Disobeying the Marshal
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Lauri Robinson
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17.4K
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8
Chapter One
1881 El Dorado, Kansas
Cord Donavon paused in the darkness, listening again for the faint, almost muffled scream. Where had it come from? Frustration goaded him. Once again his mind had been wondering instead of concentrating on the duties at hand.
The sound came again and he picked up his pace to investigate the dark alley a few yards ahead. Distracting—that’s what it was. For ten years, since he’d been eighteen and had a badge pinned on his chest, nothing had come between him and the law.
Until three months ago.
Until Florie.
Did she ever think about him? Did she recall that night with fondness, or…a sigh built in his chest. He should never have left her there. Then again, maybe he should never have become a lawman. Could be he wasn’t cut out for it. His mother hadn’t thought so. She said women didn’t want to marry a Marshal. It was too hazardous. Her reasoning hadn’t mattered to him then, but lately the logic of her words carried more weight.
Why was that?
Rounding the corner, Cord made a decision. Now that he’d finally captured the notorious Winter brothers, he’d go see Florie. Get answers to a few questions. He wouldn’t be welcomed, not after being told to never step foot on the property again, but he’d encountered hostiles before. Besides, he had to find a resolution. This torn-in-two sensation eating him caused doubt—and a doubtful lawman was trouble.
Down the dark and narrow passage, light filtered through the back window of Sister Marie’s, casting an orange glow on a man and woman tussling. Annoyance grew in Cord’s chest as he jogged down the alley. Seconds later, he pulled back a fist and popped Abel Cartwright square on the jaw. While Abel sailed to the ground, Cord bent down to grasp the upper arms of the woman crouched near the back steps of the saloon.
Abel groaned but didn’t move. The whiskey on his breath said he probably wouldn’t until morning. On most occasions Cord would’ve taken Abel to the jail, let the man sleep it off, but tonight he found disgust in how some men treated women and figured the man could stay right where he’d landed.
“Miss, are you all right?” Cord asked. She must be new to the saloon—the others knew better than to slip outside where Homer, the bartender, couldn’t interfere when things got rough.
The fine ends of her hair whisked across his face as she flipped her head up. Her streaming tresses held a faintly familiar scent—a mixture of country air and vanilla. The brief whiff evoked more Florie memories.
Without warning his lungs locked tight, imprisoning his ability to breathe as his heart slammed against the inside of his chest harder than Abel’s head had hit the ground.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
“Florie?” he croaked, staring into the gentle face he recalled so well.
She lifted a hand as if to touch his cheek, but instead pressed it against the base of her throat. “Cord?”
The sound of her voice was like a gust of spring in the air. “Florie,” he whispered. “It is you.”
The shaky way she nodded drew his attention to how she trembled beneath his palms. Gently, he helped her to her feet. It was miraculous, her being here. The thought was like a bee sting—sharp and attention-grabbing. Lawmen didn’t believe in miracles. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
She bowed her head.
Cord brushed her russet hair back from her temples so he could gaze into her big round eyes, hoping to read her thoughts. As his thumb brushed a smudge on her cheek, she flinched.
Fury shot through his veins. Examining the bruise, he asked, “Who did this? Abel?”
Trembling fingertips touched his face, keeping his gaze from going to the man on the ground. “No.” She dropped her hand to her stomach and glanced toward the saloon. “He just surprised me. I was hiding in the shadows, hoping to…” She pinched her lips together.
A giant fist wrapped around his spine. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been peeking out the window of her mother’s clapboard house, while the self-righteous older woman had held a shotgun to his chest. He’d asked Florie to come with him, practically begged her to, but she’d refused. He didn’t blame her. Hadn’t then and couldn’t now. And he didn’t blame her mother, either. His profession aside, he’d done wrong. Had his actions driven her to this? To Sister Marie’s?
“Hoping to what?” he asked.
The darkness of night didn’t lessen the perfection of her delicate features, nor diminish the soft shade of her blue eyes. Worry contoured her lovely face, and the sight played havoc with Cord’s already twisting insides.
“I-I came to see you, b-but I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she whispered. “I was hoping Marie would loan me some clothes.”
In a rush, the ruckus inside Sister Marie’s—the banging of piano keys, the clicking of the roulette wheel and the overly loud voices of men who should have stopped drinking hours ago—hit his ears. Marie Hooper’s generosity was known for miles. It was understandable Florie had heard of her, but, Cord determined, Marie was not who Florie needed. This was his chance to make it right. He wrapped an arm around Florie’s still trembling shoulders. “Come on.”
She stumbled and he tightened his hold on her. Her apologetic smile played more havoc with his insides. With his aid, she took a cautious step, then another, and he set his pace to accommodate her stiff movements as they walked down the well-worn trail between the two buildings and onto the boardwalk.
Their heels clicked upon the wood, echoing in the night air. The sound didn’t interrupt Cord’s mind as it conjured up a dozen reasons for her to be here. Until his common sense—the part of him that was him hard to find when it came to Florence Rockford—managed to sneak in and declare she wasn’t here because she loved him. That was a myth his rambling mind conjured up on those nights he couldn’t sleep. In those dreams nothing kept them apart. Not his badge. Not her mother.
