Marry Me (10 page)

Rhyne pulled her arms under her and tried to push herself up.

“Don’t move. For God’s sake, just lie there and catch your breath.” He bent and picked up the washstand. Towels had spilled from the cupboard under it. He shoved those back inside and closed the door, then he replaced the basin and pitcher. Dropping to his haunches beside Rhyne, Cole helped her turn on her back and lifted her to a sitting position by supporting her shoulders.

“What was so important that you had to get up?”

She stared at him mutinously. “Are you mule-stupid?”

“I must be.”

Rhyne shook her head, disgust, not embarrassment, defining the line of her mouth. “I’m about to burst,” she said tightly.

That took some steam from Cole’s boiler. He knew he should have thought of that and left the pot within her easy reach, or better yet, made certain she emptied her bladder before he left the house. “Where’s the pot?”

“Under the bed.”

“All right. Let me untangle you and get you up to your knees.” Cole pulled the sheet out from under her legs and tossed it on the bed. He allowed Rhyne to struggle a bit changing position before he offered help. She needed to have a better sense of her own limitations if she was going to heal properly. While she caught her breath, he lowered his head to the floor to look under the bed.

He guessed that she’d probably pushed the pot deeper when she first tried to grasp it. Making a sweep with his arm, Cole pulled it forward. He also captured two lengths of rope. He knew immediately he was holding what had been used to bind Rhyne’s wrists or ankles to the bed frame. A second sweep would likely produce another pair. Instead of reaching for them, he passed the pot to Rhyne and pocketed the rope out of her sight.

“I’ll leave you,” he said. “Call me when you’re finished.”

Standing on the front porch, Cole examined the rope in the sunlight. Dried blood flecked both lengths but not enough for Cole to conclude that they had been used regularly as restraints. He raised his arm in preparation of pitching both ropes as far as he could, but in the end stayed his own hand. Returning them to his pocket, he leaned back against the rough-hewn cabin wall and waited for Rhyne to summon him.

“It burned,” she told him when he arrived in the room. “Making water’s never burned before.”

Cole nodded, helping her to her feet. “Your urethra’s inflamed, and there are scratches and fine tears on your labia.”

“Oh.”

“Do you have any idea what I just said?”

“No, but plain speaking isn’t your strong suit. I’m learning that about you.”

He let Rhyne’s nails sink into his arm as she lowered herself to the mattress. “I take it Doc Diggins spoke differently.”

“I never traded too many words with him,” Rhyne said. “But I don’t recall that he ever said something I couldn’t comprehend. He set my nose once and I know he just called it my nose.”

“Always a good choice,” Cole said dryly.

“Well,” she demanded, “what else is it?”

He eased Rhyne back and laid the sheet over her again. “Well, in my case, it’s a proboscis.”

She regarded him suspiciously. “Why in your case?”

“Because it’s prominent.” He gave Rhyne his profile and let her judge for herself.

“It’s noble.”

Cole chuckled softly. “Did that no-account Beatty boy tell you to say that?”

Rhyne shook her head. “No, why would he?”

“That’s a good question.” Cole straightened, placing his palms at the small of his back. “So how did he come by that name? I don’t have an answer for that either.”

“Did you ask Will why folks call him that?”

“No. I thought I’d like to work it out on my own.”

“Then I won’t tell you.”

“You know?”

“Of course I know. I’ve known him all my life.”

Cole folded his arms across his chest as he studied her. She had a kitten-in-the-cream smile turning up the corners of her mouth. In that moment it was difficult to reconcile the fact that she had managed to pass muster as a boy, then as a man. “Is there any chance he was responsible for breaking your nose?”

Rhyne had to clutch her middle to contain the pain as she laughed. “Will Beatty? Lord, no. If there was a fight, he mostly stood in the ring of spectators. His mother taught piano for a lot of years, you know, and Will can play. Ma Beatty would have been plenty disappointed if he broke his hands.”

“Is that so?” Cole didn’t try to check his amusement.

Rhyne nodded. “He’s good, too. I heard him play a couple of times at the Miner Key. He knows songs with words and lots of them that don’t have any.”

Cole’s smile deepened a fraction. “I couldn’t have guessed.”

She shrugged. “I think it depends on where you’re standing to know a thing like that.”

