Marry Me (16 page)

Rhyne closed the book in her lap and laid it on the side table. She pulled the shawl closer and tucked the hem of her nightgown around her feet.

Cole got up and added wood to the small stove. He stirred the embers and then brushed off his hands and returned to the chair. “Late summer nights here are chilly, I’m learning.”

“I like them. All the stars are out. The sky’s open and wide. I bunked outside most of the time. It seems strange to sleep every night with a roof over my head.”

Listening, he smiled faintly. “Perhaps too much has been made of having a roof. The sky has a great deal to recommend it.”

“You slept on the porch,” she pointed out. “It has a roof.” “Not much of one.”

“True.”

They fell silent. It didn’t take long for it to stretch toward awkward. Rhyne glanced at the book she’d put aside. Cole fiddled with his cup. As often happens, when they spoke, it was at the same time.

“Go on,” Cole said. “Ladies first.”

Hearing that expression, one that she had uttered to females all her life, tickled Rhyne. She stared at Cole for a long moment absorbing the idea that what he’d said really applied to her. She felt her lips part as the urge to laugh began to swell inside her. It erupted from her throat as something husky and hearty, eventually bringing tears to her eyes before it became a choking fit that required Cole’s assistance to contain it.

He pushed her forward in the chair and tapped her lightly on the back with the flat of his hand. “You don’t have a chaw in your cheek, do you?”

Rhyne shook her head hard, squeezing out a few additional tears. She swiped at them and gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Stop. Don’t. Say. Anything.”

Chuckling, Cole pressed a handkerchief into her hand.

“Better?”

Through her tears, Rhyne could see that the linen was monogrammed. The embroidery floss was emerald green. Someone had chosen that color because it matched his eyes. The stitches were fine, the script elegant with flourishes and curlicues:
CMB.
She started to push it back at him, but he insisted she keep it.

Rhyne touched it to her eyes, then the corners of her mouth. She refused to put it to her nose. She folded it in her fist and sniffed hard.

Cole didn’t comment, nor did he laugh. In truth, he was touched that she found something so ordinary worth extraordinary care. He stood abruptly so that his hip was no longer resting on the wide arm of her chair and returned to the secretary.

“It’s still your turn,” he said when he saw that she had recovered.

“I think I forgot,” she said. “No. Wait. I remember. I was wondering what you thought I might do.”

“Do?”

“For work. We talked about it, remember? Or at least I did. I can’t remain here forever, Dr. Monroe. That was never part of the plan.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a plan.”

“Don’t you think I should have one?”

“Too much has been made of them,” he said. “Like roofs.”

Rhyne’s smile was a trifle uneven as she tried to decide if he was mocking her. “I need money. I couldn’t even buy a stick of licorice at Morrison’s.”

“Whitley bought you some, didn’t she?”

“Yes. She bought me cherry and lemon drops, too.”

“But that’s not the point, is it?”

“No. I don’t want to be beholdin’. I should have work.”

Cole leaned forward and set his elbows on the desk. “All right. But it’s too important a decision to be discussing at this hour.” He checked his pocket watch. “It’s four-thirty. I don’t know if that makes it too early or too late, but it’s definitely wrong.”

She nodded. “In the morning, then.
Later
in the morning.” Rhyne eased her feet out from under her and stood. She dragged the shawl with her. “Good night, Dr. Monroe.”

“Good night, Miss Abbot.”

Hearing herself addressed in that manner was also a first, but this time Rhyne didn’t laugh.

Whitley slathered butter on one half of a warm biscuit, then waggled her knife at Rhyne who was sitting opposite her at the dining room table. She ignored her brother’s reproving look. “I know what you can do,” she said. She bit into her biscuit then held up one finger as she chewed, manners warring with the urgency to make her disclosure. Swallowing, she said, “The Miner Key.”

Rhyne and Cole both stared at her.

“It’s a good idea,” she said defensively. “Mr. Martin is always looking for entertaining acts. And Molly told me that Rhyne used to perform there when she was my age, even younger. Molly never saw a show because she was too young, but her parents remember the Abbot Family Players and told her that Rhyne was excellent as Juliet. She could give readings and do short scenes.” She set her knife down and regarded Rhyne earnestly. “Can you sing? It would be even better if you had a sweet voice or could play an instrument. Mr. Martin could fill the saloon every night if you sang ‘My Old Kentucky Home.’ ”

Cole forestalled Whitley from taking another bite of biscuit by placing one hand over her wrist. “That was highly entertaining, Whitley. Perhaps Rudy Martin will hire you.”

