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Ruby gave him a look filled with appreciation. “Thank you for putting aside your resentment and giving me a chance.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” Nash took a step back. “Goodnight, Ruby.”
She offered him a soft smile. “Goodnight.”
He locked the kitchen door and went up to his room. Thanks to Ruby he had his children back under his roof and could rest easy about that. Her presence here wasn’t conducive to sleep, however.
He thought of her traveling the country with her theater friends and riding that horse all the way to Nebraska on her own. In a way it bothered him, but on the other hand she impressed him beyond measure. He couldn’t think of another woman who would be so independent or daring. Few females would have packed a bag, saddled a horse and ridden alone for weeks and weeks.
Ruby was not like other women.
And those differences kept him awake at night.
Author of more than fifty romances, CHERYL ST. JOHN’s stories have earned RITA® nominations, Romantic Times awards, and are published in a dozen languages. In describing her stories of second chances, readers use words like ‘emotional punch, believable characters and real-life situations’. Visit her at www.cherylstjohn.net
Sequins and Spurs
Cheryl St.John
“Forgiveness is not an occasional act, it is a constant attitude.”
—Martin Luther King, Jr.
Contents
Crosby, Nebraska, 1883
The screen door barely squeaked, but the familiar sound made Ruby’s heart leap. She’d never tiptoed all the way across the porch without Mama hearing that hinge and ordering her back to finish chores. Ruby Gail! Stop right there, missy.
Apprehension and uncertainty rising, she pushed open the unlocked interior door and entered the front room. In the remaining light of day it took a minute for her eyes to adjust enough for her to tell the furniture had been arranged differently, and the curtains at the windows were unfamiliar. The farmhouse sat eerily silent. No cooking smells met her senses; in fact, she wrinkled her nose at a faint antiseptic scent mingled with lingering lemon wax.
She hung her hat on a doorknob, lit the lantern sitting on a nearby table, and held it high to investigate. In the golden glow, she noted a light film of dust covering the wood furniture. Ruby frowned. Her mother dusted this room every day.
Stifling her unease, Ruby tiptoed across the dining room and through the open door into the nearly dark kitchen. Half a dozen dirty coffee cups sat on the sink board, but other than those, there was no sign of occupancy.
“Mama?” Ruby called. Striding to the back door, she flung it open and studied the dooryard. Chickens squawked from inside a wire enclosure. The plot where her mother always grew a vegetable garden was overgrown with weeds and a scattering of volunteer beans. Concern grew to a heavy weight in Ruby’s chest.
Lighting lamps as she went, she searched each room. Finding no one downstairs, she headed up the worn front staircase.
“Mama?” Ruby’s voice echoed throughout the upper hallway, and her unease rolled over into trepidation.
All the doors were closed. She went to her mother’s straightaway, a flicker of panic pumping her blood faster as she stood with her hand on the faceted glass knob. “Mama?” she called, more softly this time.
The bed was neatly made with a plain wool blanket, instead of the quilt she remembered. On the dresser sat an ivory-handled comb and brush set