Morrow Creek Marshal

“I’m so sorry, ma’am.” The cowboy’s thick drawl reached Dylan at the same time as his sense of being affronted did. Obliviously, the knuck kept talking. “Are you all right?”

“I was wondering the same thing about you,” the dance hall girl had the gall to say—to the cowboy. “Are you hurt bad?”

Dylan glanced up in time to see the fool’s shy smile.

“I’m just fine, ma’am. It’s yourself I’m worried about.”

The cowboy’s weathered hand—sporting a full set of predictably grime-encrusted fingernails—entered Dylan’s field of vision. Evidently, the cowhand had discovered gallantry. He was trying to help the dance hall girl up off the floor. She seemed to be hesitant about that. She also seemed, as she frowned anew, concerned about putting too much weight on her injured ankle.

Rightly so, Dylan reckoned. That onstage crumple had looked serious. Ankles, feet and legs weren’t meant to go in contradictory directions—not while connected to the same person. Thanks to her whirling skirts, he’d had a clear enough view to know that’s exactly what had happened to her a second ago.

“I didn’t mean to trip you up.” The cowboy offered dubious encouragement by waggling his filthy fingers at her. “I’m awful sorry about that, ma’am. It’s just that you’re so pretty. I plumb couldn’t help myself. Catching ahold of you was like catching a beautiful, sparkling star, right here at Murphy’s.”

Still on the floor, Dylan rolled his eyes. Then he got to his own hands and knees, counting on getting upright in time to help the dance hall girl to her feet himself. As he should.

“Well, aren’t you sweet?” she cooed to the cowpuncher while she cautiously tested her ankle’s strength, speaking just as pleasantly as though the fool hadn’t caused her to fall offstage. “It’s only too bad that I never, ever go spoony over men who frequent saloons. It’s my one ironclad rule, you see.”

“You...what?” The cowboy whined with confusion. Then regret. Then resignation. “But if I weren’t here at the saloon, I wouldn’t never have seen you in the first place, now, would I? So you wouldn’t have needed any rules about me to begin with.”

“No.” She sighed, then pulled an elaborately regretful face—a markedly pale one, probably on account of the pain. “Isn’t that the devil of it? It’s a conundrum, all right.” She panted. “You’re awfully clever to notice that. I do very much appreciate your kindness, all the same. I sincerely do.”

As Dylan nimbly got up—the whole endeavor having taken a few seconds at most but feeling like much longer—he glimpsed the cowboy’s crestfallen expression. It was evident that the man didn’t know how to begin arguing against the dance hall girl’s convoluted logic. She was being so all-fired sugary about it that he couldn’t very well object outright, either. She actually seemed...disappointed not to have those grubby hands on her.

Against his will, Dylan admired her gumption. Her fortitude in withstanding the discomfort of her injury. And her cleverness in making her turndown of the man both impersonal and final, too. Most likely, she’d had years—given her advancing age of probably twenty-eight or so—of disarming unwanted suitors. She’d learned to do so capably and kindly, without stirring up unnecessary rancor in the process.

Also without damaging her saloon-owning boss’s business, Dylan couldn’t help noting. Given a fair choice, no man would choose to forgo the whiskey and companionship available at a good saloon—not even in favor of wooing a woman. Doubtless, Jack Murphy would applaud that tactic—then ask her to teach that technique to the other dancers, besides. A few of them looked as though they needed more than a thimbleful of her good sense.

As he shouldered forward to help her stand, then to let her lean sideways on him, Dylan found himself appreciating her unexpected gentleness in letting down the cowboy almost as much as he admired her ingeniousness in doing so. But he’d rather be hog-tied and left wearing nothing but boots in a blizzard than admit it. First, because he wasn’t a man who went all mush-hearted over other people’s business. Second, because...well, where in tarnation was the damn appreciation she owed him?

He was the one who’d saved her from that blundering, overeager cowpuncher in the first place. He was the one who was holding her upright at that very moment! He deserved a smile at the very least—and a whole passel of thank-yous at the most.

Instead, the dance hall girl teetered in his arms. Setting his mouth in a straight line, Dylan half held, half hauled her to a marginally quieter spot away from the stage. There, she tried to put her weight on her right leg. She grimaced. Her face turned even ghostlier. With growing concern, Dylan steadied her.

