Marry Me (17 page)

“Whoa, girl.” Rhyne put out a hand. “I didn’t bring a bridle.”

Whitley giggled. “We hardly spent any time outdoors today, and Mr. Cassidy frowns on us older girls running around. He thinks we’re chasing boys.
I
don’t, but I can’t say that he’s wrong about some of the others.”

“Is that so?” Rhyne looked over the trio of boys coming toward them. “Are those the ones they chase?”

Whitley glanced back. “Some of them. Digger Hammond. Ben Martin. Tom Morrison. A few have to stay behind to clean slates.” She added confidentially. “They got in trouble for tripping the girls.”

Rhyne watched the progress of the trio and put her hand on Whitley’s elbow to encourage her to fall in step.

“Hey, Runt! That really you?”

Rhyne recognized that it was Tom Morrison calling after her. He had the same nasal quality to his voice as his mother.

“Let’s go,” Whitley whispered. Now she was the one doing the surreptitious tugging. “They’ll just be stupid.”

“Runt!” Tom called again. “Wait up!”

Setting her jaw, Rhyne shook off Whitley’s hand and turned to face Tom Morrison. The boy was at least eight years her junior but more than a head taller. Except for the unfortunate nasal whine, Tom took after his father. Thin, verging on skinny, he had angular features and broad, bony shoulders that he hadn’t grown into.

“Hello, Tom.” She nodded at his friends. “Boys.”

Ben Martin squinted at her. “You sound different.”

“Really? I don’t recall that we ever traded words.”

Ben thrust his thick hand forward. “Ben Martin. My pa owns the Miner Key. I saw you go in there a time or two. Heard you ask for whiskey.”

Rhyne shook his hand. She felt him test her grip, and she gave it back in equal measure.

“Damn,” Ben said, withdrawing his hand. Pride kept him from shaking it out. “I think it’s really him.”

“I told you,” Digger said. He shifted his weight uncomfortably and stole a glance at Whitley. “The doc lives right next door. I seen Runt plenty of times going in and out with Whitley.”

“I
saw,”
said Whitley.
“Seen
requires a helper. I
have
seen.”

Rhyne almost laughed as all three boys turned to stare at Whitley, their jaws slack. She asked for it, Rhyne thought, carrying on like her professor brother. “C’mon, Whitley. We should be going.” Without thinking, she raised her hand to her forehead.

Tom nudged Ben with his bony elbow. “Did you see that? Runt was gonna tip his hat at us. Real polite-like.” He looked pointedly at Rhyne. “That’s a
bonnet,”
he said slowly. “Bon-net. You don’t tip one of those.”

“You must be confused somethin awful,” Ben said. “Is it true you shot your balls off?”

Whitley’s mouth formed a perfect O. She stamped the ground with one foot and set her arms akimbo. “Ben Martin. That’s a terrible thing to say. Take it back.”

Ben shook his head. “What? I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just a question. It’s what I’ve heard some folks saying.”

“You’re making that up,” Whitley said. “The only folks saying it are you and Tom and Digger.”

“Not me,” Digger said. “I mean, not I.”

“You don’t even know what balls are,” Tom said at the same time.

Rhyne was aware that a crowd of students was gathering around them. All ages and both sexes were represented in the circle. She made out the youngest to be about six and the oldest was a seventeen year old that she recognized as one of Will Beatty’s nieces. She wondered if she could drag Whitley away or if the girl meant to dig in her heels.

“I do so know,” Whitley said.

Apparently it was to be heel-digging. Rhyne sighed.

“Well?” Tom pushed his chin out, challenging her. “Go on. Tell everyone. What are they, Miss Knows-So-Much?”

Whitley swung her tethered books at his head and knocked him sideways. Tom stumbled, fell, then scrambled to his feet. He put his head down and charged at Whitley. Rhyne put out her foot, and he went sprawling. Ignoring the spontaneous cries of pleasure from the spectators, she put Whitley behind her and stared down Ben and Digger.

Digger surrendered easily and began to back away. There never was any real fight in him, Rhyne knew. If she understood the nature of the glances he darted at Whitley, he was probably a little sweet on her. Ben Martin, however,

looked as though he wanted to assist his fallen friend, or at least make a show of it.

“Now that’s not right,” Ben said. “All the advantages are on your side because we’re not allowed to hit girls.”

“Just see if you can, Ben Martin,” Whitley said over Rhyne’s shoulder. “I’ll hit you with my McGuffey’s
Reader.
It’s not good for anything else.”

