Chapter Six
The church was a simple wooden building, sunlight filtering softly through narrow windows, dust drifting lazily in the beams. The scent of polished wood and wilted flowers hung in the air.
Inside, it felt smaller than Ruth had expected—and much different from the one in Dodge City, the only other church she’d ever set foot in.
That one had been tall and imposing, its steeple towering over the crowded streets, with stained-glass windows catching the light in brilliant colors she’d never seen anywhere else. It had felt like stepping into another world entirely.
Ruth hadn’t belonged in that church. She’d known it the moment she crossed the threshold.
Her dress had been too plain, her shoes worn, her hands carrying the scent of soap and work.
People had looked at her—some simply curious, others disapproving—and she’d kept her head down, slipping quietly into the back pew.
She’d gone the day after her mother was buried, but not for a service.
Because there hadn’t been one.
Ruth’s mother had only received the same hurried burial as so many other women who’d lived and died in places no one spoke of in polite company.
Ruth’s throat tightened.
Madam Delaney hadn’t allowed time for mourning. There had been work to do. There had always been work to do.
And so, Ruth had slipped away and gone to the one place she could think of where she might still find her mother.
She remembered kneeling on the ground, her hands clasped so tightly they ached, her head bowed as she whispered prayers she hadn’t known how to form properly.
Hoping, desperately, that someone was listening—that her mother could hear her, or maybe God would see her.
Praying that there was more than the life waiting for her back behind the closed doors of the brothel.
The memory faded slowly, and Ruth blinked, her gaze returning to the small, quiet space around her.
There were no towering ceilings or colored light dancing across the walls, and yet … it felt though, perhaps, she didn’t need to be anything more than what she was to stand here.
Ruth drew in a slow breath, steadying herself.
She stood with her hands clasped together, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the morning. The fabric of her plain cotton dress, too loose at the sleeves, brushed against her skin each time she shifted her weight.
She swallowed, her throat dry.
Beside her, Henry stood tall and unmoving. He hadn’t looked at her since they’d taken their places. His gaze remained forward, fixed somewhere beyond the pastor, beyond the walls—anywhere but her, it seemed.
Ruth became suddenly aware of her hastily-pinned hair, her work-roughened hands, the tiredness beneath her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.
She hadn’t slept last night. The bed had been different, the room unfamiliar, her mind turning endlessly. Every gust of wind, each creak and groan of settling wood, had kept her awake.
And still, she couldn’t tear her thoughts away from her appearance.
How must I look to him?
The question startled her—not the words themselves, but the meaning behind them. She’d spent so much of her life praying that men wouldn’t notice how she looked. So why was she daring to hope this man would do otherwise?
She pushed the thoughts away. It didn’t matter what she looked like; none of this was about that.
In front of them, the pastor cleared his throat gently, his voice calm and practiced as he began. “We are gathered here today,” he said, “to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony …”
The words flowed over her, almost familiar, but distant in meaning. Ruth tried to follow them—truly, she did—but her mind kept drifting, slipping away like water trickling between her fingers.
She turned to look over her shoulder, where Clara sat on a wooden bench. Her dark eyes were fixed on Ruth, her small feet not quite touching the floor, her hands folded neatly in her lap.
She was safe, and that was what mattered.
Beside her sat George, his large frame looking out of place on the narrow bench. He gave Ruth a small, reassuring nod when their eyes met, and the knot in her chest loosened a little.
Ruth turned back, drawing a slow breath.
“… you, Henry Collins,” the pastor was saying, “take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”
“I do,” Henry answered in a low, even voice.
Ruth’s heart pounded as the pastor turned to her.
This is it. This is the moment everything changes.
“And do you, Ruth Bennett, take this man to be your lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, as long as you both shall live?”
Ruth lifted her chin, but her voice came out softer than she’d intended. “I do.”
The words felt both too small and too large all at once.
The pastor smiled. “Then, by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The world seemed to narrow to a single point as he paused.
“You may kiss your bride.”
Ruth’s breath caught as everything rushed in, all at once: the train, her fear at the station, the way Henry had nearly walked away, the man who’d tried to claim them, the hurried journey here.
