Disobeying the Marshal (3 page)

Florie’s chest tightened, like someone was stitching it together with new thread. Rosalie had had cause to behave so.

Florie was a Jezebel.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and then another. Florie swiped at them until they fell too fast for her to keep up. It hadn’t just been the idea of a different life than the one she’d known since running away from El Dorado with Junior, it had been him. Cord. Even hurt and sick, he’d been courteous and kind. Treated her like she was someone worth respect. She hadn’t had that in so long. In some ways, had forgotten it existed.

She buried her face in the pillow. Cord Donavan was an honorable, decent man, whereas she was as soiled as a river rat. One that had caused him nothing but trouble. She should get up and leave right now, but exhausted from the long journey, feet blistered and sore, her heavy limbs were glued to the bed, wouldn’t move no matter how she willed them to.

Florie found an ounce of comfort in the fact that she’d told Cord the brothers were after him. Surely he’d be careful, now. After all, he was a lawman and a fine one at that, and the brothers were afraid of him. She’d seen it in their eyes.

Her hand rested on the small mound in the lowest part of her a stomach. As a newfound grief rolled inside her, she rubbed the area. “I’m sorry, baby. I know I said I’d tell him about you, but I can’t. I just can’t.” As the tears started to fall again, she whispered, “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Always.”

The first place Cord went was to the room across the hall from his. A sixth sense instinctively told him Florie was in that one. Her hands were tucked beneath the pillow, her body curled into a ball like a sleeping kitten. He tucked the quilt beneath her chin, and unable to deny the urge, leaned down and kissed the softness of her cheek. The touch, though brief and chaste, provided him a slice of bliss.

“Cord,” she whispered.

A fierce, undeniable and righteous sense screaming that she was a married woman kept him from climbing onto the bed beside her. “Shh, I’m here, you’re safe.”

“The gunshots?” she mumbled.

“It was just Wilson, the train agent, chasing some cows off the tracks before the eleven-thirty-three arrived,” he whispered, rubbing her back. The shots had brought the cowboys camped nearby with the rest of their herd and all had been pretty much settled before he’d arrived. That’s how it usually was. El Dorado had calmed down the past few years. It was now a quiet town, full of good, honest and peaceful people. “You’re safe, Florie, you’re safe,” he repeated.

“I’m so sorry,” she whimpered.

“Shh,” he insisted. “Go back to sleep.”

“But, the Win—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “Sleep now.”

She let out a little groan, as if fighting to wake.

“Shh,” he repeated, letting his finger slip off her lips when she let out a soft sigh. She was safe, and for that he was thankful. The Winter gang must have tracked him to her place. The brothers were from Missouri and had somehow got it in their heads to rob an MKT train last fall. He’d been chasing them down when he got shot in the shoulder. The tumble off his horse had messed up his knee—the thing still ached like a fishbone caught in a tooth. He sat then, on the edge of her bed, giving his knee a rest while still rubbing her back, and listening to her slumbering breaths.

Somehow, he’d managed to get back on his horse that day, and later—hours or days, he didn’t know which—the animal had ambled into the Rockford place. Florie found him trying to dismount in the barn. She’d practically carried him into the little house where she’d healed his wounds and stolen his heart within a few short days.

So this is it, he thought, drawing his hand off Florie’s back. All the years of saying he was married to his badge, all the times he’d told his mother he wasn’t cut out for wedded bliss, had come back to haunt him.

Cord stood then, and left the room, with his mother’s words—
be careful what you wish for
—echoing in his mind. He certainly hadn’t wished to fall in love with a married woman, yet that’s what he’d got.

He’d set his life on a path of righteousness. Born and bred on honesty, and seeking justice for a living. The guilt gouging his insides was the worst he’d ever imagined. He’d compromised one of man’s greatest vows. Slept with a married woman.

Cord crawled into his own bed, but dreams jerked him awake every time he closed his eyes. They were a juncture of excited fantasies involving him and Florie, and nightmares of her husband, an unknown, faceless man, taking her away. When the sun tossed faint streaks of light into the room, he threw off the covers and dressed.

Florie still slept and, captivated, he stood in the doorway of her room, wondering where her dreams took her.