“You say that, but you’re standing behind her. Him. The
he-she”
He grinned so widely that his dumpling cheeks forced his eyes into slits. “The
freak,”
he said. “Like you.”

Whitley dropped the book strap and shoved Rhyne hard enough to move her sideways. She went after Ben with arms flailing, shiny knuckles bared, her thumbs tucked into her fists. The circle expanded to make room for the combatants. Rhyne put her foot down on Tom’s hand as he started to rise and winced as Ben drove his shoulder into Whitley’s midsection.

“Don’t you dare move,” Rhyne told Tom. She pressed on his hand just enough for him to know that she meant it, then she circled behind Ben, grabbed him by the wrist, and jerked his arm behind his back. He was heavier by eighty or so pounds, but Rhyne had leverage and experience wrestling her brothers to the ground. While Rhyne held Ben, Whitley got in a solid punch, giving Ben a sharp upper cut that knocked his teeth together. Rhyne wasn’t surprised when Whitley’s grunt of pain was a match for Ben’s.

Rhyne’s skirt and petticoats hampered her movements, but not so much that she couldn’t find the sweet spots at the back of Ben’s knees and make him buckle. She released him quickly so he couldn’t pull her down with him. After that, it was easy. She jerked the ribbon from her bonnet and used it to tie his wrists behind his back, then returned to Tom and jammed the bonnet on his head.

She was flushed, satisfied, and only a bit out of breath when she looked up and saw Wyatt Cooper had joined the circle. He stood much taller than the tallest student and towered over the little ones. They’d stepped back from him, all of them looking up, most of them with expressions that were frozen somewhere between guilty and admiring. His attention, though, was all for her and Whitley Monroe.

“Maybe you both should come with me,” he said calmly, giving them a nod. “I’ll walk with you for a spell. Whitley, get your books. Boys, I want to believe you’re done now. Don’t disappoint me.” He turned and started walking, clearly expecting that they would follow.

They did. Whitley grabbed her books off the ground and trotted after him. Rhyne paused to brush herself off and give Tom and Ben a warning stare they would remember. Whitley’s classmates hurriedly made an opening for her.

Rhyne easily caught up to Whitley and the sheriff. Whitley was hanging her head as she walked, but Wyatt wasn’t giving her any attention for it. “He isn’t taking us to jail, Whitley,” she said.

“No. That would be better. He’s walking us
home.”

Rhyne looked past Whitley to Wyatt’s implacable profile. “Are you?”

“I sure am.”

“Oh.”

Rhyne felt like hanging her head. “How’s your hand,

Whitley?”

“Feels like it’s broken.”

“Let me see.” She raised Whitley’s right hand and looked it over. “Make a fist.”

Whitley did, grimacing slightly.

“You’re fine, but you’re lucky. You could have broken your thumb by tucking it in your hand that way. When you make a fist to hit somebody, your thumb goes on the outside.” She demonstrated first, then arranged Whitley’s hand correctly. “There. That’s the way you do it.”

Whitley examined her fist and held it up for Wyatt to see. “Is she right?”

“She is.”

“That’s good to know. Thank you, Rhyne.”

They walked in silence after that. Whitley tried to slow the pace as they approached the house, but Wyatt arched an eyebrow at her and she didn’t fall back again. They didn’t enter the house by the side entrance. That was for the use of Cole’s patients. Wyatt ushered them in the front door and indicated they should have a seat in the parlor.

“I’ll see how busy Dr. Monroe is,” he told them. “Maybe he won’t have a patient and you won’t have to wait too long. I always thought that waiting was the worst.”

Whitley agreed. She cupped her hand to partially cover her mouth and whispered to Rhyne. “I wish he would take us to jail.”

Rhyne saw Wyatt pause ever so briefly as he was walking out the door and knew Whitley had been overheard. What she couldn’t know was if Wyatt was smiling.

Cole wasn’t.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rhyne watched Whitley for clues as to what she might expect. Wyatt was gone. She’d seen him walk in front of the house as he headed back to his office, so she knew he’d left by the side door. What followed had been a terrible quiet, and Whitley predicted they would not get any dinner.

“At least Sheriff Cooper feeds people in his jail,” Whitley had said. “I know because Molly Showalter told me that her Johnny delivers meals from Longabach’s sometimes.”

Rhyne realized that Whitley thought they would share the same punishment, but Rhyne knew she was the grown up, even if Whitley seemed to have forgotten, and Cole’s censure would be a different thing when it was turned on her. When he came in, she surreptitiously nudged Whitley to lift her head and look her brother in the eye.

