Ruth (28 page)

He loved her.

The power of that revelation hit him in the middle of his chest like a sledgehammer. He’d never thought love would find him, never wanted it to. But love had attacked him in the guise of this good-to-the-bone woman. He’d been a fool to tell himself he could leave her, that he could live without her or the baby. They were a family—an unusual one, but a family nonetheless.

Suddenly the cowhand’s admission registered. They’d known she was a woman and yet they’d set her on that bronco. A bronco that had never been ridden and, from the looks of at least three limping cowboys, hadn’t been yet.

Dylan gently put Ruth aside before his rage clicked in. He stood up and lashed out with his fist, which landed solidly on the nearest cowboy’s jaw. The man rocked back on his heels, his knees buckling before he recovered and threw a solid punch into Dylan’s belly.

The two men rolled on the snowy ground, going after each other with a flurry of fists and shouts as the other men formed a circle and cheered their chosen opponent. The melee gathered steam as the cowhands joined in. Fists flew as they all waded into the brawl, yelling and shouting.

Chapter Thirteen

Ruth slowly gained consciousness, aware first of a piercing pain in her left side, followed closely by a whole new host of aches and pains throughout her body. Then she became aware of men yelling. Yelling loudly. The noise was deafening, causing her head to pound even more. She wanted them to stop. Someone had to make them stop!

She tried to move, but she couldn’t. She tried taking a deep breath, but a sharp pain near the base of her skull rendered her helpless. She lay back again. Then she remembered.

Bert. The bronco—the ornery horse had thrown her.
Rats.
There went Rose’s milk.

She’d warned Dylan against betting the cow; she’d warned him that this would happen. But would he listen? Noooo. He had to enter this silly contest. It didn’t matter that he was barely able to remain upright on a tame horse, much less a bronco that nobody could ride.

Ruth opened her eyes. Blur. She was blind!

No. That was sky. Blue sky. She relaxed and her eyes focused. She realized she was in the middle of a free-for-all. Snow and fists were flying everywhere. Grunts of pain and fury filled the air. Blood. Men’s feet flew out from under them like broken stilts. The group was going crazy.

Then she saw him.

Dylan. Smack-dab in the middle of the whole mess! Well, if he hurt himself, it served him right!

Then she saw Rose. The cowhand still held the baby, but Rose’s head was bobbing like a cork as the man egged on one of the fighters. Rose was clapping and laughing at every blow Dylan landed, as if she was cheering him on. Ruth sat up gingerly, amazed.

Then it occurred to her. Bert. That bronco had never been ridden, had tossed several experienced cowboys straight into the ground, and yet she’d been put on him. They tricked her! No wonder the cowpokes had snickered when she hadn’t been able to muster enough leverage to mount without help. They had known she was a woman—why, they probably made side bets on how far the bronco would throw her!

Did Dylan know? A slow, warm fuzziness crept over Ruth. Somehow she knew that he did know, and that was what had sparked the brawl. He was fighting for her—the woman he swore he’d throw to the wolves without a second thought. Her insides turned to mush and tears filled her eyes. He loved her; the big buffoon was fighting for her and the baby—the family they’d created.

Happiness puddled from the corners of her eyes as she watched the marshall down one cowboy, then another. She loved this crazy man, this man who’d been so afraid to care about her. She loved him heart and soul and loved the baby as much, maybe even more, though she didn’t see how that was possible. Love was love, and she had enough to supply both Rose and Dylan for the rest of her life.

Now she had a choice. Would she admit her love, stay and help him fight, or get up and walk away from it all? Walk away from the baby, away from Dylan? She could ride until she found a town that had work for her; she could earn enough money to return to Denver City. She could do that.

Then she remembered a Scripture verse she had read this morning before they set out on the trail. It was from Jeremiah 18. God told Jeremiah to go to the potter’s house. As Jeremiah watched him work on a clay vessel, it “marred in the hand of the potter: so he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.”

The words struck her because one day in Sulphur Springs, she’d encountered an old Indian inside the livery. He’d been working there in the warm barn, forming pots from the earth, his hands making a beautiful vessel out of a shapeless lump. The old man’s face was weathered and lined with age, his eyes ageless. Ruth had stood watching him, commenting on his skill.

In broken English he’d told Ruth that people were like his pots. Some were already baked—set in their ways, inflexible, hard. “They miss out on a lot of good in life,” he’d said.

But then he picked up a lump of unformed clay and began to mold it into a pretty shape. “Some are like this clay, ready to become something useful. They go through the fire and come out of the oven beautiful.”

She’d held a pot in her hands, almost sad that it could no longer be molded. One of the pots had a bump along the bottom edge, a bump that would be there until the pot was broken. A flaw. The pot had a flaw, like all people.

She had a flaw too. Many of them, actually. The Jeremiah verse gave her hope that perhaps God could still mold her life into something useful, even though she was marred. Perhaps she could be useful, despite the flaws.

But not if she was already “baked,” already set in her ideas of what God was doing in her life. She’d assumed that because she could never have children, a husband and family were out of the picture. She’d hardened her heart against the possibility. But was she being so headstrong in her prior notions that she was blind to God’s taking her in a new direction? Was it possible that God was now bringing love into her life—and a child—and that she had been too much of a “baked pot” to recognize the gift?

