Marry Me (33 page)

She didn’t have time to reflect on what it meant or how to differentiate it from the knot she felt when she was around Cole. What she saw through the window put every other consideration out of her mind because watching Wyatt lift a fork to his mouth made her afraid she had arrived too late.

Rhyne didn’t worry any longer about being heard. She ran around to the front of the cabin and hopped up on the porch. She announced herself at the same time that she threw open the door. That foresight saved her from staring down the barrel of Wyatt Cooper’s Peacemaker. He was coming out of his chair and already drawing on her when she crossed the threshold.

“Dammit to hell, Rhyne,” Wyatt said, holstering his weapon. “I might have killed you. Jesus. What were you thinking?”

The interruption had also pushed Cole to his feet. He stared at Rhyne and talked right over Wyatt. “What in God’s name are you doing here? Dammit, Rhyne. What were you thinking?”

Judah was the only one who kept his seat, but he also joined the chorus. “Out of my sight, whore! You’re not wanted here! What were you thinking?”

Rhyne kept her Winchester pointed at the ground. She ignored her father entirely while her eyes wandered from Cole’s face, to Wyatt’s gun, and finally came to rest on the cake crumbs on their plates. It was only then that she settled her full attention on Judah and hoisted the Winchester so that it pointed at her father’s chest.

“If either one of them dies from your poison, Judah Abbot, you remember that you saw my rifle now because I’m not going to show it to you again. You’ll never know where the shot comes from that’s goin’ to kill you.”

Chapter 11

“Are you boys all right back there?”

The
boys
exchanged glances and didn’t answer.

Rhyne looked at them over her shoulder. Neither Cole nor Wyatt appeared in danger of slipping from their saddle, but they also had not regained their healthy color. “Not much in the mood to talk?” She shrugged. “I reckon I wouldn’t feel like it either. You’re probably all cramped up from heaving.”

That was something of an understatement. Their retching had been so violent that even now, almost an hour after leaving the cabin, it hurt to draw a deep breath. The fact that Rhyne was enjoying herself at their expense did not incline them to be sociable. They suffered her gentle nudging because they figured they probably owed her.

It wasn’t possible to know for a certainty that Judah had poisoned them, but Rhyne’s conviction was so powerful that not acting on it would have been foolish. While Rhyne held her rifle on Judah, Cole prepared a purgative of ipecac syrup from his medical bag with a saltwater chaser. Maintaining his innocence, Judah refused to drink any part of the emetic, and merely shook his head at Cole and Wyatt when they did. As they stood on the porch heaving currant cake and what remained of their breakfast over the side, Judah’s booming laughter nearly drowned out the sound of their retching.

Cole took what was left of the currant cake, wrapped it in a kerchief, and placed it in his satchel, while Wyatt promised Judah that if they could prove poisoning, he would be back to arrest him. Judah was unimpressed and unconcerned.

“I ate the cake the same as you,” he reminded them. “But thank you kindly for the entertainment.” He was still chuckling when they filed out.

As the trail widened so they could ride three abreast, Rhyne slowed Twist to allow Cole and Wyatt to catch up to her. They drew up on either side and matched her pace.

All trace of humor was absent from Rhyne’s features now. “I was afraid you wouldn’t believe me,” she said. “I didn’t know what I was going to do if that happened.”

Cole said nothing, but Wyatt couldn’t let it pass. “I have to be honest, Rhyne. I don’t know if I do believe what you were saying, but there was never any doubt in my mind that you believed it. It seemed best to err on the side of trusting you.”

“I’m telling the truth. You should have taken him in and saved yourself the trouble of riding out again.”

“It’s a matter of evidence,” said Wyatt. “I couldn’t very well jail him for hospitality, now could I? He has a compelling argument: he ate the cake.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Rhyne. “He’s like a snake.”

Cole ducked his head to miss a low hanging branch. “What does that mean?”

“Some snakes have poison in them, and it doesn’t bother them a whit, but just let one bite you, and …” She shrugged. “That’s how my brothers explained it to me.”

Wyatt adjusted the brim of his hat. “Rusty and Randy were known for some tall tales, Rhyne. Judah’s mean as a snake, but that doesn’t make him one. Sounds as though your brothers wanted to scare you.” He looked over at Rhyne, but she was staring straight ahead. If her brothers’ stories had frightened her, Wyatt didn’t expect her to admit it. “And don’t forget, Judah didn’t bite us.”