“And I’m still outside looking in.”

“And I’m inside out.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “You know what I mean.”

“I do, but that’s an indication that you need to rest.” A second indicator was that she didn’t argue with him. He picked up the ceramic pot to dispose of the contents and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Johnny Winslow arrived at dusk. He shared a talent with the deputy for making a short story long and a long story dramatic, so Cole was out of patience by the time the youthful Mr. Winslow came to a halt. The gist of the tale was that his horse lost a shoe and Johnny had to turn back to have the blacksmith repair it. He was offered another mount by Joe Redmond, but refused to take Becken because of the stallion’s reputation for recalcitrance and leaving his riders dusting off their britches.

“There’s not much you can do now,” Cole said, looking Johnny over. The young man had a restlessness about him that did not make him a quiet companion even when he wasn’t talking. “Take your roll up to the loft. We can share the space.”

“I don’t mind bunkin’ outdoors. Prefer it, in fact.” “That’s up to you.”

Johnny nodded. He had to push back a lock of hair that immediately spilled over his forehead. “There’s no rain expected. I checked with Sid. His rheumatism is the same today as it was yesterday.”

Cole had learned that Sid Walker’s joints substituted for a standard barometer in Reidsville. By all accounts, his predictions were reliable. “Well, then, I suppose you can have your pick of places to sleep.”

Johnny set his roll on the floor. “I reckon you’re probably hungry. I can make dinner.” He started walking toward the stove. “What’s your pleasure? Will told me that Runt had everything I’d need.”

“You can cook?” Cole hadn’t expected that. He’d only ever observed Johnny in the completion of routine chores at Longabach’s restaurant.

“Sure. I’ve been watching Estella and Henry for years. Lately, Estella’s been letting me have a turn. You haven’t been at the restaurant much, I noticed.”

“Whitley likes to cook for me.” Cole refrained from confiding that his sister wasn’t particularly adept at it. “She should be doing other things. I’m thinking of hiring a housekeeper that would also cook for us.”

“Doc Diggins did,” Johnny said. “So what do you want for dinner? Should I ask Runt?”

“No, Runt’s resting. I saw ham in the curing shed. Start there and surprise me with the rest.”

Johnny paused as he was checking the stove’s ash pan. “Now you know the Longabachs’ serve plain fare, not that fancy food you get at the Commodore.”

“Plain is fine, Johnny. And I haven’t been to the Commodore except to attend to a guest’s appendicitis. I can promise you that after a day of doing Runt’s chores, I’ll eat anything you put in front of me.” “Then we’ll be fine, Doc. I’m good at this.”

Cole didn’t allow Johnny to take the meal he prepared to Runt. He carried it in instead, settling the tray on her lap after she sat up. “How do you feel about seeing Mr.

Winslow?”

Unsure, Rhyne slowly picked up her fork. “Does he know about me?”

“I can’t say. He asked how you were getting on and seemed satisfied with my answers. He didn’t show more curiosity than that.”

“Maybe Will didn’t tell him.”

“Maybe not. Maybe he left it up to you.” Her uncertainty was palpable, and Cole let her wrestle with it. “You don’t have to decide this minute. I can hold him off tonight, but know this, Rhyne, I’m not getting you a rub of tobacco to pouch in your cheek or letting you apply dirt and sweat like you were making an entrance from stage right.”

She didn’t reply. She didn’t think she could make him understand how naked she felt.

“Eat what you can,” he said, rising. He was all too aware that he’d spoiled her appetite. “I’ll come back to get the tray.”

Johnny Winslow entertained Cole with a series of circular tales about the denizens of Reidsville. Some were funny, like the time Gracie Showalter locked her husband out of the house buck-naked in retaliation for tramping mud all over her clean floors. Some were poignant, like the passing of Wyatt Cooper’s first wife while he was out in the back of beyond making photographs. Still others were cautionary, as when Foster Maddox, heir to the California-and-Colorado railroad line, tried to take over the Calico Spur and the town rallied to take it back.

In spite of his flagging energy, Cole remained interested. While his contract with the town was straightforward, the actual arrangement was unique, and so he gathered the threads of Johnny’s stories as material for the tapestry that explained Reidsville.

