Amon

by Kit Morgan

  The man’s brows rose in question. “Is that so? Whom may I ask are you?”

  Clinton suddenly straightened, recognizing the man’s English accent. “Uh … ya two are … some relation of the Cookes?”

  “Quite,” the woman said calmly. Amon felt a thrum inside like a guitar string being plucked at the sound of her voice.

  “Any discussion concerning my sister will be done through me,” the man said. He turned to her. “Nettie, return to your room. I’ll come for you later.”

  “On the contrary, dear brother – I think any discussion concerning me should include me. After all, I am the one getting married, not you.”

  Amon turned to fully face them, carefully so as not to give Clinton any ideas about shooting him in the back. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said with a slight bow. He then turned to the man. “I spoke with Harrison and Colin yesterday.”

  “You’re the chap Sadie Cooke had in mind for Nettie,” he said.

  “How did you know?”

  “I would think that quite obvious, dear sir, as the entire reason we’re here is so my sister can wed. I’m well aware that our relatives had several men in mind, one of which they favored more than the others. I can only assume you are he – otherwise why would you be here defending her?”

  “Well, yes,” Amon agreed with a nod, his eyes locked on Nettie.

  “What’s that gotta do with anythin’?” Clinton huffed. “She can pick who she wants!”

  “Exactly,” Amon said dryly, not turning around.

  Clinton didn’t take the hint, and perhaps didn’t have the concept of a hint. Instead he looked the woman up and down like she was his next meal. “Yer sure a purty thing. We kin get hitched before suppertime!”

  Amon closed his eyes and groaned. “You’ll have to excuse him,” he said as he opened them and they locked with Nettie’s again.

  “‘Scuse me fer what? I got as much right to ‘er as any other man in this town, maybe more so!”

  “Newton Whitman,” the brother stated as he studied Clinton, one eyebrow raised, “And you are?”

  “Clinton Moresy! An’ that there gal is the future Mrs. Moresy!” he bellowed, taking a few steps toward the woman.

  Newton stepped in front of his sister, then glanced between Clinton and Amon. “And what makes you so sure?”

  “’Cause I get what I want,” Clinton hissed.

  His desperate bravado was almost embarrassing, Amon thought. Or at least it would be if he wasn’t armed, and stupid enough to be dangerous. He saw the woman take a step back as Clinton leered at her. If Clinton wasn’t careful – as he usually wasn’t – her brother was going to either have him thrown in jail or out a window.

  Newton turned to his sister. “Nettie, this gentleman would very much like to marry you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, dear … I’m afraid that won’t do.”

  “Why not?” Clinton huffed, “Ain’t I good enough fer ya?”

  “Frankly, sir … no. You’re certainly not.”

  “Why, you –!”

  Amon had had enough. He stepped between Clinton and the others. “I told you before, Moresy, she’s already spoken for. Do not put the lady in such a position.” He leaned down to him. “Besides, you heard her answer.”

  Clinton tried to step around him, but had to settle for looking past him. “Zat true? Are ya already spoken fer? By him?” he added and jabbed a thumb toward Amon.

  Amon fought for control. He’d never hurt a man in his life, but if Clinton Moresy didn’t back off quickly, he was going to tear the scroungy little man limb from limb …

  Her eyes darted between the two, at last settling on Amon. She took in the intense look on his face, his clenched fists … “Yes,” she said tentatively, “I am.”

  Newton pressed his lips together, his eyes full of amusement, but said nothing.

  “So you see, Clinton?” Amon said evenly. “You’ve gone through all this trouble for nothing. Save it for the next one.”

  Clinton scrunched up his face and narrowed his eyes, reminding Amon of Mrs. Dunnigan. “This ain’t over,” he hissed, then stormed past the three and stomped down the stairs.

  Amon let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I apologize. Clinton Moresy is less than, how should I put it, civilized?”

  “As opposed to you?” Newton asked. He didn’t seem convinced.

  “I’d like to think so, yes. But I’ll let you be the judge, Mr. Whitman.”

  His humility caught the Englishman off-guard. “Well … you’re certainly right about Mr. Moresy – the man is obviously a cad. Thank you for defending my sister from …” he waved a hand behind him. “… that. Clearly he wouldn’t be a good match for her.”

