Epilogue
Kansas had changed over the past three months. Summer had vanished so gradually that Ruth had hardly noticed the moment it truly gave way to autumn, but now, November had settled fully across the prairie, and there could be no mistaking it.
The endless fields surrounding the ranch no longer rolled in rich greens beneath wide blue skies.
Instead, the grasslands had softened into shades of gold and amber and faded brown, stretching across the land like weathered patchwork beneath pale autumn sunlight.
The cottonwoods along the creek had turned brilliant yellow weeks ago, though many now stood nearly bare, their remaining leaves rattling dryly whenever the wind moved through them.
And the wind always seemed to be moving now. It swept endlessly across the prairie, carrying with it a sharpness that hinted at winter waiting just over the horizon.
Ruth pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and tucked cold fingers beneath her arms.
“Oh, Clara,” she pleaded for what felt like the tenth time that morning, “please tell me we’re nearly done.”
Ahead of her, Clara marched determinedly through a grove of trees, carrying a basket nearly half her size.
Ruth sighed dramatically, but her sister didn’t even turn around. Instead, she simply continued onward with complete purpose.
Three months ago, Ruth would’ve laughed at the thought of Clara becoming stubborn. Now, she knew better. Apparently, the child had inherited a streak of determination from somewhere.
Ruth had several suspicions regarding exactly where.
The wind swept through the trees again, stirring loose leaves around their feet and sending a shower of yellow and brown spiraling lazily through the air.
Ruth shivered. “You’re not cold?”
“No.”
Ruth narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Clara’s nose was pink, as were her cheeks. Her hands had disappeared entirely inside the knitted mittens Mrs. Turner had sent after Henry insisted Clara would freeze to death otherwise.
Clara absolutely was cold, but she kept moving. The winter fair was only a few days away, and she’d become very serious about contributing to the church stall.
It had all begun earlier this fall, when she had wandered into Henry’s study while he was still recovering and emerged carrying an old book nearly bigger than her: A guide to the wild plants of Kansas and their uses.
Apparently, Henry had purchased it years ago, after hearing an old trapper insist half the prairie could be eaten if a man knew what he was looking for.
Clara had become fascinated; moreover, she’d become obsessed.
Since then, Ruth had learned more about edible weeds and berries than she’d ever expected to know.
For weeks now, Clara had insisted on these ‘expeditions,’ as she called them—well, Henry had actually used the word first, but Clara had proudly claimed it as her own.
Together, they had gathered black walnuts beneath trees along the creek and carefully cracked their thick green husks with stones back at the ranch.
They’d found clusters of oyster mushrooms growing along fallen logs after autumn rains.
Persimmons, too—though Ruth had learned quickly not to eat the unripe ones after Clara had tricked her into trying one.
Ruth still remembered the terrible bitterness and how Henry had laughed so hard that he’d nearly reopened his bullet wound.
Today, Clara was searching determinedly for juniper berries and rose hips, which were “very important,” at least according to Clara.
Ruth followed behind more slowly, her basket hanging from one arm.
The air smelled of cold earth, dry leaves, and distant woodsmoke drifting from somewhere across the ranch. Beneath their feet, the grass had become brittle and pale from frost, crunching softly as they walked.
Ruth smiled despite herself. Life had become strangely peaceful. Henry was healing slowly—very slowly, according to him. For weeks, he’d grumbled endlessly about being forbidden from working and complained repeatedly that everyone was treating him like he might break.
George had been entirely unhelpful, coining several phrases with the sole purpose of driving Henry mad. Among his favorites were, “Careful there, Henry,” “Don’t strain yourself,” and “Need me to carry your coffee?”
Ruth had secretly enjoyed his teasing, though she was careful to hide her amusement from Henry. Even she had eventually grown tired of having him underfoot night and day.
Finally, the time had come for Henry to return to work, and life returned to normal—actually, a new normal, blessedly free from Victor and Beatrice.
The local paper had followed Victor’s case. Several of his men had turned on him once they’d realized their formerly powerful boss could no longer protect them. Not long after Henry woke, he’d gone to trial and been convicted of kidnapping, fraud, and enticement into slavery.
Beatrice, too, had been caught shortly after the shooting, though thankfully, she’d freely confessed to the charge of attempted murder.
After her sentencing, Henry had come home quieter than usual, simply sitting beside Ruth on the porch and staring out over the ranch.
