Free In the Marshal's Arms by Emma Jay Page A

window. In fact, I believe I’ll take every meal in the dining room until I go home. Would you please send up a maid to help me with my hair?”
    One of the more frustrating things about her injury was being unable to wash her own hair. She worked past the pain to button her blouse, well, after the first week, when she wore nothing but her nightgown. But she couldn’t lift her arm long enough to wash or pin up her hair.
    “Could you send up a basin and warm water and soap, too, please? And scissors.” Even if she had to cut it to her scalp, she was going to have clean hair.
    Mr. Ackles looked askance, then nodded.
     
    Maddy felt almost human as she made her way to the dining room a few hours later. She was bathed, and with the maid’s help, had cut her hair to her shoulders, a manageable length with her injury. Seeing the lengths of tresses on the floor had saddened her for a moment, but this was more practical. And pretty, if she allowed herself that. Her hair had bounced back in cunning little waves. She drew attention as she walked through the door, and not the recoiling kind. No, she received some admiring glances, which served her battered heart well. She took her seat by the window and ordered soup, something she could easily eat with one hand. She didn’t like being in the middle of town, sitting in the window on display, but she had a point to make. She wanted to go home.
    The low clouds added to the chill she felt through the glass. Possibly she should have asked to sit closer to the fire, but no, this was what she needed to do. She ate slowly, though her nervousness made her want to rush and retreat. When she was done, she asked for coffee and a slice of pie, which was really delicious. She never made pies for herself because she could never eat the whole thing.
    Full and satisfied, she left the dining room for the stairs.
    And stopped still when she saw a lean figure near the check-in counter. She knew that coat, that hat, those mannerisms.
    Mr. Ackles looked past Rhys to her. “Wouldn’t you like to stay in Mrs. Colby’s room? You’re already paying for it.”
    “I don’t think Mrs. Colby would be very welcoming,” Rhys said with a heavy sigh.
    “And you’d be right about that,” she couldn’t stop herself from saying.
    He turned and her heart jumped when his gaze met hers, bright with an emotion she chose not to name. She took a step back when he moved forward, his hand extended. She bit back all the accusations, swallowed all the pain at being abandoned here.
    He lowered his hand, his expression collapsing into a frown. “You look well.”
    She tightened her injured arm against her waist. “I’m going home tomorrow.”
    “I’ve come to take you back.”
    “You can go to hell.”
    “Hey, now,” Mr. Ackles said, stepping from around the counter.
    “Let’s go to your room. We can talk there.”
    “I cannot have people seeing the two of you walking into her room together,” Mr. Ackles protested.
    “You just offered to let me stay in her room.” Rhys reminded him.
    “Walking in there together when everyone can see is different.”
    “I’m not going anywhere with you,” she said, afraid if she stayed longer, let him explain himself, she would fall for his lies all over again. Just looking at him made her remember the joy she’d felt when they were together. She couldn’t allow herself that weakness again.
    She turned, and he caught her good arm.
    “I had to go. I had to get Colby to jail.”
    She leveled a gaze at him. “And you had to lie to me, day after day. You had to take me to bed.”
    “Wait, wait, wait!” The proprietor put a hand on Rhys’s arm. “You cannot have this conversation here. I have respectable people here. Perhaps you can use my personal parlor to continue this conversation.”
    “I have nothing more to say to him.” Maddy pulled free, when all she wanted to do was turn into his chest and let him hold her, let him tell her more lies.
    “Maddy. Please.