  “He was determined to be at almost any cost, I’m afraid.” Amon said.

  “And yourself?” Newton asked.

  “Me?” Amon suddenly realized he’d have to answer the man – he had basically just told him he was going to marry his sister. Now what would he do?

  * * *

  Nettie blinked at the man standing in front of her. Had she just heard him right? “You?” she said and pointed at him.

  He raised a single eyebrow at the word – or rather, at her finger – as he stared at it. “As I was first choice, then … yes, me. Unless of course you would prefer not to, but that might risk you being at the mercies of Mr. Moresy.”

  Behind her, she could hear the doors of the hotel lobby slamming, as if in punctuation of the violent Mr. Moresy’s intent. She grimaced and took a few steps backward.

  “It’s all right, dear,” Newton whispered. “He’s gone. For now, at least.”

  Nettie relaxed, slightly, and her eyes drifted back to the man in front of her. His features were different, odd, though handsome. His cheekbones were high, and there was a slight upward slant to his eyes, as if part of his ancestry were Chinese. His hair was a thick reddish-brown, poking out from under his hat. He was tall and lean but not undernourished – he seemed all muscle and sinew beneath his clothes. She blinked a few more times in an effort to tear her gaze from him – after all, it was impolite to stare – but found she couldn’t.

  “Nettie?” Newton said softly to get her attention. Thankfully, it worked. “Perhaps we should speak to this gentleman in private?”

  Her eyes slowly drifted back to the man standing before her. “As you wish.”

  “Follow us, please,” Newton instructed, “Mr. er … ah …”

  “The name’s Cotter. Amon Cotter.”

  “Mr. Cotter,” he confirmed then took Nettie by the arm, turned and headed down the hall. She could sense the man following – what a strange feeling! She stole a quick glance at him and noticed his tight jaw. But the unpleasant Mr. Moresy was gone now …

  She heard the lobby doors slam again. “Now lissen here – I ain’t said my peace yet!” Mr. Moresy yelled as he came stomping toward the stairs.

  Mr. Cotter growled low in his throat and turned back. “I’ll take care of this –”

  “If you’ll just come with us please, Mr. Cotter,” she said quickly, hoping to calm the situation. It wouldn’t do for the two of them to get into a fistfight there in the hallway. Besides, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be married to a man so quick to anger. Or was he simply being protective of her?

  “Mr. Moresy,” Newton called as the little man came thundering up the staircase. “I’ll grant you an audience after I’ve spoken with Mr. Cotter. Would that suit you?”

  Mr. Moresy stopped, his eyes darting around like a fly at a picnic. “How come I gotta go second?”

  “On the simple basis that Mr. Cotter here has manners. Whereas you don’t.”

  “Then why even bother to talk to me?” he asked with suspicion.

  Newton gave him a casual smile. “Because then you can say I did.” He turned back around, motioned to Mr. Cotter, and steered Nettie down the hall again.

  With a man beside her and another close behind, she felt safe from the uncouth
Mr. Moresy, who from the sound of it – or lack thereof – had chosen not to follow again. If she were lucky, he’d leave and not speak with her brother at all, but she somehow knew that wouldn’t be the case. He’d want to talk to Newton, even if it was to bad-mouth the man beside her. Something was better than nothing, and she guessed Mr. Moresy would take what he could get.

  They reached Newton’s room and went inside. He invited Mr. Cotter to have a seat on a sofa near the window, then took a nearby chair and set it down on the other side of the small table in front of the sofa. “Nettie, would you mind running down to the kitchen and having Mrs. Upton fix us some tea?”

  She looked between them. “Getting rid of me already?”

  He gave her a warm smile, one he often used to comfort her. “I’ll have my say with the gentleman alone, yes. You know me well enough.”

  She had to smile as well. “Indeed I do.” She tossed a furtive glance at Mr. Cotter, who was still staring at her, his eyes intense. She swallowed hard. “I’ll go tell Mrs. Upton to prepare a pot.” She gave a small curtsy, left the room, closed the door, turned …

  … and walked right into Mrs. Upton. “Oh! I’m terribly sorry!” Then she noticed that the other woman was carrying a large cast-iron frying pan.

