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.
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.
But if they now believed that his onetime participation in a single necessary manhunt meant he wanted to join their damn men’s club and spend his days being gradually nailed down to one place, fenced in by friendship and obligation and belonging...
Well, they needed to think again.
“...Caffey is still on the loose. The bastard got away,” Miles Callaway was telling everyone, explaining the emergency that faced them to those listening saloongoers who, like Dylan, hadn’t been at the meeting that night. The dance hall girls had taken their usual midevening break to change costumes. The saloon had quieted somewhat, even as the faro games and drinking continued. “Deputy Winston wasn’t so lucky,” Callaway went on. “The federal marshals already took him off to Yuma Prison.”
“He deserves it. Caffey deserves worse.” Clayton Davis, the lumberman who said so, made a grim face. There was no love lost between him and the deputy—or the sheriff, for that matter.
As near as Dylan could gather, Caffey had absconded a few days ago under mysterious circumstances. The townspeople were still trying to understand what could have made their longtime sheriff leave his badge and his post. He’d skedaddled just steps ahead of the marshals who’d closed in on his hapless deputy.
None of them, though, would miss Caffey. They were right not to, Dylan knew. The lawman had abused his authority, plain and simple. More than a few of the good men present had themselves been unjustly detained by Caffey at one time or another, under one fabrication or other. Even one woman had spent copious time in the jailhouse for her rabble-rousing and protesting: Grace Murphy, the saloonkeeper’s suffragist wife.
All of which explained Jack Murphy’s particular zeal to attend the men’s club meeting and have the sheriff’s wrongdoings dealt with—whatever they were. In Murphy’s position, Dylan would have done the same thing. Not that he could glimpse Murphy at the moment. He seemed to have disappeared along with Doc Finney.
Maybe they were both tending to the dance hall girl?
Wanting to make sure, Dylan looked for them.
“I don’t expect much integrity from folks, generally speaking,” Cade Foster was saying as Dylan searched. As a renowned gambler, Cade undoubtedly had his reasons for expecting the worst of people. “But a lawman ought to be different.”
“Our lawmen were different,” Adam Corwin said. “Crooked.”
Dylan could have told them that. In fact, he had told Miles Callaway and his enterprising fiancée, Rosamond McGrath Dancy—the proprietress of the Morrow Creek Mutual Society and his most recent employer—that more than once. In no uncertain terms.
Until this latest incident, though, no one had been too riled up. When it came to Caffey, they’d been content to look the other way. Sometimes, in small towns, convention trumped sense. Tradition beat intelligence. Good intentions were no match for longtime connections and established ways of doing things.
As far as Dylan was concerned, those were fair arguments for not getting caught up in a close-knit community like Morrow Creek. The people here were too all-fired busy being cozy to use their heads. They hadn’t wanted to see the problem at all.
Now
