Chapter Seven
The sun sat low over the pasture, casting long shadows across the fence line as Henry drove the last nail into place. The hammer struck hard—once, twice—before he stepped back, wiping his forearm across his brow. Sweat clung to his skin, dust settling into the creases of his shirt.
George gave the post a firm shake. “Should hold.”
“It’ will,” Henry muttered.
They moved along the fence line slowly. A few of the hands were further out, stringing wire along the new stretch of pasture. The ranch had been growing steadily—more horses, more land to manage—which meant more work.
More men, more mouths to feed … and more food to bless.
Henry gritted his teeth, but he couldn’t rightly say why Ruth’s prayer had gotten under his skin. Maybe it was the expectation, how Ruth had just assumed prayers had always been part of the table. Like she’d stepped into his house and quietly decided something was missing.
More likely, nagged a voice in his head, you resent the way your men followed along without question.
And they had: heads bowed, hats in hand, like it only made sense. Like it filled a hollow place, something missing from their souls.
George glanced at him sideways. “You’re quiet.”
Henry huffed. “Been thinking.”
“That’s dangerous.”
Henry ignored that. “I don’t understand that woman.”
George smirked. “That so?”
Henry grabbed another post and set it into place. “Every meal this week, it’s bow your heads and say your thanks, like we’ve got nothing better to do.”
George shrugged. “Didn’t seem to slow you down any.”
“It’s not the time,” Henry snapped. “It’s the—the presumption.”
George chuckled under his breath.
“What’s so funny about that?”
“Nothing,” George said, though his grin said otherwise. “Just sounds like she’s got her ways … Same as a certain rancher I could name.”
Henry scoffed. “My ways make sense.”
“Oh, I’m sure you think so.”
Henry drove another nail in with a sharp crack that echoed across the quiet stretch of land. “And that book,” he added. “Every spare moment, she’s got her nose in it!”
“Her Bible, you mean?”
“I know what it is,” Henry growled. “Just don’t see how anyone can spend that much time reading the same thing over and over.”
George leaned against the post, folding his arms. “Maybe she’s looking for something.”
Henry snorted. “If it’s answers she’s after, she won’t find them there.”
George’s focus shifted past him, and Henry followed his gaze toward the house without conscious thought.
Near the porch, Ruth was kneeling in the dirt beside Clara, who was carefully dragging a twig through the dust. Ruth’s lips moved as she leaned in, though he couldn’t make out the words at this distance.
There was no missing her tender expression, though, full of patient attention for her sister as Clara moved her hands in small gestures.
“She ever say what’s wrong with the girl?” George asked.
Henry’s eyes remained on them. “No.”
George shifted his weight against the fence. “Doesn’t speak at all?”
Henry shook his head. “Not a word.”
George frowned thoughtfully. “Strange … Wonder if something happened?”
“Ruth hasn’t said much of anything about her past.”
A beat of silence passed.
“Well, she’s good with the girl,” George remarked quietly.
Henry grunted.
George glanced at him. “She really hasn’t told you anything about where they were before they came here? ”
Henry’s jaw tightened. “No.”
George raised a brow as Henry continued to watch Ruth and Clara.
She’d told him that the girl was her sister, but he didn’t know if that was the truth or not.
Given the gap in their ages, it would be an easy thing to lie about.
If the child was hers … that would make her either a widow or an unmarried mother.
The latter would invite judgment and rejection. A woman traveling alone was already questionable in most eyes, but a mother with no husband, dead or alive? That would narrow her options even further.
If she’d been looking for a way out, altering the truth would’ve been the simplest path.
But what if she wasn’t lying? If Clara was her sister, where were their parents? Were they dead, and if so, why had Ruth been left to raise her sister alone?
The memories surfaced before he could stop them.
One moment, he and Dorothy had a home—not a perfect one, but a happy one. His mother’s voice and his father’s quiet presence.
Then, nothing.
Dorothy had been too young to understand, but old enough to be afraid.
Henry had been fourteen when, suddenly, everything that had once been taken care of… wasn’t. Food didn’t appear unless he found it. Work didn’t get done unless he did it. There was no one to turn to when something broke, when something went wrong.
Henry remembered sitting awake, staring into the dark, knowing no help would be coming through that door. No one would arrive to take over or even ease the burden.
Just him.
Henry exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down the back of his neck.
He didn’t like thinking about those dark times—and even less how easily the memories crept back in if he let them—so he didn’t talk about his past. It was done, and it had made him what he was; he wouldn’t give the pain space to settle in his chest where it could take hold again.
