“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,