Marry Me (3 page)

Cole was prepared to say that perhaps they should heed the warning when Will drew his rifle from the scabbard and fired a shot in the air. His ears were still ringing as the deputy paused for a ten count and fired a second round.

“That’ll let Runt know it’s me,” Will said, sheathing the rifle. “He won’t know who you are, but he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt ‘cause I’m with you.”

Cole looked to his right and left, peering back over his shoulder as much as he was able.

“Don’t get all twisted there, Doc, and take a tumble. You won’t see him until he’s of a mind to let you. That’s how it is with Runt. He’s real cautious of folk. Always was more or less, but it’s worse now that his brothers are gone.”

“Runt? I thought the sheriff said it was Ryan Abbot that most likely took a shot at me the last time.”

“Ryan. Yeah. He’s the one. Call him Runt the same way folks like to call me that no-account Beatty boy. You get a name put to you around these parts and it pretty much sticks like pine sap.”

“Things aren’t so different where I come from.”

Will thought he detected an undercurrent in the doctor’s tone, not bitterness precisely, but something akin to resignation. “Reckon it’s a universal condition, Doc, unless you got something in your little black bag for it.”

“No.” Cole shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Well, then, back to Runt. You can guess how he got his name.”

“Smallest of the litter?”

“That’s right, though there aren’t but the three boys. Like I said, the older ones have moved on. Last I heard, Rusty–he’d be the oldest, about thirty-five or so, I’d guess–”

Cole interrupted. “Redhead?”

“What? Oh, his nickname, you mean. No, he was born Russell Abbot and has hair as black as a sinner’s heart. He was called that on account of a crick in his knee that sounded like a hinge needin’ some grease. Like I was saying, last I heard he found religion and two wives when a group of pilgrims came through here a while back. Settled himself in Utah.”

“Mormons?”

“Seems like. If Runt’s in a favorable mood, I might ask after Rusty.”

The trail widened as they made a gradual descent. They left the relative protection of the trees for a gently sloping grassland. A scattering of black-faced sheep on the hillside suddenly huddled together and then moved as swiftly as a nimbus cloud toward a rough-hewn cabin and outbuildings set in the bed of the valley. Chickens ran in circles in the yard. A cow lowed mournfully.

Cole had come upon this scene before but not from this vantage point or at so close a distance. The shot that drove him away with his tail between his legs–if not his horse–

had come when he was still on the periphery of the clearing, just barely revealed amidst a phalanx of aspens. He raised the brim of his hat a fraction and squinted against the sunlight glancing off the stream that ran through the valley.

“Where is he?” asked Cole. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Well, he sure as hell isn’t waiting for us on that sad excuse of a porch. C’mon, we need to keep going.”

“What about the other brother? You said he’s not around either.”

“That’s right. Randy left about the same time Rusty did. Now,
he
had a way with the ladies. Always did, though I think they called him Randy ‘cause his Christian name was Randall. Still, I remember people speculatin’ on whether he just grew into his name, like the egg maybe came before the chicken.”

Cole had been to Longabach’s restaurant with his sister several times since their arrival. Estella Longabach’s meaty stew was served with a side of speculation, giving her customers a double order of something to chew on. Cole could easily imagine the chicken and egg debate occupying the diners for an evening.

“Randy seemed the kind that would embrace his brother’s new religion,” Will said, “but he stayed a couple of months after that and took up with a half-breed Cherokee girl. Bought her from the trappers she was traveling with and moved on up to Leadville. Could be they have children now.”

“So Runt cares for the place.”

“His pa makes sure he does. He’ll be the one in the house.”

Cole tried to recall his conversation with the sheriff.

“Judah?”

“That’s right. But call him Mr. Abbot until he tells you otherwise. He’s particular about that.” “Of course.”

“You should know that Runt’s ornery, and that he comes by it because he can’t help himself. Judah’s a hotheaded cuss and Rusty and Randy were just plain bad-tempered when I knew them. Both of them bullies, and with me being a few years younger, I felt the meanness in them more than once. That wasn’t anything compared to how they carried on after Runt. My ma says that Runt had to come into this world with his fists up and flailing, just to make sure he survived. It didn’t help that Delia Abbot died right off. I suppose there was a wet nurse for a while, but that was probably as much of a leg up as Runt ever got.”