He knew what it cost to carry someone the way Ruth carried Clara. He knew what was to have no choice in it and to be all they had. Still … that didn’t explain everything or make it go away.
“She’s hiding something,” he said. “I don’t know what it is, but there’s something.”
“Maybe,” George said, “or maybe she just didn’t have any better options.”
“You seem quick to defend her.”
George shrugged. “I’d defend you, too.”
Henry watched as Ruth stood, taking Clara’s hand as they moved slowly toward the house. The girl leaned into her sister’s side, trusting, unguarded.
Ruth glanced up, and their eyes met across the distance.
Henry looked away first, bending to check the post again.
Suddenly, George’s voice cut through the air.
“What in the—”
Henry turned just in time to see a gelding stumble mid-step in the corral. Its forelegs buckled awkwardly, pitching its weight forward, and it crashed hard into the dirt with a heavy, sickening thud.
Dust exploded around it.
“What—”
Before Henry could finish, another horse reared, letting out a high, shrill whinny, wide eyes rolling with panic.
“Come on!” he barked, breaking into a run, boots pounding across the yard.
George was right beside him.
They reached the fence as the fallen gelding began to struggle, kicking weakly as it tried to rise.
“Easy—easy,” Henry murmured, vaulting over the rail and dropping into the corral.
The air thickened with dust and fear as the other horses shifted restlessly, crowding together, nostrils flared.
Then, another animal staggered, and Henry’s head snapped up to see a bay mare sway, her legs shaking unsteadily, then go down with another hard thud.
Henry’s stomach dropped. Whatever was affecting the horses, he couldn’t afford to let it spread further.
“George,” he snapped, moving toward the mare. “Get Doc Harris—now.”
“On it.”
Within seconds, George was gone, his boots hitting the ground. Before long, the sharp jangling of tack reached Henry’s ears, then the accelerating rhythm of hooves tearing across the yard as George rode out.
The gelding was still struggling, sides heaving, eyes wide and glassy. The mare lay unnaturally still beside him, her breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
“Easy,” Henry said again, dropping to one knee beside the gelding and stroking his mane to steady him. “Easy now…”
The animal shivered beneath Henry’s hand.
Henry’s jaw worked. He’d seen sickness in horses countless times before, but this was unlike anything he’d dealt with; no illness he knew of could drop an animal this fast—and certainly not multiple horses at once.
Unease crept into his gut.
Behind him, the gate creaked open, and Henry spun around to see Ruth crossing the yard quickly, her skirts gathered and sleeves rolled up, as if she’d come prepared to work.
“What can I do?” she called urgently.
“Nothing. Stay back.”
But she didn’t stop. “I’m not standing by while they suffer.”
“This isn’t your concern—”
“I’m part of this house, which certainly makes it my concern,” she shot back.
Clara hovered near the fence, watching, as Ruth stepped into the corral.
Henry exhaled sharply through his nose. “Stay clear of their legs,” he said finally. “If they panic, they’ll kick.”
“I understand.”
The mare let out a weak whinny.
Ruth moved carefully, but without hesitation. She dropped beside the mare, her hands hovering uncertainly before settling gently against the horse’s neck. “It’s all right,” she murmured.
“Hold her steady,” Henry said.
“I’ve got it,” she replied.
He nodded once, then turned back to the gelding.
They worked in tense silence. Dust clung to his skin, sweat running down his back as he tried to calm the animal and make sense of what was happening.
At the far end of the corral, another horse fell.
Henry’s chest tightened as the minutes stretched.
Finally, George rode in hard, the animal doctor just behind him, and both men dismounted before their horses had fully stopped.
Doc Harris wasted no time climbing into the corral, his satchel already open.
“What’ve we got?” he asked, crouching beside the mare.
“Three down,” Henry said. “Came on fast.”
The doctor’s expression darkened as he began his examination, checking the mare’s eyes, breathing, and gums. Then, he sat back, his brow furrowed.
“What is it?” Henry asked.
“Can’t be sure …” The doctor looked up. “Could be feed-related.” He stood, brushing his hands off. “You need to separate the sick ones immediately.”
Henry’s pulse pounded as the doctor continued.
“No contact with the others—and no moving stock off this land until we know more.”
Henry’s gaze moved across the corral, past the fallen horses to the land beyond. Everything he’d built rested on these animals—breeding, sales, his reputation—all of it.
If it spreads to the rest of the herd …
Henry stood. “George, let’s move.”
George didn’t wait for further instruction as Henry looked down at the sick horses again. He knew that, if they couldn’t figure out how to stop this sickness, it wouldn’t just be the horses that fell; it would be the whole ranch.
And, if the ranch fell, Henry’s entire world would go down with it.