Chapter Seventeen
The doctor’s hands were firm but careful as he pressed lightly along Ruth’s ankle.
Dr. Elias Turner was a thin, stoop-shouldered man in his late fifties; his hair, more silver than brown, had been combed neatly back from his high, lined forehead.
A pair of round spectacles rested low on his nose, constantly threatening to slip as he worked.
His coat, though clean, bore the faint wear of years spent traveling rough roads, and his steady, practiced hands spoke of long experience rather than gentle living.
Ruth winced despite herself, her fingers tightening in the blanket beneath her.
She’d tried to tell Henry it wasn’t necessary.
“It’s only a twist,” she’d insisted when he sent for the doctor. “It will mend on its own.”
But he hadn’t listened, and now, here she was, lying in bed with a proper physician tending to her as though she were someone of importance.
The unfamiliarity of it settled uneasily in her chest. This careful attention and quiet concern weren’t things she was used to.
At the brothel, sickness had been handled quickly and quietly, and only as much as it needed to be.
There had been no doctors sent for at the first sign of trouble.
No one to sit at a bedside and assess with gentle hands and measured words.
If a girl fell ill, she was given what remedies the madam kept on hand: tonics, powders, pungent tinctures that promised more than they delivered.
The few times Ruth had been sick, she’d been sent away from the main rooms and kept out of sight until she was well enough to return.
She’d had learned early not to complain, though, or to draw attention to weakness. Illness was something to be endured quietly, managed as best one could without becoming a burden.
The Velvet Rose had no place for softness, nor room for rest.
Her gaze flicked to Dr. Turner’s hands.
“Easy now,” he said, not unkindly. “Just about done.”
She nodded.
“Well,” he said at last, straightening, “it’s not broken.”
Ruth let out a small breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“But even with a mild sprain like this,” he continued, “you’ll need to stay off it for a few days. Keep it elevated when you can.”
“A few days?” she echoed, glancing instinctively toward the door—toward the kitchen, the meals, the housework.
The doctor followed her gaze, then gave her a knowing look. “House won’t fall apart without you for a spell.”
Ruth managed a faint smile. “It might try.”
He chuckled softly. “You’ll do more harm pushing yourself too soon.”
She nodded as he finished wrapping her ankle with practiced ease, the bandage snug but not too tight.
“You’ll mend fine,” he added. “Just give it time.”
Time. Ruth wasn’t certain she knew how to do that.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
The doctor gathered his things, giving her a polite nod before heading out, his boots thumping steadily against the floorboards as he made his way downstairs.
Ruth leaned back against the pillows, exhaling slowly. She stared at the ceiling, her brow furrowing as her thoughts drifted back to the road: the horse rearing beneath her and the panic she’d felt, not for herself, but for Clara.
Ruth swallowed.
Henry had been furious when he found them—there was no denying that—but he’d also been steady and kind.
Ruth turned her head, listening, as a soft sound drifted up from below.
She swung her legs carefully over the side of the bed, wincing as her injured ankle brushed against the edge of the bed.
Pain flared at once, sharp enough to make her catch her breath, but she pressed through it, gripping the mattress for balance.
“I can manage,” she murmured under her breath.
She had to; the men would be expecting a meal. The kitchen wouldn’t tend to itself.
Ruth steadied herself and took a tentative step.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She looked up, startled, to see Henry in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame.
His gaze dropped to her ankle, then back to her face. “You should be in bed,” he said.
“I’m fine,” Ruth replied quickly. “The men will be hungry.”
“They’ll survive.”
Ruth frowned. “And Clara? She’ll be?—?”
“She’s downstairs with George,” Henry cut in. “And before you ask—no, she’s not causing any trouble.”
Ruth hesitated. “You’re certain?”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Those two seem to have taken a liking to each other. He won’t let anything happen to her.”
Ruth blinked, surprised, and then, despite herself, she relaxed slightly.
“Still, that doesn’t solve the matter of lunch,” she said, gesturing toward the door.
Henry stepped fully into the room. “I’ll handle it.”
Ruth stared at him. “You?” she blurted before she could stop herself.
One brow lifted slightly. “Yes, me.”
“I didn’t …” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t realize that you cooked.”
Henry let out a soft snort. “What did you think we did before you got here?”
Ruth opened her mouth, then closed it again. “I suppose I never thought about it,” she admitted finally.
Henry leaned against the doorframe, his expression shifting, not quite guarded, but distant. “I had to learn. After my parents died.”
Ruth stilled.
“There wasn’t anyone else to take care of things. So I did.”
His tone was matter-of-fact, but Ruth heard a hint of rawness to it.
“Cooking, cleaning, keeping the ranch running,” he added. “You tend to figure things out pretty quick when you have to.”
Ruth’s chest tightened. She understood that kind of necessity better than he could possibly know.
“And right now,” Henry said, pushing off the frame and stalking toward her, “you have to rest. Doctor’s orders.”
“I’m not helpless,” Ruth snapped, bristling instinctively.
“You’re injured?—?”
“It’s only a sprain!”
“—and if you don’t give yourself time to heal,” he continued loudly, as if she hadn’t spoken, “you’ll only make it worse.”
Ruth looked away. She knew he was right, but a stubborn resistance inside her railed against the very idea of sitting idle while someone else took over her responsibilities.
The suggestion—no, the merest hint of a suggestion—that she should rely on others to care fer her—fer Clara—put her teeth on edge.
She was being silly, and she knew it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
“I’ve always taken care of myself.”
Henry studied her for a moment. “You’re not alone anymore, Ruth. You know that … right?”
Ruth’s breath caught, the words piercing straight through her skin and into heart.
She shook her head. “That’s not how I—”
“The Bible says to care for the weak,” Henry said suddenly.
Ruth blinked.
“You remember that part?” he added.
“I …” She faltered, staring at him for a moment, speechless. She hadn’t expected that. Not from him. “Yes.”
Henry gave a small nod. “Then let me do that.”
Looking at him, she somehow knew that he wasn’t mocking her or dismissing her faith. In his own way, he was… meeting her in it.
Henry straightened, as though the matter was settled.
“The next time you want to go to church,” he added. “I’ll take you.”
Ruth looked up at him. There was concern in his eyes, but also something else. Something like resigned irritation. He obviously wasn’t looking forward to the prospect, but he’d agreed to take her, nonetheless.
A small smile touched her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Henry nodded, then turned toward the door. “Stay off that ankle.”
“I will,” she replied.
He paused, glancing back, as though to make sure she meant it.
Once the door had closed quietly behind him, Ruth sat there for a long moment, lost in thought.
Then, her gaze drifted toward the small table beside the bed, and slowly, she reached for her satchel and drew out paper, ink, and Millie’s last letter. She settled back against the pillows, adjusting herself carefully so as not to strain her ankle.
The pen hovered for a moment above the page before she began to write. There was far too much to say, and only one person she trusted to understand it.