Chapter Eighteen
Henry stood near the door, adjusting his cuffs for the third time in as many minutes.
The house felt different this morning. Quieter than usual, but not the way it had been over the past week. There was an anticipation in it now. A sense of something coming.
He exhaled slowly, glancing toward the stairs.
This might have been a mistake.
A week ago, it had seemed simple enough: a promise made in the moment, something to settle her after everything that had happened.
Now, he was expected to follow through.
Henry shifted his weight, running a hand down the front of a shirt he hadn’t worn in years. It felt too stiff. Too proper. Like a costume.
He hadn’t set foot in a church since—
His jaw tightened.
No.
He wasn’t going to think about that.
Not now.
The sound of footsteps broke through his thoughts.
Clara came bounding down the stairs with more energy than caution, her small boots hitting each step in uneven rhythm.
“Careful,” Henry said automatically.
Clara reached the bottom and stopped short, looking up at him with bright eyes. As she did, her hat slipped from her head and tumbled to the floor.
Henry glanced down at it, then back at her.
She didn’t move to pick it up.
“You’ll lose this before we even leave the yard,” he muttered, bending to retrieve it.
Clara watched him closely as he straightened, the small hat in his hands.
Then, without thinking, he placed it, not on her head, but on his own, and made a face, crossing his eyes as he tugged the brim into place.
Clara blinked; then, a small, silent laugh broke across her face, her shoulders bouncing.
Henry felt warmth spread through his chest.
He cleared his throat, stepping back. “There,” he said, as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Better.”
A soft sound came from the stairs.
Henry looked up and forgot, for a moment, how to think.
Ruth stood there, one hand resting on the railing.
She’d dressed simply, but not with the simplicity he was used to seeing on her. Her Sunday dress was a soft, pale green that caught the morning light, the fabric falling neatly around her. Her hair was pinned at the back, a few loose strands softening her face.
There was a freshness to her, a quiet brightness.
“You’re … up,” he said.
Ruth’s lips twitched. “So it would seem.”
Clara turned and hurried toward her, reaching her side quickly. Ruth rested a hand on her sister’s shoulder as Henry shifted his weight.
“Nice hat,” Ruth said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Oh—er … Right,” he mumbled, having forgotten that he was still wearing Clara’s hat. He quickly took it off, the back of his neck warming, and gave it back to Clara.
“Can I assist you to the wagon?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Ruth insisted. “I promise.”
Henry gave a short nod. “All right.”
Clara tugged at Ruth’s hand impatiently.
Henry stepped aside, reaching for his own hat. “We should go,” he said.
***
The church came into view just beyond the main road, its whitewashed boards bright against the open sky. The steeple rose modestly above it, not grand or imposing, but steady.
Henry slowed the horses as they approached.
No turning back now.
He pulled the wagon to a stop near the hitching post, stepping down before turning to help Clara, whose gaze had fixed on the building with quiet excitement.
Ruth followed more carefully. Henry kept a hand near her waist out of instinct.
“I told you,” she said as her boots touched the ground. “I’m quite capable.”
Henry gave a short nod, stepping back.
Voices drifted from inside, punctuated by the faint creak of wooden pews and the tentative notes of a piano.
Henry stilled, his gaze fixed on the open doorway. The soft echo of movement within pulled at something he hadn’t touched in years.
He’d stood in this church not long ago, beside Ruth, but … that had been different. Rushed. Necessary.
He hadn’t felt the place then—or, rather, he hadn’t let himself.
Before that, the last time he’d taken a place in one of those pews had been the day of his parent’s funeral.
He could still recall the details. People dressed in black, voices pitched in that particular hush that followed grief. He’d sat stiffly beside Dorothy, her hand clutching his so tightly, it had gone numb.
He could still hear the pastor’s voice speaking words that were meant to comfort, but hadn’t. No words could fill what had been left behind. No words could take away the pain of seeing two coffins, side by side.
That had been the last time he’d listened to talk of faith and purpose and God’s will.
His chest tightened.
He hadn’t cried; he couldn’t. There had been too much to do. Too much to carry. A sister to look after, a life that had changed overnight without any thought to whether he was ready or not. There hadn’t been room for grief, only responsibility.
After that, he’d stopped coming. Stopped believing that any of it made a difference.
And now, he stood here again.
Henry glanced at Ruth, then back toward the church.
His jaw tightened.
This is a mistake.
He felt regret settle in his chest, heavy and unwelcome. This place reminded him of things he had no desire to revisit.
Henry cleared his throat, adjusting his hat. “You go on,” he said. “I’ll wait out here.”
Ruth stilled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the building, “this is your place, not mine.”
“You came all this way,” she said gently.
“And that’s far enough.”
Ruth studied him. “You don’t have to sit through the whole service,” she tried again. “Just come in for a little while.”
Henry shook his head. “I said I’d bring you. Didn’t say I’d join you.”
Ruth’s expression shifted. “Henry?—?”
He looked away. “I’ll be right here.”
Silence stretched between them.
Then, Henry glanced down as Clara quietly slipped her small hand into his.
He frowned. “You going in?”
She shook her head.