“You’re hurt!” Predictably two steps behind the situation, the cowboy rubbernecked. He scrambled to rustle up a chair for her. Lickety-split, he shoved it under her caboose. “Here.”

Gratefully, she sank onto that support. Gamely, she beamed up at that troublemaking bootlicker of a cowpuncher, just as though he deserved her gratefulness for getting her injured.

She didn’t say a solitary word to Dylan, kind or otherwise. She only compressed her pretty lips, then frowned at her ankle while the saloon’s usual hurly-burly proceeded just beyond them.

“You’d do best to elevate that sore ankle,” Dylan advised gruffly, mindful of the need for quick action. He knelt at her skirts, then expertly delved his hands beneath their spangled hems to test what he suspected was grave damage to her ankle.

Before he could do more than graze her high-buttoned shoe and skim his fingers up to her stocking-clad ankle to gauge the swelling he expected to find there, the minx kicked him.

Instant pain exploded in his knee. “Ouch!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Next time, I’ll aim higher.”

Her gaze fixed menacingly in the vicinity of his gun belt. Ordinarily, Dylan didn’t wear it. Not anymore. But when traveling alone across multiple states and territories, he did.

As much as he didn’t like it, sometimes he needed...backing.

Feeling provoked, Dylan glared back. He nudged his chin at the cowboy. “How come he gets a spoonful of sugar from you, and I get a big dose of vinegar? I’m the one who helped you.”

“Near as I can tell, you’re the one who made me get dragged offstage in the middle of my performance.” With a worried frown, the dance hall girl glanced toward the stage, where her fellow dancers were currently high-kicking in the glow of the lights.

The show had to go on, Dylan guessed. That seemed fairly coldhearted to him, though. He’d thought his line of work was hard-nosed—and it was—but there was more to skirt tossing than he’d first realized, it seemed. There was more to her, too.

Contrariness, for instance. Also, plenty of obtuseness.

“I was protecting you!” Dylan objected. It was past time to set her straight. Maybe, he reasoned, the pain had made her light-headed. That would explain her poor grasp of the situation.

“No, you were picking on poor—” She broke off, glancing at the cowboy for his name. After what felt like enough time for Dylan to turn gray-haired and stooped, the befuddled cowpoke finally blurted it out. “—Rufus, here, when your intervention was entirely unnecessary. I had matters well in hand.”

“Near as I could tell, Rufus had matters well in hand.”

“A miscreant like you would concentrate on the disreputable side of things, wouldn’t you? That is a very rude comment.”

“Very rude,” Rufus put in, looking belligerent.

The dance hall girl put her hand on his mud-spackled wrist in a calming gesture. Unreasonably, Dylan resented her caring.

At the same time, grudgingly, he admired how well-spoken she was. How indomitable. How courageous. He knew good men who would not have dared to speak to him in the tone she’d used.

“I didn’t require your ‘help,’” she informed him further.

“She didn’t require your help,” said myna bird Rufus.

Dylan gave him a quelling look. Sensibly, the man cowered.

“What you require is treatment for that ankle.” He cast her gaudy skirts a concerned look. “If you’d just let me see—”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I promise you, I’m better qualified than whatever backwoods sawbones you’re going to find in Morrow Creek.”

“Then you’re not a doctor.” She eyed Rufus. “I’m terribly sorry to impose on you this way, Rufus, but would you mind very much fetching Doc Finney for me? Harry can tell you how.”

The cowboy hesitated. It was evident that he wanted to linger—that he was having second thoughts about her avowed “no saloongoers” courtship policy. Helping him along the path of a true believer, Dylan scowled at him. “Good idea,” he growled.

While the knuck was gone, he would settle things here. Starting by getting her out of the noisy saloon and into someplace more conducive to a proper medical evaluation.

He hadn’t spent years as a Pinkerton detective, then more years as a lumberman doing dangerous work in largely unmapped territory, then more years as a private security man for hire, without acquiring a necessary quantity of medical knowledge. In his time, he’d extracted bullets—sometimes from himself—set broken limbs, stitched up knife wounds and kept at least one man from bleeding to death in the middle of nowhere. To him, treating a turned ankle—no matter how serious—was a walkover.

