Marry Me. Jo Goodman

managed to keep from rolling his eyes but suspected that somewhere Runt was fixing to fire another shot, probably across the bridge of Coleridge Braxton Monroe’s noble nose.

      “I’m the new physician for Reidsville,” Cole went on. “I was recently hired by the town to fill the position vacated by Doctor Diggins. I understand that you and your son Ru–” He caught himself and heard Will’s low whistle of relief. “Ryan may require medical attention from time to time. Sheriff Cooper encouraged me to get to know the outliers.” He loosened the strap on his black leather bag and carefully held it up. “I brought my medicines and instruments. If you will permit an examination, I will better understand how I may be of service to you and your son.”

      There was no immediate reply, and Cole thought he would be forced to repeat all of it even more loudly. Will cautioned him to give it some time, and their patience was rewarded after a few minutes. The front door of the cabin opened and a man supporting himself with a cane limped out.

      “Judah?” The question was reflexive. Even at his current distance, Cole could make out enough of the man’s features to know he had to be the father.

      “Judah,” Will confirmed. “Don’t be fooled by the limp. He moves pretty well when no one’s watching him.”

      “Why would he affect a limp?”

      Will Beatty shrugged. “Acting’s in his blood, I reckon.”

      It was as good an explanation as any, Cole decided, and he tucked it away until he had a better one.

      “You invitin’ us in, Judah?” Will called out. “No biscuits, but I have Mrs. Easter’s rhubarb tarts. I know you like those.”

      Judah shuffled to the edge of the canted porch and leaned his left shoulder into one of the supports. Still holding the cane he cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Does Coleridge Braxton Monroe come with the tarts?”

      “Afraid so!”

      Cole watched Judah’s hands drop back to his sides. Apparently he’d done all the talking he was prepared to do across a distance. Judah turned away, but at the last moment, he flicked his cane in their direction and gestured to them to come forward.

      “That’s it?” asked Cole.

      “That’s it.”

      “What about Ryan?”

      “He probably won’t shoot us now, not unless his pa says to. C’mon. Let’s go.” He clicked his tongue and let his mount feel his boot heels. As they rode toward the cabin, Will opened up his saddlebag and took out a neatly wrapped parcel. He opened it up with one hand and passed Cole a tart. “You sure as hell won’t get one of these out of Judah once I give them over. Better take it now. You’ll thank me.”

      Cole did exactly that as they dismounted and tethered their horses. Mrs. Easter’s delicious tart was settling nicely in his empty stomach. In anticipation of beginning his day on horseback, Cole had passed on breakfast. Whitley was disappointed, but he cared more about not being sick in front of that no-account Beatty boy.

      He let Will lead the way across the porch and into the house. Judah had allowed the door to remain open just enough to confirm that his gesture with the cane had indeed been an invitation. Upon entering, Cole removed his hat, although he noticed that Will did not. He transferred his hat to the hand that also held his medical bag and stepped forward to greet Judah Abbot.

      “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Abbot,” he said, holding out his hand.

      Judah did not make to rise from his rocker or take Cole’s hand. Suspicion was almost a tangible feature of his pale blue eyes. He looked Cole over carefully, taking his time, seemingly insensible of–or indifferent to–the rude nature of his regard.

      Cole didn’t retract his hand. He was used to being on the receiving end of Judah’s type of scrutiny. At St. John of God’s, it had been the steely-eyed stare of Dr. James Erwin that most of the young doctors feared. Erwin had a manner about him that was simultaneously demanding and disapproving. Pity the poor resident that surrendered to the pressure of answering a question quickly and got it wrong. Just as withering to a new doctor’s confidence was the scornful look when the answer was right but too long in coming.

      Judah Abbot, for all his cold and measured consideration, still had something to learn about intimidation from the head of surgery at St. John’s teaching hospital.

      Judah slowly extended his hand. His grasp was firm, Cole noted, and the palm was dry. Not unexpectedly, the older man showed some stiffness when he released his grip, and his thickening knuckles looked as though they might cause him pain from time to time. The index finger of his right hand was missing down to the first joint. It was an old injury, and the skin around the knobby digit was smooth and pink.

      “I can’t say that the pleasure’s mutual, Doctor,” said Judah. “Not at this juncture. Under the circumstances, it’s appropriate to reserve judgment.”

      “As you wish.”

      Judah absently stroked his iron gray beard and set his chair to rocking slowly. His wintry gaze swiveled to that no-account Beatty boy. “Didn’t you say something about rhubarb tarts?”

      “Right here.” Will held up the parcel.

      “Well, put them in the jar by the stove.” He jerked his chin in that direction. “Then hide the jar behind the molasses in the larder.”

      “Keeping them from Ryan?” asked Will. “I don’t know if Mrs. Easter would approve.”

      “She doesn’t have to know.”

      Shrugging, Will did as he was asked.

      Cole took advantage of Judah’s inattention to continue his visual examination. His new patient’s color was good, suggesting he did not spend all of his time indoors, although his lightly callused hands appeared to indicate he no longer did the hard labor. His long-sleeved chambray shirt and leather vest covered too much for Cole to make an evaluation. His eyes were clear, not rheumy, and while his facial hair concealed the true shape of jaw, Cole saw nothing that made him suspect Judah was hiding an extra chin. Cole had also seen enough past the man’s tight-lipped smile to know that he still had most of his teeth.

      Judah’s physical presentation came as something of a surprise. During their journey, while Cole had been listening to Will talk about the man, he’d formed a picture in his mind. Except for the coldly suspicious nature of Judah’s glance, he’d gotten nothing else right. Cole had been expecting a robust figure, a man with fists like cured hams and a chest as wide as a wine cask. He’d anticipated a man who had little sense of his own appearance and would be disheveled, if not slovenly. Cole realized he hadn’t given enough thought to Judah’s days as a performer.

      There was a resonance to Judah’s speech that Cole thought he must have used to great advantage in his Shakespearean roles. Even an actor whose audience probably first gathered in a tent would want to project his voice for better effect. Cole could imagine now that Judah had had little difficulty keeping attention on him.

      Judah’s clothes were faded from repeated washing and his boots showed evidence of a recent spit shine. On closer inspection, Cole saw the cane that Judah had used to wave them into the house was more properly a walking stick. It was a polished work of art; a column of chess pieces carved into ebony from the pawn tip to the crown knob, and would have been coveted by any New York gentleman for a turn in Central Park.

      The interior of the cabin was clean and tidy, completely at odds with the disrepair and neglect that was the appearance from the outside. The thin film of grime on the windows added to the illusion, but on the inside those windows were framed by lace curtains, yellow with age, but nonetheless clean.

      Cole did not know what to make of it, so he continued simply to gather information for sorting out later.

      Will returned from the pantry and pointed to one of the chairs at the table. “Mind if I sit?”

      “As you like,”