Chapter Twelve
That evening, by the time supper was finished, darkness had settled over the ranch. After the dishes were cleared from the table, Henry rose from his seat. “Come on, Lola. Bedtime.”
The little girl groaned dramatically. “It’s not even dark.”
“It absolutely is,” he replied. “And you have school in the morning.”
Lola rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She slid from her chair and followed him upstairs. Minutes later, she settled beneath the quilt and waited while Henry adjusted the lamp.
“Nora told me a Bible story today.”
He stilled for a moment, recalling the conversation he had had with Nora that morning after they had returned from church.
He did not want her filling Lola’s head with these stories, he did not like it and he would not tolerate it.
But he could not blame Lola for it and so he pushed his frustrations down.
Henry then glanced over. “Did she?”
The little girl nodded. “The story of Ruth.”
Something in her tone suggested the information was important.
“What did you think of it?”
Lola considered carefully. “I liked it.”
“Why?”
She tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind one ear. “Because Ruth was brave.”
The answer caught him off guard and for a moment he wasn’t sure what to say.
“She could have left, but she didn’t.”
The room fell silent as Henry moved to sit on the edge of the bed. The lamp cast a warm glow across the quilt while crickets sang outside the open window.
“That was brave of her,” he finally said.
Lola nodded. “Boaz was nice, too.”
“He was.”
The little girl yawned and a moment later her eyes began drifting closed. “Goodnight, Uncle Henry.”
“Goodnight.” He blew out the lamp and quietly left the room.
Downstairs, the house had grown still. James had already returned home to his wife. The only sounds came from the kitchen, where dishes clinked softly against one another.
Henry paused in the hallway and then, before he could think better of it, he headed toward the sound.
Nora stood at the sink with her sleeves rolled to her elbows.
Lamplight reflected off the water as she washed the supper dishes.
A dish towel rested over one shoulder, and several loose strands had escaped her braid during the day.
She looked up when he entered. “Did Lola settle easily?”
“She did.”
Nora smiled. “Good, she had a busy day.”
For a moment neither spoke and the silence stretched. Finally, Henry cleared his throat. “Lola mentioned you told her a Bible story.”
Nora’s expression softened immediately. “Yes, the story of Ruth.” She rinsed a plate. “It’s always been my favorite.”
Henry leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. Part of him wanted to tell her off right then and there, to demand to know why she would not respect his wishes, but in that moment, another part, the bigger part, was curious. “Why that one?”
She set the plate aside before answering and for a moment her gaze drifted toward the window, where darkness pressed against the glass. “Because it is a story about faith.”
Henry waited as Ruth dried her hands on a towel.
“And I suppose I’ve always admired Ruth,” she continued, her fingers absently tracing the edge of the dishcloth. “She lost nearly everything. Then she left the only life she’d ever known and stepped into an uncertain future.”
Something shifted in her expression, something that looked like recollection. It was brief, but Henry caught it. “She didn’t know what would happen next. She only knew she had to keep moving forward and trust God to guide her.”
Henry studied her quietly. The words sounded strangely personal. More personal than a simple discussion of Scripture ought to have been.
Ruth looked down at the dish in her hands. “I imagine she must have been frightened.”
The admission was soft, almost absentminded, yet it immediately captured his attention and an uncomfortable thought surfaced.
Why would she imagine that? The woman described in the letters had never mentioned fleeing anything.
There had been no dangerous circumstances or desperate choices.
No uncertainty beyond the ordinary concerns of moving West.
Yet tonight, standing in his kitchen, Ruth spoke as though she understood exactly what it felt like to run from danger. The realization stirred the same unease he’d felt while reading the letters. Subtle and difficult to explain. But present.
“What danger?” he asked.
She looked up, and for the briefest moment, surprise flashed across her face, followed by caution. But they both vanished almost immediately. “I was speaking about Ruth from the Bible.”
Henry wasn’t entirely convinced. Still, he let it pass, for now. His gaze drifted toward the window above the sink and then, before he could stop himself, the words emerged.
“God doesn’t always protect people.”
Nora’s brow furrowed. “Henry—”
“I mean it.” His voice sounded harder than intended. “Lola has already lost enough.” The old bitterness rose before he could contain it. “She’s been disappointed enough.”
Ruth set down the dish she was holding. “Faith isn’t about pretending difficult things don’t happen.”
His jaw tightened. “I don’t want you filling her head with stories about everything turning out perfectly.”
Ruth inhaled sharply.
“Because life doesn’t work that way.”
For a heartbeat, guilt flickered through him. He knew he wasn’t really angry about Bible stories, or even with her. He was angry with his own unanswered prayers and with the God he no longer knew how to trust.
Abruptly, Henry pushed away from the doorway.
The conversation had gone far enough. Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed toward the stairs.
Behind him, the kitchen remained quiet, yet he kept walking.
If he stayed another moment, he suspected Ruth might say something he wasn’t ready to hear.
***
Monday mornings in Weatherford were rarely quiet.
