Chapter Twenty-Two
Henry stood beside the wash pump near the barn, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the scent of horses and hay heavy in the warm afternoon air. Inside the stable, the new foal was standing on its wobbly legs besides its mother.
He leaned down, the water running over his hands and arms as he washed off the blood and afterbirth.
Usually he loved this part of his job, but the day before had left him restless, with the auction still sitting heavily on his chest. Victor’s rumors, the poor sales, Beatrice …
Henry shoved the thoughts aside as he reached for the rough towel hanging nearby, dragging it across his damp hands.
Then, he looked up and straightened.
Ruth was hurrying toward him across the yard, Clara beside her. Ruth’s bonnet had loosened, strands of dark hair escaping around her face, and even from a distance, he could see that something was wrong.
His chest tightened, and he dropped the towel and strode forward. “Ruth?”
She stopped a few feet away, breathing unevenly.
Henry’s gaze moved over both her and Clara, checking for injury. “What happened?”
Ruth shook her head. “Nothing—it’s nothing like that.”
But she looked shaken, and Clara clung tightly to her hand, watching Henry with wide eyes.
Henry frowned. “Then what is it?”
Ruth didn’t answer as she glanced back toward the house.
“Ruth,” he said.
Her gaze returned to him at last. “There’s … someone here.”
“Who?”
Ruth swallowed. “Beatrice.”
As Henry stared at her, the sounds of the ranch—the distant lowing of cattle, the rustle of wind through grass, the creak of the pump handle settling back into place—dulled around him.
“She’s waiting on the porch,” Ruth added, as though hoping to finish her explanation before he could react. “I’m sorry—I didn’t know what else to do. She was crying and upset, and I couldn’t very well turn her away after the sermon Sunday …”
Henry exhaled through his nose.
Ruth pressed her lips together. “I shouldn’t have invited her to stay,” she said. “I know that now.”
Anger swelled in his chest as he stared at her; his initial instinct was to blame her, but as he looked at her, seeing how unsettled she was, he realized that his irritation wasn’t directed at Ruth at all.
“It’s all right,” he said. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Ruth blinked, clearly surprised by the calmness in his voice. Her shoulders loosened, though uncertainty lingered in her eyes as Henry glanced toward the house.
Beatrice always did know how to arrive at precisely the worst possible moment.
“What did she say to you?” he asked.
Ruth hesitated. “Nothing important.”
Henry could tell that she didn’t quite believe her own words, but before he could press further, Clara shifted restlessly beside Ruth, her eyes darting nervously between them.
Henry’s expression softened, and he crouched so he was closer to her height. “Hey now,” he said gently. “No need to worry.”
Clara watched him carefully, then glanced toward the house.
Henry followed her gaze before straightening again. “Tell you what,” he said, looking back to Ruth. “Why don’t you take Clara in to meet the new foal?”
At that, Clara’s attention sharpened, and Henry allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile.
“Could use that keen eye of yours inspecting the new arrival,” he added solemnly, directing the words toward Clara. “Maybe you could even think of a name?”
Clara looked up at Ruth quickly, excitement breaking through her earlier unease, and tugged at Ruth’s sleeve.
Henry stepped back. “Go on,” he said. “I’ll handle this.”
“Are you sure?”
No, he thought to himself. Not remotely.
But he wasn’t about to say that aloud.
“I’m sure.”
Her eyes searched his face, as though trying to judge whether he truly meant it. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Come along,” she murmured softly to Clara.
The child allowed herself to be led away, though she looked back once over her shoulder toward Henry, who gave her a small nod.
Only after they had disappeared into the stables did he finally turn toward the house, and the warmth of the afternoon suddenly felt colder. He rolled his shoulders, trying unsuccessfully to rid himself of the building tension, and steeled himself to face a past he had no desire to revisit.
All too soon, Henry stepped onto the porch and looked around, but Beatrice wasn’t there. At first, he dared to hope that, perhaps, she’d changed her mind and left … until he saw the front door standing partially open.
By the looks of it, she’d already let herself in.
He stifled a growl. She had no right to be in his house.
