Chapter Fifteen
Ruth held the letter carefully, smoothing the fold.
My dearest Ruth,
Things here remain much the same, though quieter without you. Madam Delaney complains more than ever, and the girls still rise late and laugh too loud for my taste.
I hope you haven’t let your heart grow fearful in a new place. The Lord does not lead us into uncertainty without purpose, though we may not always see it at first. You have always been stronger than you believe yourself to be.
I pray for you each night, and for your sister. Trust that you were meant for something better, Ruth. Hold fast to that, even when it feels far away.
Write when you can. I remain, always,
Your friend,
Millie
Ruth lowered the letter slowly.
The kitchen was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall and the buzzing of a fly against the window.
She read her friend’s words again, hearing them spoken aloud in Millie’s voice as clearly as if she was standing right there.
Ruth exhaled softly, folding the letter with care and pressing it briefly to her chest before setting it down on the table.
Things were better here. That much, she could admit.
The work no longer overwhelmed her. The chaotic rhythm of the house had settled into something manageable. Meals came together with considerably less effort, the men were kind in their quiet way, and Clara?—
Ruth’s gaze drifted toward the doorway, where her sister sat cross-legged on the floor, turning the pages of a small book with careful attention.
Clara was safe, and that mattered more than anything.
And Henry …
Ruth paused. The tension between them had eased. Not entirely, of course—there were still sharp, uncertain moments, and she had trouble reading him—but there were other moments, too. Quieter moments. Easier ones.
The night she’d found him reading in the barn filled her thoughts more often than she cared to admit, even to herself: the feeling of being close to him while he shared with her, opening up in ways she had never realized she craved.
Ruth shook the thought gently aside.
Yes, things were much improved … yet, something was still missing.
This place was quiet in a way she wasn’t used to. She’d found peace at this ranch, and safety. A home away from the loud, chaotic noise of the brothel, but there was also an absence, one that felt bigger with each passing day.
There were no women’s voices here. No one to share glances or whispered conversations with at the end of a long day. No one understood, without needing explanation, the small weight of certain thoughts.
No one like Millie.
Ruth swallowed as her fingers brushed over the folded letter again. Then, her gaze lifted toward the window, where morning light stretched pale across the yard.
There was a church in town.
The thought had come to her more than once.
She wanted to go, to sit quietly among others and hear familiar words spoken aloud. To feel connected to something beyond the boundaries of this place.
Her lips pressed together.
She’d have to ask Henry, and that gave her pause.
He wasn’t a man of faith, at least not in any way she understood it. She’d seen that plainly enough at the table.
Would he allow it?
Her gaze drifted again to Clara. For her sake, Ruth was reluctant to risk upsetting the peace they’d found here.
Still, the longing remained, quiet, but persistent.
Ruth picked up the letter once more, tracing Millie’s careful handwriting with her thumb.
“I miss you,” she whispered.
Clara looked up at the sound, watching her, and Ruth smiled faintly.
Then, she folded the letter again and tucked it safely away.
And as she rose, she thought more about attending church. It was important to her; surely, if she made that clear to Henry, he would agree.
All she needed to do was wait for the right moment to bring it up.
***
Ruth woke, and for a long moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sounds of the house beginning to stir: the distant creak of boards, the faint movement of wind against the windows.
Her heart was beating a little faster than usual.
Today was Sunday, and she had decided to ask Henry if she and Clara might attend church.
She wasn’t certain why this felt so daunting.
Ruth sat up slowly, smoothing her hands over the blanket as she gathered her courage.
Resolve settled in her chest, steady, but fragile, like it might slip away if she didn’t act on it soon.
She pushed the covers back and swung her feet to the floor, the chill of the wooden boards seeping through her stockings. Morning light filtered through the window, pale and soft, carrying with it the promise of a clear day.
Ruth crossed the small room quietly, not wanting to wake Clara just yet, and reached for her dress where it hung neatly on a peg.
The fabric was plain but serviceable, made for movement rather than show.
She dressed quickly, lacing the bodice with practiced fingers before pinning her hair up at the nape of her neck.
She had no need—nor desire—for a mirror; she’d learned long ago not to linger over such things.
Turning, she set about straightening her bed, pulling the blankets tight and smoothing the creases until everything lay neat and orderly. It was a small act, but it gave her a sense of control, like she was beginning the day properly.
