Chapter Twenty-One
Ruth hummed absently under her breath as she worked, a quiet tune her mother had loved once.
The garden stretched out before her in neat rows, the dark earth freshly turned where she’d been tending it throughout the morning. The scent of soil and growing things lingered in the warm air, mingling with the faint sweetness of wildflowers from just beyond the fence.
She felt a kind of peace she hadn’t known in a very long time.
She knelt carefully, brushing her fingers along the leaves of a young plant, checking for damage, for signs of neglect. The sun warmed her shoulders as a light breeze stirred the hem of her dress.
Ruth’s hands stilled in the soil, and for a moment, she allowed herself to simply exist.
Then, inevitably, her thoughts drifted—as they’d been doing rather often of late—back to the ride home after the auction and the quiet, heavy space between them that had slowly given way to something else.
Something honest.
Henry had trusted her with his past, and that had settled gently but firmly in her chest.
He was not a man who spoke easily of his past, his pain … and yet, he’d told her. Not everything, perhaps, but enough to let her see him more clearly.
A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as the memory shifted to the moment he’d caught her and held her in his arms. How everything had seemed to still, the rest of the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of color until it was just two of them, and nothing else could be defined or explained.
Her breath caught as she remembered how close they’d been. The warmth of his hand at her waist. The steadiness of his gaze and the smell of him, of dust and sweat.
The almost.
It had startled her—not just the moment itself, but her own reaction to it. How easily she’d leaned into it … and how little she’d wanted to pull away.
Ruth shook her head, though her smile lingered. Her fingers brushed the soil again, but her thoughts were far from the garden now.
She’d promised herself never to rely on a man or place her future, her safety, in someone else’s hands, yet …
He’s not like any man I’ve known before.
Ruth drew in a slow breath, sitting back on her heels. Warmth lingered in her chest, but it was not without shadow.
Not only was there Victor to worry about, but now that Henry had been so open about his past, shouldn’t she share hers?
Her fingers pressed into the dirt. She had no idea how Henry would react to the truth of her past, and the idea of ruining what they had, what was growing between them … it scared her.
Ruth wanted to be honest with him, but what if it did more harm than good?
She pushed the thought away and reached forward again, pressing her hands back into the soil, returning to her work.
***
A while later, Ruth straightened slowly, brushing loose soil from her palms onto the front of her apron.
The afternoon sun sat warm across the garden, bright enough to make the leaves gleam softly beneath the light.
Somewhere nearby, Clara played with a collection of smooth stones near the edge of the path, entirely content in her own quiet world.
Ruth smiled, thinking that, perhaps, she and Clara could bake later.
A pie, maybe, or fresh biscuits with honey. Something special for Henry—
Just then, she was pulled from her thoughts by a loud crunch.
Ruth turned to find a woman standing among the flowerbeds, one delicate boot planted directly atop Ruth’s pale blue asters, the crushed petals bent into the dirt beneath her heel.
Lost for words, Ruth simply stared.
Beatrice looked even more striking than she had at the auction.
Her traveling dress was made of deep green fabric trimmed carefully with cream lace, fitted neatly at the waist and far finer than anything Ruth owned.
Her gloves were pale kid leather, spotless despite the dust of the yard, and a feathered hat sat elegantly atop carefully arranged golden-brown curls.
Everything about her looked polished, and Ruth was aware of the dirt on her own hands and the plain cut and cloth of her dress.
Unease tugged at her heart.
Beatrice stepped back quickly, looking down at the crushed flowers. “Oh! I’m sorry,” she said, her voice strained. “I didn’t even see them.”
Ruth opened her mouth to say something, anything, but words failed her, giving room to the questions dancing through her head.
What’s she doing here? What could she possibly want?
After what Henry had told her about Beatrice, Ruth knew that Henry wouldn’t want her here. She’d opened her mouth to ask the woman to leave—politely, of course—when three words from the pastor’s sermon on Sunday rose quietly in her mind.
Love thy neighbor.
Ruth drew in a slow breath. As loath as she was to have this woman anywhere near herself—or Henry, for that matter—she knew what a good Christian would do.
“It’s all right,” she said finally, trying to think through her lingering surprise. “You startled me.”
