“He also threatened you.”
“That’s true. I suppose what he did to Rhyne doesn’t need to come into it.”
Cole nodded. “Good.” He saw Will hesitate, obviously uncomfortable. “What is it?”
“What about the other? The actual fact that there was a baby.”
“What about it?”
“Well, we don’t who the father was. If it wasn’t Judah, then it could be someone from town. It seems like I should be lookin’ into that, most particularly if Rhyne tells me it was rape.”
“She’s not going to tell you.”
Will thought Cole was probably right, but it was a disappointment that Runt wouldn’t trust him. “She might.”
Cole merely shrugged. He didn’t offer that in his experience it was more likely that she’d confide in a stranger rather than a friend. “Are you all right with this?”
Will nodded. “I’ve got no problem with it. What about you?”
“No problem.”
“Have you thought about what I should tell people when they realize you didn’t come back with me? People are bound to need a doctor while you’re gone. Seems like I should have something to explain it.”
“You can say that we found Rhyne with a fever and I stayed behind to treat her.”
“I suppose that’ll do,” Will said slowly.
“But you’re doubtful.”
“Folks expect to manage a fever on their own, not have the doc at their bedside for the duration. Maybe we should say she broke something … like an arm or a leg.” Before Cole could speak, Will dismissed his own suggestion. “No one would believe you’d be the one to stay behind and help her with the place. I’m going to have to send someone out here to do that anyway. How about we say she was shot?”
“Shot? Who shot her?”
“Miscreants, that’s who. People will believe anything about miscreants.”
“I suspect they will,” Cole said, his tone wry. “If you think that’s best, Deputy, I can support that story.”
“Good. I like it.”
“Now, you mentioned something about getting me some help.”
“You can’t look after Rhyne and do her chores, too.”
“I’m not incapable, Will.”
“No, but you’re city. Big city. I bet you never fended for yourself. Fed the chickens. Butchered your own meat. Milk probably came up right to your door and had the good manners to knock.”
Cole could see that Will was enjoying himself. Folding his arms, he leaned against the stove and waited for the deputy to wind down. The mere suggestion of a smile lifted one corner of his mouth, and he found himself oddly entertained by the picture Will painted of his New York life. Much of what that no-account Beatty boy said was true, but it didn’t follow that the picture was complete. To do that Will would have had to understand something about the demands of a house doctor, know the hours could be as long as a farmer’s, the pay as poor as a ranch hand’s, and the rewards as unlikely to be realized as those offered by the wanted posters.
“So what I’m saying,” Will concluded after ticking off six additional points, “is that you’re goin’ to need an extra pair of hands. I figure the Longabachs can spare Johnny Winslow for a spell, and if they can’t, then Ned Beaumont would probably hire himself out.”
“Whatever you think is best,” Cole said.
Will nodded. “One of them will be here in the morning.” He picked up the Winchester. “I should take this in to Runt. She’ll want to know that it’s close by. I’ll slide it under the bed.”
“That’s fine. Will you need help with Judah?”
“You might want to keep a watch for me out the window, but I’m not expecting there’s much fight left in him. Lots of talk, mind you, but not much fight. I think we saw his final act when he drew that damn walking stick.”
“I trust you to know.” Cole pointed to the bedroom. “You go on. Say good-bye to her if she’s awake. If she asks, reassure her that she’s safe with me.”
“She won’t believe me.” Will’s quicksilver grin made his deep dimples appear. “I gotta tell you, Doc, Rhyne Abbot might just be the first female around here that doesn’t think much of your fine patrician looks.”
Rhyne felt as if she were being held underwater. Her lungs were near to bursting with the need to breathe. Panic made her want to flail and thrash; pressure from an unknown weight kept her in place. Sparks of pure white light appeared at the center of her vision, while at the periphery there was only unrelenting darkness. If she didn’t draw air, she would die. If she did, she would die. There was no real choice, only the inevitability of death.
She decided to embrace it.
Cole jerked awake. His feet slipped off the iron bed rail and thumped to the floor. He sat up straight, alert. Something had changed.
Rhyne lay exactly as she had when he fell asleep in the chair beside her. The sheet covered her to her throat; her hands remained at her side. Her stubby lashes cast no shadows to add to the violet smudges beneath her eyes. She was pale, ethereally so, her shape defined by softly draping cotton.
And she wasn’t breathing.
Jumping to his feet, Cole bent over her. He placed his cheek near her lips and laid his palm over her heart. “Rhyne!” He forced her jaw open and swept the inside of her mouth with his finger, searching for an obstruction. He could not feel anything, but his finger was wet and darkly stained when he withdrew it. Blood? The lantern light was inadequate to know with certainty, but no other cause came to mind. “Rhyne!” Turning her on her side, Cole gave her several hard blows between her shoulder blades with the heel of his hand.
She hunched her shoulders, gagged, and finally expelled the object caught in her throat.
Cole stared at the pillow. Not blood at all, he realized, but something deeply brown yet transparent, more like water in its consistency.
After a moment, it came to him. Tobacco spittle.
And lying just beyond the pillow where she had expelled it was the thing that had almost killed Runt Abbot: a black bolus of chaw.
Coleridge Braxton Monroe surrendered to both the consequences of adrenaline and the absurdity of his discovery. Slumping into his chair, he threw back his head and laughed until he was the one in danger of choking.
It was a struggle to sit up. Rhyne supported herself on her elbows and stayed there while the first wave of pain ebbed. Grimacing, she inched backward until she felt the headboard pressing against her shoulders. With the iron rails behind her, she was able to rise to a full sitting position.
Her first coherent thought was that she was late beginning her chores. She’d seen the position of the sun from Judah’s window often enough to know she should be bringing him breakfast now, not merely waking herself. She hadn’t gathered eggs or fed the chickens. The horses needed her attention. There was no fresh water in the pitcher on the washstand and no kettle heating on the stove. Normally the aroma of brewing coffee would be filling the cabin, nudging Judah awake before she arrived at his door with his tray.
She’d tasted the coffee that the sheriff and Will brewed in their office, and it wasn’t an invitation to linger. She couldn’t imagine that the prisoners got a cup that was