Clara stirred softly behind her.
Ruth smiled. “Good morning,” she murmured, moving to the bedside.
Clara blinked up at her sleepily, her curls mussed against the pillow.
Ruth brushed them gently back. “We have a busy day ahead.”
Clara pushed herself up slowly, rubbing her eyes.
Ruth helped her dress in small, careful movements, fastening buttons, straightening the hem of her simple dress. Clara leaned into her without hesitation, trusting, familiar.
That trust grounded Ruth. It always had.
“Come along,” Ruth said softly, taking her sister’s hand.
The kitchen was still dim when they entered, the air cool from the night before.
Ruth set to work at once, arranging kindling in the stove and striking a match. The flame caught slowly, then grew, licking at the wood until warmth began to build.
With that, her now-familiar routine settled in.
She fetched water and set coffee to brew, then measured out flour with steady hands. The faint, earthy scent rose into the air as she worked, grounding her in the task.
Clara took her usual place near the table, watching quietly, occasionally reaching for a utensil or scrap of cloth to occupy her hands.
Ruth moved between stove and table, her skirts brushing softly against the floor, the growing warmth easing the morning chill.
Before long, bacon was sizzling in a pan as she cracked eggs carefully, one after the other, and by the time the first of the men entered, the kitchen had come alive with the savory aroma of breakfast.
Ruth glanced toward the door as it opened.
Henry stepped in and took his place at the head of the table.
Ruth watched him for a moment, exhaling slowly as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Henry,” she began, as she approached him. “I’ve been thinking.”
Henry glanced up. “About …?”
Ruth folded her hands in front of her. “Today is Sunday …” She paused, swallowing to moisten her dry throat. “And, well, I hoped that Clara and I could attend church.”
Henry set his fork down, and Ruth held her breath, praying that he’d agree.
“Religion’s never gotten me anywhere,” he said plainly.
Ruth blinked. “I know you don’t share my desire,” she replied gently, “but it’s something I—”
“My parents believed,” he interrupted, his tone still even, but harder now. “Went to every Sunday service. Prayed every night.”
Ruth froze as Henry’s gaze drifted into the middle distance.
“They were gone within two months of each other,” he continued. “Prayer never did them any good.”
Ruth’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
Henry shrugged once. “Doesn’t change anything.”
Ruth paused, unsure how to continue.
Then, Henry picked his fork back up, as though that settled the matter.
“Besides,” he added. “It might be Sunday, but I can’t spare a man for the morning to take you into town.”
“Then perhaps I could take a horse?—?”
“You’re not riding into town alone.”
“I wouldn’t be alone. Clara would be with me.”
“No,” he said.
His tone was firm, with a finality that made a familiar sharp pang rise within her chest. Men deciding, controlling. Men expecting obedience.
“I don’t see why that should be a problem,” she said carefully. “It’s not far, and—”
“You don’t know how to ride,” Henry cut in. “Not well enough for that distance, and certainly not with a child in front of you.”
“I could learn.”
“Not today.”
The flat certainty in his voice landed hard, and Ruth’s fingers tightened.
“It’s important to me,” she said.
Henry’s gaze met hers. “I said no.”
The words settled between them like a door slamming shut, and Ruth’s face grew hot.
Then, she lifted her chin. “I see.”
Henry reached for his mug and took a sip of coffee, and just like that, the conversation was over.
***
After breakfast, the house emptied as the men went out to their work. Ruth stood by the window, watching Henry cross the yard toward the barn without a backward glance.
Her jaw tightened.
She turned from the window with purpose, her skirts brushing softly against the floor as she crossed the kitchen. If she lingered, if she allowed herself to think too long, she might begin to doubt herself.
She moved upstairs quickly, her steps light but determined.
In the bedroom, she went straight to the small drawer beside the bed and pulled it open. Inside lay her few belongings, neatly arranged. She reached for her Bible first, her fingers brushing over its worn cover, and lifted it carefully.
She tucked it into her satchel, then picked up her shawl, wrapping it firmly around her shoulders. The morning air still carried a chill, and she’d be riding—properly riding—for the first time in her life.
Her hands paused before she put on her bonnet as a flicker of doubt momentarily shook her resolve.