When she’d eventually asked about it, it had taken a while for him to answer.
“She’s being sent East. The judge ruled her in a fragile state, so her aunt has agreed to take her. Beatrice will be her responsibility now.”
There had been sadness in his voice because, despite everything, Henry still had a kind heart.
Ruth’s thoughts drifted back to those late summer evenings spent on the porch.
She and Henry had talked into the early hours of the morning, sharing every part of themselves over tumblers of whiskey and mugs of coffee, drinking each other in.
She thought about the warmth of sitting beside Henry beneath blankets as cold weather settled across the ranch, the way his lips now found hers without thought or hesitation.
The mornings waking beside him, wondering how she had ever slept without the weight of him beside her.
Ruth’s cheeks warmed despite the cold, and ahead of her, Clara suddenly stopped, pulling her back into the present.
“Rose hips,” Clara said, pointing toward a bush.
Ruth blinked. Sure enough, small, bright red fruits clustered among thorny branches.
Clara looked extremely pleased with herself.
Ruth laughed. “There they are.”
Clara nodded seriously. “I told you we’d find some,” she said.
Ruth smiled and brushed windblown hair from her face. “You sure did, sweetheart.”
She looked out across the prairie stretching beyond the trees. The sky had become that peculiar autumn blue, but another gust of wind sent the hair of her neck bolt upright.
“Can we please go inside now?” she asked. “Losing our fingers to frostbite will greatly reduce our usefulness at the church stall.”
Clara tilted her head. “Okay,” she agreed after a beat, skipping head.
Ruth smiled, shaking her head as she turned and followed.
The walk back felt colder than before. The prairie wind chased them across the fields in long gusts that tugged at Ruth’s skirts and stung her cheeks. Dry grass whispered around their boots, and overhead, a flock of birds crossed the pale sky, moving southward in uneven lines.
The house came into view, smoke curling steadily from the chimney and warm golden light glowing from the windows.
Clara suddenly broke into a run. “Race you!”
“Oh, no,” Ruth called after her, laughing despite herself. “Absolutely not!”
But Clara was already racing toward the porch, so Ruth gathered her skirts and followed.
When she reached the porch steps, Clara was standing triumphantly beside the front door with her hands on her hips.
“I won!”
Ruth shook her head. “You had a head start.”
Clara nodded thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Still won.”
Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Come on,” she said. She pushed open the front door and stepped inside.
Warmth wrapped around them almost immediately as they moved down the hall to the kitchen.
The heat from the cast-iron stove filled the room, and Scout lay stretched beside the stove with complete contentment written across his face, though one eye cracked open at the sound of their arrival, and his tail began thumping.
Henry sat at the kitchen table with papers spread around him, a pair of spectacles perched low on his nose.
Ruth smiled. The sight still made her heart squeeze unexpectedly.
Three months ago, she’d thought she might lose him forever. Now, he sat there, frowning at accounts like a man carrying out very serious business—though, judging by the half-finished sketch beside him, ‘serious business’ had recently become drawing horses for Clara.
Henry looked up. “There you are.” His gaze dropped to the baskets and his eyebrows rose. “Good Heavens.”
Clara beamed. “We found more things!”
“I see that,” he said, leaning forward to peer inside. “What exactly have we got?”
Clara set her basket proudly onto the table. “Rose hips.”
Henry nodded solemnly. “Excellent.”
“Juniper berries.”
“Very useful.”
“Walnuts.”
“Mhmm.”
She held up one of the pine cones. “And these.”
Henry studied it seriously. “Critical.”
Clara smiled.
“Come on,” Ruth said to Clara. “We’ve got our work cut out for us.” She tied an apron around her waist while Clara dragged over a chair to stand on.
“And you?” Ruth said to Henry. “Just going to sit there, or are you going to help?”
Henry hesitated and then got up. “I should go have a word with George,” he said hurriedly as he left the room.
“Coward!” Ruth called after him.
The kitchen soon filled with activity. Black walnuts needed sorting and cracking, which proved considerably messier than Ruth would’ve expected.
The thick, dark husks stained their fingers and left smudges across Clara’s cheeks and nose, and the pungent, earthy smell coming off them contained a surprising hint of citrus.
They then washed the rose hips and spread them across clean cloths to dry. Next, they sorted the juniper berries into little piles and checked the persimmons for bruises.