Chapter Thirty-Four
Henry pushed open the back door and stepped inside, his head down as he shrugged off his coat. “Hope the coffee’s warm?—?”
The words died in his throat as he looked up, and the world seemed to narrow.
Ruth stood near the center of the kitchen, her hands raised away from her body. Across from her stood Beatrice, who had a gun pointed at her.
Henry’s breath hitched in his chest as he looked at Ruth.
“Henry?—?”
He took a step toward her.
“No.” Beatrice snapped. “Don’t move.”
His heart slammed so hard against his ribs that it hurt. He needed to get to Ruth, yet years of ranch work had taught him one thing above all else: frightened animals—and frightened people—were unpredictable.
“Beatrice,” he said. “What are you doing?”
“Henry … I didn’t want it to come to this.”
He took a careful step forward, and Beatrice shook her head violently.
“No.”
The gun shifted, and Ruth inhaled.
Henry’s stomach dropped. “Beatrice,” he said. “Put the gun down.”
“I can’t.” Her voice cracked.
“You can.”
“You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head.
“It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said.
Beatrice laughed unsteadily. “I loved you! I loved you, and you threw me away!”
“Beatrice?—?”
“No!”
The gun shook, and her eyes shone.
“I had nothing before any of this—nothing! This was supposed to be my life. I was the one who was supposed to be your wife!” She looked toward Ruth. “And then, she comes here.”
Her face hardened.
“She lies to you, and she keeps secrets,” she said, her voice shrill, “but you don’t tell her to leave. You don’t turn her away. No, you forgive her. How can you forgive her and not me?”
“Beatrice?—?”
“She grew up in a brothel, and she never told you. She betrayed you, Henry!”
“I don’t care.”
“How can you not care?” Beatrice cried.
Henry’s voice softened. “I don’t care where she came from,” he said. “None of it matters.”
Beatrice stared at him in complete disbelief. “But …” she whispered. “She kept it from you.”
“I know,” Henry said, “but it doesn’t matter where Ruth came from, because I love her in a way I never loved you, Beatrice.”
“But we were good together,” she insisted. “You loved me first.”
Henry did remember the Beatrice he’d once thought he loved. The woman who laughed at flowers, rode horses badly, and smiled at him beneath summer skies. But that woman felt very far away now.
Henry swallowed hard. “Beatrice,” he said gently, “this isn’t your home.”
“It was supposed to be.”
“Maybe,” he said, “but that was a long time ago.”
Beatrice held his gaze for a moment longer, then tilted her head. As her eyes moved Ruth, her expression twisted, and a dark desperation gleamed in her eyes.
“If she wasn’t here …” she whispered. “If she were gone …”
Henry’s pulse lurched.
“You’d remember what we had, how special it was.”
“No.”
“You’d forgive me.”
“No, Beatrice.”
“You’d love me again.”
“Beatrice,” Henry said, doing his best to keep his voice steady. “I need you to give me the gun.”
The kitchen went deathly quiet.
“Why can’t you see that I’m doing this for us?” she whispered.
Time slowed, and Henry moved before he even thought. He threw himself across the room as a deafening crack exploded through the kitchen.
The force of the impact sent him crashing hard against the floorboards, and everything became strangely distant and impossibly loud at the same time.
The kitchen ceiling swam above him, sunlight blurring at the edges of his vision.
Henry could not even draw breath as something hot spread rapidly through his shoulder and down his arm.
A cry shattered through the ringing in his ears.
“Henry!”
His head turned instinctively toward Ruth’s voice.
She was suddenly beside him, dropping to her knees on the floorboards, her face white. Tears streamed down her cheeks as trembling hands pressed against his shoulder.
Henry sucked in a sharp breath, and pain exploded through him as black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
“Hold on—just hold on …”
Ruth grabbed her skirt, yanking at the hem until cloth tore with a loud rip. She wadded the material against the wound, and he cried out despite himself.
“I’m sorry!” Ruth sobbed. “Henry, I know, I’m sorry?—?”
Henry swallowed and forced himself to breathe as his gaze shifted past her.
Beatrice stood frozen near the table. Both her hands had risen to her mouth. The revolver had fallen to rest abandoned on the floorboards.
