Ruth

by Lori Copeland

  He felt her nod in agreement as she shifted the baby in her arms. He noticed that she never held the infant close. She kept the little girl at bay, almost as if she feared intimacy. A slow smile started at the corners of his mouth. He couldn’t imagine this strong-willed woman fearing the devil himself. But a tiny baby had her on edge. Why? Didn’t most women take to mothering?

  Toward dusk, Ruth and Dylan dismounted and walked. Dylan offered to carry the crying baby, but Ruth refused. “You can’t carry a child.”

  She walked ahead, breaking a path for him, her flushed features marked with grit. When they spotted a cow grazing on the side of the road, they stopped and stared. Some farmer had a fence down, and the last of the fall grass poking up near the roadside had proved too tempting.

  Their breaths came in foggy vapors. “Am I dreaming?” Ruth murmured.

  “If you are, I am too.” Dylan noticed the cow’s bag, tight with milk.

  The cow lifted her head and met their stunned eyes as she chewed her cud.

  “I’ll get her,” Ruth said without moving her lips.

  “I’ll get her,” he insisted. He wasn’t an invalid, though he was close.

  Before the matter was settled, Ruth handed him the baby and slowly approached the cow. “Here, Bossie.”

  “Bossie?” Dylan shook his head. “Now you’ve insulted her.”

  “What’s wrong with the name Bossie? I knew a lovely woman named Bossie who brought fresh vegetables to the orphanage every week during the summer.” Ruth crept toward the cow.

  The animal mooed, startling the baby, who started crying.

  Ruth approached the animal cautiously. At least she had enough sense to know that if the cow bolted, they wouldn’t see it again. She walked slowly, speaking softly under her breath.

  “Good Bossie. Good girl. We just need to borrow a little milk—you have lots to spare, don’t you?” She peered around the cow’s fat sides, eyeing the bulging treasure. “Well, look at that. You sure do. How about that—and I suppose a nice cow like yourself wouldn’t have strong objections to sharing a quart or two—would you? Thank you, I thought not. You’re very kind.”

  Dylan frowned, focusing on Bossie’s udder, swollen with rich, creamy, life-giving substance. “Go easy,” he warned.

  Ruth turned to look at him. “Do I look like I want to scare her?”

  “Just go easy—don’t make her bolt.”

  She eased close enough to reach out and hook her arms around the cow’s neck. For a moment Dylan wondered if Ruth planned to ride it to the ground. The animal seemed tame enough. She chewed contentedly, bawling occasionally as if trying to carry on a conversation with the strange-looking creature who had her by the collar.

  “Give me your hat,” Ruth called over her shoulder.

  Dylan carefully shifted the baby into his left arm and removed his hat. Ruth took it, and seconds later she knelt and buried her face in Bossie’s side, her fingers probing for teats. “Do you just pull these things?”

  “You’ve never milked a cow?”

  She shook her head. “You will discover, Mr. McCall, I have not done a whole lot of things.”

  Dylan slowly walked over and handed her the baby. “I’ll milk.”

  She stepped back and within minutes the crown of his hat overflowed with warm, foamy milk. Ruth surveyed the bounty, grinning. “How do we get it down the baby?”

  “Tear a piece of fabric from your shirt—” Dylan frowned when he noticed the already-tattered sleeve hem as she quickly shimmied out of her coat.

  In seconds Dylan had fashioned a makeshift bottle by tying a knot in one end of the material and pouring warm milk into the fabric. “It’s not the cleanest, but it will have to do.”

  He put the end of the fabric into the baby’s mouth and squeezed. The baby gulped hungrily. The milk seeped out almost as fast as Ruth poured it in. It took over half an hour to get enough milk down the child to fill her hungry stomach. For the first time in days, the child curled into a tight ball and fell sound asleep in Ruth’s arms.

  A proud Dylan and Ruth looked on, their faces glowing.

  Dylan spoke first. “She’s kind of cute, isn’t she?”

  Ruth quickly looked away. “I … I hadn’t noticed.”

