Chapter Two
Ruth stood near the edge of the platform, her gloved hand wrapped tightly around Clara’s smaller one. Her heart was beating so hard, she was certain it must be visible through the thin fabric of her dress.
“Stay close,” she murmured.
Clara pressed against her side, her fingers tightening in silent understanding.
The train station bustled with movement. Men unloading crates from a freight car, a woman calling after a child who’d wandered too far, the echoing clang of metal echoing as an incoming train ground to a halt. Coal smoke hung heavy in the air, mixing with dust and the smell of sun-warmed wood.
Ruth shifted her grip on the small carpetbag holding the only real possessions she’d brought with her. She’d happily left everything else behind, remnants of the old life she was eager to escape.
She swallowed hard.
You didn’t tell him.
The accusation had been circling her mind since the moment she stepped onto the train in Dodge City. She hadn’t told him about Clara, nor her previous … situation. If he’d known, would he have sent money for the journey? For that matter, would he even have agreed to the arrangement?
Amid the noise and movement, Clara huddled quietly against her, her dark eyes wide as she took in the unfamiliar world stretching out before her.
Ruth knelt quickly, smoothing a hand over her sister’s hair. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “I’m right here.” She managed a small smile, though her stomach was twisted up in knots. Her jangling nerves had barely allowed her to eat even a few small bites all day.
Then, a terrible question slice through her like a blade.
What if he sends us away?
She straightened slowly, her breath catching.
He could. After all, he has every right to.
Henry Collins was expecting a wife—not a wife and child. Ruth was bringing along a burden he hadn’t agreed to carry.
But what choice did I have?
She couldn’t have stayed at the Velvet Rose, and the mere idea of leaving Clara behind nearly brought what little food she’d been able to force down back up.
Ruth squeezed her eyes shut, taking a deep, shuddering breath.
No, don’t even think it.
Suddenly, her mother’s voice sounded in her mind, melodic and gentle, but steady.
God has something better for you.
Ruth drew another slow breath, squaring her shoulders.
This was the path her mother would’ve wanted for them—even if their destination remained uncertain and it frightened her more than anything she’d ever done.
She lifted her chin, scanning the platform again.
Men stood waiting with hats in hand, leaning casually against posts, or frowning as they checked pocket watches; a few stepped forward eagerly as passengers disembarked. Laughter and hearty greetings mingled with the shuffle of boots against wood, blurring together in a confusing jumble of sound.
Which one is he?
She had only his name: Henry Collins. When she’d spoken the name aloud, it had sounded solid somehow, dependable.
But a name isn’t a man.
Her pulse quickened as Clara’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly, then tugged at Ruth’s hand.
Ruth glanced down to see her sister’s wide eyes glistening as her gaze darted between the lingering strangers to the hulking train hissing and clunking as it began to move off.
Immediately, Ruth understood that the noise, movement, and unfamiliar faces had become too overwhelming—it was all too much for the little girl.
“It’s all right,” Ruth said quickly, crouching to meet her sister’s eyes. “Just hold on a little longer.”
Clara shook her head, her lower lip trembling. Her hands moved restlessly, clutching at Ruth’s sleeve, then her own dress, then back again.
“I know,” she whispered, brushing a hand over Clara’s hair. “I know, sweetheart.”
Her gaze moved toward the small station building and the small group of people lingering near the door. Perhaps she could find some bread for her sister, maybe something more hearty—but they didn’t have any money.
Her fingers tightened around the bundle of papers her coat pocket: the creased advertisement, Henry’s letter outlining clear instructions, and—tucked closest of all—the soft, worn edges of Millie’s parting note, which Ruth had read so many times on the journey that she’d learned the words by heart.
Be brave, Ruth. God sees you. He hasn’t forgotten you.
Ruth pressed her lips together, her throat tightening.
“I haven’t forgotten you either,” she murmured, though Millie was miles away.
Clara tugged her hand again and let out a distressed whimper.
Ruth swallowed hard and embraced her gently, then rose to her feet with effort. “We’ll be on our way soon,” she said softly. “Please, Clara … Just hold on.”
She pulled Henry’s letter out and unfolded it to read the instructions within once more, squinting slightly to read the ink she’d smudged from repeated handling.
Friday morning. Cottonwood Falls station.
She was exactly where she was meant to be—so why did she feel like the ground might give way beneath her at any second?
Remember why you’re here—to meet your future husband.
The words felt strange, too significant to belong to her, yet terribly undefined at the same time.