She stirred, burying her cheek deeper into the pillow. He pushed off the wall and made his way downstairs. After building a fire, he set a pot of coffee on a burner and went out the back door.

The morning air was brisk, and made him think of Florie walking all the way from her place. She’d walked over seventy miles to warn him about outlaws he’d captured three days ago. His nerves quivered beneath his skin at the number of things that could have happened to her along the way.

“Good morning, Cord.”

He turned.

Della Cramer, the woman who ran the boarding house next door was on her back porch, shaking out a rug. She was a good neighbor—the best. He paid her to clean his home and prepare the meals for prisoners as well as the plates left in the icebox or warming in the oven for him and Deputy Monroe.

“Morning, Della,” he responded, turning back toward his house.

Pushing open the door, he shook his head. Florie was married. Of all things. It was still a shocking thought, one that shook him to the core. He’d never, ever, so much as taken a second look at another man’s wife.

And it just didn’t fit. Florie was too pure and innocent to—

His sixth sense kicked in, making him stiffen as he pushed aside the coffeepot that was bubbling over, sizzling and steaming against the cast iron of the stove.

Taking a breath to calm the way his heart jolted inside his chest, he turned. Sunlight from the parlor windows flowed through the doorway, forming a golden haze all around her.

It was a moment before he could speak, and when he did say, “Good morning, Florie,” it was accompanied by a gush of air.

The light clung to her outline as she moved forward. Sleep-tousled and rumpled she looked angelic, and made a whirlwind swirl inside him. Their eyes locked and a tightening happened in his chest, like an invisible lasso had looped over his heart and pulled it across the room.

“Good morning,” she greeted softly.

He wanted to go to her, wrap her in his arms and hold her. Just hold her. And tell her how beautiful she was. How he thought of little else but her.

She blinked and he spun around, forcing the thoughts aside.

“How’d you sleep?” he asked, filling a cup from the steaming pot.

“Fine, thank you.”

Cord turned and held out the cup. “Coffee?”

She eased forward, her skirt swaying around her ankles. Suddenly all color drained from her face and she slapped a hand over her mouth. Eyes wide, she bolted for the door.

Momentarily stunned, Cord could do nothing but stare. Then he threw the cup in the sink and followed in her wake. The privy door slammed shut as he slid to a stop next to it.

He stepped back.

Waited.

Walked around a bit.

Waited.

Had she eaten something that didn’t agree with her? Or had she caught something during her journey? Smallpox had been fierce last winter. Had she contracted it? His heart started to pound. Should he get the doctor? He hurried to the door and knocked on the wood. “Florie?”

A low grown permeated the wood.

He pounded again. “Florie!”

“Cord, you go on, I’ll see to her.”

Cord spun. Della, his neighbor, gave him a gentle push.

He shook his head. “I don’t know if she’s all right or not.”

“Who is she?” Della asked.

“Her name’s Florie.” Cord stared at the outhouse, willing the door to open. “She walked here, all the way from Greenfield. She must have caught something.” It felt as if a thousand crickets hopped around inside him and he didn’t know how to stop them. It was ridiculous, he was a lawman. Always knew how to react. But she’d looked so ill-stricken. He spun back to Della. “Could she have caught pneumonia?”

“Greenfield?” Della asked.

He nodded.

“Is this the gal that saved your life last winter?”

He nodded again, never taking his eyes off the privy door.

“The girls will be taking breakfast down to the jail in a few minutes. Why don’t you go on down there? I’ll see to Florie.”

“No, I should—”

“Cord,” Della said sternly. “I saw her run across the yard. She’s going to be fine. I know what to do. I’ll send the girls if I need something. You go on now.” Della pushed him toward the house. “You can come back in an hour or so, she’ll be ready to see you then.”

His heels dug in the dirt. “I—”

“I promise she’ll be fine.”

He’d felt this way once before when told to leave Florie. He’d had to, then, known it was the best, but now—

Della waved both hands, shooing him toward the house. “Trust me, Cord. You need to leave. Go see to your prisoners.”

Cord ran a hand through his hair. It was hell, this thing tearing inside him.

