Читать книгу Morrow Creek Marshal - Lisa Plumley - Страница 8
ОглавлениеApril 1885, Morrow Creek,
Northern Arizona Territory
At Jack Murphy’s popular saloon, cowboys bellied up to the bar alongside newspaper editors, mercantile owners and railway workers. Miners and lumbermen tested their luck at the gambling tables, hoping to best gullible greenhorns or visiting card sharps—or simply to suss out which men fell into which of those two categories. Music plunked out at two cents per song—but only if those bits were tipped directly into the musician’s overturned bowler, which he customarily placed atop his upright corner piano. Overlying it all came the tang of whiskey, the rich haze of cigarillo smoke and the earnest hum of business being conducted, gossip being told and men being men.
Among those men, Marielle Miller felt both comfortable and celebrated. For the past twelve of her thirty years, she’d been spending her nights in places just like Murphy’s saloon, kicking up her skirts for profit and honing her skills at dancing—and managing the men who watched her dance. Being both applauded and respected by those men was a tricky business. It was one Marielle had mastered, too. Unique among her fellow dance hall girls, Marielle excelled at making sure no one man stepped his spurred boots or battered brogans out of line—or got wrongheaded ideas about the smiles she tossed out while performing, either.
Her smiles were for show, meant to charm and entice. As near as Marielle could tell, they rightly did both of those things. But her smiles were all performance, approximately as genuine as the horsehair padding cleverly sewn into her costume to augment the curve of her hips and the swell of her bustline.
It wasn’t that Marielle didn’t enjoy dancing. She did. Especially with her current close-knit troupe and especially for a generous boss like Jack Murphy. But she didn’t particularly enjoy the artifice involved. Or the wariness, either. More than most girls, Marielle knew she could not afford to invite the attention of a scoundrel. Or any man, really. She had too many responsibilities to see to. Until those responsibilities were properly sorted, there would be no offstage flirtation for her.
That’s why, as Marielle stepped onstage in the full saloon early one ordinary Thursday evening, she began by sweeping the boisterous crowd with an assessing look. It was easy to spot the infatuated ranch hand, new to Morrow Creek, who nursed a single ale while casting lovesick glances at Jobyna Lawson, Marielle’s fellow dancer and closest friend. It was similarly simple to identify the high-rolling faro player who believed his string of luck at the gaming table would also assure him feminine company for the night. Fortunately, Jack Murphy’s faithful barkeep and cook Harry would correct that misapprehension quickly.
The dance hall girls at Murphy’s saloon weren’t disreputable. Their company wasn’t for sale, either.
They were all—like Marielle—entertainers, first and last.
Handily proving her proficiency at her profession, Marielle high-stepped across the stage in unison with her troupe, lit by blazing lamps and accompanied by rollicking piano music. She swooshed her skirts and then skipped to the side, executing a perfectly timed move—all while continuing her customary study of the saloon’s patrons, both regulars and strangers. Alertness benefitted a dancing girl, Marielle knew. More than once, she’d been forced to duck flying bottles, shimmy away from shattering chairs or retreat to the back of the house to avoid gunfire.
At Jack Murphy’s saloon, in peaceable Morrow Creek, such antics were almost unheard of. Certainly, newcomers to town sometimes tested the tranquility of the saloon—and the resolve of the townspeople to keep it that way—but those ruffians never got far. Typically, one or more of the brawnier locals stepped in before disagreements could progress to full-on brawls. When that approach failed, Sheriff Caffey and his deputy Winston were available to handle problems—at least notionally—but most of the time, the lawmen’s intervention wasn’t necessary.
It was a good thing, too. Almost everyone in town knew that Sheriff Caffey and Deputy Winston were too busy enjoying the privileges of their positions to actually work on behalf of their badges. In a less tranquil town, they would have been ousted long ago. But in Morrow Creek, the need for a lawman arrived as infrequently as snow in the low country and lasted about as long. More often than not, the members of the Morrow Creek Men’s Club found a way to deal with wrongdoers themselves.
Raising her arms and smiling more broadly, Marielle sashayed to the opposite side of the stage, her footsteps perfectly timed with her troupe’s. From her new vantage point, she surveyed the men playing cards at a nearby saloon table. As the eldest member of her company, Marielle was responsible for seeing to her fellow dancers’ safety. Even as she winked at the audience and then went on dancing, she went on watching, too.
