Chapter Twenty-Eight
Henry woke slowly, caught somewhere between sleep and awareness.
For a moment, he lay still beneath the blankets, staring vaguely at the ceiling while pale gray dawn crept through the window.
The ranch house was quiet around him, the kind of quiet that usually settled just before the day properly began.
And yet … something felt wrong.
He frowned, listening, but heard no footsteps downstairs, no distant clatter of pans from the kitchen. No smell of coffee drifted up through the floorboards, something he’d grown accustomed to in the few weeks that Ruth had been here.
That absence struck him harder than any actual sound could have. She was always awake before him. Even on cold mornings or after restless nights, she rose early to stoke the fire and prepare breakfast before dawn had fully broken across the plains.
But now … the house felt cold and empty.
Henry bolted upright as a strange unease tightened sharply through his chest. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and dragged a hand down his face, trying to shake off the growing feeling crawling beneath his skin.
Perhaps she’s gone outside … maybe Clara isn’t feeling well.
Henry crossed the room quickly, pulling on his boots without bothering to button his shirt before stepping into the hallway.
The house remained unnaturally silent, and his heartbeat quickened as he took the stairs two at a time.
The kitchen came into view, and his stomach dropped instantly. The hearth sat dark and empty, yesterday’s ashes untouched. No kettle warming on the stove. No bread rising on the counter. No scent of bacon or coffee lingering in the air.
“Ruth?”
Henry strode through the room quickly, checking instinctively toward the back porch before turning sharply toward the hallway again.
Still no Ruth.
No sign of Clara, either.
He went back upstairs, his boots thudding against the wooden steps as he crossed directly toward Ruth’s room and pushed open the door.
It was empty.
The bed hadn’t been slept in.
Henry’s breathing turned uneven as his gaze swept frantically across the room.
The drawers of the small dresser under the window stood open and empty.
Her clothes were gone, and so was the worn leather satchel she’d brought from the city.
Henry crossed the room quickly and yanked the wardrobe open anyway, as though the missing things might somehow reappear if he searched hard enough.
But there was nothing.
His pulse pounded painfully as his gaze darted wildly around the room, then landed on the bedside table.
Her Bible was gone.
Henry stared at the bare space where it usually rested as a sick feeling crawled through him.
She’d left.
But why?
His mind raced desperately back through the previous evening. Ruth’s strange quietness and how she’d kept lowering her eyes whenever he looked toward her. The forced softness in her voice. The tension hidden beneath every small smile.
And he’d thought she was merely tired.
Did Beatrice say something to her?
But what? What could’ve made Ruth leave in the middle of the night without even speaking to him?
His gaze dropped to the floor beside the bed.
A ribbon rested near the leg of the chair, one of Clara’s. One of the ribbons Ruth braided into her hair. Henry bent quickly to pick it up, and something inside him twisted painfully.
Suddenly he could picture it too clearly: Ruth, packing quietly in the dark, while Clara watched silently nearby. Preparing to leave without waking him or saying goodbye.
Why?
Had she been unhappy here all along? Did she regret marrying him? Had he pushed too hard? Been too cold? Too distracted?
After a moment, he turned and left the room, gripping the ribbon tightly in his hand. He was halfway down the stairs again when the front door opened.
George stepped inside, stomping dust from his boots before stopping short at the sight of him. “Henry?”
Henry realized he must look half-mad; panic had long since burned away any attempt at composure. His shirt hung open at the collar, his hair still uncombed from sleep.
“They’re gone.”
George frowned immediately. “Who’s gone?”
“Ruth and Clara.”
The color drained from George’s face. “Gone where?”
“I don’t know.”
Henry dragged a hand through his hair, pacing across the cold kitchen. “Her things are gone. Her satchel too—and her Bible.”
George’s expression hardened. “Did she leave a note?”
“No.”
The word cracked hard against his palate because that was what hurt most of all. No explanation or goodbye.
Nothing.
George glanced quickly toward the cold hearth and empty table, clearly putting the pieces together himself now. “When did you last see her?”
“Last night.” Henry’s thoughts spun violently; then, suddenly, he stopped pacing. “Beatrice,” he growled.