  Mrs. Upton followed her eyes and nodded. “I heard a ruckus up here, so I thought I’d better look in on things. We ladies can’t be too careful.”

  “Truer words were never spoken,” Nettie sighed, leaning against the nearest wall.

  “It sounded like Clinton Moresy.”

  “It was.”

  Mrs. Upton shook her head sadly. “That boy just isn’t right,” she offered, tapping her temple with a finger. “Well, what can I do for you?”

  “Oh, yes. My brother is entertaining a guest and wanted some tea if it’s not too much trouble?”

  “No trouble at all, honey. You come with me.”

  As they headed down the hall, Nettie breathed a sigh of relief as she saw no sign of that horrid man Mr. Moresy. They descended the stairs, crossed the lobby to the dining room and from there into the kitchen. “Oh my!” she said as she glanced around, her eyes widening. The place was enormous!

  “Yes indeed,” Mrs. Upton said proudly at Nettie’s reaction. “Quite a place Mr. Van Cleet built here. Now the visitor – is it that handsome Mr. Cotter?”

  Nettie couldn’t help but look surprised. “However did you know it was him?”

  “Honey, it wasn’t just Moresy’s voice I heard coming down the stairwell.” She hummed to herself a moment. “Besides, that Mr. Cotter … I swear his voice could melt butter.”

  Nettie realized she was right – the man’s voice was pleasant. She hadn’t had a chance to dwell on it before, being more concerned about Mr. Moresy causing trouble.

  “Is your brother speaking to him about marrying you?” Mrs. Upton asked with a wink.

  Nettie gasped, then sobered. So what if the woman knew? Soon the whole town probably would. “I suppose he is.”

  “Sent you down here so they could meet in private, huh? Well, that's a good sign.”

  She squared her shoulders and was about to give Mrs. Upton what for, then stopped. The other woman meant no harm. But she was determined to choose her own husband – and even if her brother approved of him, she might not. That’s what she hated most about this: the horrible feeling that she had no control over her life, any more than she had slaving for the Baron.

  No. She wanted to marry, but no one – not her brother, the Duke, or his brothers for that matter was going to choose her husband for her. About that, she was determined.

  Five

  “I dare say,” Imogene huffed, “but if reading The Devil’s Bride and The Pirate’s Peril aren’t enough to pick you up, then I’m at my wits end!”

  Cutty shifted himself on the bed, crossed his arms over his chest and scowled. They were in the patient room at the back of Doc Waller’s house. He’d been there ever since the Whitman twins had arrived in town a few days ago. “Woman, the day yer at yer wit’s end will be the day yer in yer grave! Even then, you’ll no doubt have some cuttin’ remark that’ll set the Grim Reaper’s sickle on fire!”

  “Well, well,” Imogene said with a smile, “there’s the Cutty I know! You’ve got to fight whatever this is that ails you! And I don’t think it has anything to do with your previous injuries.”

  He glared at her with his one good eye. “And what makes ya say that, Doctor?”

  “Because I know you better than you think, dear sir.”

  Cutty sank back into his pillows at the remark. “Ya don’t know me!”

  “Don’t I?” Imogene said with a sly smile. “I’ve spent enough time with you, you old coot!”

  He sat up at that. “Who are ya calling an old coot, you … you …” He snorted. “Being at least half a gentleman, I cain’t say it!”

  “Half a gentleman? Now there’s one I haven’t heard!”

  “Well, now ya have!” He shot back with a curt nod. “Be glad at least half of me is!”

  Imogene leaned toward him and sighed. “And what’s the other half consist of?”

  Cutty’s face softened. “That’s somethin’ I don't wanna talk about if’n ya don’t mind. I hope that side of me’s long gone.” He looked away. “I was no good, Imogene, no good at all.”

  She shrugged. “Everyone has a dark side, don’t they? I think that’s one of the reasons I went to India so often.”

  “Is that the side that bagged a tiger?” he asked with a smile.

  “Indeed not. But it certainly brought me a lot of attention!”

