Chapter Nine
The moment Henry disappeared toward the pastures, Ruth released a slow breath and rested her hands against the kitchen table.
The morning sun streamed through the windows, bathing the room in a warm golden light that made the worn pine surfaces glow.
For the first time since arriving at the ranch, she allowed herself to feel something dangerously close to relief.
The future remained uncertain. Her secret remained as precarious as ever. Every time someone addressed her as Nora, a knot of guilt tightened in her stomach. Yet, she was still here. She had a roof over her head, work to do, and another day in which to prove herself useful.
For now, that was enough. Determined not to waste the opportunity God had provided, Ruth tied an apron around her waist and began her work.
The kitchen had clearly been managed by necessity rather than enthusiasm for some time.
Henry had kept the household functioning, but there was only so much one man could do while running a ranch and caring for a child.
Dust had gathered along windowsills, cupboards needed organizing, and the pantry showed signs of having been stocked with practicality rather than careful planning.
None of it discouraged her. In truth, the familiar nature of the work soothed her nerves.
She began by opening the windows to allow the morning air inside.
A gentle breeze drifted through the house carrying the scents of sun-warmed grass, distant cattle, and the faint sweetness of wildflowers growing somewhere beyond the yard.
From outside came the steady creak of the windmill and the cheerful song of a mockingbird perched near the barn.
Gathering supplies, she set about cleaning. She shaved pieces from a bar of homemade lye soap and dissolved them in hot water before using the mixture to scrub the kitchen surfaces. For the windows, she mixed vinegar with water and polished the glass until it sparkled in the sunlight.
By late morning she carried a basket into the garden behind the house.
The vegetable patch showed promise despite the neglect of recent months.
Several rows had become crowded with weeds, and the drought had clearly taken its toll, but signs of life remained.
Beans climbed a weathered trellis. Onion tops pushed stubbornly through the dry soil.
A few squash vines continued producing despite the heat.
Kneeling in the dirt, Ruth began pulling weeds and loosening the hardened earth around the plants.
The soil crumbled between her fingers, dry and dusty from weeks without sufficient rain.
She made mental notes as she worked. With proper attention and God’s blessing, the garden could produce far more than it currently did.
The simple act of tending growing things brought her peace. Unlike people, gardens often revealed exactly what they needed. A struggling plant might require water, shade, or richer soil, but it never concealed its condition. The same could not be said for human hearts.
By the time she returned to the house, perspiration dampened her collar and streaks of dirt marked her gloves, yet she felt more settled than she had since arriving in Weatherford.
The remainder of the afternoon passed in productive labor. Laundry soaked in large tubs behind the house. Beds were aired and remade. Shelves were organized. A small tear in one of Lola’s dresses was neatly repaired. The steady rhythm of useful work quieted her anxious thoughts.
It was nearly time for school to end when an idea occurred to her. After a brief inspection of the pantry, she discovered enough apples, flour, butter, and sugar to make a pie. The thought pleased her. A home should occasionally smell of baking. Perhaps especially a home that had known sorrow.
She had just begun peeling apples when she heard the front door open. Looking up, she saw Lola standing in the entryway with her schoolbooks tucked beneath one arm. The little girl hesitated when she noticed Ruth. For a moment, neither spoke.
Then, Ruth smiled. “How was school today?”
Lola shrugged in a way that Ruth suspected was a universal manner for children who wished to appear uninterested in conversation. “It was fine.”
Ruth hid a smile and returned her attention to the apples. “I’m glad to hear it.”
The little girl lingered, and after a few moments, curiosity clearly got the better of her. “What are you making?”
“An apple pie.”
Lola drifted a little closer to the table. “What for?”
Ruth pretended to consider the question. “Because I thought the house might enjoy smelling like pie for a few hours.”
The answer earned the faintest hint of amusement and to Ruth’s surprise, she found herself relaxing. Children, she decided, were not so very different from skittish horses. Patience usually worked better than force.
She continued peeling apples. “Would you like to help?”
For a moment Lola seemed poised to refuse. Then, trying very hard to sound indifferent, she said, “I suppose I could.”
Ruth smiled. “I’d be grateful for the assistance.”
