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 know. He always finds out.” Rhyne rolled the bottle of liniment between her palms as she considered the consequences of defying her father. “Nicholas Nickleby,” she said finally. Getting a switch across the back of her legs for Dickens was not the worst thing. “I’ve always liked that one.”
Cole nodded and left to get it. By the time he returned, Rhyne had applied the malodorous liniment and was setting the bottle on the washstand. He wrinkled his nose. “I’m going to leave you with Mr. Nickleby and lend Johnny a hand. I was thinking I’d like to get you up and moving around.” He saw by her hopeful expression that she would willingly abandon the book in favor of leaving the bed.
“Later,” he said firmly. “At lunch. I can help you to the table and maybe out to the porch after that.”
“We should do it now,” Rhyne said. But Cole had already turned away and she was talking to his back. He must have known she’d never throw the Dickens at him because he didn’t even try to hurry.
Cole found Johnny sitting on the corral fence. He had a saddle balanced on the rail beside him and saddle soap in one hand and a rag in the other. He was watching Dolly scratch her neck on a fence post. When Cole came up beside him, he pointed to the mare. “Did Joe Redmond suggest that you take Dolly or was that your idea?”
“Joe’s. Will told me that Dolly is familiar with the trails.”
“That’s because she’s about the same age as dirt. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, she couldn’t pull an old whore off a piss pot.”
There was an expression he hadn’t heard before. “Colorful.”
“You take my meaning, though.”
“I certainly do.” He looked over the other horses. “Which one did you ride out here?”
“The spotted gray. That’s Sassafras. Sassy to those familiar with her temperament. She likes to toss her head and pretend she’s ignoring you.”
“A coquette, then.”
Johnny pulled a face. “Ain’t that one of those fried potato and lamb balls they serve at the Commodore?”
“That’s a croquette. A coquette is a flirt.”
“Huh.” He rolled that around in his mind for a moment, then gave Cole a suspicious, sideways look. “I thought you never ate at the hotel.”
“They have croquettes in New York, Johnny. Banana.
Oyster and macaroni. Salmon. Sweetbread. Chicken and mushroom.”
Johnny’s mouth watered in appreciation. He glanced up at the sun. “Still got some time before lunch, I reckon. Too bad about that. I’ve got a powerful taste for some fritters.”
Cole chuckled. He put one foot on the lower rail and hoisted himself up beside Johnny. “Do the other horses have names?”
“Probably do. I only know Twist–the cinnamon gelding by the trough. That’s Runt’s horse, leastways it’s the one he, I mean she, rides into town when she’s not coming for a season’s worth of supplies. She has to bring the wagon for that. The two mares pull that.”
“I
“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 know. He always finds out.” Rhyne rolled the bottle of liniment between her palms as she considered the consequences of defying her father. “Nicholas Nickleby,” she said finally. Getting a switch across the back of her legs for Dickens was not the worst thing. “I’ve always liked that one.”
Cole nodded and left to get it. By the time he returned, Rhyne had applied the malodorous liniment and was setting the bottle on the washstand. He wrinkled his nose. “I’m going to leave you with Mr. Nickleby and lend Johnny a hand. I was thinking I’d like to get you up and moving around.” He saw by her hopeful expression that she would willingly abandon the book in favor of leaving the bed.
“Later,” he said firmly. “At lunch. I can help you to the table and maybe out to the porch after that.”
“We should do it now,” Rhyne said. But Cole had already turned away and she was talking to his back. He must have known she’d never throw the Dickens at him because he didn’t even try to hurry.
Cole found Johnny sitting on the corral fence. He had a saddle balanced on the rail beside him and saddle soap in one hand and a rag in the other. He was watching Dolly scratch her neck on a fence post. When Cole came up beside him, he pointed to the mare. “Did Joe Redmond suggest that you take Dolly or was that your idea?”
“Joe’s. Will told me that Dolly is familiar with the trails.”
“That’s because she’s about the same age as dirt. If you don’t mind me sayin’ so, she couldn’t pull an old whore off a piss pot.”
There was an expression he hadn’t heard before. “Colorful.”
“You take my meaning, though.”
“I certainly do.” He looked over the other horses. “Which one did you ride out here?”
“The spotted gray. That’s Sassafras. Sassy to those familiar with her temperament. She likes to toss her head and pretend she’s ignoring you.”
“A coquette, then.”
Johnny pulled a face. “Ain’t that one of those fried potato and lamb balls they serve at the Commodore?”
“That’s a croquette. A coquette is a flirt.”
“Huh.” He rolled that around in his mind for a moment, then gave Cole a suspicious, sideways look. “I thought you never ate at the hotel.”
“They have croquettes in New York, Johnny. Banana.
Oyster and macaroni. Salmon. Sweetbread. Chicken and mushroom.”
Johnny’s mouth watered in appreciation. He glanced up at the sun. “Still got some time before lunch, I reckon. Too bad about that. I’ve got a powerful taste for some fritters.”
Cole chuckled. He put one foot on the lower rail and hoisted himself up beside Johnny. “Do the other horses have names?”
“Probably do. I only know Twist–the cinnamon gelding by the trough. That’s Runt’s horse, leastways it’s the one he, I mean she, rides into town when she’s not coming for a season’s worth of supplies. She has to bring the wagon for that. The two mares pull that.”
“I
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