Chapter Thirty #2
And Henry? George had seen enough over the years to recognize love when it stood right in front of him.
By contrast, every memory George had of Beatrice tasted sour, even after all these years. Pretty dresses. Sweet smiles. Always polite enough.
But there had always been something slippery beneath it all. Questions about money disguised as casual conversation. Interest in land papers and contracts that no rancher’s fiancée should have cared about.
And then, her betrayal.
George narrowed his eyes. Henry nearly lost everything—because of her.
“You expect me to believe Ruth just walked away willingly?” he said coldly. “From having a home? From Henry?”
Beatrice’s eyes shimmered. “She was ashamed of?—?”
“No.” George cut her off. “You’re counting on Henry being too shocked to think straight.”
He turned toward Henry. “That woman loves you,” he said firmly. “She wouldn’t leave without reason, and she sure as heck wouldn’t drag Clara back to a place like that if she had any choice in the matter.”
Henry’s breathing grew uneven as hope and fear battled visibly across his face.
Beatrice turned to Henry. “You have to believe me?—?”
“No,” George snapped. “You don’t get to stand here, pretending concern, after everything you’ve already done to him!”
Beatrice recoiled. “I made mistakes?—?”
“You helped Victor rob him blind!”
“I?—?”
“I’ve known liars my whole damn life,” George continued sharply, “and you sound rehearsed.”
“George,” Henry finally cut in. “Ruth left because of me.”
“That’s ridiculous, and you know it.”
“But what if she did?” Henry’s voice cracked. “What if she was miserable here, and I never saw it?”
Beatrice seized the opening. “She cared for you deeply, but some women aren’t meant for this kind of life.”
George wanted to shake her.
Henry dragged a trembling hand down his face.
Everything was happening too fast. George could see it overwhelming him—the disappearance, the secrets, the betrayal, the fear.
Then, Henry looked up. “I love her,” he said, his voice wavering. “Lord help me, I love her.”
Despite everything, George smiled.
“I don’t care about her past,” Henry said. “I don’t care where she came from. I just want her home.” He looked back at Beatrice. “If you know where she is …”
As Henry spoke, the mask slipped from Beatrice’s face, and her tears twisted violently into something ugly.
Henry had made his choice, and he hadn’t chosen her; he’d chosen Ruth.
Beatrice’s face hardened. “You’re too late. Victor’s going to sell them,” she spat, “right back to the mistress of the brothel she came from.”
George felt the blood drain from his face as Henry went utterly motionless.
Beatrice looked instantly horrified at her own words, but it was too late; the truth hung there, between them.
Henry’s voice came out barely above a whisper. “Where?”
Beatrice looked uncertain for the first time since arriving. “I—I don’t know exactly,” she stammered.
George didn’t believe her for one second.
“You know,” Henry said quietly. He took one slow step toward her. “Tell me where.”
Beatrice shook her head. “Victor would never forgive me if I?—?”
Henry laughed. “Forgive you?” He shook his head. “She trusted you.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“By helping him sell her?” Henry’s voice cracked violently now. “For God’s sake, Clara is a child!”
“Henry, please?—?”
“No.”
George felt the word all the way down his spine.
“She lied to you.” Beatrice stared at Henry as though finally realizing she’d lost control of the situation entirely. “She lied about what she was?—?”
“She didn’t tell me what had happened to her,” Henry snapped. “That ain’t the same thing.”
George felt a sharp pulse of relief at those words.
Beatrice shook her head, panic bleeding through her carefully crafted performance. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “Women like her don’t change. She’ll only shame you eventually.”
Henry stared at her with open disbelief.
And George realized that Beatrice still truly thought this might work. That Henry would eventually turn back toward her, if she could only separate Ruth from him long enough.
Lord, the woman’s half-mad with jealousy.
“Henry,” she whispered shakily. “You loved me once.”
“No,” Henry said, his eyes never left hers. “I loved who I thought you were.”
George almost pitied her then … almost.
“And if Ruth had told me the truth herself, I would’ve asked her to stay.”
Beatrice’s face crumpled.
“She was terrified,” Henry said harshly, “because of you.”
“Because of Victor,” she corrected weakly.
“You’re the one who brought his poison into her life,” Henry said, “and I can’t forgive you for that, Beatrice.”
“So you’re going to choose her?” she whispered.
Henry looked at her like the answer should have been obvious. “I already did.”
For one terrible moment, pure hatred twisted across Beatrice’s face. Then, just as quickly, the mask returned. She drew herself upright slowly, smoothing trembling hands over her skirts with brittle dignity. “If you go after her,” she said coldly, “Victor will destroy you.”
Henry didn’t even blink. “Get out.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“I said, get out,” he barked, “and if I ever see your face near my ranch again, I’ll have you thrown off the property myself!”
Beatrice stood her ground for another moment before finally backing toward the door. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed.
The front door slammed, rattling the windows behind her.
George let out a long breath as Henry turned to him.
“We need to think,” Henry muttered, dragging both hands through his hair. “We know she came from a city. There’s got to be something …”
George snapped his fingers suddenly. “The letter!”
Henry stopped.
“Her answer,” George said quickly, “responding to your ad in the paper.”
Henry’s head jerked upward, and without another word, both men rushed into the study.
Papers scattered as Henry yanked open drawers with shaking hands. Ledgers hit the desk. Old receipts fluttered onto the floor.
“Darn it?—?”
George moved to the filing cabinet near the wall, rifling quickly through bundled correspondence.
Then, finally, he found it. “Here!”
George handed over the carefully folded letter worn along the creases from being opened and reread so many times.
Henry unfolded it quickly, and they leaned over it together beneath the lamplight.
Mrs. Ruth Caldwell
Post Office Box 114
Dodge City, Kansas
Henry slapped the paper with a snap. “Dodge City.”
George nodded and gripped Henry’s shoulder. “That’s close enough.”
Henry looked up. “Let’s go get her.” He folded the letter, shoving it into his coat pocket as he turned and headed out the door.
George followed, knowing in his bones that Henry Collins had something more dangerous than anger driving him: hope.
Before sunrise, they’d be riding for Dodge City to bring Ruth and Clara home.