The town gave him a home for which he did not have to pay rent. Moreover, at the end of a year, the house would be his outright if he and the committee agreed upon his continued stay. If he left after that, he could sell the house back to the town and was guaranteed a fair price for it. He arrived with his own instruments and a few medical journals, but a reference library, surgery, and examining office were all provided for him. Mrs. Easter had taken great pride, as well she should have, in pointing out the new microscope on his desk.

“Doc Diggins had one like it,” she’d told him. “For show, mostly, because I never saw him look in it, but one couldn’t help but feel more confident about him for having it.”

Reflecting on Mrs. Easter’s words now, Cole was reminded how true they were. Too often doctoring was more showmanship than science. It was Cole’s aim to change that, at least in Reidsville.

“You look about ready to call it a day,” Johnny told Cole. “You want me to get Runt’s tray?”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“Okay.” Johnny stood and began clearing the table. He was almost done by the time Cole got to his feet.

Rhyne looked up when Cole slipped into the room. She held out the tray. “He’s going to think I didn’t like it.”

“I’ll tell him you just weren’t hungry. That’s true,

isn’t it?”

“It’s true,” she said. “But I want to tell him myself.” Cole arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nodded. “I’d rather do it without an audience. Johnny and me. Alone. He never paid much notice to me when I was in town. He was polite and all, just not one of the ones who liked to rile me and stir things up.”

Now it was Cole who hesitated. “If you’re sure.”

“I am. Go on. Send him in.”

Cole set the tray down. “Not until I bandage your shoulder.” When she looked at him oddly, he explained. “It was Will’s idea to tell folks you were shot. He came up with that to explain why I stayed back and he returned to town.”

“Shot?!” Her dark eyebrows darted toward her cap of badly cropped hair. “Who shot me?”

Rhyne’s clear indignation was not unexpected. Cole held up his hands, palms out, absolving himself of responsibility. “Miscreants, Will said.”

“He’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe, but he warmed to the story so quickly there was no turning him from it. I’m just going to put a sling on your right arm and shoulder. Keep it still and don’t let Johnny get too curious about your wound. What you want to tell him about the miscreant that shot you is your business. My advice? Say the least you can. He’ll have no difficulty making the story his own. You won’t recognize it when you hear it again.”

Cole adjusted the sling, running a finger under the knot at Rhyne’s neck to make certain it wasn’t too tight. He felt her seized by a sudden tremor and realized he shouldn’t have touched her without seeking permission. “I should have warned you,” he said, his tone curt.

“Which do you hate more?” Rhyne asked, watching him closely. “Making a mistake or apologizing for it?”

Cole pretended he hadn’t heard. He stood, retrieved the tray, and bid her good night, leaving the door open. “Runt wants to say hello,” he told Johnny, passing off the tray. “Don’t stay too long.”

“You goin’ to bed?”

“Soon. I thought I’d step outside for a while.”

Johnny was unsuccessful at masking his surprise, but he didn’t say anything. “Suit yourself.”

Nodding, Cole did just that. The evening air that greeted him was clear and cool: another successful forecast for Sid Walker. Breathing deeply, he set his shoulder against one of the supports and waited. He didn’t know the precise nature of what he was waiting for, only that he would understand what to do when it came to him.

As it turned out, it was laughter, and once he heard it and knew Rhyne would be fine, Coleridge Monroe turned in.

“Johnny says you got him good,” Cole told Rhyne. “And he didn’t appear to be bothered by it. If his reaction is any indication of what you can expect from others, the town is going to be much more astonished that you were shot than by the fact that you’re a woman.”

“Will should have never said that about me.”

Cole shrugged as he put his stethoscope away. “I told you, he suggested a broken limb at first, but it grew like Topsy from there.”

Rhyne’s slate gray eyes narrowed a fraction as she plotted revenge. “I’ll settle up with that no-account Beatty boy. Just see if I don’t.”

“I have no doubt,” said Cole. He helped her sit up in bed and rearranged the sling for her comfort. It did not escape his notice that her stiff movements were accompanied by a grimace. “Where do you hurt?”

“Are you going to be a burr under my saddle about it?”

“I am.”

She sighed. “My belly.” “Inside or outside?”

“Outside.”

“The welts, then. Do you have any ointment? Liniment?”