Chapter Thirty-Four

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Chapter Thirty-Four

Marston clicked his swollen tongue against the roof of his dry mouth several times in a wasted attempt to get a bit of moisture. He rolled his shoulders to ease his aching muscles but that only served to aggravate the seeping wounds that the Marshall's whip had placed on his flesh.

That was the last time Marston would call the man an inbred, no-brained, ball-less coward.

'No it won't,' that voice in his head countered and instead of arguing, Marston nodded in agreement. As a matter of fact, Marston had a whole new batch of insults he'd been stringing together in his head all day just waiting on the Marshall to pop his head back in.

Without giving much thought to his motions, Marston leaned his back against the cool stone wall and leapt away from it with a curse and a hiss. He contemplated ramming his head into those unforgiving stones until he died—surely that would hurt less.

Marston could smell the infection in his back and he knew that given time, the fresh bloody stripes across his chest would be the same. He was battling a fever, a headache and exhaustion.

Marston wanted to die. He was ready to die. Hell, in all the ways that mattered he'd been dead since the Marshall and his deputies had led him away from that cabin and the only people in the world who mattered.

How long ago had that been? How long had Marston been in this dirty, damp cell? It didn't matter anymore. All Marston knew for sure was that he would be going swinging tomorrow. The Marshall had made it clear that his hanging was scheduled for the next day and a big crowd was expected to turn out for the special event.

At least Marston had a window to enjoy the sunrises and sunsets... he snorted with annoyance and glanced through the iron bars to the view outside.

The gallows and a graveyard. The Marshall had obviously been trying to prove a point when he'd placed Marston in this cell. Bastard. Or better yet; scum-sucking, whore mongering, cock-less wonder. Marston smiled as he sat down on the tattered cot that served as his bed. He'd just come up with his next greeting for the good Marshall.

Marston gingerly laid down, cursing the pain but forcing it aside.

His eyes drifted closed but immediately flew back open when he saw that soft, pale skin, loving blue eyes and tumbling red curls.

"Damnation!" Marston roared before sending his hand crashing into the brick wall. He relished the pain as his knuckles cracked against unforgiving stone. Marston sat up, hissing in pain when the sheet tore away from the sticky wounds on his back.

He forgot pain when he heard the door to the cell hall open. As light poured in from the main office, Marston hoped Marshall Montgomery was coming for another visit so he could share his newest insult with the lawman. Instead, it was one of the deputies; a tall scrawny nineteen year old boy named Pete. A tray of food was balanced on Pete's arm—at least Marston figured it was supposed to be food. Marston knew from experience that the chunky stew smelled like sweat and tasted about the same.

"It's chow time, Marston," Pete said as he approached Marston's cell. "You better eat up because the Marshall says this is your last meal."

Marston chuckled. There were miracles still left to be found in the world. Pete slid the tray through the small rectangular opening in the bars and Marston took it in his dirty hands. He smelled the stew—yep sweat. He sat the tray down on his crooked table and picked up the biscuit, tapping it against the table several times with a thud.

He let out a sigh. "And such gourmet food it is too."

Pete let out a snort of laughter before composing himself and putting his serious face back on. Marston liked Pete okay. He was a decent man for a lawman. Marston wondered if Pete knew the truth about the Marshall he worked under—Marston suspected he didn't.

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