bag.
Finally. She was about to be well quit of Dylan Coyle.
Alertly, Marielle sat straighter in her chair. She thought she could make it to the saloon’s back room, if she had a little help. Since several of the town’s burliest men had accompanied Doc Finney to the saloon, she could ask someone she knew to help her. Then she could see the back of Mr. Coyle. For good.
Unexpectedly, the notion made her feel...almost wistful.
Her melancholy didn’t last long, though. Because to Marielle’s surprise, even as she prepared to make that arduous journey to the saloon’s back room, Doc Finney did not rush to her side. He did not open his physician’s bag, extract a miracle cure and fix her. He didn’t even try to do those things.
Instead, he spied Dylan Coyle—who stood with his back to the room and thus couldn’t see Doc Finney approaching—and hurried nearer. He raised his arm. “Coyle! There you are!”
Coyle turned. “Doc!” His jovial greeting extended to the other men. “McCabe. Cooper.” They all shook hands. Heartily. The others—men Marielle had known for years now—gazed at the drifter through respectful eyes. “Murphy, you owe me a new hat,” Coyle teased. “One that’s not soaked clean through with whiskey.”
“The hell I do!” Marielle’s boss returned. “When you drink in my place, you can’t expect to come out looking like a dandy.”
They went on joshing with one another, trading back slaps and jokes. Taken aback by their good-humored meeting, Marielle frowned. She adjusted her feathered headpiece, then pointedly smoothed her skirts. Any second now, they would come to their senses and properly tend to her injury. Surely they would.
She cleared her throat, attempting to make sure of that.
“We thought we might miss you, Coyle,” Daniel McCabe, the town blacksmith, was saying. “I’m glad to see we didn’t.”
Cooper agreed. “You were supposed to come to the Morrow Creek Men’s Club meeting. We needed you there. There’s been a certifiable emergency in town.” The livery stable owner eyed his friends. “I told you we should’ve hog-tied him and brought him.”
They all guffawed. A few more men drifted nearer, drawn by their boisterous conversation. Marielle sat alone, all but hidden behind hotelier Griffin Turner, detective Adam Corwin and lumber mill owner Marcus Copeland, each of whom took their turns greeting Dylan Coyle. At the center of their attention, Coyle ably held his own with handshakes and rough-edged banter.
For a self-professed wandering man, Marielle couldn’t help noticing grumpily from the shadows, Coyle had certainly managed to forge some strong connections in Morrow Creek. Her friends and neighbors seemed to hold him in very high regard.
“Excuse me!” she called. “Doctor Finney? A word, please?”
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
