Chapter Twenty-Four
Ruth spent the remainder of the afternoon distracted.
No matter how she tried to focus on her work, on kneading dough, on stirring the stew simmering slowly over the stove, on helping Clara shell peas at the kitchen table, her thoughts returned again and again to the same thing.
Beatrice.
The memory of the woman standing in the garden lingered unpleasantly in her mind. The elegance of her dress. The softness of her voice. The tears in her eyes when she’d spoken about regretting her choices.
And worst of all, the way she’d spoken about Henry.
I was his first love, you know, and men like Henry never truly stop loving.
Ruth pressed her lips together as she sprinkled flour across the counter. She shouldn’t care. This marriage had begun for practicality’s sake, not romance. A solution to two desperate situations.
And yet, her chest tightened painfully at the thought of losing this life. Not just the roof over her head, or even the sense of safety, but him. She hadn’t meant for that to happen, but it had. She’d fallen for Henry.
And now, she might lose him.
Ruth exhaled sharply, and across the table, Clara looked up curiously.
Ruth softened immediately. “Sorry,” she murmured gently.
Clara pushed a pea pod toward her, as though offering peace, and despite herself, Ruth smiled faintly.
By supper, her unease had only worsened.
The men filtered into the dining room, dusty and tired from the day’s work, their heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as they settled around the table.
George spoke easily about the new foal, one of the ranch hands complained about a broken fence post near the south pasture, and someone joked about another man nearly getting kicked by a stubborn mare.
The conversation rose and fell around her, but Ruth barely heard any of it. All her attention was on Henry, who’d hardly said two words and wouldn’t meet her eye. Once or twice, Ruth caught him staring absently at the table, seemingly lost in thought.
Her stomach twisted.
Is he thinking about Beatrice? About what he lost?
Ruth lowered her gaze quickly to her plate. What if seeing Beatrice again had changed something? What if old feelings had resurfaced?
Her fingers tightened around her spoon.
If Henry took Beatrice back, what would happen to her and Clara? After all, men could change their minds, as Ruth knew all too well. Their marriage was legal, yes … but Ruth knew enough of the world to understand how fragile a woman’s security truly was.
She’d seen it all her life. Women cast aside when they became inconvenient, traded for younger, prettier company. Women left with nowhere to go once a man’s interest cooled.
And if Henry decided he no longer wanted this arrangement, what power did she truly have to stop him?
The realization chilled her.
A man could seek a separation. An annulment under certain circumstances. Or simply make a wife’s life miserable enough that she chose to leave herself. Even if none of those things happened, Henry could still decide not to keep Clara there. She wasn’t his responsibility. Not by blood or by law.
Ruth’s hand tightened in her lap beneath the table.
Where would they go? Back to the city?
The thought alone made panic stir low in her stomach.
Back to narrow alleyways and crowded streets. Back to rooms thick with smoke and perfume and laughter that never sounded real. Back to the kind of desperation that clung to women with no protection and no money.
Back to the madam.
No.
Ruth felt suddenly cold despite the warmth of the dining room.
She could not let that happen.
Despite her resolve, fear settled, cold and quiet, beneath her ribs. This place had become home in ways she’d never expected.
And Henry …
She swallowed. Losing him would hurt far more than it should, and Ruth hated that truth. She hated how vulnerable it made her feel.
At the head of the table, Henry finally pushed his plate back. “I’ve got some work to finish,” he said.
The words startled Ruth enough that she looked up immediately. “Now?”
Henry nodded, but he didn’t look at her as he spoke. “I’ve got an important appointment in town tomorrow,” he said. “I need to be prepared.”
Ruth opened her mouth, thinking perhaps she could ask for a moment to talk about what he was thinking—but before she could, Henry stood up.
“’Night,” he muttered to the table.
Then, he was gone, and the sound of his boots faded down the hallway. A moment later, Ruth heard the study door shut.
She stared down at her untouched food, and her stomach sank. She couldn’t stop the sinking feeling that he was avoiding her.
***
Ruth didn’t sleep well. The entire night passed in restless fragments of half-dreams and uneasy waking, sheets twisted around her legs as she drifted in and out of sleep without ever truly finding rest.
Every dream led back to the same thing: Beatrice and Henry
At one point, she dreamed she was standing in the church again, only this time, Henry was beside Beatrice at the altar instead of her. Ruth tried to move toward him, but no sound came when she spoke, and Clara’s hand kept slipping from her grasp, no matter how tightly she held on.
