by Lily Graison
As before, her horse shied, reared up on its hind legs and let out a terrified squeal. She grabbed the reins, holding on this time, fear stealing her breath before the horses’ front feet hit the ground again. When the horse began to settle she saw Fletcher was already on the ground, his face a mask of fury.
“You little bitch!” He crossed the distance between them in four large steps, grabbed her arm and jerked her from the horse. He grabbed the back of her head with his free hand, his fingers digging into her scalp. He hit her, his fist connecting with the side of her head hard enough for her to see bright flashes of light. Abigail knew he would kill her, his plan to swindle another rich man from his money be damned. She could see the truth of it written on his face. Waiting for the next blow to come, she saw Morgan, the vision of him hovering near the trees. He was looking at her, a strange look on his face. He lifted his arm, his hand shaking and Fletcher’s face came back into focus. He struck her again, knocking her to her knees. A glance back at the trees and again, she saw Morgan. She blinked. Was he only an image her mind conjured or was he real?
The blast from the gun in his hand echoed across the space, smoke filling the air around him. Fletcher’s shout was music to her ears. He stumbled to one knee and Abigail crawled to her feet and ran.
She realized when she was close enough to see Morgan what that strange look on his face was. It was pain. His skin looked sallow and his eyes seemed too large. There was a muddy spot on his left shoulder, the entire side of his shirt ruined with it. When she reached him, the muddy spot bloomed red. Blood. It wasn’t mud. It was blood. His. “Morgan!”
He glanced at her and licked his lips. “Run, Abigail. I’ll come for you.”
Leaving him was the last thing she wanted to do but one look behind her at Fletcher and she did as he’d told her. Fletcher had climbed to his feet and was charging toward them. She’d made it into the thick of the trees before the sound of the gun firing again rang in her ears. She turned to look, watching as Fletcher’s body collided with Morgan’s. The two men tussled and rolled, punches impacting flesh with dull thuds. Morgan dropped his gun, his fist connecting with Fletcher’s face. Blood spurted from his nose before Morgan hit him again and again.
Fletcher grabbed Morgan’s shoulder, the bleeding one, and Morgan let out a yell that chilled her to the bone. He hit the ground, Fletcher following him down and in seconds the fight had changed course. Tears burned her eyes as Fletcher hit Morgan repeatedly. The need to end it all grew until she was numb. Seeing a thick tree limb lying nearby, she grabbed it, broke off the end so she could wield it better and raced back to the two men. The first thump to Fletcher’s head dazed him enough that he raised up. Abigail hit him again. She didn’t stop until he’d fallen, his body lying prone across Morgan’s.
Abigail dropped the limb, a harsh sob escaping her before dropping to her knees beside Morgan. She pushed at Fletcher, shoving his body away. “Morgan?”
He blinked up at her and sucked in a deep breath before coughing. “Find the gun, Abigail.”
She did as asked, rooting around in the leaves and grass until she’d found it. Handing it to him, she glanced at Fletcher. “What are you going to do with him?”
Morgan turned his head to where Fletcher lay. “I want to shoot him and leave him for the buzzards.”
Fletcher didn’t deserve better but Abigail could see on Morgan’s face that he wouldn’t do as he said. She’d not known her husband long but she knew he was a fair and honest man. He’d do what needed to be done as far as Fletcher was concerned.
She helped Morgan sit up, and sat him next to a tree, then spent the better part of an hour tying Fletcher up to the point Morgan was satisfied. When the man had been trussed up so tight it would take a knife to unbind him, they sat and waited for him to wake up.
Abigail unbuttoned Morgan’s shirt, peeling the sticky, blood soaked material away from his shoulder. He hissed in a breath and gave her a look that said he wanted to cuss but bit his lip instead. She smiled, trying to soften the pain she knew she was causing and leaned him forward to see if the bullet had gone clean through. It had. “It needs to be cleaned and bandaged.”
