Читать книгу Morrow Creek Marshal - Lisa Plumley - Страница 11

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?