“Could I have seen him around town?”

“No. He comes in maybe twice, three times a year for supplies. He hates leaving his rifle with the sheriff, but that’s the law. Still, he’s pretty good with his fists and doesn’t back away from a fight. I’ve never seen him not get his licks in.”

“So he’s a brawler.”

“No, not really. His brothers were brawlers. He did his share to keep up so they wouldn’t turn on him, but mostly it takes some provocation to get him goin’. Someone, usually someone who doesn’t know squat about him, gives him a reason to take a poke. He’s never done any time in jail, and he’s never been drunk. Wyatt just sends him off with his supplies and points out the doctor’s office to the one that tangled with him.” He gave Coleridge Monroe another glance and grinned this time. “Guess that’ll be your problem now.”

“Scrapes and bruises. The occasional black eye. It shouldn’t be so bad.”

“Dislocated collarbone or jaw is more like it. Cracked ribs. A broken arm.”

Cole’s dark copper eyebrows climbed his forehead. “He’s the runt? Are you sure?”

Will chuckled. “He’s that. Barely comes to my chin, and I know because he’s given me a few pokes in the chest. His size, or the lack of it, is usually what starts the fighting. Except for the ten-pound chip on his shoulder, he doesn’t carry much weight on him. Used to be when the Abbots were still performing, Runt’d have to play all the girl parts. Lord, but he hated that. He cleaned up kind of pretty, especially for Juliet and that other one–the wife of the Moor.”

“Desdemona,” Cole said. “Othello’s wife.”

Will snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Desdemona. Runt told me once that the only role he really liked was Portia.”

“From
The Merchant of Venice.”
“That’s the one.”

Cole considered that. “Understandable.”

“How’s that?”

“A man playing a woman who disguises herself as a man. In Shakespeare’s day, men always played the women’s roles.”

“Could be so, maybe it was, but around here, we like the parts that are all woman. You take my meaning?”

“I do.”

Will thrust out a hand sideways to halt Cole’s forward progress. “We’ll hold up here. Wait for an invitation.”

Cole flexed his fingers around the reins, relieving some of the stiffness that had crept into them. “Sheriff Cooper didn’t mention that the Abbots were actors.”

“It’s been a while. I don’t suppose folks think of it much. When Judah and Delia came to town they just had the two boys and called themselves the Abbot Family Players. They sang, danced, and performed recitations. I barely remember that. I was pretty young myself. After Mrs. Abbot died they didn’t do a theatrical until Runt was probably six or seven. He did magic tricks then. Started playing parts when he was around eleven, I’d say. Quit everything … let me see, maybe six years back. He was probably seventeen or thereabouts. Couldn’t take the teasing any longer, I guess. Better for everyone, most likely. He was bound to kill someone for tryin’ to catch and kiss him. Don’t know that anyone would have done it, but it never came to that since he couldn’t be caught.”

“So that was the sort of teasing you did. You
were
hard on him.”

Will nodded. “Seemed harmless back then, just boys wanting to prove something we couldn’t even understand about ourselves, but I feel proper shame thinking about it now.”

“He’s come to trust you, though, so that speaks well of you.”

Will struck a thoughtful pose, rubbing the underside of his chin with his knuckles. “I wouldn’t say that he trusts me exactly. Tolerates, is more like it. He likes the sheriff well enough, so Wyatt doesn’t have to be as cautious. Of course, Wyatt always carries some of his wife’s biscuits when he travels. Makes him kind of popular with the outliers.” Will pointed to the cabin. “You might as well introduce yourself, Doc. Runt doesn’t seem to be of a mind to show himself without you giving him your credentials.”

Will tapped himself on the chest where his star was pinned to his vest. “I have mine right here.” He gave Cole an encouraging nod. “Go on. Tell Judah about yourself. He’s probably sitting on the other side of one of those dirty windows waiting to hear what you have to say. It’s a sure thing that Runt is somewhere close by.”

“Just talk?” he said, frowning. “About what?”

“Tell them who you are for starters. They know me, so it’s you that’s rousing their suspicions.”

Feeling perhaps as foolish as he ever had, Cole raised his head slightly and called out. “Hel-lo! Mr. Abbot! Ahoy, there!”

