The Lawman (Historical Western Romance)

Chapter 3

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 gotten 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?"