His spine stiffened. He didn’t know much about women, but he did know outlaws, and right now he did have a few questions to ask the Winter brothers. If they were the cause of her bruised cheek, those boys had better pray the escort to take them back to Missouri arrived today.

The muffled voices faded, no longer mingled with the ringing of her ears, and thankfully her trembles had quelled. Florie took a deep breath, fueling the courage to face Cord, and opened the privy door.

A woman stood before her. “Good morning, Florie. I’m Della. My daughters and I live next door.”

An eerie sensation gripped Florie’s spine. Cord was nowhere in sight. Just the woman. She was quite pretty. Her fair hair had streaks of crimson and brown and was pinned fashionably high on her head, and her bright green eyes shimmered happily.

“Hello,” Florie answered hesitantly.

“Cord had to head down to the jail.”

“Oh?” Florie stammered, measuring the distance to the back door of Cord’s house. Her legs felt frail, but she thought she could make it.

“Yes,” Della said, glancing at Florie’s very old and very rumpled skirt. “Having those Winter boys behind bars has kept both him and Spencer busy.”

The howling inside Florie’s head caught her off guard. She reached for the side of the privy. “Winter boys,” she slurred. “Behind bars?”

“Yes.” Della sounded miles away. “They’ve been there a couple days now.”

The sunshine above, the green grass below and the fuzzy outline of Della all merged together and then disappeared.

When Florie opened her eyes, she was lying on a long settee, surrounded by screened walls. The poignant scent of vinegar filled her nose and stung her eyes like boiling lye. She cringed and turned away from the smell, gasping for fresh air.

“Sorry,” Della said, “I know it’s strong, but you’ve been out so long.”

“Out?” Florie rubbed at the dull ache in her temples.

“Yes, you passed out. The girls helped me carry you into the sitting porch.”

Two young girls, maybe twelve or thirteen years old, peered through an open doorway that led into the house. They grinned. Florie attempted to respond, but her mind kicked in. Junior’s brothers were in Cord’s jail.

Florie pushed up, but stopped as her head spun.

“Wow, slow down there, girl.” Della took an arm, easing her upright. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“I don’t know.” Florie recalled the apple she’d taken from Cord’s table last night, but couldn’t remember eating it. “Day before yesterday, maybe.”

“Well, here, nibble on this toast.” Della set a small table within reach. “There’s tea to go with it.”

“Water’s ready for her bath, Ma,” one of the girls said.

“Thank you, honey.”

“I have the Marshal’s meals ready,” the other girl announced.

“Go ahead and wrap them up. You can drop them off on your way to school,” Della answered, handing Florie a china cup.

Trying to think beyond the chatter, Florie took a sip, but instantly wished she’d declined the tea. The warm liquid flowed into her empty stomach like a morning milking hitting the bottom of the bucket. She bit into the toast, hoping to calm the sloshing.

It didn’t help.

She swallowed quickly, attempting to force everything back down.

“Oh, goodness,” Della exclaimed, shoving an empty pot in front of Florie just in time.

There wasn’t much to expel, but her stomach convulsed several times, and when it ended, tears dripped from her eyes.

As if it couldn’t get any worse, the look on Della’s face made Florie’s heart stop.

Cord rushed out of the jailhouse door as soon as footsteps sounded on the boardwalk. “How’s—” He paused, not sure how to question Anna and Elsie about Florie’s condition.

“Mama says to tell you Miss Florie’s doing just fine, Marshal,” Elsie said, handing him a basket.

“Yep, just fine,” Anna repeated, handing her basket through the open doorway to Spencer Monroe. “She’s eating breakfast and getting ready to have a bath.”

“Thanks, girls,” Spencer said, taking the basket from Cord’s hand. Cord watched Della’s daughters skip off the stoop, wondering if what they said was true. Florie had been too pale for a quick recovery. Maybe he should send the doc over just to make sure.

“Florie?” Spencer questioned, staring at him.

Not ready to discuss Florie with anyone, Cord pushed his way into the office. The prisoners were awake, arguing amongst themselves. He hadn’t spoken to them yet, wanted to wait until the girls had dropped off breakfast in case things became heated.