Marry Me (52 page)

Whitley pointed to the first paragraph. “You might have mentioned that they’re asking you to stay–and just ten months in. That’s the most important part.” She finally glanced up. “You are staying, aren’t you? I mean, that’s what you want.” When Cole raised a single eyebrow at her,

she faltered. “Isn’t it?”

“You might have considered asking me that before you began your campaign. Fifty-six testimonials, Whitley. That was a lot of work.”

She frowned deeply. “I don’t know what you mean. Mrs. Easter makes specific mention of them being unsolicited.”

“She means they were unsolicited by the committee,” said Rhyne.

Cole nodded. “You can appreciate that it’s not unreasonable for me to believe you had your fine hand in this.”

“Well, I
do
think it’s unreasonable,” Whitley said. “And I
don’t
appreciate it. Further, the judge told me if any suspicion was leveled at my head I should say I’m pleading the fifth. That’s the fifth amendment, the one that gives me the right to–”

“The judge?” asked Rhyne. “He encouraged you?”

Cole looked up at Rhyne, shaking his head. “She doesn’t need encouragement. She requires legal counsel.”

Whitley smiled widely. “That’s exactly what he said.”

Rhyne’s own smile was wry. “Of course he did.”

Chuckling, Cole found Rhyne’s hand on his shoulder and patted it gently. “Now that she has the judge, the Physician Search Committee, and fifty-six testimonials on her side, we’re plainly outnumbered. I suppose we’ll have to stay.”

Rhyne couldn’t think of a single reason to be unhappy about it, but on principle her surrender was reluctant. She sighed. “I reckon we will.”

“Don’t you think it was a little cruel to tease her?” asked Rhyne. She chose from among the small jars of ointments and lotions on her vanity and began massaging the backs of her hands with aloe. When Cole failed to answer her, she looked past her reflection to where he was sitting on the bed composing a letter on a lap tray. He hadn’t begun to undress. She tapped the jar against the top of the vanity to get his attention. When he looked up, it was to give her an absentminded smile. He made a sound at the back of his throat that she supposed was a question.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her gaze directed at the lap tray. “And, yes, I can see that you’re writing, so you should provide more explanation than that.”

“It’s my reply to the committee,” he said. His tone communicated that it should have been plainly evident.

“Naturally,” she said dryly. “You realize the time, don’t you?” She saw him frown and consult his pocket watch. His genuine surprise made her smile.

They’d had an enjoyable evening entertaining the Coopers, Will and Rose, and Elijah Wentworth, but the time had gotten away from all of them. It was Rachel, so close to birthing her child that she made Wyatt squirm when she laughed too hard or too long, who finally admitted that she was tiring. Will and Rose left with them, but the judge lingered for a bit after that, spending his time exclusively with Whitley while Cole and Rhyne made short work of removing the last of the dishes and replenishing the drinks cabinet.

Whitley had only a vague memory of the judge reading to her during the darkest days of her illness, but the judge’s recollection of those hours spent in her company was clear, and the strength of what one felt and the other knew was enough to forge a lasting bond.

It was Elijah Wentworth that had been sitting at Whitley’s bedside and heard the first words she spoke in upward of a week. He would have given her anything she asked for, but all she wanted was water. Unashamed of his tears, he brought her the entire pitcher and called for Rhyne.

In the months that followed, Whitley made sure the judge had a place at their table when he was in town. She also wrote to him when he was away. Their easy friendship and mutual regard confounded Rhyne, and while she sometimes found herself envying them, she remained wary of giving the judge full access to her heart.

It would happen or it wouldn’t, Cole told her, and she’d been relieved to realize that accepting Elijah Wentworth as her father was an expectation no one shared, not even Elijah Wentworth. It gave her reason to hope she could be easy around him, that some day she would come to know that he would never betray her trust.

Cole put aside the tray. He leaned against the headboard and cradled the back of his head in his hands. “Where did you go?” he asked.

Rhyne blinked. “What?”

Now it was his turn to smile. “You were reminding me that it was late and then you disappeared.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I was thinking about Judah.”

“You were? Usually I can tell.”

He meant that she wasn’t scowling, she supposed. “Well, he came to my mind just as you spoke. That probably accounts for it.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

Rhyne hesitated. Talking about Judah reminded her of the limits of her ability to forgive. He’d sickened eighty-seven people, nine of whom died, and the law offered no means to charge him with a crime. The fever had taken Adele Brownlee and one of her whores, the midwife Mrs. Best, Will Beatty’s mother, the middle child of Douglas and Margaret Porter, Jack Beatty, Mrs. Wick ham of Wick-ham’s Leather Goods, the schoolteacher Thomas Cassidy, and Sid Walker.

Although Cole was able to prove beyond any doubt that Judah was a typhoid carrier, the law lagged behind the science, and there was little that could be done except banish Judah from town for the rest of his unnatural life. He was cautioned against leaving his homestead as well. There was no one in favor of him visiting the horrors of what he’d done in Reidsville on some equally unsuspecting town.

Rhyne didn’t know what Judah thought of his punishment. She hadn’t accompanied Wyatt and Cole when they’d ridden out to tell Judah what had been decided. He should have thanked them for not telling the town how the fever had come about, but perhaps he knew that they’d kept silent for her sake, not his. The simplest way to be rid of Judah as a problem would have been to inform just one person outside their small circle of what he’d done and watch the wildfire that was gossip take over the town. Wyatt understood his limits as sheriff. Containing a mob of vigilantes was outside of them.

“I could never trust Judah,” she said at last. “Or rather I
did
trust him, but only to do things that would hurt me. When I see the judge with Whitley, it reminds me that it should have been different. That it
could
be different.”