Atop her head, her feathered and spangled headpiece bobbed with her movements, secured to her dark, upswept hair with multiple pins. Around her skipping feet, her costume’s fancifully adorned skirts swirled. Her ensemble was of her own design, made for free movement and utmost prettification. It provided flash, flattery and—unlike ordinary dresses—necessary if minimal modesty during high-stepping kick routines.
Thanks to her skill with a needle and thread, Marielle augmented her income from dancing quite conveniently. Along with supplying costumes to her hardworking fellow dancers, she also took in ordinary mending, tailoring and other seamstress’s work for her neighbors. Between the two—her dancing and her sewing—she’d amassed a sizable nest egg...which was undoubtedly providential, given that Marielle had begun feeling a little less excited than usual by the prospect of stepping onstage.
Just once, Marielle imagined, she’d have liked to have gone home at the end of a late evening not smelling of cheroots, Old Orchard and Levin’s ale. She’d have liked to have had a more amenable schedule—one that didn’t bring her to work at a time when most women were settling around the hearth with their families. She’d have liked to have had a family of her own, for that matter, with children to care for.
She’d have liked not to be required to notice—and deal with—the one dance hall girl in their troupe who was inevitably behaving foolishly.
This time, it was Etta, a girl who was newly arrived from cattle country. Unfortunately, she appeared to have about as much gracefulness and common sense as a dolled-up heifer from her hometown. Plainly unaware of the need to retain a certain sensible distance from the saloon’s customers, Etta was flirting with one of them instead. Even as their current dance reached its finale, Etta broke routine to pout and pose and toss pantomime kisses at the man while bawdily tossing her skirts.
Seeing those shenanigans, Marielle groaned inwardly. It was true that they needed another dancer in their troupe. Jobyna was getting married soon to her beau, Gordon “Snub” Sterling, so she wouldn’t be performing anymore. That meant replacing her was a necessity. All the same, Marielle had recommended against allowing giggly Etta to try out tonight. She knew a calamity in the making when she saw it. Softhearted Jack Murphy had seen things differently. So had his wife, infamous suffragist Grace Murphy, who believed every woman deserved a chance to shine.
Currently, Etta was shining in the direction of a particularly disreputable-looking saloongoer. Dark haired, shadow bearded and broad shouldered, the man in Etta’s sights packed eight feet of manliness in a six-foot package. He was brawny, relaxed and curiously uninterested in the glass of whiskey Harry had poured him. He was also, Marielle couldn’t help noticing, wearing a gun belt with his clean and pressed dark clothes. Overall, the man had trouble written all over his attentive expression...only Etta was too dense to realize it.
Given a saloon full of potential husbands—because doubtless that’s how foolish Etta saw those men who watched her dance with their tongues all but lolling—their troupe’s giggly cattle country upstart had singled out the worst possible choice. He looked, to Marielle’s dismay, like a typical territorial drifter—albeit, an absurdly handsome one—ready to pick up and pull foot with no notice and no cares for anyone he left behind.
But if she were honest...didn’t all men look that way to her?
There wasn’t a man alive who could be counted on, Marielle knew. Not the ones who wooed her with raw gold nugget tips. Not the ones who shyly stared at the saloon’s sawdust-covered floor rather than meet her measuring gaze. Not the ones who proposed debauchery and ruination and an end to her wonderings about exactly what went on between cajoling men and the unwise women who loved them during a single scandalous evening at the nearby Lorndorff Hotel. Not even the ones who were related to her.
Marielle had never lacked for opportunities to give away her heart. She’d simply refused to accept any of them. Only a very reckless woman would have allowed herself to believe a man was the answer to her prayers—at least not those involving heavy equipment, exacting machinery or ornery animals...and maybe not even then. Only a woman like silly, still flirting Etta would have risked her potential employment with the company for the sake of trying to catch the eye of a wandering gunslinger.
Even as Marielle danced closer to Etta, trying to gain her cohort’s attention without breaking rhythm, the drifter proved his fickleness by letting his gaze meander away from seductive, overpainted Etta...directly to Marielle. Confidently, the stranger watched her dance. His dark-eyed gaze took in her swooshing skirts, her self-assured steps and her lace-adorned bosom, each in turn, then traveled up to her face. Shockingly, his attention lingered there. It was almost as though he truly saw her. Not her flashy costume, not her titillating movements, not her fan or her lightly painted lips or her spangled hips. Just...her.