“Fresh out of bandages. I had to leave in a hurry, you see. My wife ran off and didn’t tell me where she was going.”
Heat crawled up Abigail’s neck and landed on her cheeks. When Morgan’s gaze moved across her face, then down to her chest, she knew she was blushing. Those damn splotches were back, she was sure of it. She didn’t even need to look to know they were. “I didn’t have time to explain. I just wanted to make sure I was gone before he found me.”
“I would have kept you safe, Abigail.”
Her eyes misted with tears at his softly spoken words. “I know,” she whispered. “I was just scared.”
Morgan raised his hand, cupping a finger under her chin and lifting her head up. She stared at him, tears escaping her eyes to trickle down her cheek. “You’ve no reason to be scared, Abigail. I’ll always protect you. No matter what it is.” He pulled her to him and gave her a soft kiss. “I love you, you know. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do for you.”
The tears came then unguarded. All the fear she’d held on to washing over her in a rush she couldn’t control. Morgan held her, wincing through the pain in his injured shoulder and it wasn’t until her heartache and tears washed away that she realized what he’d said. He loved her. He’d finally said the words. Lifting her head, she smiled at him, leaned forward and kissed him. “I love you too, Morgan. I’ll never leave you again.”
Chapter Twelve
The past twenty-fours hours had been the most draining Abigail had ever remembered. Forcing Fletcher back on his horse after he’d awoken from his beating had taken more patience than she thought she possessed. She was surprised Morgan hadn’t shot him just to end their aggravation. The trip back to Willow Creek was unhurried; Morgan’s shoulder and her aching back slowing them down. She didn’t tell him of the cramps the fall from her horse had caused. They were in enough pain to have that weigh on their minds as well.
Before they reached town, Holden, and a few men from the ranch, caught up with them. They’d been sent by Percy, Holden had said, when Morgan rode out alone last night and never returned. With the extra help, they were able to get back to town and get Fletcher into the single cell jail with little incident. Morgan had been taken to Edna to have his shoulder patched up, and Abigail had been fussed over by Mrs. Talbert and Miranda. She was ensconced in bed, covers pulled to her chin when Morgan walked into the room.
He shut the door and made his way to the bed, sitting down on the side with a small groan. When he turned his head to look at her she could tell by the look on his face what he was about to say wasn’t good. “I contacted the sheriff in Missoula about you a while back. I never heard anything from him and assumed there wasn’t anything to find.” He stared at her for long moments before turning and unbuttoning his shirt. “There was a parcel waiting for me at the jail. A wanted poster of a woman who looks a lot like you.”
Abigail’s stomach clenched and as hard as she tried, not a word escaped her.
Morgan tossed his shirt to a nearby chair and struggled with his boots. “Murdered some man in Atlanta, it said. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
When he turned to look at her, tears stung her eyes. The desire to lie burned in her soul but she’d almost lost him once because she wasn’t honest. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
“His name was Jacob Crandall.” Her breath hitched and she swallowed the lump forming in her throat and forced herself to meet his gaze. “I didn’t know what Fletcher had planned. I swear it, Morgan.”
“What happened?”
She told him every thing. How Fletcher insisted she seduce the old man, gain his favor and make herself a fixture in his home. To learn the layout of his office and the whereabouts of his safe. She’d done every thing Fletcher asked of her and then she’d watched, horrified as Fletcher
shot the man in cold blood and pinned the murder on her. She’d done the only thing she could. She ran. Left that very night with nothing but the clothes on her back. She’d sold the jewels she’d been wearing and traded her fancy sateen gown to a shopkeeper in exchange for a modest dress that wouldn’t draw attention. She’d stole away on a train in the cargo hold, stole a travel bag of women’s clothing and made her way across the country in record time. She even managed to arrange for a marriage to a man in a small town hoping Fletcher would never find her. The same marriage that brought her to Willow Creek.
He listened to her story, his face a stony mask. He never said a word and when her tale was finished, he stood, removed his pants and crawled into bed with her.
