The Lawman (The Willow Creek Series #1) (4 page)

He studied her for long minutes, his gaze traveling over the length of her before he pushed away from the wall. When he crossed the room, she backed away from the door. She was stunned when he unlocked it and held it wide. Fear crawled into her throat and she had to swallow a desperate plea to remain in his custody. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t leave you in here as much as I’d like to do just that.”

Abigail was stunned. She was sure he’d keep her locked up until she was old and gray just for pure spite. “You’re letting me go?” she asked, quietly.

He laughed. “Not on your life, sweetheart.”

Her relief was fleeting. She stared at him, confused. “Then what are you doing?”

The marshal leaned against the cell door, his shoulder propped against the metal frame. “Half the town knows you’re locked up in here and I’m not spending the night in that old chair behind the desk to see that you aren’t accosted by those drunks over at the saloon.” He smiled and the look in his eyes told her the situation wasn’t going to be much better. “I have no option but to take you home with me.”

Abigail’s heart froze for a brief second before it stuttered into a regular beat again.
Take her home? With him!
“Excuse me? What do you mean, ‘take me home with you?’”

“Just what I said. There’s no lock on the jail door.”

“So?”

“So, anyone can walk in from the street.”

Abigail imagined just that. What if Fletcher managed to find her quicker than she assumed he would and just walked right in, somehow got the cell door open and took her? Worse yet, what if he just shot her the moment he laid eyes on her, no one the wiser until they found her bloody body on the filthy floor come morning. A shudder ran through her and she swallowed the fear the images conjured.

“You all right?”

His voice startled her. Abigail focused her gaze on his face and tried to smile. She failed horribly. “Fine. Why?”

“Because you’re pale as death all of a sudden, that’s why.” He moved toward her and she stepped back. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she lied.

She knew he didn’t believe her by the look on his face. She smiled again and hoped this attempt was more convincing. She assumed it was when he finally nodded his head and walked away from the cell. “Grab your bag and let’s go.”

Abigail regarded his retreating back and the situation he was creating. How could she go home with him? Did he mean that literally? “Excuse me, marshal—”

“Morgan.”

“What?”

He turned to face her once he reached his desk. “My name is Morgan.”

“I know that,” she said, blushing. “Your brother told me.”

“Then use it.”

“I don’t think our situation requires such familiar terms, do you?”

He turned down the wick on the lantern by his desk before turning back to face her. “You can call me anything you like, Miss Thornton, but since you’ll be living in my house, I didn’t think what to call me would be your only concern.”

“It isn’t.” The possibility of Fletcher finding her was still fresh on her mind and Abigail realized that if she were safe in the jail, she’d be more safe in the marshal’s home but that would stir up more trouble than she dared to think about. Finding a husband in town would be difficult if every man in town knew she’d been locked up. Worse yet, that she’d been incarcerated inside the marshal’s home. She held back a desperate sigh. This was turning into a nightmare. “I can’t stay with you in your home.”
Unless…
Abigail held back a smile. “Unless of course, your wife is there.”

“I don’t have a wife.”

Abigail’s concern over finding a husband while staying in the marshal’s home was overpowered by the relief that Morgan wasn’t married. She wasn’t sure why she cared but she did. She was embarrassed a moment later when she realized she knew the answer. Of all the men in Willow Creek, the one man who could protect her from Fletcher was the marshal.

She hoped since he’d extinguished the lamp he couldn’t see the blotchy skin on her neck she knew was there. She felt how heated her face was and knew she was blushing. He was staring at her, a small grin curving his lips. Whether he could see her stained cheeks or not, he knew what she was thinking. She straightened her shoulders and stared him in the eyes. “And that is the exact reason I can’t be in your home. My reputation wouldn’t survive the scandal.”

Morgan leaned a hip against the side of the desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “Your reputation is already shot all to hell. Starting a brawl in the saloon and being arrested for it did that. As for you being in my house, I would bet my salary the townsfolk will think it an unusual act of kindness on my part.”

