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“Yep. Flirtatious.” Charley seemed nauseatingly pleased by that. “I reckon Coyle will do damn near anything you ask.”
That was outlandish. Still...a part of her wondered if it was true. Coyle had been mighty insistent about staying by her side. Why would he have done that if he hadn’t liked her...a little?
Befuddled and worried, Marielle shook her head.
“All you have to do is get the new sheriff to trust you,” Charley told her coaxingly. “Get him to look the other way while Hudson helps us get what’s ours. That’s it. Your brother cost us. That’s not something I’m prone to forget.” He rested his hand on his gun belt, making his meaning plain. “Or forgive.”
“You leave Hudson out of this!” Marielle hissed. “You stay away from my brother. Otherwise, I swear I’ll—”
Charley’s chuckle cut short her useless threat. “Just ask him. Ask Hudson what he cost us—cost me. You’ll see. This is the only way. It’s the smart way.”
Mutely, Marielle shook her head. She wanted to leave, but Charley came closer, still keeping one hand on the door. His body pressed on hers, wiry and strong and scary. His whiskey breath panted against her neck. Cursing her skimpy costume, Marielle froze in place. She was in no condition to stop him.
“Unless,” Charley crooned lasciviously, “you’d rather do this another way?” He put his hand on her waist, making sure she felt the full force of his coercion. “I’d be willing to take you as fair compensation for my losses instead. My little brothers wouldn’t like it much. But I could always give them a turn.”
Marielle was personally virtuous and wholly innocent. In fact, Dylan Coyle hadn’t been far from the truth. She was the oldest dance hall spinster she knew. But that didn’t mean she didn’t recognize the abhorrent bargain Sheridan was suggesting.
With effort, she kept her tone even. “I don’t want any man, Mr. Sheridan.” She felt queasy as she added, “Not even you.”
He smirked, providentially believing her flattery. “You don’t know what you’re missing, dancer girl.”
I’m glad of it, Marielle couldn’t help thinking. What in the world had Hudson done to irritate the Sheridans this way?
“You must have had Sheriff Caffey in your pocket,” Marielle pointed out, still trying to sidestep this problem. There had to be another way—one that didn’t involve her or Hudson helping the Sheridans with their crimes. “Why not pay off Coyle, too?”
“Don’t you think I already tried that? He can’t be bought. What kinda lawman can’t be bought?” Seeming provoked, Charley spat. Then he tipped his oversize hat again. “I’ll be in touch, Miss Miller. I’ll be watching, too. You can count on that.” He nodded. “You just do as you’re told, and it’ll all be fine.” Wearing an intent look, Charley caught a hank of her hair. He wrapped it around his hand, holding her like a harnessed horse. His intention to control her was plain. “You understand me?”
Marielle jerked away. Stupidly, since Charley did not let go. He was mean enough to hurt her, casually and unthinkingly.
Eyes watering, she gave a scanty nod. “I understand.”
“Yep.” Charley sneered in response. “I knew you would.”
Then he released her abruptly and clomped off her porch into the night, leaving her well and truly caught in a problem that was even bigger than her injured ankle...and even more worrisome than her brother’s penchant for getting into trouble.
What, Marielle wondered as she hobbled her way back into the warmth of her small house, was she supposed to do now?
If Charley Sheridan would be watching, she guessed she’d better to try to make good on what he wanted—or at least make sure it seemed that’s what she was doing until she could finagle a better way out of her predicament. Ordinarily, Marielle would have reported Charley’s attempt to extort her help and been done with it. But she didn’t know the new sheriff. She certainly didn’t trust him. Until she could do that, she was stuck.
How exactly, she wondered further, did a woman “get in good” with a man she’d already antagonized multiple times in a single night? She hadn’t exactly been friendly to Dylan Coyle. In fact, she’d outright insulted him by calling him a drifter. She’d tried to make him pay for her lost work time and called him stingy right to his face. That wasn’t a promising start.
Beset with concerns, Marielle made her way across the front room. Thanks to her dancing training, she had good balance. She could manage on her crutch fairly well. But the events of this night had more than knocked her sideways—they’d terrified her.
Oh, Hudson, she thought. What have you done now?