  “I’m sure it did. I would’ve given anything to be there and see you shoot the beast.”

  “Ah, but alas, ‘twas not to be at the time …,” she said with a sigh.

  “At the time? What ya mean? I didn’t even know ya then!”

  She shook herself. “Oh yes, you’re quite right. How could you have come?”

  “Land sakes, woman, are ya losin’ your mental faculties?”

  “Of course not – I’m tired, that’s all. Tired of sitting here arguing with you! Now are you going to get out of that bed or not?” She stood and crossed her arms.

  “I’ll get out of this here bed when I’m good and ready!”

  “Fine, then I shall see you when you do!”

  “What?!” Cutty said with enough exuberance to lift himself halfway. “What do ya mean?”

  “I mean that I’m not going to see you until you get your sorry hide out of that bed! There’s nothing wrong with you!”

  “Who says there ain’t?” he screeched, hard enough to come off the bed again.

  “I says there ain’t,” she replied, exaggerating the slang.

  He righted himself and pulled the quilt against him. “I’m a sick man, I tell ya!” he yelled as he shook his fist.

  “What’s goin’ on in here?” Grandma Waller cried as she charged into the room. “What’s all the yellin’ for?”

  “We’re not yellin’!” Cutty shouted. “We are havin’ a civilized discussion!”

  “I told you there was nothing wrong with him,” Imogene told Grandma with a triumphant smirk.

  Grandma studied Cutty with a keen eye. “Is this true? Are you back to your old crotchety self?”

  Cutty’s eyes darted between them. “I … well, I …”

  “If you’re taking up space, so help me …” Grandma threatened. “We might need that bed for someone who’s really sick!”

  He sighed in defeat. “I’m going, then,” he groused. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  “Ha!” Imogene said and raised her arms in victory. “I knew it!”

  “You knew what?” he growled as he scratched at the chest of his long underwear.

  She stepped forward. “That something else ails you, old man. And I intend to find out what!”

  Cutty’s eyes widened. “Mind yer own business, woman!”

  She spun to Grandma. “You see? That confirms it!”

 
; “Confirms what?” Cutty asked, his voice cracking.

  “That I’m right!” Imogene said waving a hand in the air for emphasis. She turned and left the patient room.

  Grandma stared after her a moment, then slowly looked back at Cutty. “You’d best hightail it out of here, then. I’ll go see what I can rustle up in the kitchen for ya to take. Can’t send a man out without something to eat.”

  She left as well, leaving him alone for the first time that day. If Doc Waller hadn’t been poking and prodding him, Imogene was harping at him. Or reading to him. Cutty smiled at the thought before he threw back the quilt and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He’d spent the last three days trying to recover from shock – and just plain hide. Now that he’d gotten his senses back, to a certain degree at least, it was time to set things straight.

  If only he knew how.

  * * *

  Amon studied the man sitting across from him. Newton Whitman was handsome, with dark eyes and shoulder-length golden hair. He wondered if long hair was the latest fashion in England. But the man’s hairstyle didn’t matter. What did was the offer Mr. Whitman had just extended to him.

  “My sister, Mr. Cotter, has been through almost more than she can bear. I’ll not see her suffer any longer. Can you guarantee me that you’ll make her happy?”

  “I can’t guarantee anything,” Amon told him evenly. “She might not like me. Then what?”

  “A logical assumption,” Newton agreed. “But she has to marry and, as the Cookes deem you the best possible choice, I’d rather she become Mrs. Nettie Cotter than be saddled with one such as Mr. Moresy.”

  Amon nodded. “Clinton is probably the worst man around these parts she could get stuck with. But somehow I doubt that could happen, not with you around.”

  “And you’d be right, dear sir. I’d prefer she live out her days as a spinster than attach herself to the likes of him.”

  Amon stared at Newton a moment and tried to identify the emotions welling up inside. Their discussion had been amiable enough, and twice he battled with telling the Englishman he wanted nothing to do with marriage, that he was only trying to defend his sister from Clinton. But something kept stopping him. Before he knew it, he was shaking hands across the small table between them, agreeing to a union that an hour ago he would have avoided like a plague.