Chapter Fourteen
The light caught in Ruth’s hair as she turned slowly, softening her features in a way that made it hard for Henry to maintain the frustration he’d been carrying all evening.
He pushed a hand through his hair, exhaling. He wasn’t good at this, but the look on her face when he’d confronted her after seeing her with Victor—the confusion, the hurt—had soured his gut.
“Earlier, I …” His jaw worked until he finally managed to force the words out. “I was out of line.”
Ruth stared at him, motionless.
“Back in town,” he went on quietly. “The way I spoke to you.”
Silence stretched between them.
“You were,” she agreed, but there was no sharpness in it.
Henry huffed faintly. He shifted on the blanket, resting his forearms on his knees. “Wilkes … He’s not just some man.”
Ruth didn’t move, but her attention sharpened.
“He’s a rival,” Henry said. “Owns more land than anyone around here. Been buying it up for years. Expanding, pushing outward.” His gaze drifted, though he wasn’t really looking at anything. “He’s had his eye on this ranch for a long time.”
Ruth’s brows drew together. “Why?”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “Because it’s mine,” he said, “and Victor has a history of getting what he wants, no matter the cost.”
A pause.
“You said he had a history,” she pressed gently. “What kind of history?”
Henry stiffened as the past rose up like a ghost he could never quite escape, no matter how far he ran.
He shook his head. “That part doesn’t matter.”
“It does if it affects us now,” she said, not breaking eye contact.
Henry opened his mouth, and in that moment, he almost told her—almost—but the words caught in his throat, turning heavy.
“I don’t want him near you,” he said instead, his voice rougher now. “That’s all.”
Ruth studied him, searching his eyes for a long moment, but she didn’t push further.
“Seeing him today,” Henry added quietly, “brought back things I’d rather have left where they were … but I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.”
Ruth’s shoulders eased. “I shouldn’t have told him about the horses,” she said after a moment. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s done,” Henry cut in, but not unkindly. “You didn’t know.”
She nodded, and silence settled again, but it felt easier now, less sharp.
Ruth glanced at the gelding. “Is he going to be all right?”
Henry followed her gaze. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “He’s stronger than the others, though. If any of them make it through, it’ll be him.”
“And the book?” she asked, a hint of curiosity in her voice. “Do those stories truly help?”
Henry’s mouth twitched. “Maybe not the words themselves.”
“Then why read to him?”
He leaned back, resting his hands behind him. “It’s something my ma used to do,” he said. “She loved reading—had her nose in a book every chance she got—and her voice seemed to calm the horses somehow.”
Ruth’s expression softened.
“Growing up, she didn’t have much,” Henry went on. “No money for proper schooling.” A faint breath left him. “But she’d always wanted to learn, so after she married my pa, he taught her.”
Ruth tilted her head slightly. “He taught her to read?”
Henry nodded once. “First himself, then her.” His gaze drifted as the memory settled in. “Said if a person could read, they could make something more of the world than what was handed to them.”
Ruth’s lips curved upward. “That’s lovely.”
Henry shrugged. “He believed it.” After a pause, he glanced at her. “You read well enough.”
Ruth stilled. “Yes.”
Henry studied her. “Where’d you learn? School?”
She hesitated just long enough for him to notice.
“I had … some lessons,” she said vaguely. “A governess, for a time.”
The answer felt thin, but Henry didn’t press her to share—not after refusing her the same. Instead, he shifted, making space for her on the blanket without consciously deciding to.
Ruth waited only a second before sitting beside him. The warmth of her presence was immediate, and Henry became suddenly aware of the faint scent of soap and woodsmoke that clung to her hair, and how smooth her skin looked in the lamplight.
He cleared his throat, looking toward the stall again.
“He was right, you know,” Ruth said quietly.
Henry glanced at her.
“Who?”
“Your father.” She folded her hands loosely in her lap. “About learning to read. About making something more of the world.”
Henry nodded wordlessly.
After a moment, Ruth spoke again. “Do you mind if I … say a prayer for him? The horse, I mean—you said it wasn’t the story so much, so I thought, maybe, if the words themselves don’t matter …”
The old instinct rose to dismiss her, to brush the question aside … but in that moment, the desire to give in was stronger.
“Go on,” he said.
Ruth bowed her head.
Henry found himself lowering his own head, too.
Ruth spoke softly, her words simple, steady. Asking for strength and healing. For care over something that could not speak for itself.
When she finished, the silence that followed felt peaceful, charged with a fragile hope.
“Thank you,” he said without thinking.
Ruth looked up, her mouth falling open—but before either of them could say more, the barn door creaked open.
Henry turned to see George standing there, one hand resting lightly on Clara’s shoulder.
“Sorry,” George said, though he sounded more amused than particularly apologetic. “She wanted you.”
Clara stepped forward, her eyes going straight to Ruth.
Ruth smiled, reaching out as the girl hurried to her.
“It’s all right,” she murmured, drawing her sister close.
Henry watched the way Clara leaned into Ruth, who held her without hesitation, without question. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Something in Henry’s chest tightened, and he found himself unable to tear his gaze away. Whatever had happened in Ruth’s past, whatever she wasn’t saying …
This part of her was real.