Chapter Thirty
George sat in a chair near the cold hearth, elbows braced on his knees as exhaustion settled deep into his bones. He watched as Henry continued to pace. The floorboards groaned beneath his boots with every turn across the sitting room, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The lamp on the side table had burned low, throwing restless shadows across the walls every time Henry passed through its light.
He looked rough, his skin pale beneath the stubble shadowing his jaw, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion and fear.
His shirt sleeves remained rolled unevenly from the morning, and sweat-dampened dust from his encounter with Victor’s men had dried into a crust along one shoulder.
Neither of them had eaten or even thought about sleep.
After Victor’s men had thrown Henry out that morning, he and George had gone straight into town, visiting every stable, every shop, every boarding house, church, and mercantile.
No one had seen Ruth or Clara.
Now, night had settled fully over the ranch, bringing with it a kind of fear George had rarely seen in Henry before.
Henry wheeled sharply again. “He’s behind it.”
George rubbed tiredly at his jaw. “Probably.”
“No.” Henry stopped pacing long enough to glare at him. “Not probably. He is.”
George didn’t argue. Truth was, he believed it too. Victor Wilkes had hated Henry for years. Everyone in the territory knew it, though most folks assumed it was ordinary business rivalry.
George, however, knew better. There was something personal in Victor’s hatred.
And now, Ruth was gone—directly after Beatrice had paid a visit to the ranch.
The timing was too perfect.
“I should’ve never let her into this house.”
George sighed quietly. “Henry?—?”
“No.” Henry dragged a hand through his hair. “I should’ve known better. Lord help me, I did know better!”
George had known Henry for nearly fifteen years. He’d been here after Henry’s parents died, watched him work himself half to death building this ranch from almost nothing. They’d seen droughts. Broken bones. Bank threats. Storms that wiped out half the herd.
But George had never seen his friend like this. This was vulnerability—and Henry Collins did not know how to deal with helplessness.
“She wouldn’t just leave,” Henry muttered. “Not without saying something.”
George nodded slowly. Ruth didn’t strike him as the sort to disappear quietly, especially not with the way things had been changing between her and Henry lately.
The whole ranch had noticed: the softer looks and lingering conversations, how Henry’s entire face changed whenever Ruth smiled at him.
George leaned back in the chair. “Did she seem upset yesterday?”
Henry stopped again. “She was quiet, but I thought …” Henry swallowed. “I thought she was just tired.”
“What, exactly, did Beatrice say to her?”
“I don’t know.” Henry sighed. “She asked to speak with Ruth alone—and I let her.” Regret radiated off him so heavily, it nearly filled the room.
George rubbed his mouth thoughtfully. “Did Ruth ever say anything about where she came from?”
“She said …” Henry frowned, obviously thrown by the question. “I don’t remember,” he admitted. “How could I forget something like that?”
“I don’t either.” George replied, shaking his head. He thought back to the train station all those weeks ago, combing through every detail.
Ruth stepping carefully down from the carriage in that worn dress with Clara beside her. Nervous, frightened, and desperately trying not to show it. Henry had barely said three words to her that first day, and Ruth had spoken even less.
“If we can figure out where she came from,” he said finally, “maybe we can find her. She mentioned a city once … didn’t she?”
“I can’t remember.” Henry shook his head. “I don’t know enough about her. I never bothered to learn.”
The words hurt to hear because George knew how much Henry cared for Ruth—but the truth was that neither of them knew what she’d been running from before she arrived.
Henry turned again, restless energy radiating from him. “What if he took them out of town already?”
George’s shoulders tightened. He’d been trying not to say that possibility aloud.
“What if he sends her somewhere no one knows her?”
“Henry?—?”
“I should’ve gone after him years ago.” Henry’s voice roughened dangerously. “I should’ve ended this after I threw Beatrice out all those years ago.”
George rose slowly from the chair. “You listen to me,” he said firmly.
Henry looked at him.
“We’re gonna find her,” George said. “You hear me? Ruth’s smart. Strong, too. The woman caught a runaway foal just the other day, for goodness’ sake! She’ll protect Clara,” he continued, “and she’ll hold on until we reach her.”
Henry closed his eyes, and George could practically see a silent prayer forming behind his exhaustion and panic.
Because right now, for all Henry claimed otherwise, he looked very much like a man trying desperately to believe in God again.
***
The hour grew late, and just before the clock showed it to be nearly nine o’clock, George finally pushed himself with a weary sigh.