Of course they would, she thought, glumly. Her misery would undoubtedly make him look like a saint. When he stood and told her to grab her bag she sighed and did just that. Regardless of how it looked, she really didn’t want to stay in that smelly cell any longer. And she really didn’t want to stay inside the jail alone.

Grabbing her reticule she walked out of the cell. “I left a small travel bag at the stagecoach station when I arrived in town.”

“I have it back at the house.”

Her eyes widened a bit. “You do?”

He nodded. “Emmett, from over at the station, brought it to me an hour ago.”

“I see.” Looking around the tiny cell once more, Abigail took a deep breath and walked out of the main room. She wasn’t sure what the marshal’s motives were exactly but at the moment she wasn’t going to argue. Being alone in the jail wasn’t her idea of a good time. The moment he’d left with his brother, her anxiety had nearly choked her. She’d been grateful when Holden returned. He’d only brought her something to eat but he’d stayed and talked with her just so she’d have the company.

When she reached the door, the marshal opened it and ushered her out onto the wooden walkway. It wasn’t yet full dark but the sky was an inky blue-black. A few stars could be seen and the moon was playing hide and seek with the clouds. The wind was blowing, causing a slight breeze to dance around the hem of her dress.

The streets were deserted and only a few lights glowed behind the windows of the businesses and homes in town. They turned and started down the walkway away from the center of town and Abigail walked beside Morgan in silence until they reached the end of the street. The house sitting there was nothing like what she expected. Not that she knew much about Marshal Avery but she’d pictured him in some derelict cabin with a few mangy dogs littering the dirt yard. This was anything but. “This is where you live,” she asked, staring up at the two-story home. It was white, from what she could tell, with dark shutters at every window. A long porch ran the length of the house, a swing swaying in the breeze on one end. Flowers dotted the walkway and the grass was as green as any she’d ever seen.

“This is it,” he said, opening the gate that surrounded the property and motioned for her to go through.

Abigail walked up the stone walkway in stunned silence. When they ascended the steps and stopped in front of the door she turned to look at him. “I had no idea a town marshal made so much money as to afford a home like this.”

Morgan laughed and opened the front door. “They don’t.” He ushered her inside with a hand to her lower back. When he closed the door behind him, Abigail tried to see in the darkened interior. She stood where she was until a light flickered to her left. Morgan was there, lighting a lamp, and when the glow illuminated his face, her breath caught. Ass that he was at times, she had to admit, he was quite breathtaking. His long, dark hair and perpetual smirk gave him a roguish look. One she wasn’t immune to, apparently. Her pulse leaped when he turned to face her and she had to suck in a quick breath to fill her lungs with air.

She looked away, giving the house another glance. High gloss hardwood floors, expensive rugs and furniture filled the sitting room Morgan was standing in. The hallway stairs and banister was a finely detailed work of art. The railings carved into intricate designs she’d seen only once before in the home of a banker in Atlanta. She could only imagine what the rest of the house looked like.

When Morgan joined her in the hall with the lamp he’d lit in hand, he indicated the stairs with his arm and she gave him a brief glance before starting up to the second floor. He followed behind her in silence and when she reached the upper landing, he showed her to a room at the end of the hall. It was richly appointed with lace at the windows. The furniture was a dark wood and the bed the biggest she’d ever seen. A tall screen blocked off one corner of the room and she wondered what was there.

Morgan walked further into the room and sat the lamp on the table by the bed. “There’s clean water and washing clothes behind the screen. Towels and such in the closet by the washroom. That’s the last door on the right if you prefer a bath.”

“A bath,” she said, shocked. “There’s a bath in this house?”

He grinned. “There is. It’s rarely used but its there if you feel the need. You’ll have to light the boiler to heat the water though. The tank should be full.”

Abigail stared at him, wondering who this man really was. She’d never been arrested before but she would bet every possession she owned no prisoner was treated like this. Lacy bedrooms and heated baths in a real tub? Was she dreaming? Was she back in that stinky cell imagining all this? When he crossed the room and stopped in front of her, the scent of sun dried clothes and gun oil filled her senses. The need to touch him, to see if he was real, was strong. She resisted and stared up at him instead.