Not after what she did.
Henry went inside and found Beatrice exactly where he should have expected her to be: not waiting politely near the entryway, but planted directly in the middle of the living room, as though she belonged there.
As though she had every right. But she’d lost any kind of familiarity when she’d betrayed his trust.
“Beatrice,” he said.
She turned, sunlight spilling through the windows to catch the green of her dress. One gloved hand rested delicately against the back of a chair, her posture elegant even now.
Years ago, she’d walked through this house, laughing softly as she wandered from room to room.
She’d spend her days arranging flowers, writing shopping lists, and sewing embroidery on the fresh hems of new curtains.
Over supper each night, she’d talk about else she planned to change once they married.
Back then, he’d imagined her becoming a part of this home, but the memory only sharpened his irritation now. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Beatrice flinched at his flat tone. “I know.”
Henry shut the door behind him, perhaps more firmly than necessary. “Then why are you here?”
Tears welled in her eyes, and she pressed trembling fingers against her mouth. “Because I was wrong,” she whispered.
Henry stiffened as Beatrice shook her head, tears slipping free now.
“Heavens, Henry, I was so terribly wrong.”
He remained where he stood, unmoving.
“I thought…” She laughed weakly through her tears. “I thought security mattered more than anything.” Her voice faltered. “Victor promised me comfort, wealth—everything—and I … I believed him.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Betraying you was the worst mistake I ever made.”
The words should have hit harder, and once, they would have. Once, hearing her say such a thing would’ve reopened every wound she’d left behind.
But standing there now, Henry felt something strange. Not anger or longing, but distance.
Beatrice stepped closer. “I know I hurt you. What I did was unforgivable.” Her voice broke again. “I’ve regretted it every day since.”
Henry stared at her. She still looked beautiful, as elegant and refined as she’d been the day he’d met her. He couldn’t deny that she was exactly the sort of woman he’d once thought he wanted beside him. And yet, no part of him desired her.
Not anymore.
“I was young,” she whispered, “and foolish. Victor was powerful, and he made me promises.” Her eyes searched his. “But I should never have listened to him.”
Henry exhaled slowly. “You should go, Beatrice.”
Pain flashed across her face. “Please don’t say that.”
He looked away, rubbing a hand along his jaw.
“Henry, if I asked … truly, sincerely …” She swallowed hard. “Would you ever consider taking me back?”
The question struck him because he wasn’t tempted in the slightest, and the truth settled over him with startling clarity.
He’d loved what Beatrice represented once.
Hope and stability. A future after grief.
After years of surviving instead of living.
Real love, however, the kind that rooted itself deep enough to change a man, was something else entirely.
And he knew that now because of Ruth—the woman who filled the house with quiet hymns while she cooked.
Who knelt in the dirt tending flowers as though growing things mattered deeply, who fiercely protected her little sister, who challenged, frustrated, and softened him without even trying.
Who had sat beside him in silence when his pride had been wounded and made him feel less alone simply by staying there.
I love her.
He supposed the realization should have unsettled him, but instead, it felt steady and certain. Like a truth he’d known, deep in his bones, long before he found the courage to name it.
He looked back at Beatrice, and for the first time, he saw her clearly. Not as the woman who’d broken his heart, but just a woman, flawed and regretful.
Human.
“I do want you to be happy,” he said, “but I’ve moved on with my life.”
Fresh tears filled her eyes as understanding settled across her face.
“Oh,” she whispered. She ducked her chin, dabbing carefully beneath her eyes with a handkerchief. “I suppose I deserve that.”
After a moment, she drew in a shaky breath and attempted a faint smile. “Could we, perhaps … be friends someday?”
Henry’s first instinct was refusal—but then, he thought of Ruth and the grace she offered to everyone, even when it was difficult. Of the way she’d welcomed Beatrice, despite all the reasons not to.
Henry exhaled slowly. “I think,” he said carefully, “that might be possible.”
Relief flooded Beatrice’s face. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Henry gave a short nod, then moved toward the door. Whatever remained between him and Beatrice, his heart was no longer in this room; it was out in the stables.
With Ruth.