Ruth drew in a shaky breath and lifted her eyes again..
The platform was still bustling with people. A man tipped his hat to a departing passenger, and a woman gathered her skirts as she hurried past.
Suddenly, a shout rang out from the far end of the platform, and a sharp whinny split the air, followed by a burst of startled voices.
Ruth spun just in time to see a horse rear up on its hind legs, missing a passing porter by mere inches. The large crate within his grasp slipped from his arms and splintered against the platform with a resounding crash.
Clara jerked violently—and before Ruth could react, her small hand slipped free.
“Clara, no—!”
But the girl was already gone, nothing but a flash of dark curls vanishing into the throng.
Ruth’s heart dropped. “Clara, stop!” she cried, her voice rising with panic as she sprang forward.
A few people turned, but the movement of the crowd had swallowed the child as if she’d never been.
Ruth’s breath grew ragged and shallow as she rushed after her sister, clutching her bag and papers awkwardly in one hand.
“Have you seen a little girl?” she asked the nearest woman. “Dark hair—she was just here—”
The woman shook her head, turning away.
Ruth pressed on, calling for her sister in a trembling voice and receiving no answer but the clomp of boots against wood, the overlapping voices of strangers, and the now-deafening hiss of the departing train.
No, no, no—
Ruth turned in a tight circle, scanning frantically. Her heart leaped at every small figure, only to sink further when it wasn’t Clara.
Just as the first sob tightened her throat, a man stepped into her path, his greasy hair slicked back from his face. He wore a gray coat, its collar pulled up, and his pale gray eyes glinted dangerously with a look Ruth knew all too well.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his gaze crawling over her. “What’s got a pretty thing like you all in a panic?”
Ruth recoiled, shuffling sideways to step around him. “Please excuse me—I’m looking for my younger sister. We got separated—”
“I could help you look,” he said, matching her movement while inching closer. “Might cost you a smile, though.”
Ruth’s stomach turned. “I don’t have time for this,” she said curtly as she tried again to move past him.
His hand brushed her arm. “Now hold on—”
Ruth pulled back sharply. “Don’t touch me.”
Something in her tone must have given him pause, and that was all she needed. She slipped past him and hurried on, her pulse drowning out the cacophony around her.
“Clara!” Her voice broke as her eyes burned, her vision blurring.
What if I can’t find her? What if someone—
She forced the thought away. Think.
Clara wouldn’t have run far. She always hid; all Ruth had to do was find whatever nook her sister had squeezed into.
She slowed to look—not at the crowd this time, but beneath it. Her gaze skirted over boots and crates until she saw a small shape tucked beneath a bench near the far end of the platform.
She rushed forward, dropping to her knees without hesitation. “Oh, Clara—”
The child was curled in on herself, hands over her ears, eyes squeezed shut.
Ruth reached for her, pulling her close. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ve got you,” she murmured, her voice trembling as she held on tightly.
Clara clung to her, burying her face against Ruth’s shoulder.
“You’re safe,” Ruth whispered, rocking her. “I’m here. I’m right here.” Her own heart was still racing, the ghost of dread lingering beneath her ribs. She didn’t care about anything else, not the station, not the people.
She raised her eyes to send up a grateful prayer—and saw a man standing just a few paces away.
Tall and broad through the shoulders, his solid presence unmoved amid the motion of the platform. A dusty hat sat low on his brow, casting his eyes in shadow, though it wasn’t enough to conceal his piercing gaze.
A dark vest stretched across his chest over a plain work shirt, the sleeves rolled to reveal muscled forearms. His large, rough hands rested easily at his sides, though there was nothing careless in his posture.
His trousers were tucked into scuffed boots, still carrying the dust of the trail, as though he’d come straight from work rather than bothering with appearances.
There was no polish to him, but every inch of him spoke of strength, used often and without complaint.
He was examining her—not in passing or with idle curiosity, but with quiet focus. His gaze moved first over Clara, taking in the child’s distress, then lifted to Ruth’s face.
As Ruth’s breath caught, the noise of the station faded around them.
His jaw was set, traced by a faint shadow of beard, and lines at the corners of his eyes spoke more of strain than age. He did not look like a man given easily to laughter.
Ruth became suddenly, painfully aware of herself—her damp gloves, her travel-worn dress, the fear that must be stamped clearly on her face.
Her heart began to pound slowly. He’d seen Clara: the truth she’d carried all this way, now laid bare between them.
This was him—it had to be.
Henry Collins.