George watched him carefully. “What about her?”
Henry’s jaw tightened, and without another word, he grabbed his coat from the hook by the door.
George straightened. “Hey—where’re you going?”
But Henry was already moving. “To Wilkes.”
George cursed softly under his breath. “That’s not a good idea.”
“I have to get her back,” Henry said darkly, yanking open the door.
***
The ride to Victor’s estate was a blur of sound and motion. The morning air cut cold against his face as Shadow thundered down the road, dirt flying beneath pounding hooves. Wind tore through his hair and coat, but Henry barely felt it.
His thoughts were chaotic. He should never have brought Beatrice back to the house. How could he have been so stupid? He’d seen Ruth’s face when Beatrice stepped through the door. Seen the uncertainty in her eyes. And still, he’d left them alone together.
Henry’s grip tightened painfully on the reins. If Victor or Beatrice had frightened her somehow, if they’d threatened her …
His chest tightened at the thought of Ruth leaving terrified in the middle of the night with Clara beside her.
Alone.
Lords knows where.
By the time Victor’s house came into view atop the rise beyond town, Shadow’s coat was lathered with sweat.
The Wilkes Estate stood large and polished against the pale morning sky, every inch of it designed to display wealth. Tall white columns framed the front porch, expensive windows gleamed in the sunlight, and trimmed hedges lined the path leading toward the house.
It looked nothing like a home, only a monument to money.
Henry barely waited before throwing himself from the saddle and storming toward the front door.
A servant opened it seconds after Henry pounded against it. “Mr. Collins?—??”
Henry shoved past him. “Where is he?”
The servant sputtered helplessly Henry strode past him and into the grand entry hall. Marble floors, a crystal chandelier. The entire place smelled faintly of cigars and expensive polish.
Henry’s boots echoed as he looked upward toward the sweeping staircase.
“Wiles!”
A moment later, slow footsteps sounded above, and Victor appeared at the top of the staircase with infuriating calm, one hand resting lazily along the banister as he descended.
“Well,” he drawled smoothly, “what a pleasure.”
The sarcasm dripping from every word only fueled Henry’s fury further.
Victor reached the bottom floor, looking entirely composed in a dark tailored vest and pressed white shirt, as though he’d been expecting company all morning.
Henry took one step toward him. “I want to speak to Beatrice.”
Victor arched a brow. “Do you?”
“Now.”
Victor, however, only smiled, and movement above caught Henry’s attention.
Beatrice stood at the top of the staircase. Her face paled the moment she saw him. “Henry?”
Henry ignored Victor completely, looking only at her. “Ruth is gone.” The words tore from his throat harsher than he’d intended.
Shock flashed across Beatrice’s expression. Or, perhaps, pretended shock.
Henry could no longer tell.
“She left during the night,” he continued, climbing one step toward the stairs. “Did you say something to her?”
Victor moved into his path.
“I think,” he said coolly, “you should leave.”
Henry barely looked at him. “Beatrice.” His voice cracked beneath the anger, and for the first time that morning, his desperation slipped through. “If you know anything…” He swallowed hard. “Please.”
Silence filled the enormous house. Henry’s chest felt tight enough to split open.
“I’ll do anything,” he said roughly. “Just tell me where she is.”
At the top of the stairs, Beatrice stared down at him, and for one fleeting moment, Henry thought she looked guilty.
Apparently, Victor noticed it too; his expression darkened, and he turned toward the servants standing frozen near the doorway.
“Remove him.”
Henry barely had time to react before two men grabbed hold of his arms. “Get your hands off me!” He jerked violently against them, fury exploding through him again as they dragged him backward toward the door.
“Beatrice!” he shouted.
She flinched.
Victor’s voice remained maddeningly calm. “Go home, Collins.”
Henry lunged again, nearly wrenching free. “If anything happens to her?—?”
Victor’s eyes glittered dangerously. “Careful.”
The servants shoved Henry through the front door, and he stumbled down the porch steps, barely managing to catch himself before falling outright.
The front doors slammed shut behind him, and the house stood silent again.
Henry remained motionless for several long moments, chest heaving, fury and fear battling violently inside him.