“So you were really thinking of Elijah,” Cole said. “Not Judah.”

She nodded. “And you,” she said. “I was thinking about you and what you said.”

“What I said?”

“That it would happen or not.”

Cautious, he said, “Well, I’m certain I meant well.”

Rhyne laughed. “You have no idea what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t, but dare I point out that it’s late?”

“If you must.” She pushed the jar of aloe back into place and picked up her hairbrush. “You never answered my question.”

“I didn’t?”

Still watching him in the mirror, Rhyne applied the brush to her hair. “I asked you if you thought it was a little cruel to tease Whitley this afternoon.”

“Cruel? Not in the least.”

“You’ve known for months that the committee was going to ask you to stay. They were so eager, they couldn’t wait until the end of your first year to make the offer.”

His expression was wry. “I imagine the testimonials had something to do with that.”

“Could be you’re right. Still, if you’d told her the committee’s intentions, Whitley wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of collecting them.”

“I know,” he said.

His unrepentant expression made her laugh again. “You’re cleverer than my brothers.”

Cole climbed out of bed and began to remove his jacket. “How many do you think she wrote herself?”

Rhyne pretended to think about it. “You’re very well liked, so I would say not more than fifty or fifty-one.”

He was certain he deserved that. “I hope her hand cramped.”

Smiling, Rhyne turned away from her reflection in the mirror. She continued to brush her hair as she watched Cole prepare for bed. She thought he was oblivious to her observation until his hands went to the button on his trousers and he glanced sideways at her and grinned. Rhyne had it in her mind to pitch her brush at him, but the urge faded as he correctly gauged her intent and advanced.

The brush fell from Rhyne’s suddenly nerveless fingers. Abandoning even the pretense of never surrendering, she gave him her hand without reservation and let him pull her to her feet. She stepped closer, not quite touching him, but feeling the inexorable pull of his body across the small space that separated them. She held his gaze, knew that what she saw in his darkening eyes was a mirror of her own desire.

Rhyne closed the distance. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she steadied herself as she rose on the balls of her feet and kissed him. Cole’s arms slipped around her waist; his hands clasped together at the small of her back. His mouth parted. The tip of her tongue teased his upper lip. She pressed a bit harder, touching the ridge of his teeth. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, engaged her body by pulling her hard against him. Spinning them both in a wide arc, he guided her backward toward the bed. She never hesitated once, each of her steps perfectly matching his.

The dance didn’t end when they reached the bed, nor was it complete at climax. It wasn’t finished even when they lay still and silent and their heartbeats slowed. Every breath was a measure; every touch struck a chord.

Rhyne moved so that she could put her head on his shoulder. She found his hand and laced her fingers in his. “I’m glad I didn’t shoot you when I had the chance.”

Cole pressed his lips against her hair. “That’s very pretty talk. Are you just coming around to that way of thinking?”

“No, it’s been a while.”

He smiled. “That’s good to know.”

“You shouldn’t get too full of yourself, though. That’d make you a bigger target.”

“Also good to know.”

Rhyne moved her head a fraction so she could see him better. He was still smiling. “Is this the dance, Cole?”

And because his own thoughts had drifted in that direction, his arm tightened around her. “Yes, Rhyne, it’s the dance. Exactly as I’d imagined.”

Nodding, pleased, Rhyne whispered against his ear, “You’re very kind to say so.”

It was the middle of the night when the No. 473 engine reached the station at Reidsville. John Clay’s train made good time from Denver, the fastest ever on the Calico Spur, but then he and the railroad had been paid handsomely to make it happen. For this run his engine only pulled one car, a private one, and the lightness of the load allowed No. 473 to make the climb into the mountains at her top speed.

John Clay had warned his passenger that the whole damn town would be sleeping when he arrived, but Mr. Franklin Benjamin Rhyne of Philadelphia was eager to reach Reidsville, and it seemed he had about as much money to burn as No. 473 had wood in her tender.

The engineer had his own thoughts about what was bringing Mr. Rhyne to Reidsville, but he kept them to himself. It wasn’t all that hard to figure out, so he reckoned folks would come to it soon enough. Some people would swear there was better than a passing resemblance to Delia Abbot, though John Clay didn’t see it after all these years later, but it was hard to ignore that fine ebony walking stick that Mr. Rhyne used when he stepped onto the platform. If there was another like it in all the world, and John Clay knew there was, then they’d been a matched pair once upon a time.

Elijah Wentworth stepped out of the dark alcove of the station front. “I’ve been expecting Mr. Rhyne,” he told the engineer. “I got his telegram before he left Denver. I know where he wants to go.”

John Clay lifted his cap, scratched the back of his neck, and nodded once. “I guess you’re goin’ to surprise her good, Judge. This time of night, have a care she doesn’t shoot first. Evenin’, gentlemen.”

Franklin Rhyne watched the engineer amble back to his train. Slightly bewildered, he turned to the judge. “Why would she shoot?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” the judge said, smiling faintly. He started to explain, then stopped and shook his head. His eyes fell to the walking stick. “I’d leave that behind, though.”

Mr. Rhyne’s hand closed over the knob, covering the king’s crown. “It’s a family heirloom.”

“I thought it might be.” The Pinkerton detectives had finally confirmed what Elijah Wentworth had long suspected. Delia Rhyne had never been anyone’s servant. Until she eloped with Judah Abbot
she’d
been the young lady of the house. “I’ll help you.” He extended his elbow. “Trust me,” he said confidentially, taking Mr. Rhyne’s arm. “All of us will be better served if your first meeting isn’t with Runt Abbot.”