The Lawman (The Willow Creek Series #1)

by Lily Graison

  “Care if I do?” Holden asked, grinning.

  The look on Holden’s face told Morgan exactly what his brother had in mind. The fact Willow Creek was so isolated left the men to women ratio lopsided. There were more single men in the county than he cared to think about. And once those men realized Abigail Thornton was in town, they’d be flocking to the jail in droves. He wasn’t sure why the thought of those men knocking on his door irritated him but it did. He pushed the thought away, swallowed the rest of his drink and turned to Vernon. “What do I owe you, Vern?”

  “On the house, marshal. After the week you’ve had, you deserve it.”

  “Obliged,” he said before turning back to Holden. “I’m going to head home and get cleaned up. Want to meet me at the hotel for supper?”

  “Can’t do. I promised Alex I’d be home before dark.” They walked back outside, stopping to look at the town before Holden said, “I will go grab something decent to eat for your newest prisoner though. It’s the neighborly thing to do, after all.”

  Holden grinned before taking off for the hotel in a jog. Morgan watched him go and disappear inside before looking back at the jail. The squat little building had seen better days and the roof leaked more often than not. Keeping Abigail Thornton locked up was going to be more trouble than he wanted. He could feel it in his bones. Holden was right about one thing. Keeping her locked up would cause a stir. One he didn’t want to deal with. He knew he had to let her go come morning but for some reason, the very thought of doing so irritated him.

  * * * *

  Abigail had dozed off while sitting up and was startled awake when the marshal came back. She blinked at him a few times, trying to get her eyes to adjust in the low light of the room and tell her she was seeing what she thought she was.

  The man who left hours before had been a complete unkempt mess. This man caused her pulse to race. He’d left his hat behind, his guns still strapped to his lean hips, and he stood by the door staring at her as if he’d never seen her before. He’d washed and replaced his dirty clothes with clean denim trousers and a blue chambray shirt, the cuffs once again rolled up to his elbows. He was clean-shaven and just as she’d suspected, the marshal was a handsome man. Well, once you overlooked the busted lip and swollen eye. Taking in his features, she realized he was much more handsome than his brother, Holden, who had brought her a meal from the hotel. Too bad the marshal’s loathsome attitude was so unforgiving.

  She’d had a long time to think about her situation once he left and knew, like it or not, she was stuck in Willow Creek. She had no money to buy a ticket for the stagecoach and her pleas to the driver would be useless now. She’d gone as far as she could and she’d have to start planning all over again. The potential husband she’d managed to arrange for was gone. If the marshal let her out of the jail, where would she go? She didn’t even have enough money to buy a decent meal, let alone a place to bed down for the night. The filthy mattress under her was better than the cold ground or someone’s barn, if she were lucky enough to sneak inside one. That was assuming the marshal let her go.

  The reason she’d spent the last four months running caused a nervous shiver to race up her spine. As much as she disliked being locked up, she realized with sudden clarity that being under the marshal’s watchful eye was probably the safest option she had. As long as she was his prisoner, she’d be safe. Even if Fletcher found her, he wouldn’t be able to do much about it. She hoped.

  When the marshal made no attempt to move or speak, she stood. “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  Abigail rolled her eyes. “Why are you staring at me?”

  He tilted his head to one side and the look on his face was one of irritation. “I’m trying to decide what to do with you.”

  When her heart gave another little jump, Abigail walked to the cell door. If he let her go now, what would she do? Probably die a slow, agonizing death at Fletcher’s hand. She shuddered at the thought and knew she only had one option at the moment. She had to make sure he kept her locked up.

  She smiled to hide her unease and tried to bait him into keeping her behind bars. “What? You mean you actually have a heart and are going to let me go? How noble of you.”

  He grinned and rubbed his jaw. Her gaze was drawn to his mouth then and she found herself staring. How could lips that plump spill the venom the marshal had spewed at her over the course of the day?

  “I didn’t say I was going to let you go.”

  Abigail tore her gaze from his mouth when he spoke and bit her lip to keep from smiling at what he’d said. As long as she could annoy him enough to keep her locked up until she could figure out what to do, she would at least have a decent meal and a place to sleep. “I’m sure thinking for yourself is a difficult process, marshal, but do make it quick. I need to use the privy as I’ve yet been taken to do so.”

  “There’s a pot under the bed. Help yourself.”

  Abigail looked back at the cot and bent at the waist. Sure enough, there was a pot under the bed, its grimy sides brown with lord knew what. She straightened and threw him a scalding look. “You can’t possibly expect me to use that filthy thing.”

  He shrugged a shoulder before leaning back against the wall. “I haven’t had any other complaints.”

  “Of course not. Your usual guests are probably all foul creatures as obnoxious as yourself.” The amused twinkle in his eyes faded then and Abigail wondered if she’d gone to far. He wasn’t a terrible person, or so his brother had said. Holden Avery was the gentleman his brother was not. The marshal, Morgan, Holden had told her, was as cussed as an old mule and from what she’d seen, she knew he was right. Of course, it could all be an act. He was the town marshal, after all. He was supposed to be a man stronger than most, able to protect the citizens of the town. He may be a real pussycat under that hard exterior. Somehow she doubted it. “Well,” she said, “while you decide what to do with me, could you find it in that grizzled heart of yours to find me decent linens?”

  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 thinki
ng 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.