“Just the same,” she said, “he tried to poison you.

You’ll see.”

Wyatt looked over Rhyne’s head at Cole. “Is she right? Will you be able to show me something?”

Cole felt Rhyne’s gaze join Wyatt’s. “This isn’t what either of you want to hear, but the answer is I don’t know. If we’d found something in the cabin that he might have used, it would be easier. But since the search gave us nothing, what I can tell you depends on the type of poison, how much is in the cake, and whether or not I can extract it.”

Rhyne snorted. “That’s too many complications. There’s a nest of mice in the woodshed. Feed it to one of them. A dead mouse is evidence that people can understand.”

“She has a point,” said Wyatt.

“I intended to start there, but you need to understand that it’s not conclusive,” Cole told them. “If the mouse dies, there can be reasons for it that have nothing at all to do with eating the cake. If the mouse lives, it doesn’t prove that there’s no poison, but suggests the possibility that the mouse is indifferent to it.”

“It’ll die,” Rhyne said. “I know it’ll die.”

Whitley carefully lifted the book that was serving as a lid on the mouse box. “Cake’s gone again,” she announced. “I do believe Mr. Willoughby is fatter and happier for it. Still, poor thing. He wants to be out in society.”

Rhyne sighed. “I wish you hadn’t named him.” She made a sweep across the shelves in Cole’s surgery with a feather duster. “I feel guilty for wishing him dead.”

Cole looked up from his microscope. “Whitley, put the book back. If Willoughby escapes, I cannot speak to what will happen to you.”

“Oh, it must be very bad if you cannot say what it is in front of Rhyne.” At his reproachful glance, she replaced
Sense and Sensibility.
“May I at least peek at the others?”

“A peek.”

There were two other boxes. Mr. Knightley resided under
Emma
and Mr. Darcy under
Pride and Prejudice.
Whitley’s contribution to the experiment underway in Cole’s surgery was to give the mice their literary prisons. It was also her idea to feed Willoughby the cake. If a mouse had to be sacrificed for science, she told them, then it must be Willoughby because he broke Marianne Dash-wood’s heart.

Cole did not care what his sister’s reasons were, but he did wonder if he’d have ever learned that she was reading Austen without these experiments. It seemed unlikely. Whitley enjoyed confounding him.

“Mr. Knightley is resting,” Whitley whispered, setting the book back. She looked in the last box. “And Mr. Darcy is composing a letter to dear Elizabeth Bennet.” She giggled when her brother and Rhyne both turned to stare at her. “I merely wanted to see if you were paying attention.”

“Well, we are,” said Cole. “And you deserve much less of it.”

Whitley ignored his dismissal and slid onto the stool across the table from him instead. “It’s been three days.”

“Yes?”

“And Mr. Willoughby hasn’t died of currant cake yet. I really think we should let all of them go.” She cast Rhyne a guilty glance. “I’m sorry. I am, truly. But it does seem a bit cruel, don’t you think? Ghoulish, too. If Willoughby had died right away, that would have been tolerable. Now it will be tragic.”

“Really, Whitley?” Cole’s right eyebrow arched a fraction. “Tragic? Just how well do you know Willoughby?”

Her mouth twitched. “All right. It will
not
be tragic.”

Rhyne stopped dusting and approached the table. “Whitley’s right. We should let them go. The cake you put aside for Willoughby is almost gone and he’s showing no signs of sickness. Maybe it’s exactly as you said and mice are indifferent to Judah’s poison.”

“I also said there might be no poison,” he reminded her. “You have to consider that you were wrong.”

“I’m not wrong.”

Cole could find no indication that she was prepared to back down from her position. “Then my methods are inadequate to prove you’re right.” He pushed back from the table. “I’m sorry, Rhyne, but there’s nothing I can find that supports your contention. Wyatt and I can be grateful that you arrived when you did, and that will have to satisfy.”

“Would you do it again?”

“Do what again?”

“Eat something Judah gave you.”

“No.” He saw she was only partially mollified and prepared himself for her next question.

“And if you ate something and only realized afterward that he’d made it, would you give yourself a dose of that syrup?”

Since the mere thought of taking the ipecac made his stomach curdle, he considered that it probably wouldn’t be necessary, however, he knew what Rhyne needed to hear from him. “I’d take it again,” he said. “On your word alone, I’d take it again.”