The uncertainty and distance between Ruth and her now-husband.
She turned her head, lifting her gaze toward him and hoping he couldn’t hear her heart pounding against her ribs.
For the first time that morning, Henry looked at her; his expression was unreadable, but his eyes held something she couldn’t quite name.
He stepped close, and every part of her grew aware of the space between them, the scent of leather and sun on his clothes, the echoing pulse of her heartbeat in her ears.
Then, Henry leaned in and pressed a firm kiss to her cheek.
It was over almost before it began.
Ruth blinked, slowly releasing the air from her lungs as they stepped back.
The pastor’s wife began to play the piano, the soft, gentle melody filling the small space as if to make up for everything that hadn’t been said.
Ruth turned, her skirts brushing the floor as she walked down the aisle beside Henry.
Clara watched them with bright eyes, wonder dawning on her face. Ruth held onto that wonder as she passed, stepping into a life she didn’t know if she was ready for.
***
There was no reason to loiter once they’d stepped outside the church; there were no guests present to offer their congratulations. No gathering of onlookers to applaud and wish them well. No one to host a celebration.
After the final notes of the piano had drifted through the doors, Henry turned. “We should go. I’ve got work waiting.”
Ruth gathered her skirts as Clara hurried to her side, her small hand finding Ruth’s.
As soon as they were all seated, the wagon jolted into motion.
Ruth sat beside Clara, her gloved hands folded tightly in her lap. The words husband and wife echoed in her mind, not yet settled, not yet real.
She turned her attention outward as Cottonwood Falls stretched before her.
The town was much smaller than Dodge City and, of course, far less noisy.
Modest storefronts lined the main street, their signs swinging gently in the breeze.
A few townsfolk moved along the boardwalks at unhurried paces, their voices carrying in the open air.
This place felt different, not only in size, but spirit.
No rushing. No press of crowded bodies. No heavy air, thick with noise and expectation.
Ruth found herself leaning over the side of the wagon to take it in.
Clara shifted beside her, peering out as well, curiosity slowly pushing past her lingering fear.
“Look, Clara?—?” Ruth pointed toward a small white building set back from the road. Children chased one another across the narrow yard in uneven circles, their laughter bright and unrestrained.
Clara’s eyes widened.
“It’s a school,” Ruth murmured, smiling. “Children go there to learn reading, writing, and all sorts of other things.”
Clara leaned forward, watching intently as one little boy tripped and another helped him back up again.
Warmth stirred in Ruth’s chest as she imagined a different kind of life. A better one.
The wagon rolled past a general store, its door propped open, the scent of flour and dried goods drifting into the street. A woman with a basket on her arm paused to watch them pass. Nearby, a pair of men leaning against a post tipped their hats at Henry as they passed.
Ruth noticed that people looked at him with both respect and familiarity. He belonged here, and she could not help but hope that, one day, she and Clara would belong, too.
She glanced at Henry, who sat forward, his posture straight, attention fixed ahead. One hand rested against his thigh while the other held the reins. There was no trace of the ceremony in him now, no sign that anything had changed.
As though their wedding had been just another task to complete.
Ruth looked away.
The town began to thin, giving way once more to open land. The road stretched ahead, overlayed by the sound of wheels against dirt.
Married.
The concept still felt foreign.
But as the town faded into the distance and the wide Kansas sky opened before them, Ruth allowed herself the fragile hope that, maybe, this could become something more.
The future was far from certain, and she didn’t trust it enough to speak it aloud …
But, for Clara’s sake, she had to hope.
***
The smell hit her, and Ruth spun toward the stove, her heart lurching.
“Oh—!”
Smoke curled from the pan, billowing toward the ceiling.
She rushed forward, grabbing a cloth from the counter and yanking the heavy pan away from the open flame. The metal sizzled angrily as she set it aside.
“No, no, no…” she muttered, her hands shaking as she leaned over the food, trying to assess the damage.
The edges of the chicken were blackened. Not ruined, but close enough to make her chest tighten painfully.
She swallowed hard.
This is too much.
Too many mouths. Too much to keep track of: the timing and heat, bread in the oven and vegetables still needing her attention.