Marry Me (44 page)

“We have to find the source, Rhyne. No matter where it leads.”

“I know that, but there has to be a better way than the newspaper and reporting to the sheriff. That’s a recipe for–” She stopped and rapidly tapped her index finger against her cheek as she thought. “Recipes,” she said. “That’s the way we’ll do it. We’ll invite everyone in town to contribute their recipe for what they brought to the social. I’ll say I’m compiling a bride’s first cookbook. That’s something we can put in the paper. I could get Rachel to help me collect them. Not door-to-door,” she said quickly when she saw Cole start to object. “We’d organize them as they came in. Compare them to a list of all the families in town.”

Cole nodded slowly. “That could work.”

“We’ll get a better response,” she promised. “Not everyone, I’m sure, but more than you’d get the other way.”

“You’re right.” His mouth lifted at one corner. “And clever.”

“How quickly will you need the information?”

“I needed it yesterday,” he said. “I want it in ten days.”

“Then I’ll ask Mr. Showalter to mention that if people want their recipe to be included in my book, they’ll have a week to bring it by. I’ll send round a special invitation to Sir Nigel and Mrs. Longabach. Their businesses provided more than a single dish. I want to be certain I collect everything from them.”

“Good.”

“When you speak to Wyatt, will you ask Rachel if she’ll help me?”

“I’ll ask her, but Wyatt may not allow her to come because of Whitley.”

“She can’t get sick just by visiting. I won’t let her go up to Whitley’s room. And I won’t extend the slightest hospitality. No food or drink in the event that I’m already sick.”

“I’ll let him know,” he said wryly. Cole glanced at his plate. He’d eaten everything. “What should I make of the fact that you cooked for me?”

She held up her hands. “I all but boiled these,” she said.

He stared at her reddened palms. “Rhyne. You don’t have to go to that extreme.” He took one of her hands in his, examined it, and then raised her knuckles to his mouth and pressed his lips against them. “I feel quite safe in your hands,” he said, releasing her. “There’s aloe in the surgery. If you’re going to scrub your skin raw, use it.”

Rhyne’s reply was lost in the banging at the side door. She and Cole exchanged glances.

He stood, checked his pocket watch. “And so it begins.”

Cole’s first opportunity to speak to Wyatt came just before noon. He’d already visited three families with at least one member ill, treated a visiting gambler at the Commodore, a miner at the boarding house, and stopped by the Easter and Beatty households to check on Alex and Will.

Wyatt was studying a map pinned to the wall of his office when Cole walked in. Ezra Reilly was at the sheriff’s side, looking on. Neither man turned to acknowledge the interruption. Cole remained silent, turning his attention instead to the cluster of small brown bottles on top of Wyatt’s desk. Many of them were already neatly labeled. A few had no markings. He picked one up, read the label, smiled faintly, and set it down again. It eased some of the tension pulling at his shoulders to be reminded that he wasn’t in this battle alone. Rhyne had obviously been busy.

Wyatt pointed out something on the map to Ezra, and then turned away to address Cole. “We’ve made a good start, I think.”

“It looks like it.” He set his bag on Wyatt’s desk beside the bottles. “I take it you’ve spoken to Rhyne.”

He nodded. “I went by your place first thing, but you were already called away. Rhyne explained what you wanted me to do. Ezra was glad to help. He got the bottles from Caldwell’s, and Rhyne sterilized them and marked them for us. We’ve been getting samples since then. Rachel spoke to Abe Dishman about stopping runs of the Admiral and No. 473. He didn’t like it, but she’s the owner. Nothing’s going to travel on the Calico Spur until you give us the word. Abe will just tell everyone that there’s a problem in Denver with both engines. It breaks his heart to say it because he takes such pride in a smooth operation, but the lie’s necessary to hold people for a while, help stem the panic.”

Cole told him about the new cases.

Wyatt whistled softly, rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you want to take the bottles we already filled? We only have a half dozen or so left.”

“I’ll take them.” He opened his bag and began carefully setting the labeled bottles inside. “Did Rhyne tell you about collecting recipes?”

“She did. She asked me about Rachel helping her. I told her I’d think about it, but I have to be honest: I have no intention of mentioning it to my wife.”

“I understand. In your place, I’d probably do the same.”