  That night when Ruth took off her boots, Dylan’s eyes fixed on her bleeding feet. Large, angry blisters covered her toes and heels. He felt a flash of anger. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  She looked up to meet his eyes. When she looked at him that way, something inside him moved—something he didn’t like. “Would it have made a difference? We have no choice but to walk.”

  He got up slowly, favoring his wounds, and got a knife out of his saddlebag. “You could have ridden.”

  “And let you walk?” Her chin lifted with stubborn pride. “I’m capable of holding my own. I don’t plan to be any trouble—I only want to reach Wyoming and my cousin Milford.”

  He returned to the fire and picked up her left boot and cut the toe out. She gasped. “What are you doing? That’s my only shoe, and it’s snowing!”

  “Those are your only toes and heels,” he reminded her, severing the toe from the right boot. “Put on more socks.” He repeated the procedure on the heels of both boots. Ruth watched, her eyes set in horror.

  He set the boots close to the fire, then carefully dropped back down on his sleeping roll. “Tomorrow you ride.”

  Jaw agape, Ruth’s eyes moved from her butchered boots to Dylan on the other side of the fire. She closed her mouth, her eyes narrowed as she handed him the sleeping infant.

  Without another word, he tipped the milk-soaked brim of his hat over his face, drew the sleeping baby closer in his arms, and promptly went to sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  After they milked the cow and fed the baby again, Dylan began to tie the cow to the horse to take it with them.

  “What are you doing?” Ruth asked.

  “Taking the cow; what does it look like?”

  “We can’t,” Ruth said, chin jutting out. “We don’t know whose it is. We can’t take it without permission. Stealing isn’t going to help the situation.”

  “Dying is going to improve it?”

  “Dying would not be the worst thing that could happen—though I’m not ready to go yet,” she admitted. “God will provide food for us and the baby without us stealing.”

  Dylan ignored Ruth’s optimism and made her and the baby ride while he walked this morning. He was in no mood for an argument after grudgingly leaving Bossie behind. His strength was waning; he could feel his limited energy stretched to the limits. Each night he took off his blood-soaked shirt and Ruth washed it and hung it over the fire to dry. Though she said nothing, the unspoken fear he saw in her eyes disturbed him. She was afraid he would die and leave her and the child out here alone. The same fear hampered his concentration.

  “If anything happens to me,” he told her as he walked the mare up an incline, “you head straight northwest. Sulphur Springs is that direction—I’m not sure how far, but I know it’s there. Someone will help you and the baby.”

  Ruth fixed her eyes straight ahead, her chin set with determination. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. I’ve already talked to the Lord about your condition.”

  “Yeah, well …” He absently rubbed his burning shoulder. “I hope he feels better about the situation than I do.”

  “He’s given me no reason to be discouraged at this point.” She locked gazes with him. “Do you know him?”

  Dylan shook his head. Did he know God? They’d never officially met—not the God Sara Dunnigan had claimed to know. “I never talk religion or politics, especially with a woman or on an empty stomach.”

  Ruth’s small teeth worried her bottom lip. She was pretty when she was upset; yet he grudgingly admired her for holding her tongue when he knew she wanted to spout off. Her concerns were warranted, but he saw no reason to give them new light. Either they made it or they didn’t. He hoped for the best but menta
lly prepared for the worst. They couldn’t make it long in this kind of weather. They either ran into help soon or … the or bothered him the most.

  He wasn’t ready to die yet either—he had a lot of living to do. And he wasn’t as sure about the hereafter as Ruth professed to be—but then he didn’t read the Bible like Ruth did. Dylan didn’t depend on God to look after him; he figured God gave him the brains and experience to take care of himself. Though he had to admit, in his current straits, he sure could use a little extra help… .

  Later that morning, Ruth sat up straighter and pointed. A nanny goat was grazing in the ditch, oblivious to the travelers. When the animal spotted the horse and couple, it bolted. Its thin, reedy voice shattered the silence. Blaaaaa. Blaaaaaaaaaa.

  Dylan was closest to the fence line. Automatic reflex sent him spiraling though a deep snowbank in pursuit. Ruth clamped her hands over her mouth as man and goat burst through the thicket. Dylan heard Ruth yelling to “come back!” her voice edgy as he pursued the life-giving source. But all he could think about was milk for the baby. And silence from the infant’s constant crying—peace and quiet.