Whitley rolled her eyes at Rhyne. “That means no. Did you understand that? Sometimes Cole isn’t easy to follow, but that means no. For both of us.”

Rhyne objected to the idea that Cole could make this decision for her, but she didn’t argue the principle because she happened to agree with the outcome. “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t want to be on stage again. I never liked performing.”

“Really?” asked Whitley. “Why not?”

Rhyne shrugged. She used her fork to push some scrambled eggs around on her plate. “Everyone stares.”

“But they pay to do it. People stare at me all the time, and I can’t collect a cent.”

Cole had a strip of bacon halfway to his mouth. His motion was arrested by Whitley’s disclosure. “Here, Whitley? They’re staring at you here?”

“Not now,” she said. “And no one was ever mean about it, not like the girls at Miss Starcher’s. You can’t stop people from looking and wondering, Cole. I’m not ashamed of my scars. I wish you wouldn’t make me be.”

Flushing, Cole set the bacon strip back on his plate. He was aware of Rhyne watching him, but was more concerned by what Whitley saw. “What shames me,” he said quietly, “is that I’ve given you reason–any reason at all–to believe what you just said.”

Rhyne’s gaze swiveled to the fine webbing of scars on the back of Whitley’s hands. Where her skin was pulled taut, it was unnaturally smooth and shiny. The color was so pale in places as to be alabaster; elsewhere it was pink, edging toward red. Rhyne knew the scars went at least as far as the middle of Whitley’s forearms because she’d seen Cole’s sister with the cuffs of her blouse turned up, but if there was more extensive injury it was concealed by her clothes.

Whitley fiddled with her half-eaten biscuit. “I had reason to think it would be different in Reidsville. It’s not New York, after all. When we first arrived, you allowed me to explore on my own now and again, but that’s changed. You won’t permit me to leave the house alone under any circumstances. You escort me to school or make me walk with the Hammond twins even if I want to be by myself. It is surprisingly easy to believe that you worry what people will say about me.” She stopped idly turning the biscuit and raised her hands so the backs of them were visible to Cole. “Or say about my disfigurement.”

Except for a heart stutter, Cole did not flinch. “You misunderstand, Whitley. My decision not to allow you to roam at will has nothing whatsoever to do with your scars.” He indicated with his index finger that she should lower her hands. “There are other considerations.”

Whitley sat back and folded her arms, tucking her hands from sight. She ignored Cole’s disapproving stare. “He thinks I am being dramatic,” she told Rhyne. “And yet he insists he will not seriously consider a career on the stage for me.”

Cole shook his head. “Do not engage Miss Abbot in our disagreement.”

“Miss Abbot?” She glanced from Rhyne to her brother and back to Rhyne again. “You are Miss Abbot now?”

“I am Rhyne.”

“Well, that is a relief. I cannot keep up with the changes in my brother since he made your acquaintance.”

Cole had an urge to stuff Whitley’s biscuit in her mouth. He quashed that impulse and settled for reminding her of her responsibilities. “Your breakfast, please, Whitley. You’ll be late for school.”

Sighing heavily, she shoveled eggs onto her fork. “It is a trial being your sister, Cole. Judge Wentworth is still in town, you know, and I might put my case before him.” She addressed Rhyne. “Are there female lawyers, do you think?”

“I don’t know.” “There should be.”

Cole drew the napkin off his lap and wiped his mouth. “That, at least, is something worth pursuing, Whitley. If you speak to the judge, speak to him about that. Tell him you cut your teeth putting your arguments before your brother. If he has any sisters, he’ll appreciate how effective that can be.”

Whitley grinned. “That is an excellent suggestion, Coleridge. I shall take it under advisement.” Her smile faded when she heard the knock at the front door. She slumped in her chair. “That’s the twins.”

Cole pointed toward the hallway. “Go. Take your biscuit.”

Whitley did what Cole had restrained himself from doing: she stuffed the biscuit in her mouth. Mumbling an apology for rushing off, she shot up from her chair and hurried from the dining room.

