Give My Love to Rose(1st in Outlaw Series)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Five

Marston stood at the cell window and stared out at the quiet early morning. Mist swirled low in the air and heavy dew clung to nearly everything in the sight. The gallows could barely be seen through the fog but Marston knew they were there—waiting for him.

Soon the crowds would begin to gather. They always gathered when there was a hanging. Whole families would come to eat, mingle and watch a man's neck break. For one terrible moment, Marston imagined Rose, Langley and Kaitlyn turning up to watch him die but he quickly shoved that thought aside.

Rose wouldn't come to this—she wouldn't do that to Langley and Kaitlyn. Rose... All he thought of was that woman. Those thoughts filled him with pain and yet they were also the only thing that gave him any strength of peace. He'd give just about anything to run his hands through that soft red hair, trace those full freckled cheeks with his fingertips and feel her full warm body pressed against his just one more time.

He would love to hear the oppressive silence filled with the ramblings of that over talkative ten year old he considered his own. Or scold Kaitlyn for raising her hand before speaking....

And he couldn't help but wonder what the child growing inside Rose would look like. The knowledge that he would never know that piece of himself and Rose was too much for Marston to bear and it had him growling and kicking the rickety table in the corner, shattering the crooked slabs of wood and sending splinters across the cell.

Pain constricted his heart, as Marston laid his fevered brow against the cool metal bars. He was shaking and weak but he'd be damned before he lay down in that bed and let the Marshall find him looking weak and broken. Marston may have handed himself over to the law willingly but he'd never let them break him. That would go against everything he'd ever lived for.

Marston heard the heavy door to the main office open and he recognized Pete's boot steps as the young deputy came down the hall. Marston's movements were stiff and every step filled him with pain as he went to the cell door.

"Good morning, Pete," Marston greeted, wearing the fake flashin smile he'd perfected over the years.

Pete's features and posture were drenched in sadness and Marston wondered if Pete truly understood the kind of man he was so sad over. "It's not such a good day, Marston. You're going to be hanging at one."

Marston gripped his bars and stretched out his aching arms. "What time is it now?"

Pete's gaze went to Marston's oozing knuckles and Marston chuckled. "The wall said some things I didn't like. Now what time is it?" he repeated.

"It's a little after nine," Pete replied. He tipped his head toward the broken table. "Did the table run its mouth too?"

"Tables tend to do that," Marston noted with a nod. He flexed his hands on the bars, causing the muscles in his biceps to bulge. "So what brings you by this morning?"

"I need to get that whiskey bottle back," Pete stated. "I'd get in an awful lot of trouble if the Marshall found it in here."

Marston clicked his tongue. "Well we wouldn't want that now, would we?"

Marston turned his back and headed toward the half empty bottle of whiskey beside his cot. Pete took a sharp intake of breath and gagged. "Marston, you need to see a doc!"

Marston laughed out loud as he carried the bottle back to the bars. "Why's that? So he can pretty my back up a bit before they kill me?"

"I guess you have a point," Pete admitted, scratching at the blond hair sticking out beneath his hat. "Still your back is in bad shape."