  Yet Ruth’s fear registered as he felt his wounds tear open; only pure desperation kept him going. The pesky animal darted in and out, disoriented by the chase. It spun and dashed back toward the road. Dylan slipped on icy grass, then regained his footing and lunged. The animal slid through the thicket and bounded back up the snowbank.

  Dylan was hot on the trail now. With a flying leap, he managed to snag the nanny by the left back leg and hold on. The goat went down, bleating desperately. Dylan reeled the creature in, fell across the animal, and pinned its bleating carcass to the ground.

  Ruth was off the horse in a split second, running toward him with the crying infant in her arms. “You fool!” she accused, dropping to her knees in the snow beside the sprawled marshall. Anxious tears filled her eyes as he looked up and gave her a goofy grin.

  “Got more milk,” he announced. And then he promptly passed out.

  Ruth was bent over a book when Dylan opened his eyes. Firelight shed a rosy glow on her pretty features as she intently scribbled in her book. He’d give a month’s pay to see what she’d written. The baby lay next to her, sleeping soundly. He averted his head slightly to focus on the goat firmly secured to a low branch near a stream of running water. How had she gotten him, the goat, and the baby here?

  “It wasn’t easy,” she said as though she had read his thoughts. Closing the journal, she set it aside and came around the fire to kneel beside him. He was in his bedroll, his bloody shirt washed and draped on a stick hanging near the fire.

  “I put a rope around the goat’s neck and tied it to a tree,” she said as she tucked the blanket closer around him. “I dragged you here—by the way, you could stand to lose a few pounds—but the packed snow helped. Then I put the baby in your arms and went back for the goat, which has a worse disposition than I have.”

  He grimaced. He knew he’d lost so much blood he was reaching the critical stage. “Impossible.”

  She shook her head before her features sobered. “You scare me like that again, and I’ll have to beat you.”

  Was that real worry he saw in her eyes? The thought brought a warm, irrational sentiment. Ruthie was worried about him—really worried about him. He wasn’t sure if that was good or if it only complicated the situation, but he liked the feeling. For the moment, he decided he liked it more than he resented it. It had been a long time since anyone had worried or cared about him. He’d forgotten how first-rate that could make a man feel.

  Struggling to sit up, his effort failing, he dropped weakly back to the bedroll. “How long have I been out?”

  “Most of the afternoon.” She rose and turned to stir the contents of something bubbling over the fire in a makeshift pot. The scented air set off an ache in his empty stomach.

  “What are you cooking?”

  “I found oatmeal in your saddlebag, and I mixed it with goat’s milk. The fare would taste better with sugar or honey, but it isn’t bad now.”

  She dipped a small amount of the bubbling mixture into a tin cup and knelt to spoon-feed him. “Rather good, actually,” he affirmed. The oatmeal was steaming hot, so she spooned slowly.

  Dylan took the nourishment, his eyes meeting Ruth’s. She was a far cry from Sara, the coldhearted female who had raised him. Sara was so full of religion it ran out of her pores and tainted everything it touched. He’d hated Sara Dunnigan and everything she represented until the welcomed day she was lowered into her grave. Dylan figured every religious woman possessed Sara’s hostility, her narrow-minded views, and her judgmental nature.

  Until he met Ruth.

  Ruth puzzled him. She claimed to know the same Lord Sara had touted to serve. But that wasn’t possible; the two higher powers were direct opposites. The God Ruth believed in seemed to care about individuals. Sara’s Lord was a mean tyrant who demanded ritualistic worship. Sara had taken glee in those going to hell; Ruth seemed to care genuinely about others’ souls and the threat of eternal damnation. Which woman was right?

  Which woman served the true divine being, if there was a God? Something basic in Dylan wanted to lean toward Ruth’s belief—that whoever had created him watched over him. But a man’s thoughts didn’t often consider how he’d gotten here—only why.