Not that he meant to tell anyone that. He wasn’t a medical man, per se. He was just a man who didn’t like leaving loose ends. From the moment the dance hall girl had tumbled offstage, she’d temporarily become his responsibility to see to.

Noticing that Rufus hadn’t left yet, Dylan gave him another glare. Obediently, the cowpuncher scurried off, hat in hand.

The moment he’d gone, the dance hall girl aimed a self-assured look at Dylan. “See? Rufus is doing exactly as I asked him to. I had this situation perfectly under control all along—until you blundered in with your fisticuffs.”

She hadn’t had anything “under control.” Dylan knew damn well that Rufus had only done as she’d bade because he had intimidated the man into compliance with that final scowl. How that fact had escaped her notice was beyond him—although she was in obvious discomfort, so she probably wasn’t herself just then.

“I’ll thank you to leave me alone now,” she added.

Her imperious tone wrested a rueful grin from him.

He’d wager that was her true self, despite everything.

“All right. I’ll go.” Contrarily, Dylan pulled up an empty chair. He sat across from her, rested his forearms on his thighs, then gave a carefree nod. “Just as soon as you get up from that chair and get yourself back onstage.”

Chapter Two

Sucking in a deep, pain-filled breath, Marielle met the stranger’s gaze dead-on. He knew full well she couldn’t just get up off that chair and get back onstage. Not in the condition she was in. She’d tested her ankle. It hadn’t borne her weight.

Instead, it had made agony shoot clear up her leg and nearly overwhelm her. Reacting helplessly, she’d clutched the stranger’s muscular shoulder so hard that she knew by now he must be developing fingertip-size bruises beneath his fancy coat and collared shirt. He knew she couldn’t just gallivant onstage.

What’s more, he knew that she knew that he knew that.

People didn’t typically challenge Marielle. She’d been born charming her mama and papa and all the stagehands at the New York theater where they’d worked. She’d grown up knowing how to finagle her way...and, more important, how to make people want for her to get her way. It was a knack she had never questioned.

“Or,” the stranger went on in that selfsame blithe manner, his tone belying his handsome face full of concern, “you can come with me to the back of the house, let me fix up your ankle and maybe have a snort of applejack brandy for the pain, too.”

That sounded...tempting. But she refused to give in. She didn’t even know this man. He looked like a scoundrel to her.

A scoundrel was the very last thing she needed. Over the years, she’d turned down the assistance of several reputable men. Why would she abandon her practical path for a rake like him?

She managed an airy wave, trying not to betray that her ankle was throbbing. “I’ll wait for a proper doctor, thank you.”

“I’m better than a ‘proper’ doctor,” he assured her with a steady look, occupying his chair with assurance and vigor. He looked as though he could have whittled the dratted thing. Possibly with a huge bowie knife...which he kept strapped to his person like the bad man he was. “And you’re wasting time.”

“I don’t need your assistance, Mr.—”

“Coyle. Dylan Coyle.”

“—Coyle. I don’t even know you. Except to know that I find your air of nonchalance and entitlement completely irksome.” Earlier, privately, she’d found his steady and sure touch as he’d boldly examined her ankle downright...galvanizing. But she was certainly not going to inform him of that. She’d found the wherewithal to deliver him an aptly discouraging kick, and that had been that. Marielle Miller was no pushover. “I’d thank you to leave me alone. I’m injured. You are the cause of that. So—”

“That,” he said patiently, “is why I’m trying to help.”

“Aha.” She didn’t want to be small-minded. But she did want him to admit his obvious wrongness. Between being hurt and being upset with him, Marielle wasn’t her most clear-eyed and generous self. “Then you admit that you were at fault? Good. Thank you.”

His brown eyes flared. Arrestingly. “I said no such thing.”

“Humph.” Why on earth was she noticing his eyes at a time like this? Determinedly, Marielle went on. “Of course you did. Just now. And the fact remains that I had things under control—”

His interposing snort was infuriating. So was the way she couldn’t help noticing how finely honed his jawline was, how masculine his nose was, how intelligent his demeanor was.

Good-natured yokels, she was used to handling. A man like him? He was another beast entirely. She wasn’t sure she knew what to do about him. But she knew backing down wasn’t possible.

For her, it wasn’t even an option.

“—until you interfered and got me dragged offstage,” Marielle went on, deliberately transferring her gaze away from his eyes...only to notice how attractively his dark hair swept back from his face. An errant wave tumbled over his forehead, lending him a newly boyish look that she understood to be false.

