Winter's Night by Sherrilyn Kenyon

staring at his Catherine.
    â€œMiss Catherine?”
    â€œMarshal McCall,” she said, stressing the title, no doubt for his benefit.
    And it worked. O’Connell was immediately on guard.
    By the look on the man’s face, it was obvious he wanted to ask Catherine something of a personal nature. Worse, the man stuttered and shifted nervously before he came out with, “I just came for my morning cup of coffee.”
    O’Connell’s gaze narrowed. The damn man was infatuated with his wife.
    He flinched as an image of her in the marshal’s arms tore through his mind.
    Would the insults never cease?
    As Catherine moved to fetch a cup of coffee, the marshal glanced to O’Connell. “How do?” he asked amiably enough.
    â€œJust fine, Marshal,” O’Connell returned, trying to remain pleasant in spite of the urge he had to choke the man. “And you?”
    The marshal frowned as he looked him up and down. “Don’t I know you from someplace?”
    Probably from about a dozen or so wanted posters, but he didn’t dare say that. Instead, O’Connell shook his head. “I don’t know any marshals.” He made it his habit to avoid them at all costs.
    â€œNo?” the marshal asked. “You sure look familiar to me. You got any family in Reno?”
    O’Connell shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
    He seemed to accept that. But still he took a step forward and extended his hand. “Dooley McCall.”
    â€œTyler Burdette,” he said, shaking his proffered hand.
    â€œBurdette,” the marshal repeated. “Nah, I don’t reckon I do know you after all.”
    Catherine handed the marshal his coffee.
    â€œThank you, Miss Catherine. I keep telling my deputies no one on earth makes a better pot of coffee than you do.”
    â€œThank you, marshal.”
    O’Connell didn’t miss the blush staining her cheeks. For a moment, he had to struggle to breathe. How dare she blush at another man. So what if he had been gone five years, it still didn’t give her the right to do that for someone else.
    She was his wife, not the marshal’s.
    The marshal nodded, then took his coffee and left.
    O’Connell wasted no time sneaking to the doorway to see the marshal sitting in the parlor with a paper, sipping his coffee as if everything were right in the world.
    â€œWhat the hell is a marshal doing here?” he asked Catherine in a low voice.
    She gave him a haughty glare. “He lives here.”
    â€œLives here?” he repeated.
    â€œI run a boardinghouse, remember? He’s one of my regular tenants.”
    â€œWhy would you let him live here? ”
    â€œI don’t know,” she said sarcastically. “Maybe I like having him here because it keeps out the riff-raff,” she said with a pointed stare, “and he pays two months’ rent in advance.”
    Catherine didn’t miss the heated glare Michael gave her. Licking her lips, she felt a wave of misgiving run up her spine. Michael was entirely too interested in the marshal.
    Something was wrong.
    â€œAre you wanted?” she asked all of a sudden.
    He stared at her with those clear silver-gray eyes. “It depends,” he said in a serious voice. “I was hoping you’d want me.”
    Her breath caught. Did she dare hope that he might actually be able to settle down with her and Diana?
    â€œAnd if I did?” she asked.
    He looked back at the marshal. “This is a bad time. I really need to leave.”
    â€œLeave?” she gasped. “You can’t.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œBecause you just got here. You can’t just show up on my doorstep, roll around in my bed, and then take flight as soon as the sun comes up. I thought we had shared something special last night. Or were they all lies again?”
    He winced as if she’d struck him. “I’ve never lied to you,