“Now don’t try anything stupid, like sneaking away in the middle of the night. I can track anyone, anywhere, even a little thing like you.”

She rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t going to run.”

“Good. See that you remember that. I can’t lock you in the room but if I have to, I can tie you to the bed.” He grinned down at her and the look in his eyes told her he was thinking of just that. “On second thought, maybe I should.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she said, walking around him to lay her reticule on the bed. She turned to look at him and crossed her arms under her breast.

He grinned at her before walking to the door. “On second thought, if you try to leave, I’ll just make you sleep with me instead.”

Abigail gasped at his parting words and stood staring at the door when he closed it behind him.

Chapter Three

The sun was barely up and after a restless night of tossing and turning, listening for the sound of Abigail’s footsteps in the hallway, Morgan didn’t feel any more rested than he had when he’d got back into town. The decision to keep her in the house with him seemed like a bad idea until the scent of cooking meat filled the air.

He stood and dressed, washed his face and cleaned his teeth before venturing out into the hall and down the back stairs to the kitchen. She was there, an old flour sack tied around her tiny waist as she stood by the stove stirring something. The scent of coffee filled the air, along with real food, and his stomach grumbled in adamant demand to partake in what she offered. When she bent to take something from the oven, her rounded bottom up in the air, his groin demanded he take her. Not that she’d offered. Yet.

“I think this is the first time a prisoner has cooked for me. I may have to reduce your sentence, Abigail.”

“That is Miss Thornton, to you, marshal, and I cooked for myself.” She turned, a pan of fat fluffy biscuits in her hand and the scent alone caused his stomach to rumble again. “You can fix your own breakfast.”

Morgan grinned and pulled out his chair, sitting down and grabbing the one plate he saw on the table. She gave him a peeved look before placing the biscuits on the table with a thump and turned back to the stove. Scrambled eggs and bacon followed and gravy so thick his mouth watered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a home cooked meal in his own house. Never one fixed by a good-looking woman, that’s for sure. The spread Abigail placed before him was fit for a king, to his estimation, and when she grabbed another plate off the sideboard, he filled his own plate.

Neither said a word while they ate. Morgan tucked into his food like a man starved and had seconds, cleaning most of the platters. He’d be ashamed of himself if he hadn’t just spent a week surviving off of dried beef jerky and water.

When his stomach was full and his coffee cup filled to the brim again, he leaned back in his chair and watched her eat. Her plate was barely touched. In the soft light coming from the windows, he could see faint purple smudges under her eyes. She looked tired. Worn down, somehow. The reason she was here came back to mind and he leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table and he cupped his hands around his coffee mug. “What were you doing in the saloon?”

She glanced at him and looked back down at her plate again before laying her fork on the table. “I was looking for the stagecoach driver. I told you that yesterday.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why were you looking for Pete?”

She sighed and pushed her plate away, not saying anything for long minutes. When she said, “I was supposed to be married,” Morgan nearly choked on his coffee.

“Married? To Pete?” he asked, louder than he intended.

She threw him a look before rolling her eyes. “No. Not him.”

“Who?”

“Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” he said, but that wasn’t the complete truth. The thought of her getting married did matter. Somewhat. Why, he didn’t care to think about. Taking a sip from his mug, he let the silence stretch before saying, “Who were you supposed to marry?”

“Flynn Haggard.”

He did choke then. He coughed and sputtered before catching enough air to breathe normally again. She was staring at him, arms folded under her breasts when he’d caught his breath and looked back at her. “Flynn Haggard?” He frowned. “Why in the world would you want to marry him?”

“Why does it matter? He apparently isn’t available to marry me now so it’s a mute point.”

Wasn’t available… Morgan laughed at that statement. Flynn wasn’t available, all right. He knew that for a fact. He’d arrested the man for cattle rustling and personally turned him over to the circuit court judge two weeks ago. The fact Flynn was getting married didn’t surprise him. Most men from town sent off for brides but those same men always let everyone know. Flynn hadn’t said a word. “How did you meet Flynn?”