Disobeying the Marshal (4 page)

“Quit your bickerin’ or you won’t get any breakfast. None of you,” Monroe shouted at the cell as he set both baskets on the desk. He turned to Cord. “I still can’t believe those are the same boys that robbed all those trains and banks. They don’t have but one brain betwixt the four of them.”

“The robbing happened while their oldest brother was alive. Orson was the mastermind. The rest of them counted on him to tell them what to do,” Cord explained, glaring at the cell.

“I’d say,” Monroe agreed, lifting away the cloths covering the baskets.

“Orson died in a raid down in Missouri two years ago.” Cord tapped a fat envelope on the desk corner. “Says in there another brother was wounded then, too. I’m guessing he died, too, considering we have four in jail and the one hasn’t shown up anywhere.” He spoke toward the cell, catching the prisoners’ attention.

They watched him cross the room. “You boys did most of your robbing in Missouri. What made you cross the state line?”

Billy, the youngest, opened his mouth, but the one named James elbowed him.

They were rough, dirty men, and the thought of any of them touching Florie had Cord’s insides brewing. “You boys know a family named Rockford?”

Another one, skinny with watery eyes, guffawed.

“Shut up, Ned,” James said, without breaking the steady gaze he had on Cord.

Fury ate at Cord. It was apparent the gang had been at Florie’s place. “If I find out you harmed that girl or her mother,” Cord said, glaring directly into James’s beady eyes, “you’ll pay for more than robbing the MKT.”

The hairs on his neck snapped to attention. Cord turned toward the youngest brother. “What did you say, Billy?”

“Shut up, Billy. Save it for the judge,” James insisted.

“What did you say, Billy?” Cord asked again. He could have sworn he’d heard Florie’s name muttered.

Billy stared at his feet as he shuffled them back and forth.

“He didn’t say nothin’, Marshal, and he ain’t gonna,” James spat.

Cord’s jaw was set so hard, his back teeth ached. He glared into the cell, watched as all four brothers backed away from the flat iron bars. The air in the room was charged, crackling like a green-wood fire. He didn’t need to say anything. They knew they’d met their match, and he was proud of it.

Justice had always brought Cord satisfaction. Knowing a man, no matter how downtrodden, received a fair trial was something he fought for, but right now, believing one of these four had touched his Florie made his hands curl into fists.

“The wire came in this morning,” Monroe said, next to his shoulder. “The escorts from Missouri will be here this evening.”

Cord had half a mind to tell Spencer Monroe everything. He’d understand. Not only was he his deputy, but he was also his best friend, the one other man who’d sworn off marriage. Cord frowned, and then spun around. “Give them their breakfast. They’ll need it for the trip ahead of them.”

Monroe’s thoughtful gaze went from Cord and back to the cell a couple of times before he walked back to his desk to dish up the plates he’d set out.

Cord walked to the potbellied stove in the corner. He plucked a cup from the shelf overhead and filled it with steaming coffee. Where was Florie’s husband? Why hadn’t he protected her from the brothers? Or from him for that matter. Faintly he seemed to recall something about gold mines in Colorado.

“You boys don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Monroe said, making Cord’s spine stiffen. “Marshal Donavon’s father owns the train you robbed.”

Cord spun around.

The door flew open, blocking the glare he issued at Spencer. “Marshal Donavon!” Otis Braun yelled.

Cord set down his cup and moved toward the door. “What you need, Otis?” The blacksmith’s heavy apron was as black as his skin, and he carried his big hammer in one hand, but neither was out of the ordinary.

“There was a woman in my barn this morning,” the blacksmith said.

“What’d she look like?” Monroe asked.

“Can’t say.” Otis stomped across the room to take a peek at the baskets on the desk. “She skedaddled as soon as I got there. A grumpy old thing, that she was.”

Strangers weren’t a rarity in El Dorado, but a lone woman, young or old, was. Cord’s mind was lassoing all kinds of thoughts again. Mainly, why couldn’t it be a peaceful, quiet day, so he could go check on Florie?

“Where’d the woman go?” Monroe asked.

“Don’t know. I looked all over, but can’t find hide nor hair of her.” Otis bit into a biscuit. “But I don’t want her back in there tonight.”