Lola set her schoolbooks carefully on a chair before approaching the table. Though she had agreed to help, she carried herself with an air of caution, as if she might change her mind at any moment and retreat to the safety of the barn and her pony. Ruth wisely chose not to mention it.
Instead, she slid a wooden bowl across the table and handed the little girl a clean apron.
“You’ll need this.”
Lola looked down at it. “I don’t usually wear an apron.”
“Then today can be a special occasion.”
The child considered this before reluctantly tying it around her waist. Unfortunately, the strings became tangled almost immediately and after a brief struggle, she huffed in frustration.
Ruth smiled. “May I?”
Lola nodded. Moving behind her, Ruth tied the bow properly and stepped back. “There.”
Lola inspected the result. “It makes me look grown up.”
“It does.”
The answer obviously pleased her more than she seemed willing to admit.
The pie ingredients had already been gathered onto the worktable. A sack of flour sat beside a crock of lard, while several apples waited in a wooden bowl. Cinnamon, sugar, and a pinch of nutmeg stood nearby. Ruth picked up one of the apples and handed another to Lola.
“First, we finish peeling.”
Lola examined the apple suspiciously. “I’ve never done that before.”
“Then you’re about to learn.”
The little girl accepted the paring knife with great seriousness.
Ruth demonstrated first, turning the apple carefully in her hand as a long strip of peel curled away. Lola attempted the same and her first effort removed nearly half the apple along with the peel. For a moment she looked horrified. Then, Ruth laughed. “It’s all right.”
Once the apples were sliced, she showed Lola how to mix them with sugar and spices. The little girl leaned over the bowl and inhaled deeply. “It smells nice.”
“Cinnamon usually does,” Ruth said.
“Did your mother teach you how to make pie?”
The question caught Ruth off guard and for a moment she simply stirred the filling. Then, she smiled softly. “Not exactly.”
Lola looked up. “Why not?”
Ruth hesitated. Children deserved honesty, at least as much as she could give.
“My mother died when I was born.”
The little girl’s expression immediately changed. “Oh.” The sympathy in that single word touched Ruth more than she expected. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Lola looked down at the apples. “So, you never knew her?”
Ruth shook her head. “No.”
The familiar ache stirred within her. It wasn’t sharp anymore, simply present. Like an old scar. For a few moments, neither spoke.
Then Lola asked quietly, “How did you learn to bake?”
“From her recipe book,” she explained. “My mother wrote notes all through them. Little instructions in the margins. Things she learned over the years.”
“What kind of notes?”
Ruth smiled. “Oh, all sorts of things,” she said as she rolled out the pie crust. “A pie made with patience tastes better than one made in haste.”
Lola smiled. “What else?”
“If the apples are tart, thank the Lord for sugar.”
Lola giggled. She watched the rolling pin move across the dough. “So, it was like she was talking to you.”
The observation caught Ruth by surprise. “Yes,” she agreed, although her throat tightened slightly. “Exactly like that.”
For a moment the kitchen fell quiet except for the soft sounds of baking.
“Did you bring the book with you?” Lola asked.
Ruth hesitated. “No,” she said. “Although I wish I did.”
Lola frowned but said nothing as Ruth carefully fitted the crust into the pie dish. Lola handed her apple slices one by one and the simple teamwork felt surprisingly natural.
“Do you miss her?” Lola asked.
The question was so direct that Ruth smiled. Children had a gift for bypassing all the complicated ways adults spoke. “Sometimes.”
Lola looked thoughtful. “Even though you never met her?”
“Especially because I never met her.”
The little girl considered that and nodded slowly. “I miss my ma, too.”
Ruth wanted to reach out to her then, but she stopped herself.
Loss came in many forms. Some people grieved what they remembered and others grieved what they never had the chance to know.
She was growing to understand Lola more, but she was worried about moving too quickly. She did not want her to shut down.
When the filling was finally poured into the crust, Ruth showed Lola how to weave strips of dough across the top.
The little girl concentrated fiercely, her tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth as she worked.
Several strips ended up crooked and one broke entirely.
But Ruth left them exactly as they were.
“Don’t fear an imperfect crust. Most folks eat with their mouths, not their eyes,” she quoted, smiling at Lola.
By the time they finished, flour dusted both their sleeves and a white streak decorated Lola’s nose. The child suddenly pointed. “You have flour on your face.”
“So do you.”