Prologue #2
Ruth wasted no time, gathering the plates and cutlery and quickly setting the table.
She then fetched the potatoes and placed them down.
She crossed the kitchen to the stove and removed the tray of biscuits.
When dinner was served, Ruth hovered near the window while her father pulled the serving bowl toward himself.
“Sit down,” he barked. “I don’t need you hovering over me like some old mother hen.”
Ruth did not need to be asked twice as she quickly took her seat.
Her father’s spoon scraped loudly against the pottery as he took the largest potatoes, most of the cabbage and nearly all of the biscuits. Ruth kept her eyes lowered. By now, the routine was familiar.
When he was sober, which was becoming increasingly rare, he hardly noticed her. When he was drunk, the smallest perceived slight could ignite his temper. So she made herself small and unremarkable. It was a skill learned over years of necessity.
When he finally shoved the bowl away, only a few scraps remained. Ruth sat down and gathered them onto her own plate. The food was barely enough to satisfy a child.
Still, she bowed her head. “Thank You for this meal,” she whispered. Then she ate.
Across the table, Frank drank directly from his bottle. Neither of them spoke and the silence between them felt older than the house itself. When her father finished, he pushed his chair back so abruptly it scraped across the floorboards.
Without a word, he grabbed the bottle and stalked toward the narrow hallway. A moment later, his bedroom door slammed and the thin walls of the house rattled. Ruth released a slow breath. At least the worst part of the evening was over.
She cleared the table and washed the dishes in a basin of warm water. Outside, darkness settled over the farm and the lonely cry of a whip-poor-will echoed somewhere beyond the fields.
When the kitchen was tidy, Ruth carried a candle down the hallway. Its small flame cast trembling shadows across the walls.
The farmhouse seemed even more worn at night. In places, the wallpaper had peeled away entirely and the floorboards creaked beneath her bare feet. A draft slipped through gaps around the windows.
Her room waited at the end of the hall. The narrow iron bed stood beneath a window overlooking the backyard. A faded quilt covered the mattress, pieced together years ago by her mother. Beside the bed sat a wooden washstand with a cracked pitcher and basin.
A single rocking chair occupied one corner and her Bible rested on the small bedside table. Along with a portrait—the only picture she possessed of her mother.
Ruth knew every detail by heart. Her mother gazed calmly toward the camera, her thick chestnut-brown hair pinned neatly beneath a bonnet.
Even in the small photograph, the resemblance was unmistakable.
The same gray eyes looked back at her whenever Ruth studied her own reflection.
The same strong cheekbones and determined mouth.
Growing up, neighbors had often remarked that she looked more like her mother with every passing year—a comparison Ruth treasured, even as it deepened her father’s bitterness. Sometimes, when she stared at the portrait long enough, she imagined she could almost see herself reflected there.
Ruth carefully changed into her nightdress. The cotton fabric was thin from years of washing. Then, she brushed out her braid and let her hair fall over her shoulders.
She knelt beside the bed, the floorboards cool beneath her knees, and folded her hands. “Father,” she whispered. “Thank You for carrying me through another day.”
The words landed quietly, but her voice was steady. “Thank You for the food we had tonight, for the work You’ve given me, and for every kindness You’ve placed in my path.”
She paused, listening to the distant creak of the old house. The floorboards creaked somewhere down the hallway and, instantly, her body tensed.
For a moment she thought her father might be awake and a knot formed in her stomach as she listened for the unmistakable sound of his footsteps outside her door.
More than once, he had mocked her for praying.
On particularly bad nights, after too much whiskey, he would accuse her of wasting time on a God who had never done anything for either of them.
Ruth had learned to keep her Bible close and her prayers quiet whenever he was home.
The house settled again and silence returned. Slowly, she released the breath she had been holding. “You know our needs before I speak them,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “You know every burden in this home, every debt, every fear, and every sorrow.”
Her fingers reached for the small silver cross hanging at her neck. “I ask for strength, Lord. Not an easy road, but the strength to walk the one You’ve set before me. Help me to be patient when I am weary, kind when I am hurt, and faithful when I cannot see what lies ahead.”
Tears stung her eyes, but her voice did not waver. “Please watch over my father. Soften his heart and guide him back to Your light. Help me forgive where forgiveness is needed and show me how to honor You in all that I do.”
Moonlight spilled across the floorboards beside her bed.
“I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know You hold tomorrow.
And whatever comes, help me meet it with courage.
And if there is a purpose for my life beyond what I can see today, help me trust Your timing.
” She drew a slow breath. “Your will be done, Father. Amen.”
As Ruth climbed into bed, a quiet peace settled over her. The circumstances of her life had not changed, but neither had the God she served. And that, she reminded herself as she closed her eyes, was enough.
***
The next morning dawned bright and merciless.
By mid-morning, the heat already pressed heavily upon the farm. The air hung thick and still, not a breath of wind stirred.
Ruth stood beside a pair of wooden washtubs in the backyard with her sleeves rolled past her elbows and several strands of chestnut hair had escaped her braid and clung damply to her neck. She was light-headed, having not eaten any breakfast, and a sick feeling sat in her stomach.
The water in the tubs had already grown warm beneath the sun as she scrubbed a shirt against the washboard. Soap stung the small cracks in her fingers as perspiration trickled down her back. The muscles in her arms trembled; she was exhausted, but she did not stop.
Nearby, clean linens fluttered weakly from a clothesline stretched between two posts. The drought had turned the yard brittle and yellow. Even the shade of the oak tree offered little relief from the heat.
Ruth dipped another garment into the water. But as she did, the sound of approaching hoofbeats made her pause. Few visitors came to the Turner farm anymore.
She looked up to see a rider was approaching along the dirt road and her stomach tightened immediately. Even from a distance, she recognized him.
It was Gideon Walker.
He was the most revered, or feared, man in the county depending on who you asked. As he drew nearer, Ruth found herself gripping the wet shirt a little tighter, her heart racing.
What was he doing here? What did he want?