Cord maneuvered around the man, walking toward the doorway.

“You going to check it out?” Monroe asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be back later,” Cord answered, pulling the door closed. The mercantile was on the way to Otis’s shop. Florie needed a few things and he’d take the time to see they were sent to the house.

Dressed in borrowed clothes, which Della insisted were “just some things that no longer fit,” but nicer than anything she’d ever owned, Florie sat at the table while Della twisted and pinned clump after clump of hair, wondering if this was what it was like to have a friend. It was nice, comforting even, but, though she’d managed to keep down a small amount of breakfast, her stomach rumbled and her nerve endings felt like they were on the outside of her skin. She was glad the brothers were in jail, where they couldn’t harm Cord, but what had they told him?

“You doing all right, there?” Della asked, peering around Florie’s shoulder.

Florie managed to nod. Sitting here with Della reminded her of the day Rosalie had returned. After she’d chased Cord off, she’d told Florie if he ever learned who Florie was married to, he’d arrest her. Silently, Florie had disagreed. Even injured, Cord had been kind and understanding. As if she’d read Florie’s mind, Rosalie had insisted he’d have no choice. It was the law.

“Not gonna lose your breakfast again?” Della asked.

Florie didn’t dare speak. She shook her head.

Della continued twisting and pinning. “Cord Donavan’s the best lawman this town’s ever known.”

The quiver rippling through Florie had her pressing a hand to her stomach. Rosalie said babies born in prison were given away to strangers. If they survived.

“Does Cord know?” Della asked, still pinning tresses.

“Kn—” Florie had to clear the thickness out of her throat. “Know what?”

Della handed her a mirror. “How’s that?”

The image peering back from the looking glass startled Florie. She blinked and looked again. “That’s me?” she asked.

“Yes, darling, that’s you.” Della poked at a curl, made it tumble loosely in front of one ear.

Florie stared at her reflection. “I don’t remember the last time I saw myself.”

Della sat down. “Don’t you have a looking glass?”

Florie shook her head. “I did once.” She set the mirror on the table, but fondled the handle. “A long time ago.”

Della put a hand under Florie’s chin and lifted her face. “Well,” she said, grinning brightly, “I think Cord’s gonna like what he sees.”

A denial made Florie’s head shake. The action also made her eyes sting. “I gotta leave, Della. Today. Now.”

“Cord’s got a right to know,” Della insisted. “About the baby.”

She couldn’t contradict what the woman had figured out on her own, but Florie could disagree with Della’s idea. There wasn’t time for her to conjure up a reply before a knock sounded on the back door. Della rose and, after patting Florie’s hand, moved across the kitchen to step into the enclosed back porch.

Florie picked up the mirror, taking another look at the woman who appeared when she held the silvered glass in front of her. In many ways the image reminded her of the picture of her mother that had hung in her grandmother’s bedroom.
“Don’t hate her, Florie,”
Grandma had always said.
“She loves you. She just can’t take care of you.”

Her free hand ran a soft circle over her stomach. Would Cord arrest her?

A faint hissing sound, like someone gasping for air, had her looking up.

Cord stood in the doorway. The mirror slipped from her fingers. Florie reached for it, but the end of the handle hit the table, sending the whole thing over the edge. It landed on the floor with a shattering crash.

“No harm done,” Della insisted. She led Florie around the table, to where Cord was still trying to make his legs move. It was as if they were stuck in a mud bog. And his heart, well, it didn’t know if it should beat, sing, or just give up and stop all together. Florie looked like a picture in
Harper’s Weekly
. An etching of what all women strived to resemble.

“Here, Cord, take her out to the porch while I clean up the glass,” Della said.

It was as if he was in a dream. He moved, took Florie’s arm and led her through the door, yet it felt as if he floated, his feet barely touched the floor, and the air around seemed misty and surreal.

He paused near the set of wicker chairs on the porch, but then his senses arrived, and he guided Florie out the back door.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“To my house,” he told her. Along with his senses came clear thinking. “We need to talk.”

She stumbled slightly. Cord released her arm to hook her around the hips. Her waist was so thin and fragile it was like catching a butterfly. Cord waited for her to nod. He kept his hand around her back, guiding her directly toward the gate and then the back door.