By the time Henry left Lola at the schoolhouse, the town was already awake and bustling with activity.
Wagons rattled along the dirt streets, their wheels kicking up clouds of fine dust that drifted lazily through the warm morning air.
Horses stood tethered outside businesses, swishing their tails against flies.
The scent of fresh bread drifted from the bakery while somewhere nearby a blacksmith’s hammer rang steadily against an anvil.
The school bell had only just sounded when Henry tipped his hat to Lola and watched her disappear inside with the other children. She paused once at the door, turned and waved.
It was a simple thing, and yet, it still surprised him. In truth, Henry was not blind to the changes that had been happening in Lola since Nora’s arrival. She was less surly and argumentative. She even smiled more. He raised a hand in return before heading toward the general store.
The town seemed busier than usual. Farmers were purchasing seed and supplies. Ranch hands clustered outside the mercantile discussing cattle prices. Women moved between shops carrying baskets and parcels while children darted through the crowds until someone called them back.
Weatherford had grown steadily since the war. New buildings stood where empty lots had once been, and there was a sense of cautious optimism about the place. Something Henry often felt disconnected from.
He tied his horse outside the mercantile and stepped inside.
The familiar smells greeted him. Coffee beans and leather polish along with peppermint candies and soap.
The peculiar mixture of scents common to every general store in Texas.
Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crowded with bolts of fabric, lanterns, tools, canned goods, and supplies of every description.
Behind the counter stood Mrs. Eleanor Whitaker.
If anyone in Weatherford knew what was happening in town, it was Mrs. Whitaker.
A widow in her late fifties, she possessed sharp blue eyes and a remarkable ability to gather information without appearing to do so.
Her silver hair was always arranged neatly beneath a bonnet, and she managed the store with an efficiency that intimidated most suppliers.
“Henry Foster.” She looked up from her ledger. “Morning.”
“Morning.”
He placed several items on the counter. A bag of flour, a box of nails, a tin of lamp oil and a spool of fencing wire. Mrs. Whitaker glanced over the collection. “You ranchers always buy the most exciting things.”
Henry grunted. He really wasn’t in the mood for small talk but that didn’t seem to dissuade Mrs. Whitaker. As she wrapped the purchases, she studied him over the rim of her spectacles. “How is your wife settling in?”
The question immediately made him uncomfortable. “Fine.”
“Only fine?”
Henry sighed. “She’s settling in.”
Mrs. Whitaker appeared satisfied with that answer. “Good,” she said. “We were mighty pleased to see her in church on Sunday.” She tied off a package neatly with twine. “She seems like a lovely young woman.”
“She is.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Mrs. Whitaker’s eyebrows rose. “Well.” Her smile widened. “That’s a nice thing to hear.”
Henry immediately regretted speaking as the older woman chuckled softly. Then her expression shifted. “Oh.” She paused. “That reminds me.”
Henry frowned. “What does?”
Mrs. Whitaker set aside the package. “A gentleman stopped by Saturday afternoon asking questions.”
“Questions about what?”
“A young woman.”
The unease arrived instantly. “What kind of questions?”
Mrs. Whitaker removed her spectacles. “He wanted to know whether anyone new had arrived in town recently.”
Henry’s expression hardened slightly. “And?”
“He says she is about twenty, with brown hair.”
A brief pause followed. “What sort of man?”
Mrs. Whitaker considered. “He was very well dressed,” she said. “Could see my own reflection in the polish on his boots.”
“Did he say who he was?”
The widow nodded. “He claimed to be her fiancé.”
“So he’s searching for his fiancée?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Whitaker folded her hands. “He said she had disappeared unexpectedly and her family was concerned.”
Henry stared at her. “Did he give a name?”
The older woman frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t believe he did.”
That felt strange. If a man was truly searching for his fiancée, why wouldn’t he mention her name? Before Henry could pursue the thought further, Mrs. Whitaker continued. “He seemed genuinely worried.” Her expression softened. “Said the young lady had been in a fragile state emotionally.”
She paused. “He was concerned she might have become frightened and run off.”
Henry shifted his weight. The description certainly fit the sort of story people expected. A nervous young woman reconsidering her future while a worried fiancé tried to find her. Nothing extraordinary about that. And yet… The unease remained. “He ask anywhere else?”
“Most of the businesses on Main Street.” Mrs. Whitaker shrugged. “No one had any information to offer.”
Henry nodded slowly and outside, a wagon rattled past, pulling him back into the moment. “For the account,” he said.
With that he gathered his things, tipping his hat at Mrs. Whitaker before he turned and headed back outside. The small bell rang above his head as he left the store but he barely heard it. The conversation lingered unpleasantly in his mind.
It had to be a coincidence. There were countless young women in Texas with brown hair and countless reasons a man might be searching for one of them.
Still, as he turned toward home, he found himself thinking about the conversation far more than he cared to admit. And despite his best efforts, the uneasy feeling followed him all the way back to the ranch.