Marry Me (49 page)

Riding out, Rhyne chose the wagon road. She’d reasoned that the men would have taken that route because they’d used it before and it didn’t present the same hazards as Colley’s trail. She hadn’t gone far before she realized she was mistaken. The faint hope that she could catch up with them vanished. It seemed that in spite of Cole insisting that Judah was no longer a danger, he and Wyatt had been in a hurry to reach the cabin. Judge Wentworth had arrived on her doorstep with no purpose but to keep her occupied. She was certain she wasn’t meant to discover that Cole and Wyatt had ridden out of town, but once she knew, the judge really had no chance of detaining her.

She couldn’t muster any guilt for leaving him. He’d do right by Whitley and as for Whitley, Rhyne had no doubt that she was doing right by her.

Rhyne swiveled around as something glinted in her peripheral vision. She was getting edgy, she reckoned, because it was only sunlight winking at her from another patch of snow. Shaking her head, she went back to studying the cabin, looking for signs of movement, of life.

Smoke curled from the stone chimney, but no one stepped out to get a log from the stack beside the front door. Perhaps it was just a matter of time before Judah appeared. It seemed unlikely that he would have carried in more than a few logs. It was her experience that he minded the trips less than he minded the burden.

At Rhyne’s current distance from the cabin, the windows offered no glimpse to the interior. As she’d done before, she would have to get close enough to press her nose against the glass to see inside. She wondered about the wisdom of going so far if she didn’t know with certainty that Cole and Wyatt were already there.

But if they weren’t inside, where were they?

Had something delayed them? That was the best possible explanation. The worst was that they were in the cabin, helpless, and Judah had already done something with their horses. It begged the question why he’d bother. Was he so sure that she’d come looking for Cole and Wyatt that he was drawing her like a spider to his web? Of course he was.

“Reckon I’m predictable that way,” she said under her breath. Hadn’t she once said as much to that no-account Beatty boy? Constant as the northern star. Judah knew her nature well enough to depend on that. “But I know you, too.” Right now that gave her narrowest of advantages.

Rhyne rose from her crouch a second time and dropped over the ridge away from the cabin. She took her time making a search of the area, looking for anything that would indicate Cole and Wyatt had crossed her path. On foot, she walked to where Colley’s trail met the ridge and looked down the mountainside. As far as she could see, there was no sign of a mishap or any evidence they had come this way.

She wondered if the judge had mistaken their intent, but how could he have when he’d parted ways with them at the sheriff’s office? It would have been difficult to misconstrue their plans when Cole was about to be made a deputy.

Rhyne considered the other routes the sheriff could have taken. There was probably no one as familiar with the passes and mountain trails as Wyatt Cooper. She had never explored so far or wide. Hadn’t he and Will Beatty been able to track a couple of miscreants all the way to their final resting place?

Beneath her lamb’s wool jacket, Rhyne shivered. It caught her unaware. Memory rode on the back of the prickly cold, sneaking up her spine and slipping as stealthily as a shadow into her mind. She turned up her coat collar so that it brushed her ears, although she knew it offered no protection against this sudden chill. When the ice was in her marrow, even a roaring fire was inadequate.

She’d never returned to the site of the attack, wouldn’t have known the bodies had been found if Wyatt and Will hadn’t reported their discovery. The baby had already been growing inside her, but she hadn’t known it then. She thought killing them had been enough for what they’d done to her. It was when she realized she was going to have a child that she was seized by the urge to kill them all over again.

The terrible truth, the one that made her drop to her knees now, was that the killing urge wasn’t on account of the child; it was on account of Judah. He knew,
knew
about the baby before she did, and the change in him was as immediate as it was final. What he’d given her, what he’d only ever been able to give her, was tolerance, and then even that became too much for him. Their tenuous bond, as fragile as a gossamer thread, was severed, and Runt was dead to him. He had no use for Rhyne, his whore daughter.

And when he told her that he’d beat the baby out of her, she hadn’t fought back.

Rhyne stared at her hands. She clutched the rifle against her thighs. Her knuckles were white from the pressure of her fingers on the stock and barrel.