Ruth woke before dawn with her heart pounding; after that, sleep never returned, so she rose quietly.
The house was still dark as she dressed, fastening her worn cuffs with tired fingers before pinning her hair back. Clara remained asleep, curled tightly beneath the blankets, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.
Ruth envied her. Children could sleep through sorrow and uncertainty in ways adults no longer could.
She left the room, closing the door softly behind her so as not to wake her sister.
As she made her way downstairs, a rooster crowed loudly outside, announcing the start of another day.
In the kitchen, Ruth lit the stove, crouching to coax flame from kindling while pale morning light slowly crept through the windows. Soon, warmth began to gather in the room, along with the comforting smells of coffee and frying bacon.
Ruth pressed her lips together as she cracked eggs into a bowl. Usually, the rhythm of breakfast settled her, but not today; today, her thoughts spun endlessly, each one darker than the last.
The back door opened, letting in a gust of cool morning air along with the first of the ranch hands.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Collins.”
“Smells good in here.”
“Coffee ready yet?”
Ruth answered automatically, forcing small smiles where expected as she moved between stove and table. But all the while, her eyes kept drifting toward the door.
George entered last, removing his hat as he stepped inside.
“Where’s Henry?” Ruth asked.
“Went into town,” George said.
“So early?”
George nodded, reaching for the coffeepot. “Before sunrise.”
Ruth’s stomach tightened. “Why?”
George glanced at her. “Said he had an appointment in town.”
Ruth tried to keep her voice even. “What sort of appointment?”
George shrugged slightly. “Didn’t say.”
That only made her more uneasy. Henry always told George things. So, if Henry had kept this to himself, there must be a reason. Her thoughts began spiraling almost at once.
Ruth lowered her gaze quickly back to the pan before anyone could read her expression.
An appointment with Beatrice?
Her pulse quickened painfully.
Perhaps they were meeting privately to speak properly this time, without interruption. Perhaps Beatrice had convinced Henry that they belonged together, after all—or worse, perhaps they were seeing a lawyer, someone in town who could help Henry dissolve the marriage quietly.
Would he tell her afterward? Would he sit her down gently and explain that this arrangement had run its course? That Beatrice belonged at his side more naturally than she ever could?
Ruth’s chest tightened so sharply she nearly dropped the spoon in her hand. The kitchen suddenly felt too warm and too crowded. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep moving as the men began eating around the table.
No one seemed to notice her distraction—except Clara. The little girl sat quietly nearby, watching Ruth with careful eyes as she always did when something was wrong.
Ruth managed a faint smile for her sake, but inside, unease spread steadily through her chest. No matter how hard she tried to reason with herself, she could not stop imagining Henry in town with Beatrice, and every possibility hurt more than the last.
***
By midmorning, Henry still hadn’t returned.
Ruth tried not to look out the window every few minutes. Tried not to listen for the sound of wagon wheels or hoofbeats on the road. Tried not to imagine Henry somewhere in town with Beatrice, speaking quietly together while Ruth sat here tormenting herself with possibilities.
She forced herself to focus on her sewing.
The sitting room was bright with late-morning sunlight, curtains stirred gently by a warm breeze drifting through the window.
Clara sat curled at the opposite end of the settee, quietly turning the pages of one of George’s old storybooks while Ruth worked at mending one of Henry’s shirts—or trying to.
Her stitches had gone crooked twice already.
Ruth sighed softly and pulled the thread free again. “Mercy,” she muttered under her breath.
Clara glanced up at the sound.
Ruth forced a small smile. “I’m ruining your brother-in-law’s shirt, that’s all.”
Clara tilted her head faintly, unconvinced, as Ruth lowered her eyes again, smoothing the fabric across her lap. The shirt still smelled faintly of soap and outdoors. Sun-warmed cotton, leather, horses. Henry’s scent lingered in it stubbornly enough that her chest ached unexpectedly.
She set the shirt down at once.
This was foolish, utterly foolish. She’d survived far worse things than this uncertainty, this fear of losing something she’d never truly believed would belong to her in the first place.
A sudden, sharp shout rang out from outside, and Ruth’s sewing needle slipped from her fingers. Another shout followed, then the unmistakable thunder of hooves.
Ruth was on her feet instantly. “What on earth—?”