Sequins and Spurs. Cheryl St.John

thought she would come back after all this time and everything would be as she’d left it? “Where were you in April?” he asked.

      She appeared to think a moment. “Chicago.”

      “Doin’ what?”

      “Theater.”

      He raised his eyebrows. “Acting?”

      She nodded. “Singing.”

      He couldn’t imagine that unusual, sandpapery voice of hers lifted in song. “Singing on a stage...in front of people?”

      “That’s right.”

      “They paid?”

      “That’s how singers make a living.” She flattened her hands on the table. “Look, I know I wasn’t here for either of them. I should have come back a long time ago, but...but I didn’t. I sent Mama money every month.”

      “You could have visited. Written at least.”

      “I sent a couple of letters. I’m not much for writing.”

      “Pearl needed help,” he said. “She took care of everyone and the house all by herself till she died.”

      “I’m sorry.” Ruby set her mouth in a straight line.

      “Sorry doesn’t fix eight years of neglect.”

      She stared at her cup. “No. It doesn’t.”

      “Did you get letters from your mother?”

      “A few, but I never stayed in one place long.”

      “Too busy to come visit, were you?”

      “I had my reasons.”

      “I’ll bet you did.” Stage performers didn’t have the best reputations. Not that he knew the sordid details, but he could imagine. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch. “I have to get out to the stock. Thanks to you, I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

      “I’m sorry about that, too,” she said. “And for...” She gestured to his head. “Hitting you with the skillet.”

      “You could’ve killed me.” He got up and set his cup near the sink basin, noting for the first time that all the other dirty cups he’d left there were gone. He paused. “What’s your plan?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “What are you going to do now?”

      “I have to figure that out.”

      “You plannin’ to stay here?”

      “This is my home.”

      He said nothing. Didn’t look at her again, just walked out the back door and closed it firmly behind him. He felt half-sick at the thought of her being here. He hoped she’d be gone when he came back. He had enough people to take care of, and sufficient worries on his mind already. He didn’t need her adding to his problems.

      In the back of his mind was concern for the ranch he’d worked so hard to build. He’d sacrificed time with his wife and family to make it a success. Ruby hadn’t been in the picture then, but now...now she’d likely lay her claim.

      She hadn’t stuck around before. To protect his children’s inheritance and his investment in the land, he could probably convince her to take off again. Or wait her out.

      * * *

      Ruby headed out to the coop and gathered eggs. She found a ham in the pantry, cut off a slice and fried it with the eggs. The whole time she used the skillet, she thought about what she’d done to her newfound brother-in-law. Her mother had always said she acted before she thought things through, and as much as Ruby had hated hearing it, that remained a fact. She gave herself the excuse of fearing a robber, and cast her blunder aside.

      A hot meal in her stomach felt good. After washing the dishes, she heated more water and searched until she found a copper tub on the back porch. She dragged it into the kitchen, filled it and then slid the bolt on the back door before washing her hair and bathing.

      The hot water soothed her aching muscles. But relaxing in such a way caused her to let her guard down, and she sat in the steaming tub and sobbed until the water cooled and her fingers and toes wrinkled.

      She would never see Mama again. Never hear her laugh or see her smile. Ruby had missed her opportunity to hug her sister and tell her she loved her. She’d lost everything dear to her. Lost everything she’d turned her back on, her pitiless conscience taunted. Everything she’d run away to escape.

      If her mother and sister had been so dear, why had she taken off and not returned for so long? That’s what Nash would ask her. That’s what anyone would want to know. She’d asked herself a hundred times, but she still couldn’t explain.

      She’d been close to her father. They had been very alike, she guessed. He’d been the one person she could talk to, confide in. After he’d left without notice, she’d been bitter and angry. Her heartbreak had been disguised in rebellion and resentment. Her mother had relentlessly nagged and insisted Ruby attend church with her.

      Ruby had hated sitting in church. Everyone there was looking at them and pitying them because of her father’s desertion. And all her mother had to say about his absence was that God was taking care of them. God hadn’t lifted a finger to keep Abe Dearing on that farm—and after he was gone, God hadn’t put food on their table or shoes on their feet.

      At sixteen, Ruby had been fed up with rules and restrictions, weary of her mother’s constant admonitions. Ruby had packed a bag and caught a train.

      She’d been proud. Self-reliant. Adventurous.

      Impetuous. Foolish.

      Lonely.

      More tired than she’d ever been in her life, Ruby stood, dried herself and then dressed in a wrinkled skirt and shirtwaist from her bag. She couldn’t deal with emptying the tub at the moment, so she left it and climbed the stairs.

      She chose the room that used to be hers, though the only familiar furnishing was the bed. After setting the doll aside, she opened the window for fresh air and pulled down the spread, climbing between the sheets and closing her eyes.

      The best thing that could happen would be to sleep for days, wake up and find this had all been a nightmare.

      * * *

      Nash’s head ached so fiercely he left the hired men mending fence and rode northeast to a strip of land near the river that nestled between the Lazy S and the Sommerton property, where his father owned and operated a grain mill.

      Little Bird’s husband had left her the strip of land, and she had remained after his death. There was nothing conventional about the landscape or the cabin. Wooden slews carried water to thriving herb and vegetable gardens that stretched toward the river.

      Cages had been built against a squat, bare-wood barn, and at any given time half of them contained birds or small animals in various stages of treatment and healing. Frames made of willows and small saplings held curing hides. Peculiar scents of distilling syrups and natural cures permeated the air.

      At his approach, a slender figure in a simple fawn-colored dress and moccasins moved forward from one of the gardens. She was a handsome woman, probably a good ten years older than himself, and she’d been a good friend to his family. Her hair was plaited into two long braids that didn’t show a strand of gray.

      “Nash Sommerton,” she called, one hand raised in greeting.

      He slid from his horse. “Little Bird.”

      She held the back of her hand to his horse’s muzzle. Boone inhaled her scent and pressed his nose to her chest. “He says there is much confusion in your heart today.”

      “I don’t know about that, but there’s a mighty powerful pain in my head.”

      “Come,”