Dylan Coyle was all man. Tall. Handsome. Not to be trusted.

“Your fall was an accident,” Coyle assured her, seemingly sincerely. His husky tone soothed her, despite everything. “I never meant for you to get caught up the way you did. I saw that cowboy manhandling you. I set out to put a stop to it. I did.”

“I wish you hadn’t.” Purposely, Marielle glanced away from their semisecluded corner. Rufus the cowboy was still nowhere in sight. She hoped he really had gone to fetch Doc Finney, the way she’d suggested. If not...well, she’d be stuck with her unwanted, self-appointed protector—at least until her younger brother, Hudson, turned up to assist her. He ought to be someplace inside Murphy’s saloon. They’d come there together. “As I said, I was handling it. Of the two of us, I have the most experience, expertise and aptitude at discouraging suitors.”

His grin flashed. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

She flicked her gaze over his broad-shouldered form, neat clothes and open, self-assured posture. Most likely, women did pursue him. Not that such brazen behavior mattered to her. Marielle inhaled. “Aside from which, I have my own protectors—”

At that, Coyle had the audacity to scoff. He emanated certainty, strength and outright authority the way some men—like poor, misguided Rufus—exuded confusion and bodily odors.

“—who can come to my aid,” she went on, wincing as a fresh wave of ankle pain struck her, “so I certainly don’t need—”

“You’re hurting,” Coyle interrupted, suddenly out of forbearance for their conversation. As she opened her mouth to protest, he shook his head. “Don’t try to deny it. Just let me take a look. Please. I’ll wrap it up for stability, then...”

As he went on describing a potential treatment for her injury, he sounded startlingly knowledgeable. More surprisingly, he sounded caring. Despite his rough tone and imperious manner, Dylan Coyle appeared to be both bright and kind. Darn him.

All the same, Marielle didn’t want him probing under her skirts again. No good could come of that. Even if, in that single shocking moment, she’d been tempted to let him continue.

Purely for the sake of good medicine. Of course.

“I’ve been hurt before.” Not like this, though, she knew. Something in her ankle had snapped. She’d felt it give way beneath her. That was part of the reason she was so infuriated with him. Thanks to him, she was in a verifiable pickle.

If she couldn’t dance, she couldn’t earn a living.

Still, Marielle didn’t want Dylan Coyle’s help—or anyone else’s. Except Doc Finney’s. Even his, only reluctantly.

She knew better than to become reliant on other people. Growing up backstage, she’d seen how frequently people came and went, leaving her behind with typical bonhomie. Taking care of herself was nobody’s business but her own. Mustering another airy wave, she assured him, “I’m stronger than I look. I know what I’m talking about—dancers get injured fairly often.”

Coyle gave her an evaluative look—one she fancied included him enjoying her appearance in the same way that she’d mooned over his a few seconds ago. Why was she so addlepated, anyway?

Doubtless, she reasoned, her nonsensicalness owed itself to the pain. All the same, it would be only fair if Coyle dished out a compliment for her bravery. Or offered up some praise for her dancing. Or composed a sonnet to her “cerulean blue” eyes, the way a ranch hand from Everett Bannon’s place had done last year, with the probable help of a thesaurus and memorable—if doomed—romanticism. If not for Hudson needing her, in fact, Marielle might have given in to that ranch hand. Eventually.

Her unshared secret was that she adored all things dreamy and sentimental. Maybe because she didn’t expect to enjoy them for herself. Not for years and years yet.

“Hurt fairly often, eh? Hmm.” He rubbed his stubbled jaw, examining her carefully. “Especially at your age, I’d imagine.”

“What?”

“You’re getting on, that’s all,” Coyle clarified in a blasé tone. “After all, you must be...what, thirty-three or so?”

“Thirty-three?” Marielle gawked at him. He’d aged her by three years in an instant! A moment ago, she’d been feeling woozy with pain. But now her clarity was fully restored. “I’ll thank you, Mr. Coyle, not to comment on my age. Or anything else about me! I am not interested in your opinions. What I am interested in is having your apology and maybe some recompense for this disastrous incident. Because this is all your fault—”

“I’m sorry. I’ve gone and made you angry.”