Whitley, who had been following the conversation closely, added her support. “I’d take it, Rhyne. I’d heave like a drunken sailor for you.”

“Good lord, Whit,” said Cole.

Rhyne’s eyes swiveled to Whitley’s in sympathy. “I don t expect Judah’s ever going to offer you a plate of anything, but it’s good to know that you’re prepared.” She tickled Whitley’s arm with the feather duster. “Go visit the bread. I need to speak with your brother.”

Whitley sighed, slid off the stool, and headed toward the door. On the point of leaving, she paused for the last word. “His name is
Cole.”

Shaking his head, Cole watched her go. “She’s right, you know. It wouldn’t hurt.”

Rhyne ignored the overture. She did not want to insert intimacy into their conversation. “What will you tell Wyatt?”

“The same as I told you: the truth. There’s no evidence that will allow him to bring Judah in. If you’re worried what will happen the next time Wyatt goes out there, I think you can trust him not to eat or drink anything. You made an impression, Rhyne. It will last.”

“Do you think so?” She wanted to be hopeful, but uncertainty laced her tone. “People never much cared what Runt Abbot had to say.”

“Are you sure that’s true? Or is it that Runt Abbot didn’t have much to say?”

“Maybe that,” she admitted. “Maybe a little bit of both.”

Cole nodded. He turned on the stool so he was facing her and held out his hand. She put the feather duster down and let him draw her between his legs. “I’m sorry about Willoughby.”

“Not nearly as much as me and Marianne Dashwood.”

Chuckling, he slipped his hands around her waist and clasped them together at the small of her back above her bustle. “I had no idea about Miss Dashwood. Was Jane Austen your idea?”

“No. I never heard of her. Judah only had books written by men. Mrs. Cooper brought them by. I began reading
Emma,
but all that girl’s meddling put me in mind of Whitley so I passed it along. If there was a lesson to be learned, I think she missed it.”

“Or pretended to,” said Cole. “Still, she appears to have read them all, so that’s something.” He watched a faint smile touch Rhyne’s mouth. Too quickly, it disappeared. He regretted that more than he regretted Mr. Willoughby’s continued existence. His eyes drifted downward to her abdomen. “Tell me about the knot. How is it?”

“Still Gordian.”

Cole wasn’t surprised. Since returning from Judah’s, Rhyne appeared as if she were always on the precipice of being ill. “Is there something I can do?” he asked. Then he remembered the accusation she leveled at him a week ago. “Or something I can
not
do.” He’d hoped to tease a smile from her again and was disappointed that he failed.

Rhyne glanced sideways at the three medical bags sitting on top of the cabinet. “I don’t suppose there’s anything in one of them for me.”

“I don’t suppose there is.”

She fell silent. The lump in her throat forced her to swallow hard before she could talk. “I thought you were going to die.”

Cole watched her beautiful gray eyes brighten with tears. For once, she didn’t seem embarrassed by their appearance. She didn’t swipe at them or try to blink them back. She allowed them simply to hover on the rim of her lashes. Even when they spilled over, she didn’t touch her face.

“I was afraid,” she said. “More afraid than when I thought I was dying.”

He knew what that admission cost her. “I had no idea,” he said. “About either time.”

Her nod was almost imperceptible. “I told Mrs. Cooper about the first, but not this last. I was worried sick about Wyatt, but it wasn’t nearly the same as how I felt about you. I didn’t think she’d want to know that.”

“I imagine she’d understand.”

“Really?”

He nodded. His hands tightened a fraction. “But I’m curious. What do you suppose accounts for the difference?”

She frowned. Tears welled again. “I don’t know.”

Cole did not let her see that her answer disappointed him. He only had to see the forlornness in her eyes to appreciate that she was telling him the truth. She
didn’t
know. She wasn’t ready.

“I haven’t changed my mind,” he said. “Have you?” When she didn’t answer, but simply looked at him, Cole realized he was holding his breath. He let it out slowly.

“Rhyne?”

“I need to think.”

He was encouraged that this was a different answer than the ones that came before. “Is there someone you want to talk to?”

“Not this time.”

“All right.”

“Are you going to speak to Whitley?” He was truly bewildered. “About what? You haven’t said that you will marry me.”