Deeply unsettled, Marielle faltered. On her way to silently but pointedly confront Etta, Marielle missed the next step. She could have sworn the rascal at the front row table actually quirked his lips in amusement at her mistake—but a moment later, she had larger problems to deal with. Literally. Because as she stumbled, Marielle accidentally veered in the direction of a drunken stageside cowboy who wasted no time in grabbing her.
“Yee-haw!” he whooped, clutching a fistful of spangles. “Lookee here, boys! I done lassoed myself a dance hall girl!”
More annoyed with Etta than with the cowboy—who really couldn’t be expected to behave himself under the influence of that much mescal—Marielle attempted to dance away. Her exuberant admirer held fast, almost toppling her off the stage.
All right, then. The time for being accommodating was over.
Nearby, the piano player helpfully kicked into a new song, obviously noticing Marielle’s predicament and trying to distract the cowboy into releasing her. Likewise, the other dancers around her sashayed into a new routine. They stepped in unison, twirling their fans. They gave winsome smiles. Their high-buttoned shoes flashed beneath their swirling skirts, providing ample entertainment with color and movement...but the cowboy held fast, even as Marielle gave a determined yank away from him.
Fine. Fed up with being patient, she flashed him a direct, beguiling smile. Seeing it, the cowboy started. His face eased.
Any second now, he’d let her go, Marielle knew. The grabby types always did. Most of the time, they meant well. Some of the time, they even expected her to be flattered by their ham-handed attentions. Typically, when Marielle appeared to return their ardor, the ranch hands, cowboys and other small-time miscreants who tried to manhandle her came to their senses and behaved like gentlemen instead. Given the possibility of genuinely earning her attention, those men customarily gave up their groping.
Just as she’d known it would, the power of her smile worked its magic. The cowboy blinked. He grinned. He started to let go...
...And an instant later, all tarnation broke loose.
The drifter from the next table stood. Sternly, he said something to the cowboy. Marielle had the impression he’d been speaking to the man before then, but she hadn’t heard him above the piano music. The cowboy shook his head in refusal. Then belligerently, with his fellow cowpunchers’ encouragement, the cowboy shouted something back. Prudently seizing the opportunity provided by his distractedness, Marielle pulled away again.
Before she could free herself, the drifter’s demeanor changed. He looked...fearsome. That was the only word for it.
Taken aback by the change, she gawked. Several other saloon patrons stood and shouted, rapidly choosing sides in the developing melee. Marielle had a moment to examine the newly disorderly saloon, belatedly realize that most of Morrow Creek’s unofficial town leaders—including Daniel McCabe, Adam Corwin, Griffin Turner and others, weren’t in attendance—and worry that things might go terribly wrong. Then the stranger pulled back his arm, grabbed the cowboy and punched him. With authority.
* * *
Dylan Coyle wasn’t sure where he found the authority to deliver a sobering sockdolager to the grabby knuck who’d been manhandling the watchful, dark-haired dance hall girl. He wasn’t part of Morrow Creek’s self-appointed slate of local honchos. He had no duty to fulfill. In fact, he’d deliberately chosen not to embroil himself in a position of authority while in town.
Folks tended to want to rely on him, Dylan knew. But he was a wandering man. He wanted no part of putting down roots—especially not in a town like Morrow Creek. As a community full of like-minded homesteaders, traders, workers and families, it was as wholesome as apple dumplings and as cozy as flannel sheets. It was the wrong kind of place for a no-strings type like him. That hadn’t always been the case, but it was now.
In fact, now that he was done with the job he’d taken on in Morrow Creek—working as a security man for the mysterious proprietress of the Morrow Creek Mutual Society—Dylan was on his way out of town. He’d only stopped in Jack Murphy’s saloon for a parting whiskey before catching the next train farther west.
But there were some things a good man couldn’t put up with. Allowing a pie-eyed cowpuncher to inconvenience a woman was one of them. Letting that same knuck upset Dylan’s glass of good whiskey as he’d stumbled toward the stage was another. Now, Dylan realized with a frown, every time he put on his favorite broad, flat-brimmed black hat, he’d smell like a distillery.
“Just remember,” Dylan told the cowboy as the liquored-up fool swayed in his grasp, “I asked you nicely to let go. Now I’m going to ask you nicely to apologize to the lady. If you don’t—”
The dupe shouted something that was definitely not apologetic. It wasn’t suitable for ladies’ delicate ears, either. Hearing it, Dylan deepened his frown. If there was anything he believed in more than the necessity of savoring a good whiskey when it came his way, it was the sanctity of women. Evidently, here in the Western territories, they brewed up cowboys on the wrong side of sensible.