Henry exhaled slowly. “Clara …” His gaze shifted briefly toward Ruth, then back to the child at his side. “You won’t go in if I don’t?”
Clara nodded.
“Stubborn,” he muttered. “Just like your sister.”
Ruth’s lips twitched, though she didn’t speak.
Henry looked down at Clara again. She’d been excited to come to church. He’d seen it in the way she’d hurried down the stairs and how she’d looked at the church just moments before.
He didn’t want her to miss it because of him.
“Fine,” he said at last. “All right.” He pointed toward the door. “We go in. We sit. We leave when it’s done.”
“Of course,” Ruth said, smiling.
Henry shot her a look. “Don’t make a habit of this.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He didn’t believe her—not for a second.
And so, together, they stepped through the doors of the church.
Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting soft patterns across the wooden floor. The scent of polished wood and faint perfume hung in the air. Rows of simple pews stretched ahead, half-filled with townsfolk in their Sunday best: pressed shirts, modest dresses, hats set carefully in place.
Henry hesitated just inside the doorway, then stepped in.
Heads turned, and Henry felt their interest and curiosity immediately.
Of course they were curious—Henry Collins didn’t come here.
He nodded stiffly at a passing neighbor. “Morning.”
“Henry,” the man replied, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t expect to see you.”
“Didn’t expect to be here,” Henry muttered.
A few quiet chuckles followed.
Ruth walked beside him, composed, her hand resting on Clara’s shoulder. She didn’t shrink under the attention. In fact, she didn’t seem bothered by it at all.
“Mr. Collins? Is that you?”
Henry turned.
The pastor stood near the front, his expression one of clear surprise—and unmistakable delight.
“Well, I’ll be,” he said, stepping forward. “This is a welcome sight!”
Henry shifted slightly. “Morning, Pastor.”
“It’s been some time,” the pastor continued warmly. “We’re glad to have you.”
Henry nodded. “Just here with them,” he said, gesturing toward Ruth and Clara.
The pastor’s gaze moved to Ruth, then softened. “Mrs. Collins,” he said kindly. “We’ve heard you were settling in.”
Ruth inclined her head. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“And this must be your little sister,” the pastor added, looking at Clara.
Henry said nothing.
Clara simply watched the pastor quietly.
“Well,” the pastor said, clapping his hands lightly together, “you’re just in time. We’re about to begin.”
Henry gave a tight smile. “Wouldn’t want to miss it.”
The pastor beamed.
Henry turned toward the pews, guiding Ruth and Clara ahead of him. As they sat, he became acutely aware of every movement, every glance that lingered a moment too long.
Henry exhaled slowly, resting his hands on his knees, as the opening hymn began.
***
It was midmorning by the time the service concluded.
Voices rose gradually, benches creaked, and the quiet reverence of the room gave way to conversation and movement. People lingered, shaking hands, exchanging news, stepping into the sunlight in small clusters.
Henry stood, letting Ruth and Clara move ahead of him. He hadn’t realized how tense he’d been until he straightened. His shoulders felt tight, his jaw looser than before, but not entirely at ease.
Still, he’d stayed, and that counted for something.
Outside, the air felt fresher somehow, the open sky a welcome contrast to the close walls of the church. Townsfolk gathered along the path, nodding and offering polite greetings, some more curious than others.
Henry responded with short nods, keeping his responses brief.
Ruth stepped beside him once they’d cleared the doorway, her expression lighter than he’d seen it in days. “Thank you,” she said softly.
Henry glanced at her. “For what?”
“For bringing me. It feels good to be here.”
“Well, I reckon you’re welcome.”
“And,” she added, a faint smile touching her lips, “don’t you think it’s nice to be out of the house?”
Henry huffed.
Ruth’s smile lingered.
Clara suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Henry’s leg.
He blinked, caught off guard. “Well,” he muttered, looking down at her. “What’s that for?”
Clara didn’t answer, just squeezed with surprising strength before pulling back to look up at him with quiet affection.
That same warmth bloomed in him, and he felt Ruth’s eyes on him.
After a moment, he cleared his throat. “All right,” he said gruffly, adjusting his hat as he looked away. “That’s enough of that.”
They began walking slowly toward the hitching post, the noise of the crowd fading behind them.
Henry glanced at Ruth. “You busy tomorrow?”
Ruth looked at him, surprised. “I don’t believe so—at least, no more than usual.”
Henry nodded once. “There’s a horse auction in town. Good stock comes through this time of year.”
Interest flickered in Ruth’s eyes. “Oh?”
“You could come along.” He hesitated briefly. “If you wanted, of course.”
Ruth blinked. “You would take me?”
Henry shrugged. “You seem interested in horses and the ranch business. Might as well see a part of it for yourself.”
Her expression softened. “I’d like that.”
Henry nodded, then glanced down at Clara and lowered his voice. “We’ll leave her with George,” he added. “Crowd’ll be too much for her. Horses, too.” A smirk tugged at his mouth. “Man can handle a few hours of babysitting.”
Ruth chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.”
“He’ll manage.”
They reached the wagon, and Henry rested a hand against its side.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s get home.”