“Indeed, you have!” Of course he had. Thirty-three?

“I didn’t mean to disregard your experience.” Coyle gave her a keen look. His eyes sparkled. “Your vast experience.”

That was more like it. Proudly, Marielle lifted her chin. “For your information, I am not thirty-three years old.”

“Ah.” He roamed his gaze over her again with nearly the same perceptiveness he’d employed while she’d been onstage. He rubbed his whisker-stubbled jaw. He nodded. “You’re thirty-five. I have to say, ma’am, that while you are a very fine specimen of womanhood, it’s no wonder your feeble ankle snapped so readily.”

Speechless, Marielle stared at him. Had he said...feeble?

He actually grinned, looking pleased. Intolerably so.

“I am not feeble,” she informed him. “You are deluded.”

“I’ve never seen a dance hall girl with so much...maturity,” Coyle opined. “No wonder you’re the one pictured on the fancy painted sign in front of the saloon.” He gave her a look full of wonderment. “You make those other girls look like novices.”

Confused, Marielle squinted at him. He sounded pleasant, but... “That’s hardly complimentary—to me or my fellow dancers.”

Not clarifying, he studied her...probably looking for the old crone’s wrinkles he expected to find. Of all the audacious—

“You’re older than me,” she shot back. “By a year or more.”

Coyle raised his brows. “You think I’m forty?”

She earnestly considered kicking him again. Harder than before. It wouldn’t be polite, but he did deserve it.

Before she could do so, he laughed. That act transformed his whole being. It turned him from a very attractive man to a downright fascinating one. Drat. How did he keep doing that?

He was enjoying himself so much, Marielle almost wanted to join in the frivolity. Instead, she gave him a peevish look.

“I’m thirty-two, Miss Miller, plus a month or six.”

Hearing her name on his lips, Marielle frowned. “How do you know my name? We haven’t met. If you expect me to believe—”

“That I divined it? If you must. Be my guest.”

His teasing didn’t deter her. “The sign. My name is on it.”

She’d negotiated strictly for that with Jack Murphy.

“Right alongside your likeness,” Coyle confirmed. He tilted his head to observe her. “Paint doesn’t do you justice, though.”

“Hmmph. It didn’t lead you to expect geriatric dancing?”

“It didn’t lead me to expect to be helping a stubborn dance hall girl quit thinking about her injury. But that’s working out all right.” He nodded toward her ankle. “I bet it doesn’t hurt as much now, does it? Outrage cures everything.”

Marielle was startled to realize it did. It had. At least momentarily. Her expression of relief clearly revealed as much.

Charitably, Coyle let his small victory go unremarked upon.

“I’ve already apologized,” he said instead. “I’m very sorry you got hurt. But as far as reparation for your injury goes, I doubt that your cowboy has the means to pay for the damage he’s done here tonight. So if I were you—”

“I meant you should pay, you cretin! Thanks to you, I won’t be able to dance for days, if not weeks.” Judging by the growing throbbing in her ankle, her injury was indeed serious. She doubted she would be able to remove her dancing shoes when she got home tonight. They would have to be cut off. Then replaced. That would cost money. So would food. Housing. Fuel for her stove. Tallying her expenses, Marielle grew ever more alarmed at her predicament. “The way I see it,” she said, “you owe me.”

For the first time, Coyle seemed taken aback.

Could he...did he truly believe he’d been helping her? As far as she could tell, he’d been spoiling for a scuffle. Men often were when imbibing. She had unfortunately provided an impetus.

Now here they were, deadlocked on what to do next.

“I don’t owe anyone anything,” Coyle disagreed darkly. “That’s the way I like it. That’s the way I intend to keep it. I’m going to fix your ankle. Then I’m leaving Morrow Creek.”

Leaving. That confirmed all her misgivings about him. It was too bad, really, Marielle thought. She almost liked him.

It wouldn’t pay to let him know that. Quite literally.

“I am not interested in your travel plans, Mr. Coyle.” With a purposely regretful look, Marielle glanced from their position in the very back of the saloon to the crowded saloon floor itself. There was a ruckus near the front doors as several men entered. She’d need to make this quick, in case Doc Finney was arriving and this was her last chance to be heard. “I’d hoped that further...encouragement...wouldn’t be necessary for you to do right by me in my predicament. But now that I see it is...”