And how, above all, would she get them both out of it?
Chapter Four
Marielle was sleeping fitfully when the sound of conversation reached her bedroom. Startled awake, she listened.
Hudson’s deep, murmuring tones filtered through the wall separating her chamber from the kitchen. Identifying that sound, Marielle relaxed. Sometimes her brother hummed or sang while carrying out chores around the house. That wasn’t unusual. He wasn’t a hard worker, but he was definitely a cheerful one. That was part of his charm—part of his carefree way of enjoying life.
Probably there was nothing wrong at all.
Except...today there was something different about the sound of Hudson’s voice. Today, her brother sounded...more manly?
Marielle jolted. Had Charley Sheridan returned? Was Hudson in danger? That would explain why he’d lowered his voice to a deeper, more threatening register. He was trying to be tough.
Poor Hudson was about as tough as a spring breeze. She had to do something. Pushing upright in her nightgown, with her long braid swinging carelessly down her back, Marielle grabbed for her dressing gown. She yanked it on. Then she leaned farther sideways and scrabbled for the crutch she’d left leaning on her bed table. She hated it already. She didn’t like relying on it.
Necessarily doing so anyway, she hurried toward the kitchen. The unexpected aroma of fresh coffee struck her first.
Slowing her steps, Marielle frowned. Had Hudson brewed a pot of coffee for him and his no-good “friends” to share?
Why had he ever gotten mixed up with them at all?
“Morning, Mari.” From the cookstove, Hudson grinned at her. He opened the oven door—at least remembering to shield his hand safely with a cloth—and withdrew a saucepan. Appearing very delighted with himself, he upended the saucepan. A slice of toast dropped out onto a waiting plate. “Did you sleep well? Would you like some toast? Or some coffee? I’ll get you some coffee.”
Goggling at him, Marielle shook her head. “Hudson...are you cooking?” He appeared to be trying to. Dear, incapable Hudson. The last time he’d tried to heat a tin of beans, he’d cut his hand, scorched the beans and all but ruined her saucepan.
“I surely am cooking!” her brother announced. “As usual,” he added in a proud tone. Perplexing her further with that preposterous boast, Hudson scurried to the table. He pulled out a chair, then helped her into it. Groggily, Marielle sat and then set aside her crutch while her brother urged, “You just have a seat right here. I’ll have that coffee straightaway.”
With that pronouncement, he beamed in the direction of the doorway...
...at Corinne Murphy, who’d apparently come to call on them.
Seeing her, Marielle started. “Corinne! Good morning!”
“Yes. Good morning to you!” Corinne blushed but continued on with her usual capable crispness. She sat poker-straight in her place at the table. “I’m afraid we woke you, Marielle. I’m sorry. I can certainly come back later, if you’d prefer. You’re not even dressed. Although I do have some rather pressing news to share, and I’m certain you’ll want to be informed of it, so...”
Suddenly aware of her state of dishabille, Marielle clutched her dressing gown. With her other hand, she smoothed her hair. She liked Corinne. She was the eldest of her boss’s four sisters, and—along with Nealie, Glenna, and Arleen—had relocated to Morrow Creek from Boston some time ago. All four of them seemed to have found the territory most invigorating.
“Of course I’ll want to know your news.” Doubtless, Corinne’s news had to do with their opinionated, unstoppable, freshly appointed sheriff, Marielle thought. Not wanting to let on that she’d already been informed of that particular tidbit—by Charley Sheridan, of all people—she smiled. “I’ll just go put on something a bit more suitable. It won’t take a moment.”
She couldn’t help marveling at Corinne’s presence—or at Hudson’s apparent interest in making her feel at home.
Demonstrating that interest, Hudson approached the table.
“Here you are, Miss Murphy!” He delivered the slice of toast—only slightly charred—with a flourish and plenty of jam. He watched her expression ardently. “It’s sweet, just like you.”
Oh, good gracious. Hudson was smitten with Corinne Murphy!
But that redheaded woman merely accepted her toast with a wry smile. “Thank you. I’ve never seen anyone make toast in a saucepan before, Mr. Miller. It’s very...enterprising of you.”
“You haven’t? We always do it that way,” Hudson bluffed.
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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