“Don’t allow her to fool you,” Cole said when she was gone. “She’d much rather have Dot and Digger Hammond walk her to school than me.”

Rhyne pushed her plate away. With Whitley gone, there was no reason to pretend she had an appetite. “Why
don’t
you let her go anywhere by herself?”

“She distracts herself. Everything is interesting to her, and she doesn’t particularly like the classroom. I’m not sure she’d arrive without an escort.”

“That’s school.” Rhyne knew her chin was up; she heard the edge of challenge in her voice. “What about other places? Why can’t she be distracted on her way to Morrison’s, for instance? What does it matter if she goes to the bakery by way of Wickham’s Leather Goods?”

“I don’t approve of her wandering around on her own.”

“But you let her do it when you first came to town. Whitley said that and you didn’t disagree. She’s right. Something changed.”

Cole placed his napkin on the table. “This doesn’t really concern you.”

“I think it might. I think you’re afraid that what happened to me could happen to Whitley.”

“Can’t it?”

Rhyne fell silent. She didn’t know how to answer that question. She rubbed the underside of her chin, an affectation that she’d often employed as Runt. Some habits of deep thinking were difficult to break.

Cole watched her internal struggle play out on her face. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and furrowed her brow. Her slate gray eyes clouded. “It’s all right, Rhyne. You don’t have to answer, but please don’t think I’ll let you take Whitley’s side on this. I have to do what I believe is best.”

Rhyne nodded jerkily. She brushed crumbs from the table into the palm of her hand and started to gather utensils.

“Leave them,” said Cole. “For now. There’s something I
would
like an answer to.”

She set her knife, fork, and spoon down carefully and brought her head up. “What?”

“Sometime last week–I don’t remember when precisely–Whitley mentioned that you’d never asked her about her scars. She assumed I told you how she got them, and I allowed her to think that was the case. She doesn’t mind if I do tell someone, but she knows that I generally let her speak for herself. So my question is this: why
haven’t
you asked her?”

Rhyne’s eyebrows lifted in a perfect arc above her eyes. “When someone asked me improper questions, I jammed my fist in their nose.” She ran her index finger along the bridge of hers. “You noticed right off that mine’s been broken a time or two. I didn’t figure to have it set again.”

“Whitley wouldn’t have punched you.”

“Well, I don’t know why not. Folks need to discipline their prying. Sometimes it just takes waiting a thing out. It’s like trying to coax a hatchling from its nest. It’ll happen when it happens.”

It wasn’t that Cole disagreed, only that he thought that she wasn’t being completely forthcoming. “Then you weren’t concerned about
quid pro quo?”

Rhyne’s mouth curled to one side at his use of the Latin phrase. “There you go again. I know what it means, but if you want to keep talking like that, I suggest you invite Wyatt Cooper to play cards. Besides being the sheriff, he’s a lawyer, and he can
quid
your
pro quo
and raise you a
habeas corpus”

Rhyne actually rocked back in her chair when Cole gave a shout of laughter. She watched him closely, suspicious of this sudden change in his humor. “What did I say?”

Cole required a moment to compose himself before he could answer. “I’m not certain I can even explain it,” he said. “You have a talent for turning a phrase that can snap me to attention.”

“Well, then, soldier. At ease. You almost pushed me and the chair over.” She reached for her utensils again, and this time Cole didn’t stop her. She gathered his things, then Whitley’s, and balanced the whole of it in her arms as she started for the kitchen. Just outside of his reach, she paused and pivoted on her heels to face him. “I did understand what you meant, though. And you’re right. I might have asked your sister what happened to her if I’d thought she wouldn’t ask the same of me. Something for something.”

Whitley came out of the schoolhouse swinging the strap that held her books together. She came close to clobbering Digger Hammond in the back of the head when the arc of her books went wide. Digger was oblivious because he was playing shoulder tag with his friends, but Dot saw what nearly came to pass and gave Whitley a quelling glance. Whitley offered an apologetic smile that she didn’t mean in the least. She would have rather been bumping shoulders with Digger than trying to match Dot’s sashay.

Whitley forgot all about the sway in her step when she saw Rhyne waiting for her at the perimeter of the schoolyard. She barreled right through Digger and his friends, ignoring their protests, and ran straight at Rhyne.