Chapter Twenty-five
RUTHANN COULDN’T SLEEP. She’d dozed for perhaps an hour, and then found herself headed downstairs with a broom and a bucket the second it was light enough to see without a lamp.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs. Her heart pinched at the sight before her. Nate’s studio looked as if a train had run through it. Broken glass and porcelain lay scattered across the floor. Furniture was overturned, and they’d even taken a knife to the settee and torn the cushion. Something stained the wall, and it took her a moment to determine it was coffee, likely from the cup Nate had taken downstairs with him the day before and had forgotten about.
Drawing up every ounce of bravery she had and praying with all her heart, Ruthann crossed toward his darkroom where she’d taken the stool from last night. Opening the door to let the light in, she glanced around the room.
By all miracles, it was intact. They must have started their path of destruction from the front of the studio. It made sense, considering they would have wanted to ensure the place was empty—and that she was upstairs.
Grateful that most of Nate’s precious photography equipment was safe, Ruthann began attacking the mess on the floor. She hadn’t gotten very far when the front door opened and Nate’s figure appeared in the first rays of morning sun shining in from outside.
She immediately set aside her broom and dustpan and went to meet him. He’d paused just inside the door, where he ran a hand over his tired face and then peered again across the studio.
Ruthann came to his side. She went to reach for him, paused, and then forced herself to cast aside her doubts and wrapped an arm around his waist. He went stiff under her touch, and her heart ached. She wanted so badly to comfort him. Instead, she pulled her arm away, but remained close. Seeing what was before him must be a great shock, and she refused to let him face it alone.
“They came last night,” she said. “Two men, neither of whom I recognized.”
He looked at her then, fire blazing in his eyes. “They came upstairs? Did they hurt you?”
“No, not at all. The noise they made woke me up, and so I took that pistol the sheriff said to keep and came down here.”
His eyes widened. “Why would you do that?”
She put her hands on her hips. “I wasn’t about to let them destroy all of your work. I was able to run them off. They were just about gone when . . .” She bit her lip, debating whether it mattered if Nate knew what that man had said.
“What?” he demanded.
It was best he knew everything, she supposed. “One of them said that you ‘had it coming.’”
Nate shook his head as he surveyed the room again. “This is . . . it’s too much.” He sighed in a way that made her feel as if he were ready to give up.
On one hand, she could hardly blame him. How could he fight something—or someone—when he didn’t know why this was happening? Would Sissy go this far in her revenge? She might still harbor anger toward him, but Ruthann doubted she would do anything to jeopardize her courtship with her new beau.
On the other hand . . . Ruthann refused to let Nate give up everything he’d worked so hard for.
“This is easily cleaned up,” she said, determining to give him as much strength as she could to ensure he kept going, kept trying, kept fighting. “It won’t take but an hour or two. They didn’t touch the equipment in the darkroom. You can be back to work today, provided nothing essential is broken. We can lay a quilt over the settee.” She gestured at where the cushion had been torn.