One of Will’s eyebrows kicked up. “Ahoy? We’re not exactly at sea, Doc.”

Cole very much felt as if he was. “It’s a perfectly acceptable greeting at a distance, one I heard employed at a demonstration of the telephone.” When Will simply stared at him blankly, Cole decided that explanation could wait. He tried again, shouting out so his voice would be heard clearly. “I am Coleridge Braxton Monroe.”

Will could only surmise the doc was nervous because there was no other reason to give all three of his names. Braxton? Rose never mentioned the patrician features accompanied a pretentious name. Will managed to keep from rolling his eyes but suspected that somewhere Runt was fixing to fire another shot, probably across the bridge of Coleridge Braxton Monroe’s noble nose.

“I’m the new physician for Reidsville,” Cole went on. “I was recently hired by the town to fill the position vacated by Doctor Diggins. I understand that you and your son Ru–” He caught himself and heard Will’s low whistle of relief. “Ryan may require medical attention from time to time. Sheriff Cooper encouraged me to get to know the outliers.” He loosened the strap on his black leather bag and carefully held it up. “I brought my medicines and instruments. If you will permit an examination, I will better understand how I may be of service to you and your son.”

There was no immediate reply, and Cole thought he would be forced to repeat all of it even more loudly. Will cautioned him to give it some time, and their patience was rewarded after a few minutes. The front door of the cabin opened and a man supporting himself with a cane limped out.

“Judah?” The question was reflexive. Even at his current distance, Cole could make out enough of the man’s features to know he had to be the father.

“Judah,” Will confirmed. “Don’t be fooled by the limp. He moves pretty well when no one’s watching him.”

“Why would he affect a limp?”

Will Beatty shrugged. “Acting’s in his blood, I reckon.”

It was as good an explanation as any, Cole decided, and he tucked it away until he had a better one.

“You invitin’ us in, Judah?” Will called out. “No biscuits, but I have Mrs. Easter’s rhubarb tarts. I know you like those.”

Judah shuffled to the edge of the canted porch and leaned his left shoulder into one of the supports. Still holding the cane he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Does Coleridge Braxton Monroe come with the tarts?”

“Afraid so!”

Cole watched Judah’s hands drop back to his sides. Apparently he’d done all the talking he was prepared to do across a distance. Judah turned away, but at the last moment, he flicked his cane in their direction and gestured to them to come forward.

“That’s it?” asked Cole.

“That’s it.”

“What about Ryan?”

“He probably won’t shoot us now, not unless his pa says to. C’mon. Let’s go.” He clicked his tongue and let his mount feel his boot heels. As they rode toward the cabin, Will opened up his saddlebag and took out a neatly wrapped parcel. He opened it up with one hand and passed Cole a tart. “You sure as hell won’t get one of these out of Judah once I give them over. Better take it now. You’ll thank me.”

Cole did exactly that as they dismounted and tethered their horses. Mrs. Easter’s delicious tart was settling nicely in his empty stomach. In anticipation of beginning his day on horseback, Cole had passed on breakfast. Whitley was disappointed, but he cared more about not being sick in front of that no-account Beatty boy.

He let Will lead the way across the porch and into the house. Judah had allowed the door to remain open just enough to confirm that his gesture with the cane had indeed been an invitation. Upon entering, Cole removed his hat, although he noticed that Will did not. He transferred his hat to the hand that also held his medical bag and stepped forward to greet Judah Abbot.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Abbot,” he said, holding out his hand.

Judah did not make to rise from his rocker or take Cole’s hand. Suspicion was almost a tangible feature of his pale blue eyes. He looked Cole over carefully, taking his time, seemingly insensible of–or indifferent to–the rude nature of his regard.

Cole didn’t retract his hand. He was used to being on the receiving end of Judah’s type of scrutiny. At St. John of God’s, it had been the steely-eyed stare of Dr. James Erwin that most of the young doctors feared. Erwin had a manner about him that was simultaneously demanding and disapproving. Pity the poor resident that surrendered to the pressure of answering a question quickly and got it wrong. Just as withering to a new doctor’s confidence was the scornful look when the answer was right but too long in coming.

Judah Abbot, for all his cold and measured consideration, still had something to learn about intimidation from the head of surgery at St. John’s teaching hospital.