Lisa Plumley - Morrow Creek Marshal

But as he turned back to the cooktop, Marielle saw his bravado fade. He plainly considered enterprising to be on the same level as ridiculous . His crestfallen expression broke her heart. Bravely, he squared his shoulders for another attempt.

“I’d be happy to make you something else,” he offered.

“No, no. Thank you,” Corinne demurred. “This is fine.”

But their guest hadn’t touched her toast, and the slump to Hudson’s shoulders was the final straw for Marielle. She had to do something to salvage this situation. Otherwise, Hudson’s inelegant attempts to impress Corinne would come to naught.

He was her brother—the only family she had left in the world. Helping him was more important than anything else.

“Saucepan toast is very good,” Marielle assured Corinne, wincing as she leaned on her crutch. Her ankle still hurt a great deal. Likely, there was more painkilling laudanum in her future. After last night, she didn’t want to be dizzy with medication. She needed to be vigilant. There was no telling when Charley Sheridan might return. “The pan helps keep it...moist!”

“I see.” Contemplatively, Corinne examined her toast. “In that case, well done, Mr. Miller! You are an innovator, indeed.”

She tried a bite. Hudson nearly danced an elated jig.

Proud of herself for drumming up that bolstering fib, Marielle gave an encouraging glance to her brother. His relieved expression meant everything to her. All she’d ever wanted was for him to be happy—for him to never feel abandoned, as she had.

When Dylan Coyle had suggested that she was on the lookout for something, Marielle supposed that’s what it had always been.

But why in tarnation was lasting happiness so elusive?

“Although,” Corinne went on, furrowing her brow as she watched Marielle gamely struggle to get up from the table and get back to her room, “shouldn’t you be helping your sister? It looks as though Marielle could use a strong man’s assistance.”

“Nah. Mari won’t hear of it.” Puffing up his chest to look extra brawny, Hudson waved off that suggestion. Insensible of this opportunity to appear even stronger for Corinne’s benefit, he shook his head. “She’s mighty proud of her independence.”

Corinne appeared dubious. “Are you sure? At least pour Marielle some of that coffee you promised. You were brewing it when I arrived. It can’t all have been for me, can it?”

“’Course not.” Hudson shifted his gaze to Marielle, silently begging her not to reveal his customary postrevelry habit of sobering himself with gallons of strong coffee. He’d learned the tradition from their father. “It’s just... I had a powerful need for coffee, and Mari wasn’t up yet, so I had to fend for my—” Hudson broke off, belatedly catching sight of Corinne’s distressed face. “I was out pretty late last night,” he tried again, “what with the need to watch over Mari at Jack’s saloon and all. I might’ve had a mite too much to—” He stopped short, realizing too late that describing his raucous night would probably not endear him to someone as reputedly upright and no-nonsense as Corinne Murphy. After a despairing gulp of air, he tried again. “What I mean to say is, I’m going to have to learn to do a few things around here, now that Mari is laid up awhile. I’m going to be taking care of her. I can’t wait!”

Corinne looked amused...and maybe a tiny bit impressed, too. “You can’t wait to learn to cook, clean and quit carousing?”

Marielle wanted to bury her face in her hands. Hudson’s wild nights had earned him such infamy that his propensity for riotous behavior was discussed casually? Just after daybreak?

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