As they lay there, smothered in blankets and listening to the multitude of people in their downstairs kitchen, Abigail chewed her bottom lip. She didn’t like it when he was quiet. He was staring up at the ceiling and she hated the fact she couldn’t read his face like she could with others. Afraid of what he may do now that he knew, she tentatively touched his arm. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”
He turned his head toward her, his gaze boring into her own. “Why didn’t you tell me about the baby?”
She blinked, confused at the sudden change of topic. “I was scared. I just wanted to get Fletcher as far from here as I could. I didn’t want you hurt.”
“I can take care of myself.”
Abigail looked away and it wasn’t until he reached for her face that she realized his hand was shaking. “Don’t ever leave me again, Abigail. I’ll turn you over my knee and blister your hide if you do.”
She opened her mouth to respond but he kissed her before she had a chance. She could feel his desperation in that kiss, his fear that things could have gone very wrong for them. She returned it while trying to soothe that fear, her hands reassuring him with gentle touches and soft caresses. When he broke the kiss, he laid his forehead against her own and wrapped his arm around her. “I love you, Abigail. I’ll always keep you safe.”
Abigail smiled. Fletcher was gone from her life forever, the man she loved lay beside her and the baby she feared she’d lost was still holding on. Morgan’s arm tightened around her and she turned her head to him before rolling and snuggling against his side. They lay quietly for long minutes, the ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound in the room. When Morgan leaned over and kissed her forehead, Abigail looked up at him. “What will you do about the murder charge?”
“Fletcher will hang for it if I have to walk him to Missoula myself and see it done. Don’t worry yourself about it.”
She nodded her head, her other fear forcing its way to the forefront of her mind when her stomach gave a slight cramp. “I took a nasty fall off my horse, Morgan.”
“I know,” he said. “The baby will be all right. He’ll be the first of many, I can assure you, Mrs. Avery.” He kissed her again and smiled, threading his fingers through her hair. “Don’t worry about anything, love, it will be my pleasure to take care of you until we’re old and gray.”
Abigail grinned and snuggled against his side again. “I’ll hold you to that, Marshal Avery.”
The End
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Bonus Material
The Outlaw
Willow Creek # 2
Chapter One
Wyoming Territory - 1869
There were outlaws in the bank. Sarah Hartford sucked in a quiet breath and whispered, “Sweet lord above not again.” Her comment drew the attention of Thomas Jenkins, the clerk working the counter with her. When he looked toward the door and saw the gunmen, he screamed like a little girl. The commotion in the room stopped as everyone inside the building turned to look at each other. When they saw the four armed men at the door, their frightened screams echoed Thomas.
The men stood at the entrance of the bank and Sarah’s heart felt lodged in her throat. How many times had she seen this same scenario play out before? Five? Six? She couldn’t remember. What she did know was, what they wanted and how they’d go about getting it.
She looked at the four men again and didn’t have to be told who led this gang of ruffians. The man still standing by the door did. His presence seemed to suck the air from the room. He was tall and imposing. His shoulders were wide, the dusty, worn trail coat brushing his knees stretched across his frame and made him appear even larger. Or maybe it was the fact the sun was shining in the door behind him, casting him in a ring of brilliant light. He looked like an avenging angel. Well, except for the rifle propped neatly against the crook of his arm. Maybe angel of death was a better description.
His black hat rested low over his eyes, obscuring their color. They looked menacing even from across the room. A red bandana was pulled up over his face, resting on the bridge of his nose, a hint of dark stubble barely seen on the edge of his jaw. Two shiny revolvers hung low on his hips and Sarah was sure he knew how to use them. A gunslinger. She’d bet her inheritance on it. His stance was too casual, too confident, not to be. This was a man who knew what he was doing and she knew, whoever hid beneath that disguise, wasn’t a man to be trifled with. He proved it by casually lifting the rifle in his arms and firing off one shot into the ceiling.