Cole approached the divan where Rhyne and Whitley sat and stopped within a few feet of it. “The sheriff says there was a fight. I’d like to have your version of what happened. Whitley, you first.”

Rhyne watched her swallow hard, but to her credit she kept her head up and her eyes forward, and gave a good accounting of events. She only left out that Ben Martin had called her a freak, but Rhyne thought she understood the omission: Whitley was trying to protect her brother.

“Is that about right, Rhyne?” Cole asked.

“I remember it pretty much the same.”

Cole nodded shortly. “Let me see your hand, Whitley.”

She dutifully held it up, flexing her fingers and working her thumb to show there was no lasting injury.

“Wyatt told me that Rhyne showed you how to make a fist for fighting. Show me.” He watched her make a proper fist. “All right. Why don’t you both go up and dress for dinner? We’re going to the Commodore tonight.”

Chapter 6

“I cannot recall when I last ate so much,” Whitley said when she stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel. “I believe the Commodore has served me the finest meal I have ever had. The veal cutlet was extraordinarily tender. And, oh, the almond cake … goodness, that made my mouth very happy.” She stopped walking to put her hands on her midriff and push her belly out. Her corset prevented her from making a display of her gluttony. She hurried to catch up to Cole and Rhyne. Darting around them, she pivoted and began walking backward. She patted her belly. “Look. I will explode when I remove my corset. I think it will be worth it, although I shall be very sorry to leave you both with the unpleasant chore of cleaning up my guts.”

Cole cast his eyes momentarily heavenward. “Turn around, Whitley, before you fall and break your neck.” Even as he said it, Whitley caught her heel on the uneven boards of the sidewalk and started to tumble.

Rhyne and Cole leaped forward simultaneously to grab her flailing arms. Cole managed to get her by the elbow. Rhyne caught her wrist. They jerked Whitley upright and set her firmly on her feet.

“Flibbertigibbet,” Rhyne said, not unkindly. “Are you all right?”

Whitley nodded, avoided Cole’s stern look, and fell into step beside them. “It was a good meal, though, wasn’t it? Thank you, Cole.”

“You’re welcome.” He glanced sideways at Rhyne. Except to answer the few questions that Whitley put to her, she had been quiet throughout dinner. Cole thought her expression then had been bemused. Watching her now, the impression remained. “Did the Commodore meet your expectations, Miss Abbot?”

Rhyne was pressed out of her reverie by Whitley’s nudge. “What?” she asked vaguely. “I mean, pardon?”

“Cole asked if the hotel met your expectations.” Whitley looked past Rhyne to her brother. “Maybe she didn’t have any, Cole. Not everyone does, you know. Some people just like to be surprised.”

Cole gave her a wry look. “Could I hear Miss Abbot say whether she’s one of those people?”

Whitley nodded. “If she wants to answer.”

Rhyne laid a restraining hand on each of their forearms. “I never saw two chickens peck at each other the way you two do.” Shaking her head, she released them. “Now, about the Commodore … I liked it just fine. I never ate tomato bisque before. I didn’t know it was soup until Mary Evans put in it front of me. I had my mouth set for some kind of fancy French biscuit, but the soup was all right, and it didn’t sit heavy in my stomach like the chowder at Longa-bach’s.”

“You probably had more room for your salad right off,” Whitley said. “I wish I’d had the bisque instead of the potato soup. I was pushing at my stays after the first course.”

Cole reached around Rhyne’s shoulders and tugged on Whitley’s braid. Her mouth snapped shut. “Go on,” Cole said to Rhyne. “What else?”

“Well, I knew it would be elegant. I saw some of the things they were carrying into the place when it was being built. Marble sinks. Brass fittings. Carved headboards. But I didn’t imagine the dining room would be a jungle. Why do you suppose Sir Nigel brought in all those plants? Some of those ferns were as tall as you.”

“Potted plants are popular in the better restaurants back east,” said Cole. He didn’t have another explanation for it. Everything about the Commodore, from its burnished walnut wainscoting to the fine linen tablecloths, suggested to Cole that the owner had built his hotel with the fashionable houses in New York and Paris in mind. Nigel Pennyworth had come over to their table and introduced himself, paying extravagant compliments to Whitley and only slightly less effusive ones to Rhyne. In spite of a score of years spent living in the United States, the majority of them in Reidsville, the English émigré had not acquired the flat vowels of his neighbors. His accent made Whitley hang on every word. Rhyne, contrarily, did not seem impressed.