Marry Me. Jo Goodman

want me to get Runt’s tray?”

      “No, I’ll do it.”

      “Okay.” Johnny stood and began clearing the table. He was almost done by the time Cole got to his feet.

      Rhyne looked up when Cole slipped into the room. She held out the tray. “He’s going to think I didn’t like it.”

      “I’ll tell him you just weren’t hungry. That’s true,

      isn’t it?”

      “It’s true,” she said. “But I want to tell him myself.” Cole arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

      She nodded. “I’d rather do it without an audience. Johnny and me. Alone. He never paid much notice to me when I was in town. He was polite and all, just not one of the ones who liked to rile me and stir things up.”

      Now it was Cole who hesitated. “If you’re sure.”

      “I am. Go on. Send him in.”

      Cole set the tray down. “Not until I bandage your shoulder.” When she looked at him oddly, he explained. “It was Will’s idea to tell folks you were shot. He came up with that to explain why I stayed back and he returned to town.”

      “Shot?!” Her dark eyebrows darted toward her cap of badly cropped hair. “Who shot me?”

      Rhyne’s clear indignation was not unexpected. Cole held up his hands, palms out, absolving himself of responsibility. “Miscreants, Will said.”

      “He’s ridiculous.”

      “Maybe, but he warmed to the story so quickly there was no turning him from it. I’m just going to put a sling on your right arm and shoulder. Keep it still and don’t let Johnny get too curious about your wound. What you want to tell him about the miscreant that shot you is your business. My advice? Say the least you can. He’ll have no difficulty making the story his own. You won’t recognize it when you hear it again.”

      Cole adjusted the sling, running a finger under the knot at Rhyne’s neck to make certain it wasn’t too tight. He felt her seized by a sudden tremor and realized he shouldn’t have touched her without seeking permission. “I should have warned you,” he said, his tone curt.

      “Which do you hate more?” Rhyne asked, watching him closely. “Making a mistake or apologizing for it?”

      Cole pretended he hadn’t heard. He stood, retrieved the tray, and bid her good night, leaving the door open. “Runt wants to say hello,” he told Johnny, passing off the tray. “Don’t stay too long.”

      “You goin’ to bed?”

      “Soon. I thought I’d step outside for a while.”

      Johnny was unsuccessful at masking his surprise, but he didn’t say anything. “Suit yourself.”

      Nodding, Cole did just that. The evening air that greeted him was clear and cool: another successful forecast for Sid Walker. Breathing deeply, he set his shoulder against one of the supports and waited. He didn’t know the precise nature of what he was waiting for, only that he would understand what to do when it came to him.

      As it turned out, it was laughter, and once he heard it and knew Rhyne would be fine, Coleridge Monroe turned in.

      “Johnny says you got him good,” Cole told Rhyne. “And he didn’t appear to be bothered by it. If his reaction is any indication of what you can expect from others, the town is going to be much more astonished that you were shot than by the fact that you’re a woman.”

      “Will should have never said that about me.”

      Cole shrugged as he put his stethoscope away. “I told you, he suggested a broken limb at first, but it grew like Topsy from there.”

      Rhyne’s slate gray eyes narrowed a fraction as she plotted revenge. “I’ll settle up with that no-account Beatty boy. Just see if I don’t.”

      “I have no doubt,” said Cole. He helped her sit up in bed and rearranged the sling for her comfort. It did not escape his notice that her stiff movements were accompanied by a grimace. “Where do you hurt?”

      “Are you going to be a burr under my saddle about it?”

      “I am.”

      She sighed. “My belly.”

      “Inside or outside?”

      “Outside.”

      “The welts, then. Do you have any ointment? Liniment?”

      Rhyne looked pointedly at his medical bag, one dark eyebrow raised.

      “I have tinctures for infection,” he explained, “but your welts are beginning to heal, and the discomfort is because your skin is being pulled taut. Most people have some salve or liniment in their homes, so I don’t carry it with me.”

      “There’s a bottle of Mr. Caldwell’s special liniment in Judah’s chest of drawers.” She watched Cole cross the room to the narrow chest. “First one.”

      Cole rooted through Judah’s handkerchiefs and socks and finally found it. “Do you know what’s in it?”

      Rhyne shook her head. “Cat piss probably. That’s what it smells like.”

      Having been forewarned, Cole removed the cork carefully and gently fanned one hand over the bottle. The scent that wafted toward him made his head jerk back and his features contract. He jammed the cork back into place.

      “Told you,” Rhyne said. “Judah uses it on his hip when it’s grieving him. He swears by it.”

      “Really?” He was skeptical, but he carried the bottle over to Rhyne anyway. “There’s camphor in it, and more than a little alcohol, but I have no idea what Mr. Caldwell uses to create that peculiar odor. Not many compounds can overpower camphor.”

      Shaking her head, Rhyne took the bottle from his hand. “It’s better if you just keep it away from your proboscis. I’ll put it on myself, thank you.”

      Cole didn’t argue. “I should go help Johnny. He got an early start on me.”

      “He told me you were still sleeping when he brought me breakfast.”

      “I suppose I was,” he said stiffly.

      “There’s no need to take offense, Doctor. None was meant.”

      He knew she was right. “Whitley says I’m thin-skinned about all the things I can’t do.”

      “Sounds about right. Who’s Whitley?”

      “My sister. She lives with me.”

      “Do you take care of her or she of you?”

      Cole didn’t have to think about that. “It’s both.”

      “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

      “It’s not,” he allowed. “Most of the time.”

      “Is she bossy?”

      “She’s sixteen. She’s devious.”

      “I was thinking she was older than you.”

      He shook his head. “No. There are thirteen years between us.” Cole moved away from the bed to end the conversation. He suspected that boredom was provoking her questions, and that meant she was ready to engage in mild activity. “Is there something I can get you to read? That’s an extensive collection in the other room.”

      “They’re all Judah’s.”

      “He collected them, you mean.”

      “I mean they’re all his. No one’s allowed to touch them without Judah’s permission, and he’s stingy with it.”

      “He’s in jail. I don’t think he’ll know.”

      “He’ll