“No,” she whispered brokenly, backing away. “No, no, no …”
Then, she turned and ran. Henry heard the front door slam somewhere far away.
“It’s okay,” Ruth whispered. “It’s okay. You’re going to be all right.”
Henry wasn’t sure whether she was trying to reassure him or herself. He wanted to tell her not to cry, that he was fine—but another wave of pain crashed through him, so hard, his eyes squeezed shut.
“Ruth?” George stepped in through the back door, then gasped. “What happened?” he asked, rushing across to them.
“Beatrice,” Henry groaned.
“There’s too much blood,” Ruth said. “It won’t stop.”
“Tom!” George bellowed. “Eli! We need the doctor!”
Within seconds, the two men arrived in the kitchen. Faces swam in and out above Henry.
“We’re getting you to town,” George said.
Henry nodded, or thought he did. His body felt strangely heavy now.
“This is gonna hurt,” George warned.
Henry almost laughed.
Hands moved beneath his shoulders and back.
“Easy now,” George said. “Watch his arm.”
Then, they lifted him, and Henry’s entire body tensed. Another cry tore from his throat before he could stop it. His vision flashed white, and he thought he might be sick. Or die.
Or both.
He heard Ruth make a small broken sound beside him.
His head lolled weakly to one side, but he saw flashes as they carried him through the house.
The hallway, sunlight through the doorway.
Everything appeared in broken pieces. Every jolt sent fresh agony radiating through his shoulder and chest. He felt blood soaking through his shirt, warm and sticky against his skin.
The morning air struck his face as they stepped outside, cool and smelling faintly of grass, earth, and horses. The world would sharpen for a moment, then blur once more.
Then, Henry felt something hard against his back. The boards beneath him were rough and warmed from the morning sun. He felt every knot and uneven plank pressing into his skin as George and Eli lowered him carefully down.
Henry stared up at the sky overhead, but the clouds looked strange.
Then, suddenly, Ruth appeared above him. Strands of dark hair curled around her face. “I’m coming with you.”
“Clara?” Henry rasped.
“I’ll stay with Clara,” Tom offered.
Ruth hesitated as she looked back toward the house, then nodded and climbed into the wagon. Without another word, she dropped beside Henry, reaching for his hand.
Henry’s fingers curled weakly around hers, and the feel of her skin eased his pain.
“Let’s go!” George barked.
The wagon lurched into motion, wheels groaning as they rolled over uneven ground.
Every jolt sent sharp bursts of agony through Henry’s shoulder, but the pain was no longer clean or immediate.
It spread through him now in heavy waves, dull and hot and exhausting, as though his whole body had become weighed down beneath it.
Henry lay staring at the canvas above him, which shifted softly with the movement of the wagon, allowing strips of sunlight slip through from time to time.
The light passed over Ruth’s face in brief flashes as she sat beside him, one hand wrapped tightly around his own, the other pressing firmly against the makeshift bandage at his shoulder.
He could feel her hand, and somehow, he knew that was important.
The sound of wheels rattling over the road blurred together with hoofbeats and voices. George called something from the driver’s seat, though Henry couldn’t make out the words. Someone answered him. Wind rushed past the wagon.
Only Ruth felt real.
Her fingers tightened around his hand every few moments, as if to reassure herself that he was still there. Henry turned his head toward her, though even that small movement made dizziness roll unpleasantly through him.
He frowned.
She was crying. Her eyes were swollen and red, tears slipping down her cheeks despite how often she wiped them away. More strands of dark hair had fallen loose around her face.
He wanted to tell her he would be okay, but his tongue felt heavy and his thoughts slow.
Ruth leaned closer, brushing trembling fingers through his hair. “Stay with me,” she whispered. Her voice shook so badly it hurt to hear.
Henry stared at her, trying hard to focus. Trying hard to hold onto her face.
Lord, he was tired.
And closing his eyes for just a little while suddenly seemed like the easiest thing in the world.
Ruth squeezed his hand harder. “I love you,” she whispered.
Henry looked up at her.
“I love you, Henry,” she repeated.
Henry tried to hold on, tried to stay awake, but the darkness finally closed over him …
And then, there was nothing at all.