Judah wouldn’t hear her out. She came close to humiliating herself by pleading with him. More than once, he walked away; there was no explanation that could satisfy. In contrast, Cole waited patiently for her to tell him what happened. Rhyne knew a profound sorrow that she never found the words.

Breathing deeply, if not quite evenly, she wondered at her real purpose in setting out this afternoon. She suspected her motives had less to do with looking out for Cole and Wyatt than they did with squaring up with Judah. She eased her grip on the Winchester and rocked back on her heels. She slowly straightened.

Rhyne walked back to where she’d left Twist and replaced her rifle in the scabbard. She stroked the gelding’s nose, whispered a few words, and then set off in the direction of the cabin through the open field, unarmed and no longer afraid.

Cole entered the house by the side door, saw there were no patients, and called for Rhyne. He didn’t think too much of it when Elijah Wentworth called back, but he was surprised when he got to the hallway and realized the judge’s response came from upstairs.

Cole put his hat on the newel post, leaned the Remington rifle Wyatt had issued him against the wall, and unbuttoned his coat as he climbed the steps. He was shrugging out of it by the time he reached Whitley’s room. He stopped just inside the door when he saw Wentworth was alone at his sister’s bedside. The judge had his finger marking his place in
The Three Musketeers.

Trying to suppress his misgivings, Cole regarded the older man expectantly. “Rhyne?”

“You didn’t see her?”

Cole shook his head, tossed his coat over the back of a chair, and approached Whitley. He immediately pressed the back of his hand against her brow. She didn’t try to avoid his touch. “She’s been like this since you’ve been here?”

“Yes. Mostly. She moved enough at one point to fall out of bed. Rhyne and I put her back. She seemed to be unhurt.”

Cole pushed back the covers enough to find Whitley’s hand. He put his hand inside hers and squeezed gently. There was no response. He released her, rubbed his brow. It was the judge who put aside the book, stood, and leaned across the bed to replace the blankets.

“I was able to get her to drink some tea not long ago. Rhyne did the same earlier, at least twice. Broth, I think.”

Cole nodded. “Good.” He glanced at the judge. “Do you mind sitting with her a little longer? I’d like to speak to my wife.”

Wentworth frowned. “She’s back?”

“Back? You mean she stepped out?”

“I mean she followed you and Wyatt to Judah’s.”

Swearing softly, Cole immediately crossed the room to retrieve his coat. “Wyatt and I never made it out. There was a small landslide on Colley’s trail. We started to go around, but it was too steep. Wyatt’s horse lost his footing and almost put them both over the side. We decided to clear the slide instead.” One of his gloves fell out of a pocket as he jerked on the coat. He stooped to pick it up. “More rocks came down. I was able to get out of the way in time.”

The judge raised an eyebrow. “Wyatt?”

“Smashed his foot. He needed help getting back on his horse. I just left him with Rachel.”

Wentworth grimaced, and then allowed, “His foot will probably heal faster than his pride.”

Cole had nothing to say to that, although it was undoubtedly true. He slapped his glove against his thigh. It was impossible for him to keep the accusation out of his tone when he spoke. “You told me you could keep her here. It was all you had to do.”

“She tricked me.”

If the situation were anything but what it was, Cole knew he’d have been amused. That was no part of what he felt right now. “How long ago did she leave?”

The judge fumbled for his pocket watch and darted a look at the time. “It’s been a little better than an hour since I realized she was gone. She probably left thirty or so minutes before that.”

“Make it two hours then.”

Elijah Wentworth nodded.

Allowing for the time it would have taken for her to change into riding clothes, sneak back into her old room for the gun she still kept under that bed, and finally visit Joe Redmond to get her horse, Cole considered that he might not be so far behind her after all. He stuffed the glove into his pocket. “I have to go.”

“I understand.” He glanced at Whitley. “I’ll be here. I know what to do.”

Cole looked from the judge to his sister and then to Wentworth again. His expression gave no quarter. “I have to trust that’s the case.”

“Rhyne did,” Wentworth said gravely. But Cole was already gone; he’d spoken the words to an empty room.