He didn’t stop there. Steering her around the table and through the doorway, he didn’t pause until he nodded for her to take a seat on the red velvet couch his mother loved so much and he and his father scoffed about.

Once Florie was seated, he didn’t have a clue what to do. Tingles raced over his scalp, and he scratched at them, shuffled his feet, and glanced at the seating options. A rocker, two armchairs, plenty of space beside her on the big couch. He rubbed his chin. The bed upstairs is where he’d like to take her, and spend the rest of the day forgetting all about her husband…the Winter brothers…his duties. Everything except her and him. But he couldn’t do that. Any of it.

His heart hung as if full of thick mud.

“You have a very nice home,” she said, somewhat anxious.

Cord released the dead air in his chest, and sat in one of the armchairs. “Thanks,” he huffed, but quickly added, “It’s not really mine.”

“Oh?” Her eyes were hesitant as they moved around the room, not stopping on him. “Whose is it?”

The urge to kiss her wouldn’t quell. Sitting here, catching a whiff of her sweet scent and unable to draw his eyes from how picture perfect she looked, his lips burned to touch hers. It was about the toughest fight he’d ever fought—this one going on inside him right now.

He stood and walked to the fireplace, leaned a hand on the wide mantel. “It’s my parents’ house. Or one of them anyway.”

“One of your parents?”

“My parents have several homes. They built this one right after the tracks crossed the state line.” He wasn’t embarrassed by his father’s station, but it wasn’t something he bragged about, either. Practically everyone in the state knew Weston Donavon was a railroad baron.

The frown drawing her brows together said she didn’t know.

The mantel held several little crystal figurines, and he pushed one, lining it up with the others. “My father is one of the owners of the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad. About a dozen years ago Congress passed acts promising rewards to the first railroad to cross the Kansas state line. It was a tough race, but the Missouri-Kansas-Texas, or MKT, as its known, was the winner.” He straightened another figurine, taking refuge in sharing the simple tale. “Right now my folks live down in Dallas. The line is almost to there. My father’s goal is to have MKT hit the Port of Galveston and give the United States access to the shipping traffic on the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Your father owns the railroad?” Her frown had grown, now covering her entire face.

“The MKT. There are lots of other lines.”

“But the MKT is the one the Winter gang robbed.”

“Yes, as well as several others.”

She had a hand pressed to her forehead. Her beauty had made the fact she was ill slip his mind. When her eyes met his, the sorrow they held wrenched his heart. He went to her side. “Come on, you should be in bed.”

She shook her head. “No, I—” A ragged sigh echoed between them. “I need to leave.”

Chills raced through his veins. “Leave?”

She rose. “I should never have come here.”

Cord didn’t quite know what lit up inside him. Fear. Panic. Love. Whatever it was, it had him grabbing her by her upper arms. “Where’s your husband, Florie?”

It was a thought that had swirled in his head all night, and morning. He remembered her almost inhabitable cabin and falling-down barn. No man should expect a wife to live in such deplorable quarters.

She chewed on her bottom lip.

“Where is he, Florie?”

Florie thought about her practiced response. Rosalie had made it up years ago. The one about how all the brothers were off working in the gold mines in Colorado. Would Cord believe it, as others had? Many men left families behind while they sought work elsewhere, and the small parcels of money the boys sent home every now and again helped confirm the tale. Florie’s stomach flipped, as if the baby didn’t want her to lie. She laid a hand against the movement. There were already enough secrets between her and Cord.

If the brothers hadn’t already told him everything, they soon would. She could at least tell him about Junior.

The deep breath she inhaled lodged halfway in. “He died two years ago.” The act of saying Junior had died was a bit of a relief. Rosalie refused to allow the words to be spoken, even when it was just the two of them. “He’s buried back at the farm,” Florie continued, since Cord’s silence and expression said he didn’t quite believe her.

“He’s dead?”

She stepped out of his hold, needing the space to think. “We met here, in El Dorado,” she said, remembering finding Junior in the barn behind Sister Marie’s, a place she’d sought when the noise below the attic grew too strong to sleep through. “He was on his way to Colorado. Said there was so much gold there a person could just pick it up off the ground.”