Sarah stood behind the bank counter and watched the men without flinching. The women in the bank all screamed again, along with Thomas, before hitting their knees and cowering before the outlaws. She’d done the same thing a time or two. Her father’s bank had been robbed countless times and today’s robbery played out like all the others. She knew what came next.
The man by the door glanced around the room, his cold eyes landing on every person before he looked back up. “Ladies and Gentlemen, if you can give me just a moment of your time, I’ll make sure this little inconvenience don’t mess with your supper plans.” He took a step, the spurs on his dusty boots clicking on the wooden floor as he walked further into the room. His gait was slow, sure. The butt of his rifle was propped on his hip and he moved like a lethal predator. His whole demeanor matched his voice. Hard, deadly. A shiver raced up Sarah’s spine as her pulse leaped.
The gunslinger nodded to the man on his right before looking over at the counter. “If one of you fine bank tellers would be so kind as to help my friend here empty out your safe, I’d be much obliged.”
Sarah straightened her spine and leaned forward, knowing Thomas would soil himself if he had to look at these criminals, let alone speak to them. “The safe is empty. The stagecoach left early this morning with most of the money.”
The man with the red bandana turned his head toward her, tilting it a fraction. He studied her for long moments. Too long. Her skin heated, her cheeks warming under his intense stare. Did he know she was lying? The skin around his eyes crinkled and she didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling at her. “Well,” he said, moving the shotgun to lie across his arm again. “That’s mighty disappointing, Miss…?”
Sarah didn’t answer his unspoken question. “There’s enough in deposits to get you out of town. Take the money and go.”
“I intend on doing that, along with what’s in the safe.” He thumbed the front of his hat up a fraction before those crinkles around his eyes were seen again. “I know for a fact the stage hasn’t been through here today and there’s a wad of cash in that vault big enough to choke my horse. Now hand over what you got. Everything.”
Bile rose up quick, hot and thick in Sarah’s throat but she met the robbers eyes briefly before reaching under the counter. She heard Thomas, the other bank teller, gasp when he saw what she was doing and threw him a look, hoping he’d keep his mouth shut. When her fingers wrapped around the shotgun her father kept under the counter, Sarah prayed this wouldn’t be her last day on earth.
A glance at the leader as he directed one of his men to go get the money was all the distraction she needed. Pulling the gun from under the counter, she raised it, aimed at the leader, and pulled the trigger.
<
br /> The screams echoed in the room again and Sarah was shocked to see the gunslinger look toward the wall behind him. He was smiling again when he turned back to face her. The crinkles around his eyes told her so. “You missed.”
Sarah swore under her breath. She’d aimed at his middle and still missed him? And the arrogant man didn’t even flinch. When the other three men pointed a gun at her, she lowered her shotgun, glancing at everyone in the room before looking back at the leader.
“Take her firearm.” The man to her left walked forward and snatched the gun from her, tossing it to the man she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of. He caught it with one hand and laid her shotgun across his arm with his own. “Now, we’re wasting valuable time here. Get those deposits in the bag, and what’s in the safe, and we’ll be on our way.”
Sarah glared at the man who stepped up to the counter and thrust the bags at her. She snatched them from the outlaw’s hand, scowling as she went about her task. When the bags were full she handed them back to the waiting man.
Looking back at the leader, she raised her chin, meeting his hardened gaze. “You’ll not make it out of town. I’m sure the marshal is waiting for you outside as we speak.”
“I doubt that. It’ll take him a while to get out of the jail, especially after I went to the extra trouble of trussing him up so nicely.” He ordered his men out and sat her gun down on the table by the wall. “Much obliged, Ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her, staring at her for long moments before walking back out into the bright sunlight, the echo of his spurs against the wooden floor ringing in her head long after he disappeared from sight. A collective sigh went through those in the bank and Sarah wanted to join them. Instead, she cautiously walked out from behind the counter.