For the first time in her life, Rhyne announced herself at the cabin door by knocking. Common sense made her quickly step aside in the event Judah greeted her with the blunt end of his walking stick, or worse, the old Henry rifle he kept mounted by the bookcase.

“Been expecting you,” Judah called from inside the house. “Ever since Wyatt told me you were still alive, I’ve been expecting you.”

It was hardly an invitation, but he’d spoken two sentences without introducing the epithet
whore.
Rhyne opened the door.

“Bring some wood with you,” Judah told her. “I had it in my mind to get a few logs, but seems like the Lord always provides.”

“Seems like,” she said. Rhyne saw at a glance that he had no weapon. The Henry rifle was still mounted; the stick was leaning against the table a good foot out of his reach. She carried in a small stack of wood and set it down beside the stove. She tossed one in. “You cut this yourself?”

“Some. The Beaufort boy takes good money for doing what I can’t.”

Or won’t, she thought. In the interest of sustaining the peace, Rhyne didn’t comment. She held her ground while Judah looked her over. There’d been little time for that when he’d seen her before. His attention had been for her Winchester, not her face. She didn’t turn away, but neither did she defiantly stare him down. She simply let him take his fill. If there was pain in his wintry glance, he hid it well. Rhyne knew the full range of emotion he was capable of expressing on stage, but none of that was evident now. She wouldn’t have trusted it anyway. His indifference calmed her.

“The judge showed me the note you left in his hotel room,” she said.

“Sit. You’re giving me a crick in my neck.” He pointed to the table. “Take a chair over there. Hand me my stick.”

Rhyne didn’t move. She went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “He says I look like Delia. I reckon you always thought so, too.”

Judah shrugged. He winced, rubbed his shoulder. Rhyne didn’t allow herself to be distracted. “Did she tell you I was his child?” “What are you up to?”

Rhyne persisted. “Did she tell you I was the judge’s child?” “All right,” Judah said, appeasement in his tone. “The answer is: she didn’t have to.”

“Did you ever ask her?”

“I sure as hell wish you’d sit. I don’t much like looking up at you.”

“You could stand,” she said. “I know you can. Your stick wouldn’t be so far away if you needed it today.” But rather than make him prove it, Rhyne went to the table and hitched her hip against the top. She ignored the chair except to use one of the rails as a support for the toe of her boot. She moved the walking stick behind her, putting it well outside of any grab he might attempt. “Did you ever ask her?” she repeated.

“I didn’t have to.” “You didn’t?”

“I knew.”

“The same as you knew about me?” His eyes narrowed. “The same as.” Rhyne nodded slowly. “Did you see me coming down from the ridge?”

“I did.”

“Thought you might. Thought you might take the Henry down from the wall.”

“I saw you weren’t armed.”

“Could be I got a Colt under my coat.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“What do you want, Runt? I thought I knew, but maybe I don’t.”

“Rhyne,” she said. “I’m Rhyne.”

He shrugged. This time he didn’t wince, and he didn’t lift a hand to his shoulder. “Rhyne.”

She took off her hat and set it beside her. Her dark hair fell forward, framing her heart-shaped face. She ran a hand through it once, pushing it back from her brow. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“I figured you meant to kill me.”

“I figured I might. After what you did to the folks in town … well, you deserve it. I haven’t changed my mind about that. I doubt I ever will, but it seems I’ve had time to think that maybe I shouldn’t be the one to do it, leastways not before I understand the why of it better.” She watched him stroke his beard, his features set thoughtfully. “It seems some of the venom’s gone,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “Forgot my manners. I should have offered you something to eat.”

Rhyne fought down the bile that rose in her throat. Her hands tightened on the edge of the table. It was necessary to keep from reaching for the walking stick and striking him with it. “I was talking about the poison that’s inside me,” she said. “It never crossed my mind that you’d be any different.”

“A man can change.”

“Not you.”

He began stroking his beard again. “No, not I.
‘But I am constant as the northern star, of whose true-fix’d and resting quality there is no fellow in the firmament.’
Do you remember that?”

“I do. I was thinking of it earlier. And what about this?
‘I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer a stony adversary, an inhuman wretch uncapable of pity, void and empty from any dram of mercy’.”