“Yes, well, maybe you can tell Rachel that when you see her, because I’ll be damned if she didn’t show up while I was bringing the bottles by and volunteered to help Rhyne. I think Rhyne knew how I really felt, and to her credit, she tried to discourage Rachel, but my wife sniffed that out in no time at all. It seems she understands this germ theory of yours better than I do, and I
saw
the bastards on your slide. She’s not afraid. I’m the one that’s terrified for her.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Cole assured him.

“She reminded me that she didn’t eat very much at the social. I didn’t notice that night, but she said she was feeling out of sorts, not enough to want to stay home, but enough that she didn’t have much of an appetite. Seeing all that food made her nauseated, she said.”

“If I’m right, that could make a difference. Did she tell you what she ate?”

“Vegetable soup. I remember that. And I think she said she had a roll and some of the stewed tomatoes.”

“Salads? Ice cream? The consommé?”

He shook his head. “Nothing like that. She still isn’t used to our winters. This time of year, she doesn’t eat anything that doesn’t warm her up.”

“Good. Those bastards, as you called them, are killed by heat.”

Ezra turned away from the map and regarded Cole. There was a pallor to his complexion that hadn’t been there moments earlier. “You said ice cream?”

Seeing Ezra’s face, Cole wished he’d said nothing. “How much of it did you eat, Ezra?”

“Not me. Virginia. She loves it. I reckon she had two scoops. Maybe three, she had such a hankerin’.”

“It might not be the ice cream,” said Cole. “I only mentioned it as an example.” He realized he’d relieved one man and set another to worrying. “Should be going.” He hefted his bag. “Bring the rest of the bottles by as soon as you’re finished. I’ll start examining these right away.”

There was a lull for several days with only one new illness coming to Cole’s attention. He was still busy with people already infected, but his primary purpose in visiting them was not to provide respite, but to make certain other family members were taking precautions to prevent the spread.

Whitley developed the telltale rose spots on her lower abdomen and her fever remained dangerously high. Rhyne sat with her, reading, while Cole employed all the techniques he knew to study the water samples. Concerned that he was predisposed to believe the samples would be free of

typhi,
he made a second slide from every bottle and asked Rhyne to lend her eye to the task.

Finding nothing was good news. That’s what he told Rhyne as he dropped, bleary-eyed, into bed one night. Rhyne lay awake for a long time after he slept, stroking his hair with her fingertips, reassured by the gentle sound of his breathing.

Rhyne’s request for recipes appeared in the paper, and she had seven of them delivered before dinner. It was an impressive beginning. Rachel Cooper visited Estella Longabach and Sir Nigel, presenting them with Rhyne’s scented invitation to have their recipes included in her cookbook, and graciously turned down their offers to dine.

More recipes came in the next day and the day after that. Sid Walker took ill. So did Virginia Reilly. Sir Nigel sent for Cole when two more of his guests showed signs of the sickness. It was a housekeeper the following day, and then Sir Nigel that needed attention later that night. The fever took a vicious hold on the young so that by the end of the week there was hardly a family with children who didn’t have at least one that was slow and sluggish with the first symptoms.

Rhyne and Rachel pressed on with their collection. The responses dwindled, not so much because people were reluctant to participate, but because many of them were caring for someone who was ill, or ill themselves. People stayed indoors. Those that ventured out were cautious. The trains didn’t run. Folks made do with what they had. The miners kept at their work, but they were solemn gangs that walked to and from the mines. Businesses closed early. A few closed entirely when the owners or a family member became too ill to work. Cole did his best to educate the town about the fever, but there were too many skeptics and not enough hours to convince them.

No one wanted to hear typhoid. It was seldom mentioned above a whisper.

Rhyne and Rachel were working at the dining room table, scraps of paper scattered all over the surface, when Wyatt poked his head in the doorway. “Are you about ready to come home?” he asked his wife.

Rachel sat back in her chair, pressing her hands to the small of her back. “I am,” she said. “Rhyne and I were just finishing.”

Wyatt cocked an eyebrow at her. “Find anything?” She shook her head. “Still working at it. Tomorrow, maybe.”

Rhyne gave her full marks for trying to sound hopeful. She asked Wyatt, “Did you come in the front or the side?”

“The side. Cole was sleeping in the surgery. Slumped over beside that microscope. Sorry to say that I woke him. He looks like he could use the sleep.”

