Disobeying the Marshal

by Lauri Robinson

  He led her to the staircase. Spring had arrived, and with it came warmer nights that didn’t require a fire in one of the many fireplaces, but the chill overcoming him was more bitter than the January wind that had filled her cabin that night. Maybe it was just his heart freezing over. Florie was married. Of all the thoughts he’d had—millions of them—in the past months, not one of them had included that scenario.

  “This isn’t necessary, Cord, I can find a place to—”

  “No,” he insisted, “you won’t.” He bit his tongue. Yes, he was frustrated, but that didn’t give him call to snap at Florie.

  “Cord, I—”

  “Florie,” he interrupted. In that brief moment of silence, gunshots echoed outside the house. Cord clenched his fists. Not now, he wanted to scream. Fate had a way of winning, always did. Always would. This untimely call of duty proved it. Cursing beneath his breath, Cord moved toward the door, opening it to peer down the street.

  “Cord?” Florie’s hand wrapped around his arm.

  As if someone knew the war fighting inside him, more shots rang out. Cord could have thrown his badge on the ground right then and there, but his deep-set vow would never allow that to happen. “Stay here,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

  She gripped his arm tighter. “No, Cord. It might be the Winter brothers.”

  His nerves, grinding against each other, grew raw, as did his throat. “It’s not the Winter brothers.” But it was someone, and it was his duty to see who. As much as he hated to leave, he nodded toward the staircase. “There are several rooms upstairs. Pick one and get some rest, Florie. You look done in.”

  Fear seeped from her eyes, and the sight tore chunks from his heart. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead. The action meant to soothe her fears was torture to him. He pointed to the spare key on the table beside the lamp. “Lock the door behind me.” Knowing he couldn’t dawdle any longer, Cord spun around and hurried out the door.

  Spencer Monroe, the best deputy any lawman could hope for, was already running down the road, toward the rail station. Cord shot a glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Florie standing in the doorway. Torn between returning to her and covering Spencer’s back, Cord’s steps faltered. The Winter brothers were in jail, and there wasn’t a safer place for her than in his house. With the battle still waging inside him, he waved a hand, gesturing for her to get inside.

  Florie pushed the door shut, not wanting Cord’s mind to be distracted by her. The tenderness of his kiss still flowed through her veins. Blinking through the tears welling in her eyes, she picked the lamp off the side table and made her way into the parlor, where she extinguished the other lamps he’d lit.

  “Dear Lord,” she whispered, “protect him. He’s such a good man.” There was little else she could do—her past had taught her that. Men would leave and women would wait. Back in the foyer, she locked the door and then glanced to the curved banister guiding a large set of stairs to the second floor as she walked to the open archway that led to a kitchen.

  The room was as large as the other, boasting a table with half a dozen chairs, cupboards, an icebox and a large stove with overhead warming ovens. She found the back door and checked that it was locked. If the brothers weren’t in town yet, they soon would be, and she hoped they wouldn’t discover which house was Cord’s. A bowl of apples in the middle of the table reminded her how long it had been since she’d eaten anything. She plucked one from the bowl, but the thought of eating made her insides churn. Tucking the fruit in her pocket, she left the room.

  Cord’s familiar scent hung in the air, and she drew in a deep breath. Her skin tingled, recalling the blissful coupling they’d shared months ago. It had been the most amazing thing. Her stomach fluttered, and she pressed a hand to the babe growing inside her—proof she hadn’t imagined their act.

  Being pregnant by a man she wasn’t wed to should be shameful, but the babe filled Florie with such an immense, continuous joy, there was no room left for regret. For as long as she could remember she’d yearned for love, and now she’d have it. She’d love her baby beyond all else. Already did, and would do whatever it took to keep her child safe forevermore.

  Carrying the lamp, she climbed the stairs. Doors decorated the long hall, and one particular room beckoned her. Upon entering, an invisible wave of security told her it was Cord’s. Her heart skipped a beat. She raced to the window and lifted the sash. The wind rustled the leaves of the nearby trees, and an owl hooted. She listened harder, but wasn’t able to detect the sounds of Sister Marie’s, let alone any gunshots. Cord was smart. Smarter than the brothers. He wouldn’t be lured into a trap by them. Would he?

  Another thought blasted her like icy rain. The brothers would make her pay for warning Cord. So would Rosalie.

  She shut the window and hurried from the room. In the hall, she leaned against the wall, her throbbing feet screamed for reprieve and her heart hung as heavy as her tired limbs. Knowing she would soon collapse if she didn’t sit down, Florie pushed off the wall.

  The room straight across the hall was as large as the other. Besides the colorful quilt covering the mattress, another one was folded up to lie across the foot. Stumbling, she made her way to the bed. She removed her boots and, pulling the extra quilt up to her shoulders, she lay her head on a pillow.

  The hardness of the apple in her pocket pressed against her hip. She set the fruit on the table beside the lamp, which she then blew out. The moon, full and bright, shone into the room, making the wood glisten and the tiny flowers on the wallpaper sparkle. A quiver vibrated her entire body.

  She had to protect her baby. All the way from the farm, every step, she’d told herself she would tell Cord she was pregnant, and ask for his help. But now, here, in a house more elegant than she’d ever seen, she realized she couldn’t. She’d rest for a short time, and then…

  Run away again.

  Where to this time? Her mother? Marie hadn’t wanted to be a mother, and most likely didn’t want to be a grandmother, either. Florie didn’t blame her. Grandma had said Marie wasn’t to blame. Truth was, there was no one to blame. It was just life.

  The dreams that lived inside her were nothing more than fairy tales. Nothing could change what she’d done. Who she was. Junior had tried. He’d known how badly she hated being married to an outlaw. Just one more ride, he’d always said. Just one more ride and then no matter what the brothers said, the two of them would leave.

  She gulped for air, fighting as if she couldn’t take a breath. He’d hated it, too.

  The Winter brothers rivaled the Dalton brothers when it came to train robbery, and only the James gang had robbed more banks.

  The day Cord had ridden into the farm, bleeding and barely half-alive, something had sparked inside her. It was like he’d brought a piece of the outside world back into her life, and offered her a glimpse of what could be. She’d known he was a lawman, even before she’d taken off his heavy coat and found the badge pinned to his shirt. Rosalie had balked, refused to even help carry him inside. It had been a struggle, dragging him over the snow and across the rickety porch, but Florie had managed by herself.

  Rosalie, furious at being disobeyed, had threatened to kill him, and may have if Ray Bolton, the neighbor man, hadn’t rode in just then, yelling that his wife, Charlotte, was in labor and needed help. Rosalie had left the homestead—with instructions that the lawman had best be gone before she returned. Florie had fretted all day, and prayed Cord would heal quickly. That night a storm had hit. The wind and snow made going to the barn treacherous. Thankful Rosalie wouldn’t make it home anytime soon Florie had devoted every moment of the next five days to Cord. In some ways it still seemed like a dream—especially that last night.

  The moment Rosalie did return—the day after the freezing temperatures had enticed Florie to share the one bed the cabin held with Cord—the fairy tale shattered. After one look at Florie, Rosalie had chased Cord out of the door, threatening his life if he
ever stepped foot upon their doorstep again.

  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.”

  Chapter Three

  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.