Chapter Thirteen
Ruth stood at the sink, looking out the window. It was almost supper time, but she hadn’t seen Henry since breakfast. As she waited for the men to arrive, her thoughts kept circling back to town and their argument.
You’re not to speak to him.
Ruth pressed her lips together, adjusting the pot on the stove unnecessarily.
It’s not like she’d wanted to talk to Victor Wilkes, anyway.
Honestly, she hadn’t trusted the man from the moment she’d seen him at the train station.
Something in his eyes put her instincts on high alert, and the way he spoke—with the smooth confidence of a man used to getting his way without question—raised her hackles.
After their conversation today, in fact, she trusted him even less.
But that doesn’t give Henry the right to order me around like a child.
Her grip tightened on the cloth in her hand as a familiar feeling stirred in her gut.
Her whole life, she’d watched men who believed it was their right to decide such things, who thought a woman’s choices could and should be directed, corrected, and contained. Even before she’d left the Velvet Rose, Ruth had sworn that she wouldn’t live that way, as so many women did.
Ruth exhaled slowly, steadying herself as she turned away from the stove and pushed Henry from her thoughts. After all, she had hungry mouths to feed.
Soon, the men began to arrive, but Henry was not among them.
“Is Henry coming in to eat?” she asked George.
“Maybe save him a plate,” he replied.
Ruth pressed her lips together before turning away.
She moved between the table and the stove, refilling plates where needed, though by now, she’d learned their appetites well enough to stay ahead of most requests.
When she’d first arrived, nearly two weeks ago, she’d been overwhelmed—too many hands reaching, too many voices at once—but now, she was growing accustomed to it.
The roast had come out much better this evening, tender enough to pull apart without struggle. She’d seasoned it more boldly, as well, trusting her instincts instead of second-guessing every decision. The bread had even risen properly.
Small victories, perhaps, but to Ruth, they mattered.
“Much obliged, ma’am,” said Tom, the youngest of the group, as she set a second helping in front of him. He seemed barely more than a boy, with sunburned cheeks and an eagerness that hadn’t yet been worn down by hard seasons.
“You’re welcome,” Ruth replied.
Across the table, Jeb—older and quieter—nodded his thanks as he reached for the bread. “Best meal we’ve had in a good while!”
Ruth blinked. “That’s kind of you to say.”
“It’s true,” George added from the end of the table without looking up from his plate. “Men are less likely to complain when they’re well-fed.”
Several of them chuckled, and Ruth allowed herself a small smile.
It still felt strange, not being overlooked or dismissed, but included. They were rough men, certainly. Sun-worn and broad-shouldered, marked by labor and long days under open sky. Their voices carried easily, and their laughter lacked polish.
There was a steadiness to them, though, and a kind of honesty she hadn’t expected. No wandering eyes that lingered in places they shouldn’t. No careless remarks thrown her way. No sense that she had to keep herself guarded at every turn.
It unsettled her, in a way, perhaps because of just how foreign it seemed. At the brothel, men had come and gone like storms—loud, unpredictable, and generally careless. Even the quieter ones had carried something behind their eyes that made her wary.
Here, it was different. Certainly not perfect, but … safer.
Her gaze drifted to Clara, who sat near the corner with a small piece of bread, quietly pulling it apart as she watched the men with open curiosity.
Ruth’s chest tightened. She’d been afraid of bringing Clara into a place filled with strangers, men whose behavior she could not predict.
But so far, they’d been gentle—George, especially, always seemed aware of Clara, stepping around her without making it obvious, speaking to her in the same steady tone he used with everyone else.
Even Tom, awkward but well-meaning, had taken to giving her small gifts: a carved stick, a smooth stone, a feather he’d found in the fields.
Ruth exhaled slowly. Despite the tempting sense of safety she felt here, she’d never let herself forget that men could be kind … until they weren’t. Trust was not something she gave easily, not anymore.
One by one, the men finished their meals, pushing back their chairs and offering their thanks as they stood.
“Evenin’, Miss Ruth,” Tom said, smiling, as he headed for the door.
“Good night.”
The others followed, and she nodded to each in turn. Boots thudded against the floor as they filed out, voices fading as they headed toward the bunkhouse beyond, until only George remained.
“May I have a word?” she asked.
“’Course,” he replied.
Ruth wiped her hands on her apron, hesitating. “Why didn’t Henry come in for supper? Is something wrong?”
“He’s watching that gelding,” George replied. “He took the worst of it and hasn’t quite come right yet.”
Ruth nodded slowly.
George shifted his weight. “He’ll stay out there half the night if no one drags him in.”
Ruth managed a weak smile. “That sounds like him.”
George gave a small huff of agreement.
Ruth glanced toward Clara. “Would you mind … watching her a moment?”
George nodded at once. “Sure I’ve got a story or two she hasn’t heard.”
Clara looked up and smiled.
“Thank you, George.” Ruth turned back to the stove, quickly assembling a plate and setting it on a tray, then added a small cup of coffee before lifting the tray carefully in her hands.
The night air had cooled, carrying the scent of damp earth and hay as Ruth crossed the yard. The barn loomed ahead, light flickering faintly from within.
She stepped inside quietly.
Henry sat on a folded blanket near the first stall, one leg bent beneath him, the other stretched out before him. A lantern on the floor beside him cast warm light across his face and shoulders—and the open book in his hands.
The gelding stood nearby, head lowered, breathing slowly.
Henry didn’t look up. He didn’t seem to notice her at all, in fact. The light caught in his hair and softened the lines of his face. There was no anger there now. No sharpness. Just focus… and something gentle that she’d glimpsed only once before.
His low, steady voice filled the quiet space, his words soft and measured.
Ruth blinked as she realized that he was reading—not to himself, but to the horse—and as she watched him, her heart swelled unexpectedly.
Just as quickly, though, she pulled herself back.
Don’t.
She’d promised herself long before coming this place—long before him—that she wouldn’t let herself rely on a man. She refused to build her future on something that could be taken away, or turned against her. She knew too well how quickly things could change.
Still, her lips twitched, because he was reading to a horse.
Ruth stepped forward quietly, setting the plate on a nearby crate. “I suppose,” she said lightly, “that’s one way to pass the time.”
Henry looked up, and their eyes met across the dim space.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, Ruth tilted her head. “Does he have a favorite genre?” she asked, “or do you choose the stories for him?”
A faint flicker crossed Henry’s face, something between irritation and reluctant amusement. “He settles when I talk,” he murmured. “Don’t reckon it matters much what I say.”
Ruth nodded slowly. “I see.” She glanced at the horse. “Though I imagine he appreciates a good story.”
Henry’s mouth twitched.
Ruth straightened, brushing her hands together. “I brought you supper.” She looked pointedly at the tray. “You should eat.”
He glanced at the food, then back at her.
Ruth hesitated before stepping back. “Well, I suppose … I’ll leave you to it.” She turned to go.
“Ruth.”
She paused with her back to him, then turned slowly. “Yes?”
Henry had set the book aside and was staring at her, something unreadable in his expression.
Ruth held his gaze, seeing something in his eyes that made her hope he might say something—something that mattered.