Beatrice gave a soft, trembling laugh that sounded dangerously close to tears. “I seem to be doing that a great deal lately.”
Up close, Ruth could see strain beneath her elegance. Her eyes were red, her composure too careful, as though propriety was the only thing holding her together.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” Beatrice continued quietly. “I only … I didn’t know where else to go.”
Ruth grappled with what to do. The woman looked genuinely distressed.
“What happened?” Ruth asked.
At that, Beatrice’s expression crumpled. She pressed gloved fingers against her mouth before speaking. “Seeing Henry again, at the auction …” She looked away, toward the fields. “I didn’t expect it to affect me so strongly.”
Something tightened in Ruth’s chest.
“I hurt him,” Beatrice said thickly. “God forgive me, I know I did.” A tear slipped free, despite her obvious efforts to stop it. “I was foolish. Young. I thought wealth and security mattered more than …” She swallowed hard. “Than love.”
Ruth didn’t know what to say. Her instincts recoiled at hearing another woman speak so intimately about Henry, yet part of her pitied the woman.
“He wouldn’t even look at me,” Beatrice whispered. “I only wanted a chance to explain. To ask forgiveness.”
Before Ruth could respond, Clara wandered over, clutching a little stone in both hands.
Beatrice’s face softened. “Well,” she said, crouching, “aren’t you precious?”
Clara blinked up at her, edging behind Ruth’s skirts.
Beatrice smiled uncertainly. “And shy too? What’s your name?”
Clara, of course, said nothing.
Beatrice gave a small, awkward laugh. “Does she not speak?”
Ruth’s arm instinctively slipped around Clara’s shoulders. “She’s quiet,” she said calmly.
Beatrice tilted her head. “Poor little thing,” she cooed. “Children ought to chatter. It’s only natural, after all.”
The words weren’t cruel, exactly, but Ruth couldn’t ignore how carelessly they’d been tossed out. A protective warmth rose in her chest.
“She’s perfectly capable of making herself understood,” Ruth said firmly.
Beatrice blinked. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s all right,” Ruth interrupted tersely.
Beatrice straightened again, smoothing her gloves. “I never did catch your name at the auction.”
“It’s Ruth—Ruth Collins.” The name still felt strange sometimes. “And this is Clara.”
Beatrice studied them both carefully now. “And Clara is your daughter?”
“No,” Ruth replied. “She’s my sister.”
Beatrice’s brows lifted almost imperceptibly. “How unusual,” she murmured.
Ruth did not miss the curiosity gleaming in her eyes, nor the calculation beneath it.
“You’ve adjusted very quickly to ranch life, I see,” Beatrice continued. “Henry never was particularly domestic.” A conspiratorial smile touched her lips. “Though he always did hate being alone.”
Ruth couldn’t help but wonder why Beatrice assumed she’d never lived on a ranch before.
Is it really that obvious?
A tiny lump rose in her throat, but she did her best to hide her reaction; she’d been trying so hard, but if even a stranger could tell how new she was to this life …
“He cared very deeply for me once,” Beatrice was saying, looking away toward the house. “I was his first love, you know, and men like Henry never truly stop loving.”
They were dangerous words, words designed to linger, and they slid quietly beneath Ruth’s skin, nestling alongside the ones that came before.
Ruth lowered her gaze, and as much as she hated to admit it, jealousy burned inside her chest. She reminded herself that she had no claim over Henry’s heart—this marriage had been born of necessity, nothing more—yet the thought of him loving this woman …
No, she chided herself. I will not let myself become petty or insecure over a past I have no right to judge and no way to change.
She drew herself up. “If you wish to speak to Henry,” she said calmly, “I can go fetch him.”
Relief flooded Beatrice’s face so quickly, it startled Ruth. “You would do that?”
Ruth nodded and gathered Clara closer to her side. “You may wait on the porch.”
Beatrice exhaled shakily. “Thank you.”
Ruth inclined her head politely, then turned toward the house with Clara, her pulse beating erratically. Despite her attempts to remain reasonable, one thought kept circling painfully in the back of her mind: what if Beatrice was right?
What if part of Henry’s heart still belongs to her?