Marlie's Mystery Man. Doris Rangel
else and therefore not in the hotel’s usual pristine condition.
Marlie didn’t mind, but would the former occupant?
Ann had laughed, saying the man was a local and an old school friend who would like even less being charged for a room he didn’t use.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Marlie took it.
When she was shown to the room at the end of the old-fashioned hall upstairs—a double; the man, too, had taken what he could get—a duffel bag still sat on the floor beside one of the two beds. The bed itself was heavily disarranged, but when Ann went to straighten it, Marlie told her not to bother. She would be sleeping in the other one anyway.
The desk clerk left, taking the man’s bag and toiletries with her and giving a last apology for the used towels in the bathroom. There were clean ones in the cabinet.
By then so tired she felt like a wet noodle, Marlie simply pulled off her clothes, slathered herself with lotion and tumbled into the untouched bed. She was not so exhausted, however, that she hadn’t known for a positive fact there was no one in the room but herself.
Yet the moan had sounded so close.
Slowly, cautiously, Marlie leaned over the edge of her bed to peer under it.
Nada. Not even a dust bunny.
But while she was bent over, practically standing on her head with her rump still on the mattress, another massive sneeze made her jump so hard she had to catch herself to keep from tumbling onto the floor. She whipped upright, only to hear a sniff of what clearly had to be congestion…then, incredibly, the sound of someone honking into a handkerchief or tissue.
Another moan, a short one this time. A sigh. Another sniff.
Silence.
And there was no one but herself in the room!
Absolutely stunned, Marlie leaned slowly back against the pillows—and reality struck.
This was an old hotel, built around the turn of the century, Ann had said. Old hotels had thin walls. A man—it was definitely a masculine sneeze—in the next room had a cold and didn’t mind moaning and groaning about it.
Mystery solved.
Letting out a relieved sigh and feeling a little foolish, Marlie clicked off the lamp and snuggled back under the warmth of the covers.
But just as her eyes drifted blissfully shut, she heard a sniff and another low moan, though now the sounds seemed muffled, as if whoever it was had turned his face into a pillow.
Thanks be for that, Marlie thought sleepily, and did no more thinking at all until she awoke early the next morning to the sound of birdsong and what Fort Davis called traffic.
Caid swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately clutched his head with both hands to keep it anchored to his shoulders.
God, it hurt. He probably had a mild concussion.
Too bad. He didn’t have time to see a doctor. What would a doctor tell him anyway but to stay quiet, drink plenty of liquids, etcetera, and don’t take any naps? But, though he didn’t remember actually getting into bed, he had slept and hadn’t wakened up dead, so no problem there except the headache from hell.
And his allergies giving him fits.
The thought of breakfast made him queasy, but he’d find coffee and an aspirin at The Drugstore before heading on to the bank and his appointment with Miles Durig.
When he stood, however, the room tilted and it took a moment of standing with his eyes squeezed shut before the floor settled down.
When he could open them, the first thing his gaze landed on was the clock. Holy smoke, it was 9:05! He was already five minutes late.
Where the hell was his duffel bag? He needed fresh clothes. The shirt he’d worn yesterday had bloodstains all over the front and shoulders. So where was his bag, dammit? He’d left it by the bed before going back to the ranch yesterday afternoon.
Striding to the old-fashioned wardrobe, swallowing bile induced by his pounding head, Caid yanked open one of its two doors.
What the hell? Clothes hung there but, since he didn’t wear skirts, they damn sure weren’t his. And his bag wasn’t there.
This was his room, right?
Yes, he’d used his key to get in. It had to be his room. There was his hat, still hanging on the corner of the mirror where he’d forgotten it yesterday.
Hell of a thing, a rancher forgetting his hat.
He opened the other door and was relieved to see his jeans and bloodstained shirt hanging just where he’d placed them, his boots side by side on the closet floor with his socks inside them and his briefs in the plastic bag supplied by the hotel. The bag with his change of clothing, however, wasn’t there.
Well, hell. He hated to wear dirty clothes, but he didn’t have time to track down his bag. By now, everyone in Fort Davis knew about the accident anyway. The town was like that.
The three cowboys who’d given him a ride into town had stopped at the sheriff’s office and Caid, hardly able to speak because his head hurt so badly, left them to make the report while he crossed the street to the hotel. Sheriff Elan knew where to find him if he needed more information.
Elan’s secretary would have typed up the report first thing this morning, and by now everyone and his dog would be discussing it anywhere in town serving breakfast.
All of which meant Caid and Durig could have a friendly chuckle over his bloodstained shirt without Caid doing any unnecessary explaining, and then they could settle down to business. No problem.
Since he’d showered last night, all he needed was a quick shave and he was outta here. His kit was in the bathroom so at least he knew where that was.
The bathroom, however, produced another surprise. For one thing, there were women’s toiletries all over the counter. For another, it had the steaminess of recent use. And for a third, damn it all, his kit was nowhere to be found.
To hell with it. He didn’t have time now to get huffy with the staff or find out what in blazes was going on, but they were damn sure gonna hear from him later.
Eyeing the proliferation of feminine articles, Caid used what he could. He wasn’t about to use the woman’s toothbrush, but he used his finger and her toothpaste, then shaved himself in record time with her pink disposable razor.
Grimacing, he put on his socks, stepped into yesterday’s briefs and jeans and tugged on his boots. He was avoiding putting on his blood-soaked shirt and he knew it, but he had to wear something.
He glanced at the closet door. All he’d seen earlier was feminine clothing, but maybe her husband’s things were hidden among the frills. If so, he’d borrow a shirt and explain later. For that matter, once he had the loan against the sale of his five hundred acres, he’d buy the guy a new one.
The closet held nothing but feminine disappointment. As Caid went to close the door, however, his gaze fell on a long, brown-plaid sleeve.
Hmm. Pulling out the garment, he held it up consideringly and found a woman’s cotton jacket with western shirt styling. Best of all, it was huge, extra-wide shouldered and boxy, with detachable shoulder pads.
In seconds, Caid had the pads out and the shirt on. Not too bad, he thought, eyeing himself in the mirror. The shirt was tight across the shoulders maybe and pulled a little at the chest, but it was clean.
He rolled the too-short sleeves up his forearms, snagged his hat and headed out the door. He had to shoulder his way through a lobby full of milling tourists, but finally stood on the Limpia’s front porch in the bright morning sunshine.
Inhaling deeply, he grinned. Nowhere in the world had summer mornings like the Davis Mountains.
But that deep breath played hell with his delicate head, and