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?
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
