It was no fun getting old. In fact, it was completely disagreeable. Joints ached, the body rebelled, and you just couldn't remember where you laid your glasses, or in Sister Ruth's case, her Bible. But the worst part of getting old was looking around and realizing how few of your loved ones were actually left.
She made friends easily enough though. Some would've argued too easily for a woman of her advanced years traveling alone. It came naturally when you saw people as your sisters and brothers and not strangers with dark intentions. And she knew who her Protector was. He was also her Friend, her Father, her Comforter, her Traveling Companion.
But when the road stretched in front of you for miles and the only voices you could hear were the sounds of the whip-poor-wills, that was when the loneliness and age were most sharply felt. And that was when she cried out to the Lord for a helpmeet.
But how silly was it to think He would send a husband her way now after all this time? Especially when she was long past childbearing years and when she wasn't the type who could be content to stay at home. Very silly. Nonetheless, it was still the cry of her heart.
January 1847
Sister Ruth struggled not to crumple the paper in her hands because her hands grew tight with emotion. She read over the lines in the letter for a second time.
Your daddy is feeling poorly. He asks about you daily, wondering if you ever plan to visit. Ruth, I really hope that you will.
Her head pounded, not just from her three children who played loudly in the back of the room but from the shock of the letter.
"What's the matter? Bad news?" Kid asked, his tone laced in concern. He knew she was reading a letter from her mother.
Her mother had never asked her to come home before. It was a plan Ruth had carried in the back of her mind to take the children to meet their grandparents one day. But her mother's mild words told her all she needed to know, her father wasn't long for this world. "Daddy's dying." It became even more real said out loud.
He took the letter from her to read it for himself, which was a mercy as the words were beginning to swim before her eyes. "Are you sure?" he asked. "She only says he's feeling poorly."
"I know my momma. She has a tendency to understate, but the fact that she's asking us to visit says it plain as day."
He stood her up, so he could bring her into a comforting embrace. "I'm so sorry, darling."
Leaning on the solidness of his chest, the tears that had been threatening to fall did. The thought of her father lying in a bed on the other side of the continent asking for her was more than she could bear.
The children got silent, and she could hear her soft cries, muffled against Kid's shirt. She didn't want to scare them. She did her best imitation of a laugh as she pulled away. "I'm getting your shirt all soggy. It's a good thing black hides wet spots so good."
"Don't worry about my shirt," he said, his deep, velvety voice thick with caring. "And don't forget sick men can get well again; you know that about as well as anybody. You going to be okay if I leave for a few minutes?"
She wiped her eyes. "Of course. Where are you going?"
"Down to the docks to book the quickest passage to Virginia," he said already halfway out the door.
Gratefulness flooded her that Kid had the presence of mind to arrange that. Maybe it wasn't too late. She'd come to Yerba Buena with a full set of parents. Now she was leaving San Francisco, as it had recently been renamed, possibly fatherless.
No, not fatherless, she thought, glancing upward, and she prayed silently, "Oh Lord, don't let my daddy die. Let us get there in time."