So, Ruthie, what are you going to do about it? Are you going to set aside those old beliefs and open yourself to a new direction? Or are you going to walk away with your old thoughts and patterns and miss out on the blessings God stands ready to give you?

Of course, there was still one barrier left before she could give her heart to Dylan. Unless they were spiritually matched, she couldn’t think of a life with him. Could she trust God right now, even if she had no idea of the outcome?

One thing she knew: she hadn’t come this far to see some cowboy destroy this man she loved. Holding her aching side, Ruth pushed herself up and managed to roll to her knees. She squinted against the sea of brawling fists, searching for a weapon. A shovel leaned against the corral railing.

Shoving herself to her feet, she stumbled through the fighting cowboys and grabbed the shovel. A moment later she was in the middle of the chaos, her screaming pain forgotten, fighting alongside Dylan.

When Dylan spotted her, his mouth fell open as he stared in amazement and relief before he ducked a roundhouse by another cowboy. “I thought you were—,” he yelled.

“Dead?” Ruth smacked the shovel against a cowpoke’s head, knocking him out cold. “You’re not that lucky, McCall!”

Grinning widely, Dylan hooked his arm around Ruth’s waist and pulled her to him for a long, thorough kiss while the battle raged around them. When their lips parted, he smiled down at her. “You’re some woman, Ruth Priggish.”

“You’re some man, Marshall McCall.” They both ducked swinging fists and reentered the fray.

A man knocked Dylan down. As he crawled out from between the legs of two fighting cowpokes, he called out, “Hey, Ruthie?”

“Yes?” She took a wide swing and clunked a man over the head.

“Been meaning to ask you something.”

“Can’t it wait?” She dodged an oncoming fist, bringing her weapon squarely down on the man’s hand. The cowpoke yelped and backed off.

“Don’t think so—at the rate we’re going we’re not likely to live to a ripe old age.” Dylan swung a hard left.

“Yeah.” She brought the shovel down, nearly tripping over her feet. At the rate they were going, life was mighty risky. “You’re right. What’s the question?”

“Want to get married?” he asked, shoving aside a windmilling cowboy with a left hook.

Her eyebrows shot up.

“Later,” he added, felling another attacker.

“Later?” She swung the shovel and leveled a cowboy, who went down like a shot.

“Not too much later—say, later this evening?”

She bit down on her lower lip and hauled off and let another man have it. She had some serious thinking and praying to do, but “later” sounded good to her.

“How’s that rib, cowboy?” Dylan smiled as they rested on their horses before the last descent into Shadow Brook. Rose lay contentedly in Dylan’s arms.

Ruth gingerly touched her aching side. The doctor had bandaged the cracked rib at the horse corral and shook his head over the angry dark blue bruises, which proved to be plentiful. Bert had done a job on Ruth Priggish.

“I’m fine, Mr. McCall.” She flashed a merry smile. “Never better in my life.”

Dylan sobered. “I still can’t believe you’d love me enough to risk your life for me.”

“It wasn’t entirely unselfish. If something happened to you, what would happen to me and the baby?” She leaned closer to touch his sleeve. “Love isn’t that difficult to understand, Dylan. Sacrificial love is mystifying, but maybe that’s because it comes from God. God’s love for you, Dylan McCall, knows no bounds. Is it so impossible for you to accept such perfect love? A love that’s true and born of grace and compassion, not the twisted form Sara practiced.”

He sat very quiet, his eyes focused on the town ahead. She didn’t know if her words had reached him; she could only pray that the Holy Spirit had finally found an open door.

“God did the same for you, Dylan. He gave his only Son to die for you. And for me.”

“The years have hardened me, Ruth. Until you came along I spent my life scoffing at God. It was easier to convince myself that he was the outlaw and not Sara.” His eyes sobered. “If the Lord will have me, I’ll do my best to honor him—start making him first consideration in my life.”

“Oh, Dylan!” She leaned over and threw her arms around his neck and showered his face with kisses. The horses shied, but Ruth held on tightly. “It’s shoutin’ time in heaven! When you invite God into your heart, he will remain with you forever. Forever, Dylan.”

Leaning back, Dylan blew out his cheeks before he offered a brief, tentative smile. “Forever. That’s pretty overwhelming.”

“But true.” She kissed him soundly on the mouth. When she would have pulled back, he pulled her closer and lengthened the embrace.

Later, he confessed, “I accept the Lord and his salvation, Ruth, but I still have much to learn.”

“I know . . . but you will learn, Dylan. You will learn.” Filled with the Holy Spirit, Dylan would grow in faith and forevermore walk in the light of the truth. How could anyone want more?

“All right, then.” She picked up the reins, grinning.

“All right what?”

“All right. I’ll marry you.”
Thank you, God, for leading this wonderful man into your fold. Help us both, Lord, to grow and trust in your Word.

Maneuvering his horse closer again, Dylan bent from the saddle and kissed her. “Then why are we wasting time sitting here? Let’s go find a preacher.”

“Not much call for rooms in the winter,” Jess Clark repeated as he handed Dylan the keys to their rooms. He grinned when he heard they were hoping to get married yet that evening.

“Don’t see a problem with matrimony. The missus and I were hitched forty-three years before I lost her five years ago.”

“Thank you so much,” Ruth said. “I . . . Could I order a hot bath?”

“Is it possible to get hot water for two baths?” Dylan asked.

“Sure thing. Just give me an hour.”