  During his years with Sara after his parents died, he had thrown his head back and yelled the question, trying to prove to himself that no one was up there listening. And to his knowledge, nobody was up there. Nobody had cared about him; nobody had come to save him from “Sister Sara’s” wrath. Once, when he was very young, he’d caught the woman praying out loud, lying facedown on the floor, arms extended, petitioning the Lord to give her strength to raise the awful burden he’d sent upon her. Dylan didn’t know what a “burden” was at the time—only that he was one and Sara hated him.

  He shook the thought to one side as he swallowed one last bite of oatmeal and moved the spoon aside. “Can you get the map out of my saddlebag?”

  Ruth nodded, wiping his mouth gently. He gave her a don’t-do-that look as she got up and headed for his saddlebag.

  Over firelight, they bent their heads close, and he showed her the exact spot on the map marked Sulphur Springs.

  “It looks to be still some distance away,” Ruth said softly.

  “At least another eight miles, best I can figure.” He realized they hadn’t come as far as he’d hoped.

  He saw her eyes darken at the news, but she kept a stiff upper lip. “Then we’re practically there.”

  For the first time, Dylan realized he wasn’t going to rise to the occasion. He’d lost so much blood that he could no longer walk. The baby still lay in his arms, satiated with goat’s milk for now, but how long would that last? As long as Ruth could hold on to the goat, they would have nourishment for the baby. But their survival was up to Ruth now—a young woman, a girl who had never been in rough country or even knew how to shoot a gun properly. Some higher power had to be watching over her.

  Yeah—and there must be an all-knowing, all-caring God looking after him too. McCall, get your head screwed on properly.

  Mentally groaning, he dropped his head back to the bedroll. The baby sighed and snuggled deeper into his warmth. If Ruth’s God was listening, Dylan told him he’d better have a plan, because at this point Dylan had run out of options.

  In the gray, still dawn, the small group hit the trail early. Ruth studied the map, nodding as Dylan pointed out the way.

  “Stay to the road. The ruts will be deep, but we’ll have better footing,” he said.

  The baby lay in Dylan’s arms, contented now. Ruth walked, leading the mare with the marshall and the infant riding.

  Taking charge gave her a sense of belonging—of being needed. It wasn’t often that a man like Dylan needed anything or anyone, and she was proud to serve. The goat trailed, balking occasionally as the mare dragged the tenacious milk source through mounting snowdrif
ts. Cotton-ball-size flakes swirled around Ruth’s face as she trudged on, holding the collar of her coat over her mouth. Icicles formed on her eyelashes. Hard as she tried to be optimistic, her spirits began to sag.

  Her burns had scabbed over but they itched now. Her clothing was in tatters. She didn’t think she would ever be able to get a comb through her hair. Her feet hurt so badly she wanted to cry. Every step was agony, pain radiating from toe to knee. Even with the toes and heels cut out of her boots, the blisters were still raw and bleeding. The toes of her socks were stiff and wet—it wouldn’t be long before she lost feeling. She actually looked forward to the numbness that would surely come after walking long hours in the snow. She could make it until then. She had to. At least the baby was fine, tucked in a snug pouch inside Dylan’s coat lining, cocooned in the warmth of his body.

  She alternated between praying that they would find someone to take the child soon and begging the Lord to let the baby remain with her for a while longer. Death didn’t seem so frightening; at times she resolved to meet her fate without regret. Dying was merely a transition—not one she welcomed, but neither did she fear it.

  She wanted Dylan and the baby to live, though. No matter how hard she’d tried not to—and she had tried her very hardest—she was starting to love both the child and the marshall. Maternal feelings were seeping out of every pore, and she didn’t know how much longer she could bear the feeling. What if she were to slip and allow Dylan the briefest glimpse into her thoughts? Would he think she had lost her mind? He clearly wasn’t a man destined for marriage, not to a woman so clearly his opposite. Then there was the matter of their difference in faith. She didn’t know where he stood in terms of belief in God, but his answer to her question about God offered little encouragement. No way could she let herself fall any further in love with the marshall.

  Conversation had now ceased. They were too weary to attempt to converse above the icy wind that snatched their words and flung them away. At dusk they dropped onto the ground, and she dealt with the child who was too tired, too cold, and too hungry to do much more than whimper. Ruth knew the same could be said about her and Dylan—they were too tired to exist. They lay down without a simple good night and fell into an exhausted sleep.