Lisa Plumley - Morrow Creek Marshal

The town’s curmudgeonly physician didn’t hear her.

Frustrated, Marielle tried again. More loudly.

The only person who heard her was Hudson. He broke through the ring of men surrounding Mr. Coyle, all of them chattering away, then spied Marielle on her chair. Her brother shouted.

“Mari!” Almost six and a half feet tall, possessed of a powerful build and a headful of shoulder-length dark brown hair that matched his coffee-colored eyes, Hudson lumbered forward. He was neither graceful nor formidable, but he was beloved by Marielle. At the sight of her brother, she sagged with relief.

“I heard you were hurt!” He knelt at her chair, looking her over for what he plainly expected to be calamitous bumps and bruises. He grasped her hand. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I, uh, stepped outside for a while. The next thing I knew, some cowboy was rushing by, shouting for Doc Finney like a darn fool.” Hudson scoffed, sending ale fumes wafting toward her. He smelled of cheroot smoke, too. “Everybody knows Doc was at the men’s club meeting, but I guess that broke up. Anyway, I—”

“Can you get me out of here, please?”

Hudson balked. “You aren’t done dancing already, are you?”

His disappointment was palpable...and understandable, too. He didn’t want to cut short his evening of fun. While she was dancing onstage, Hudson always promised to linger nearby for her “protection.” In actuality, her brother spent most of his time drinking and carousing. Sometimes gambling. Marielle knew he meant well. After all, if not for her profession, he would not have been exposed to so many objectionable influences at all.

Hudson’s potential ruination was partly her fault.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted, “that I’m done dancing for quite a while.” She didn’t want to worry him by saying how long.

New concern shadowed his face. “You’re hurt bad ? Where?”

“My ankle.” Ruefully, Marielle glanced in its direction. That traitorous “feeble” appendage might take weeks to heal. “If you could please just ask Doc Finney to meet us at home—”

“Of course! Of course I will.” Her brother squeezed her hand. “Anything you need, Mari. You know you can count on me.”

“She’d better be able to.” Jack Murphy separated himself from the crowd. Judging by his solemn expression, he’d been informed of Marielle’s situation—and had heard her own gloomy pronouncement of her prognosis, too. He pushed a glass in her hand. “Drink this. I’ll send the doctor to you straightaway.”

“This is a double whiskey!” Marielle objected.

“It’ll help. Trust me.” Jack turned to Hudson, even as the Dylan-Coyle-centered melee went on behind him. “She’ll do better at home, where it’s quiet. Make sure she gets some rest.”

Irked, Marielle cleared her throat. “I’m right here!”

“I’ll listen to you,” Jack informed her with a devilish gleam in his Irish eyes, “after you down that medicinal snort.”

Expeditiously, she did. It burned all the way down. Ugh .

Eyes watering, Marielle persisted. “I already told Hudson to take me home, Jack. You needn’t interfere. I have this well in hand.” A surprising warmth spread through her, kindled by the liquor she’d consumed. “I’ll be back within days. Don’t worry.”

Hudson took away her glass. He nodded at her. “Ready?”

Marielle murmured her assent. She held out her hand, ready for her brother to help her to her feet in a dignified fashion.

Instead, he saved time by scooping her outright into his massive arms, then cradling her to his chest. Marielle couldn’t help whooping in surprise, then clutching him. She gave him a swat, feeling relieved and displeased in equal measure. She loved Hudson. She knew he’d care for her, however inexpertly. But she didn’t like being treated like a helpless child.

“Days,” she promised Jack sternly, desperate to make sure he wouldn’t hire someone to replace her. “I heal quickly.”

“You’ll take as long as you need,” her boss countered.

But Marielle knew she couldn’t do that. “I can’t afford to stay home languishing! You know that. Without a steady income—”

But Jack Murphy had an answer for that, too.

“I’ll give you half pay, for as long as you’re laid up—”

“What?” She was astounded. His offer went above and beyond what any dancer could expect. “That’s so generous of you.”

“—as long as you rest up and follow orders.”

Humph . Marielle wrinkled her nose. Naturally, there were conditions attached to Jack’s munificence. It was almost as if they all expected her to flout doctor’s orders, charge ahead on her own authority and handle this situation however she liked.

It was almost as if they all knew her, Jack included.

Dratted know-it-alls. No adult man would have had to agree to “follow orders” under threat of penury. Why should she?

She could take care of herself and darn well would.

“Making a cranky face,” Jack observed, “is not agreeing.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Marielle asked.

Hudson chuckled. She felt the vibration of his laughter.

“That’s why I’m pressing the issue,” Jack said. “We’ve known each other for years now, remember? My saloon was just a wee upstart when I brought you and your troupe to Morrow Creek.”

Marielle remembered. Daniel McCabe had built the stage she danced on with his own two blacksmithing hands. Catching a glimpse of Jack’s expectant expression, she knew what he wanted.

She wasn’t ready to give him her agreement, though.

“You all think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she groused.

“I don’t.” Holding her in his arms, Hudson shrugged. He gave her an endearing grin. “But I agree with Jack about this.”

“Traitor.” Stubbornly, Marielle frowned at them both. But a second later, her head began swimming with the aftereffects of the whiskey. It was the only explanation for what happened next. “Fine,” she agreed. “I’ll behave myself! I promise. All right?”

“All right.” Jack nodded. So did Hudson.

Then he swept her out of the saloon and into the night.

Chapter Three

At some point, Dylan realized that Doc Finney had left the cluster of men surrounding him. Until that moment, he’d been keeping a firm eye on the reedy physician. It was imperative to get the doctor’s treatment for the dance hall girl. But between one joke and the next—between one urgent statement about the dire emergency facing the town and the next—Dylan lost him.

He hadn’t expected to be swamped by Morrow Creek’s take-charge menfolk, all of them eager to get his attention—and his opinion on the crisis they’d discussed at the men’s club that evening. Truthfully, when Dylan had spied the group of men coming into Murphy’s saloon, he’d thought they were there for Marielle Miller. Especially the doctor. It had certainly looked that way. As one, they’d turned their heads toward the dance hall girl’s position, perked up, then beelined straight there.

It turned out, though, that they’d beelined toward him .

Since that turn of events, Dylan had been unable to avoid all the backslapping, camaraderie, jokes and gossip they’d surrounded him with. He hadn’t invited it. But he also hadn’t been idly jawing to Miss Miller earlier. He did know these men. They knew him. During his short stay in Morrow Creek, he’d taken part in some important goings-on, mostly involving his employer at the Morrow Creek Mutual Society, the conniving brute who’d followed her West and the thugs that reprobate had employed.

In the aftermath of that incident, Dylan and the other men—Murphy, Copeland, McCabe, Corwin and several more, along with his fellow security men Seth Durant and Judah Foster—had assembled a posse and seen that justice was done. Rightly so.