“Henry,” he said carefully, “you need a few hours’ rest.”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“You’ve been on your feet since dawn.”
“And Ruth’s out there somewhere.”
George understood the desperation behind his friend’s words. The ranch house was all wrong without Ruth in it—too quiet and cold.
Clara’s little shoes still sat near the back door. One of Ruth’s aprons hung folded beside the stove. Ghosts of ordinary things.
“We’ll start again at first light.”
Henry looked ready to argue, but before he got the chance, a knock echoed through the house.
Both men froze, and for one wild instant, hope lit Henry’s entire face.
“Ruth …?”
Before George could say a word, Henry was already striding toward the front door.
He yanked it open, and George saw his hope die instantly.
Beatrice stood on the porch beneath the weak glow of a lantern, wrapped in a dark cloak against the night wind. Her eyes looked red, her expression strained and sorrowful.
“Henry,” she whispered.
“Where is she?” Henry demanded. “Have you heard from her?”
Beatrice lowered her gaze, but George didn’t trust the calculated pause.
“No,” she said softly. “I came because I couldn’t keep this from you anymore.”
Something about the sadness in her voice made George uneasy; it sounded too smooth, almost … rehearsed.
Henry didn’t seem to notice, though. “What are you talking about?”
Beatrice clasped her gloved hands tightly together. “May I come inside?”
Henry stepped away from the door, allowing her in, and for a moment, the air itself held its breath.
“Why have you come?” Henry pressed.
“When Ruth and I spoke yesterday …” Beatrice hesitated delicately. “She confessed some things to me.”
Henry’s face tightened. “What things, exactly?”
Beatrice shifted as though reluctant to continue. “She said she was unhappy here.”
Henry stared at her. “What?”
“She told me she felt terribly lonely,” Beatrice continued. “That ranch life was much harder than she expected.” Her eyes lifted carefully toward him. “She said she missed her old life.”
George felt suspicion crawl immediately up his spine. Nothing about this sat right.
Henry looked physically struck. “She wouldn’t say that.”
Beatrice’s expression softened. “Henry?—?”
“She wouldn’t.”
George could guess what was going through Henry’s mind, because he’d felt the same doubt and fear at times. Ruth had been lonely, and she’d come from somewhere Henry didn’t understand.
“Victor offered to help her leave quietly?—?” Beatrice began.
George stepped forward sharply. “That’s awful convenient.”
Beatrice startled at the interruption.
George folded his arms. “You expect us to believe she just packed up and disappeared because she missed city life?”
Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears. “I know this is difficult.”
“No,” George snapped. “What’s difficult is listening to this pile of horse?—?”
Henry shot him a warning look, but George ignored it completely. Something was wrong here, deeply wrong.
Beatrice turned to Henry again, tears slipping gracefully down her cheeks. “She begged me not to tell you,” she whispered. “She said you deserved someone better.”
Henry went pale suddenly. “Better?” he repeated hoarsely.
“She told me where she came from,” Beatrice said. “She lived in a brothel before coming here,” she whispered, “with the child.”
Henry stiffened, and even George felt the air leave his lungs.
Beatrice continued, tears falling faster now. “I know you must be shocked, but she was ashamed, Henry. She never believed she was worthy of this place.”
George watched Henry carefully. He looked completely blindsided, but not disgusted or angry—just shattered by the sheer flood of information hitting him all at once.
“Victor only wanted to help her return quietly before the town learned the truth.”
“No.” George stepped directly between them. “You’re lying.”
Beatrice blinked at him.
At that moment, George understood something with absolute clarity. In all the weeks Ruth had lived at the ranch, he’d never once seen her act selfishly. Not once.
He remembered her first days there—thin and frightened, barely speaking above a whisper while cooking for a dozen hungry ranch hands before she’d even learned their names.
He recalled her perseverance in everything, whether it was trying to save a burned supper or scrubbing a particular stain out of one of the men’s shirts.
She checked on Clara constantly, watching every man on the ranch with quiet caution until she slowly realized they meant no harm. She thanked the hands for carrying wood and prayed over every meal, whether Henry scowled about it or not.
He’d seen how she looked at Henry when she thought no one noticed, like she was slowly learning to trust something she’d never believed she could have. That wasn’t the behavior of a woman planning to run back to some old life—heck, the very mention of cities usually made Ruth tense.
She loves this ranch.