Chapter Six #2
At the Velvet Rose, meals had been simple and stretched thin, often prepared in pieces throughout the day. But here …
Here, she was cooking for six ranch hands, plus Henry and George—eight men in total, all working from sunup to sundown, repairing fences, breaking young horses, hauling feed, expanding the far pasture where new fencing was being set.
They came in hungry, expecting a full meal, and it was her responsibility to prepare and serve it.
“I can fix it,” she murmured quickly, “It’s not ruined. I can—”
A small cry broke through her agitation, and she turned to see Clara standing just inside the smoke-filled doorway. Her hands were pressed to her chest, her face pale with alarm.
She bolted.
“Clara—wait!”
But the child was already at the back door, pushing it open and stumbling outside.
A moment later, Ruth heard a loud cry, and her heart dropped.
“No, no—it’s all right!” She rushed after Clara, wiping her hands hastily on her apron. “Clara, it’s only smoke, sweetheart.”
But Clara only cried harder, her small body shaking as she lay on the grass.
Ruth crouched beside her, gathering her close. “It’s all right,” she repeated shakily. “I’m right here—”
Footsteps pounded across the yard from the barn. George was the first to reach them, moving quickly as he scanned the scene.
“What’s happened?”
Behind him, Henry approached more slowly.
“I—” Ruth’s voice faltered as she rose halfway, still holding Clara. “It’s just the stove—I didn’t mean to—”
Henry moved past them, stepping into the doorway; Ruth could imagine his expression darkening as he took in the smoke, the pan, the half-prepared meal. Sure enough, when he emerged, his scowl could’ve crisped a chicken all on its own.
Her stomach twisted. “I had it under control,” she said quickly. “I just—there’s more to manage than I expected, and the—”
“You nearly set the place alight,” Henry interrupted.
“I did not,” she retorted, her anxiety giving way to defensiveness. “It was only the roast?—?”
“With smoke pouring out the door?”
Clara whimpered, and Ruth tightened her hold. “You’re frightening her.” She turned to take Clara inside, wanting to spare her sister the spectacle of his hot temper.
“Then keep control of your kitchen.”
“My kitchen?” she repeated, her voice rising as she set Clara just over the threshold, then spun to face him again. “You’ve given me a task meant for three people, and you expect it done without any mistakes?”
“I expect it done properly.”
“And I’m doing my best!” she shot back, her cheeks growing hot. “I’m not used to feeding a small army every evening!”
“Eight men,” he said flatly.
“Eight hungry men,” she corrected, “and one who seems determined to find fault with every effort I make.”
Silence clamped down between them, and the air itself seemed to vibrate with tension.
Then, George let out a short laugh. “Well,” he said, stepping forward and glancing between them, “if that’s the worst disaster we’ve got today, I’d say we’re doing all right.”
Henry shot him a look, but George ignored him, moving into the kitchen. Ruth followed to see him leaning over the pan, inspecting it with exaggerated seriousness.
“Bit crisp on the edges,” he said. “Adds character.”
Ruth blinked.
George straightened, grinning. “Smells just fine to me.”
The tension eased.
Henry exhaled through his nose, his expression still hard, but the edge dulled.
Ruth brushed a hand over her sister’s hair. “See?” she murmured. “Nothing to be afraid of.”
Clara’s crying quieted to small, uneven breaths. After a moment, she nodded, and Ruth pressed a soft kiss to her hair, then guided her gently out of the kitchen.
Ruth returned to the stove, more carefully now, each movement deliberate. She trimmed the worst of the burned edges, adjusted the heat, and checked the rest of the meal with renewed focus.
It would do. It had to.
“Clara,” she called gently, glancing over her shoulder. “Would you help me set the table?”
Clara hesitated, then nodded, moving quietly to gather the plates.
Ruth watched her.
They would manage.
By the time the men filed in, the table had been set.
Boots thudded against the floor, accompanied by low, tired voices and the smell of sweat and dust. They took their places easily, familiar with the routine, though more than one cast a curious glance toward Ruth.
She stood near the end of the table until Henry took his seat, then sat down beside him.
Plates were passed, food served, and a man reached for his fork.
The word slipped out before Ruth could stop it. “Wait.”
The room stilled.
Ruth pressed on. “Shall we say a blessing?”
A few men exchanged glances, and then, one by one, they bowed their heads.
Ruth lowered her own head, folding her hands in her lap. Before she began, though, she looked over at Henry, who had not bowed his head; instead, he sat upright, his eyes fixed on the window.
Why will he not pray with us?
“Dear Lord,” she began softly, “thank you for this food, and for bringing us safely to this place. Please watch over this home and all those in it.”
She paused before continuing. “Guide us,” she finished quietly, “and keep us in Your care. Amen.”
“Amen,” several voices echoed.
Chairs shifted and conversation resumed, but Ruth remained motionless for a moment longer. Then, she lifted her head to see that Henry was already eating.
She glanced down at her plate, her appetite gone, and a lump rose in her throat.
Have I made a mistake, marrying him?
Her mind drifted, unbidden, to Millie, her warm smile and steady faith.
Ruth swallowed. Sitting there, surrounded by strangers, married to a gruff man she barely knew, Ruth had never felt more alone. She missed her friend so much.
A sudden thought occurred to her; Millie might be countless miles away, but pouring her thoughts, fears, and hopes into a letter, knowing her friend would read them, might ease the hollow ache in Ruth’s lonely soul.
I’ll write her tonight.