washed and rinsed heavy shirts and pants, she fastened the baby’s papoose board to a low-hanging branch where Ruth could watch her. Kneeling beside the rushing water, she stared at the happy child, resisting the urge to grin back. The infant was incredibly charming with her shiny black hair and smiling eyes. As Ruth busily scrubbed a shirt against a rock, she found herself humming the same lullaby Dylan had sung the night before. She sang the song, repeating verses when she heard the baby’s soft, cooing response. So the child had an ear for music—that wasn’t uncommon.

  Ruth remembered when Mrs. Galeen had sung to her sometimes at the orphanage, fanciful songs of butterflies, stardust, and angels. Tears filled her eyes and she swiped them away, blaming the moisture on the cold wind. Where were the baby’s mother and father? Somewhere not so far away? Or were they dead? Ruth had no way to identify or return the baby to her people. Dylan hadn’t known that a child even existed until she had told him. So many questions would never be answered now, with the death of the old man in the wagon. Was he a kind grandfather—a distant relative, perhaps—or just a plain thief?

  Ruth dried the last dish later that night and then carried the supper scraps to the dogs huddled beside the back step. Dylan got up from the fire and followed her outside on the pretext of gathering wood.

  Ruth bent against the sharp wind as she edged closer to meet him. “What was that look about last night?”

  He leaned down, picking up a couple of sticks of dry oak. “You’re right. We have to leave. The sooner the better.”

  She shut her eyes with relief, silently thanking God that Dylan had come to his senses. “When?”

  He glanced toward the back door. “I’ll talk to Nehemiah in the morning. We’ll be short some of the pay I’d hoped for, but I can find work when we get to Sulphur Springs.”

  Ruth nodded, eager to be on their way. She could stretch a penny into a gold coin if she had to. Anything to escape the Fords’ house and Ulele’s suffocating authority. “Ulele isn’t going to be happy about us leaving. She’s gotten very attached to the baby.”

  A muscle worked tightly in Dylan’s jaw. “I suppose if we were taking the baby’s needs into account, we’d leave her here. Ulele would raise the little girl, and the baby would be reared in her own heritage.”

  “Never!” Ruth said hotly. “I would never leave a child in this stifling household.” She wrapped her arms tightly around her middle. Nehemiah was a cold and heartless brute. He’d rarely if ever given the child a second glance. Ulele would raise the child, but not with the tenderness and consideration the little girl deserved. True, Ulele seemed fond of the child. But Ruth shuddered to think about Nehemiah’s influence. If he treated the little girl anything like he treated his wife … No, Ruth would die before she’d leave without the infant. Once they were in Sulphur Springs, she would search for a respectable couple who would raise her with love and reverence for the Lord. If she wasn’t mistaken, that was relief she saw on Dylan’s face. He didn’t want to abandon the child any more than she did.

  “You know I’m right,” she whispered. “The Fords are miserable people. You’ve built fences, trimmed and notched the logs for a chicken house. You’ve done more work for Nehemiah than he’s done himself this year, and you know it. He’s taking advantage of you; they’re taking advantage of us. We can’t leave the baby with people like them.”

  “But we need money and supplies to get to Wyoming, Ruth.”

  “I understand and I admire you for thinking of the baby’s and my welfare, but we have to leave now, before you collapse.”

  The rationale seemed to reach him. He nodded briefly again. “All right, tomorrow we leave as soon as I’ve collected my pay from Ford.”

  They stood in silence, contemplating the next move.

  She glanced at him. “Do we know how to get to Sulphur Springs from here?”

  “We follow the road. One, two days, depending on how fast we travel. We’ll take it easy. Your feet are beginning to heal. Maybe Ulele will let you have another pair of socks—”

  “And maybe Nehemiah will let you have another shirt.”

  “Maybe.”

  Their eyes met in the cold moonlight. Then again, maybe not, their gazes acknowledged.

  Ruth impulsively stood on her tiptoes and gave him a brief kiss on the mouth before she turned and hurried back into the house. She didn’t want to arouse the Fords’ suspicions, but she was excited about the plan, even though a few days ago they had been in grave danger of freezing to death. In her heart, she knew leaving was the right choice. They would make it; they had made it farther o
n less and managed. The three were hearty survivors.

  Later, she cleaned and dressed Dylan’s wounds by the firelight. Ulele’s poultices were doing the job; the angry swelling looked less aggressive tonight.

  “I’ll take the herbs with me,” she whispered. “You’ll still need to see a doctor once we reach Sulphur Springs.”

  Dylan caught her hand. Gazing at her with amusement, he teased, “What was that all about?”

  “What?” she asked. She could feel heat creep up her neck when she realized what she’d done earlier. Had she lost her mind? Kissing Marshall McCall, of all things!

  Why, she had barely noticed the simple gesture of appreciation, and that’s all the kiss had meant. Had he taken that peck for a real kiss? Apparently he had.

  “That wasn’t a kiss,” she denied. “I was merely expressing a moment of simple gratitude.” She summoned the courage to meet his smiling eyes. “Stop that, Marshall McCall. You know it was a harmless peck—nothing more.”

  His grin widened.

  “Stop that,” she demanded again. She got up and carried the pan of water outside. Her whole body felt aflame from his personal scrutiny!

  Early the next morning, Ruth quietly ate breakfast as Dylan and Nehemiah discussed the day’s work. Dylan was expected to dig a trench alongside the house where the hogs could wallow this spring—as if anyone would want hogs next to their house—even if the marshall could stick a shovel in frozen ground. Yet Ulele didn’t dispute her husband. She fed the baby breakfast, seeming to ignore the conversation. The men left the house soon after, and Ulele went to milk the cow, taking the baby with her.

  The moment the back door closed, Ruth started to gather their meager belongings. She packed herbs and clean bandages, a fresh loaf of bread and cold meat left from breakfast. She took two warm blankets from the closet, figuring Nehemiah could deduct the cost from Dylan’s wages.

  Then she sat down in the silent kitchen, listening to the ticking mantel clock. By now Dylan would have told Nehemiah that they were leaving and the old man was settling up.

  While Ulele’s poultices had drawn the infection out of the arrow wounds, the physical labor he was doing from dawn to dusk prevented the wounds from healing. Nearly every day they had reopened and were bleeding when he returned to the cabin. Yet every evening when they sat down to dinner, Dylan had asked Ruth how her day had gone, how her feet were healing. Ruth tried not to complain, especially when the marshall was working so hard, but his sympathetic glances told her he knew how worn out she was every night. If Nehemiah was a slave driver, Ulele was not far behind.