Rhyne nodded, but she didn’t comment. It was true for all of them. “Did you stop in to see Will Beatty today?”

“I did. I’m not sure he knew I was there. What about Whitley?”

“The same.” She straightened some papers in front of her. “How’s Rose?”

“She’s all right. Glad she doesn’t have any signs of the fever so she can take care of Will, and halfway to killing him for being sick instead of her.”

Rachel and Rhyne smiled appreciatively. It sounded
exactly
like Rose.

Rhyne glanced toward the hallway to see if Cole had followed Wyatt. When she didn’t see him, she asked quietly, “Have you been out of town at all?”

He knew what she meant. “Yesterday was the first chance I had to ride out. I got around to everyone.”

“Judah?”

“Even Judah. Full of piss and vinegar because the doctor wasn’t with me like he promised. He showed me the hand that Cole patched up for him. It looked fine to me.” He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder and rubbed gently as he continued to address Rhyne. “I didn’t see him at the social, if that’s what you were thinking. Turns out none of the outliers came in.”

“That’s what makes them outliers, dear,” said Rachel. She turned her neck a little to give him better access to the taut muscles there. “Oh, yes. That spot. Right … there.”

Wyatt grinned. Rhyne blushed. Rachel was oblivious to everything but getting the kink out of her neck.

“Were you worried about him?” asked Wyatt.

Rhyne hardly knew how to answer that. “A little, maybe. I’m not sure. I didn’t like not knowing, I suppose. You say he’s fine?”

“About as fine as he ever is.”

She hesitated. “Did he ask about me?”

Now it was Wyatt that hesitated. He stopped massaging Rachel’s shoulder.

“You can tell me,” said Rhyne. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know. I don’t expect much.”

“No, Rhyne, he didn’t ask.”

She nodded, straightened a few more papers, and then nodded again. “Well, like I said, I don’t expect much.” She stood. “If you don’t mind seeing yourselves out, I should go check on Cole.”

When Rhyne was gone, Wyatt slid Rachel’s chair away from the table and helped her to her feet. He was aware of her searching his face and didn’t like the knowing look in her eye.

“Why did you lie to her?” she asked. “Because I know you did. What did Judah say that you couldn’t repeat?”

Caught, Wyatt’s cheeks puffed a little as he exhaled. “I told him what I told everyone else about what was happening in town. Cole wanted me to. He hoped it would be enough to keep them away for now. Most of them had a lot of questions. Judah had only one: “Is she dead yet?”

Rhyne took Cole by the hand and led him out of the surgery and up to their bedroom. “Sleep,” she ordered him, pointing to the bed. “At least for a little while.” She accepted the fact that he didn’t argue as proof of his deep fatigue. “I’ll warm some soup so it will be ready when you come back down.” She snapped a spare quilt over him when he lay on top of the other covers. Bending, she smoothed his hair and kissed his brow. He was asleep before she let herself out of the room.

Rhyne warmed broth and bread for Whitley and carried it upstairs on a wooden tray. It was becoming a considerable challenge to get her to eat or drink, but Cole had impressed upon everyone who cared for the sick that dehydration would unnecessarily complicate the illness. The complications, he reminded them, were what killed.

Rhyne set the tray down and touched Whitley on the shoulder. The girl’s eyelashes fluttered briefly and then closed. “I have something for you,” said Rhyne. “Wake up. Let me see that you’re in there.” Rhyne thought she saw a faint smile tug at Whitley’s lips, but then she also knew how much she wanted to believe it was so. She shook Whitley with a little more force. “There you are.” Whitley’s green eyes were glassy and vaguely unfocused, but at least they were open. “Let me help you sit up.”

Rhyne had to do the lion’s share of the work just to get Whitley into a reclining position where her head was a little higher than her shoulders. It required two additional pillows and some cursing.

“Runt Abbot,” said Whitley.

“That’s right.” Rhyne sat on the bed beside her. “Runt still has a few things to say, mostly cuss words.” Now she was sure she saw the corners of Whitley’s mouth lift. “Sometimes swearing is what’s called for.” She broke off a small chunk of bread, dipped it in the beef broth, and held it close to Whitley’s lips. A droplet of broth fell, and as soon as Whitley opened her mouth to lick it away, Rhyne pushed in the bread. Whitley wrinkled her nose but didn’t spit it out.