“You’re going to want to apologize for that, too.”
As the knuck glanced up at the dance hall girl, Dylan gave the cowboy a mighty yank, aiming to surprise the man into properly squaring off with him instead of catching hold of her sparkly skirts again. Just as he’d intended, the cowboy reeled. He gave a blustery wheeze that stank of ale, then staggered and waved his arm, too goose jointed to quickly regain his balance.
With his usual sense of fairness, Dylan waited the few ticks it would take for the cowboy to get his feet under him. He didn’t want to take advantage of the man’s inebriated condition. All he wanted was for the cowpoke to leave alone the dance hall girl—not the least because he’d be damned if she wasn’t the oldest such female entertainer Dylan had ever encountered.
He wasn’t sure she could withstand too much rough handling. Not that any woman could be expected to keep her feet when the legless cattleman who’d been clumsily pawing her staggered again, lurched, then fell plumb backward with much greater velocity than Dylan had intended.
Damnation. He hadn’t thought he’d grabbed him that hard. Perceptibly, he had. He’d accidentally tipped the last domino, too. Because the cowboy had managed to catch hold of the damn near elderly dance hall girl again. Now Dylan’s well-intentioned protectiveness had put her in an even more precarious position.
With a surprised whoop and a flurry of skirts, she fought against the sudden frontward jerk caused by the cowboy’s fall. She pinwheeled her arms in a search for balance—and almost found it, too. For a single, breath-holding moment, she tottered at the stage’s edge. Then her ankle buckled at an unmistakably sideways angle. Crying out, the dance hall girl pitched forward.
She was falling. Instantly seeing her predicament, Dylan lunged toward her. He held out his arms, ready to catch her. Before he could think twice about his decision, he received the gift he hadn’t wanted and had no present use for: an armful of sweet-smelling, silky-haired, caterwauling female.
It all happened in an instant. With an oof, they both collapsed beside the cowboy on the sawdust-covered floor, saloongoers scattering to all sides of them with shouts of surprise.
Ouch. Dylan winced, still cradling her. Stupidly, as it turned out, since she’d landed atop him like a hundred-pound sack full of nothing but elbows and knees. She’d obviously been gifted with multiple sets of each—or at least that’s what it felt like. He wondered where the hell her admirably curvy hips and delectably full bosom had gone. He held fast anyway.
Their ignoble pileup defused the developing saloon fight. Instead of throwing punches, saloongoers hollered, pointed and laughed. The piano music kept on tinkling. Chairs scraped backward, then were settled back into place. Dylan had a moment to register the soft roundness of the dance hall girl’s rear end in his cupped hand, to experience the feathery, sneeze-inducing interference of her sparkly headpiece in his face...and then to tardily understand that she was trying to get away from him.
That was unusual. Most women tried to get closer to him. Given any excuse, they snuggled nearer and flirted—just like the other garishly painted and less interesting blonde dance hall girl had done earlier. But this one was different. Also, Dylan observed amid the ruckus, while parts of her body might be soft, her gouging knees and prodding elbows most certainly weren’t.
Even as Dylan came to grips with that, the dance hall girl kneed him again, coming dangerously close to his manly bits.
Involuntarily, he loosened his hold on her. Just by a fraction, but it was enough for her to take advantage of.
That was all right with him. Argh. Chivalry was one thing. Volunteering to be made a functioning eunuch in an unexpected dancing girl tussle was another. Dylan valued his masculinity.
Even if she didn’t. Clearly. With a determined final effort, the dance hall girl rolled sideways, adding a vicious and maybe not accidental belly squash to her initial blow as she went. She scrambled onto her hands and knees, then sat on her backside instead. He glimpsed her annoyed profile, heard her murmured grumble of exasperation as she adjusted her feathery headpiece, and briefly entertained the idea that she might not be as properly grateful for his intervention as he’d hoped.
Gingerly, Dylan moved a fraction. Everything seemed fine in the downstairs department. He released a long, pent-up breath.
He couldn’t believe he’d come to her rescue and almost gotten himself a banged-up set of punters for his trouble. Was she going to apologize? Or thank him? Or even acknowledge him?
“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.”