This time it was him that stumbled. That was it, wasn’t it? Love.
Florie gazed at him questionably. He set their pace again. “Did you say you came to see me?”
“Yes.” Her wobbly smile hit his heart like a bullet. “Where are we going?” she asked.
He’d intended to take her to the Marshal’s office. The squat but serviceable building at the end of the block was made of bricks and mortar that not even Billy Winter could break out of. Billy’s brothers had tried to help him escape, and now all four Winter brothers shared one little cell, fighting over who got the cot every night.
Cord guided her off the boardwalk and gestured down the road. “To my house.” Maybe there she wouldn’t see him as a lawman, but simply as a man. Perhaps one she could love. He now knew that was it. He was in love with Florie. The moment he set eyes on her again, his mind had comprehended what his heart had been saying all along. “It’s that house at the end of the road,” he assured her. “Not much farther.”
Her long, thick hair was plaited into one braid, but several strands had escaped and floated around her slender face. She brushed the tendrils aside as she looked toward his house. Cord held his breath. The memory of how her hair had formed a curtain around their faces, as she’d lain atop him and kissed him with those lush, full lips, had popped into his head and sent his blood surging like a swollen river.
Good heavens, he had it bad. Forcing the memories into the recesses of his mind was impossible. He clenched his jaw. Parts of his body, dormant these past months, burst to life, hot and throbbing. He could almost feel the silkiness of her nakedness gliding over him. Taste the extraordinary flavor of her skin. Hear the way she’d moaned as they’d come together so astoundingly he still pondered the intensity of their merger.
Sweat beaded his neck.
“Cord—” She stopped near the gate, gazing at his house. “I—”
Cord took a deep breath, searching for command over his reeling desire. He’d acted upon his yearnings for Florie once before, let them rule his actions. Not this time. Tonight he’d do it right. He tugged her forward. “We’ll talk inside.”
Clearly reluctant, she let out a sigh that made her shoulders droop beneath his arm.
The determination he used to uphold the law spiked within him. “It’s all right, Florie,” he vowed. “I promise, everything will be all right.”
Qualms ate at her stomach as Florie watched Cord open the door, and they grew even more when she stepped into the large house. The interior was dim and full of unknown mysterious shapes. Moonlight flowing in the open doorway bounced off the glass chimney of a tall lamp sitting on a nearby table as Cord lifted it and struck a match.
Florie focused on breathing. If possible, Cord was more handsome than she remembered. Being this close and not falling into his arms was pure agony. She pressed a hand to her stomach and begged for the strength to do what she had to do.
His fingers wrapped around hers and once again he led and she followed. She’d follow him to the end of the earth if he wanted. Right now, he led her beyond the foyer and into a front parlor, complete with upholstered furniture, wicker tables and large pots of lush ferns. The room was so big it held a massive player piano in the far corner.
For a moment she found herself captivated. Trapped by the luxury. Oh, to live in such comfort would be a fairy tale. Her mind snapped and a shiver raced up her spine. What was she doing? This wasn’t a fairy tale, and she didn’t belong in El Dorado. Hadn’t seven years ago, and didn’t now. No matter what she dreamed, she was here for one thing.
“Florie?”
Cord’s voice sent her heart to her throat. She plucked at the folds of her skirt. It was filthy, as was her body. During the long walk, none of that had been a concern, but upon entering El Dorado, seeing the women dressed in ruffles and lace, she’d taken stock of her apparel, which had led her to the back door of her mother’s saloon, willing to ask for a bath and clothes. She’d changed over the years, but had no doubt Marie would remember her. Just as she had seven years ago when Uncle Milt had delivered a restless fourteen-year-old to the saloon shortly after Grandma had died. Marie had been willing to provide a roof over her head, but at the time, it wasn’t what Florie had thought she wanted, and after a few months, she’d run away. Then she’d been a strong-willed, fanciful girl. Now, she was a woman who knew dreams didn’t come true—not the good ones anyway.
Regret welled inside Florie. The home Marie had provided was far better than the Rockford farm, but that wasn’t the reason she’d, once again, run from the only home she had.
“What’s happened, Florie? Why are you here?” Cord asked.
Florie lowered onto the couch and took a deep breath. It was too late to turn back. She was here. Glancing up was a mistake. The way he cast those caring eyes at her had her heart pounding and her insides growing warmer by the second. The uncanny way he made her feel was scandalous for sure, and she’d thought of little else since he’d left her house three months ago.
Could she tell him everything? Right now, gazing at him, it was hard to think. She begged her senses to remain, and settled her gaze on his shoulder, the exact spot she’d dug out the bullet. “How’s your wound?”
A deep frown formed between his hazel eyes. “Fine. What did you want to tell me?”
Twirling and twisting, her mind sought to pull up something besides the images she treasured. The ones of them alone, together. The ones she dreamed of reliving.
“Florie?” He knelt down in front of her.
He was so handsome—and honorable. The urgency she’d felt back at the farm zipped through her, settling real terror in her chest. “Those men you were chasing that day you were shot. It was the Winter gang, wasn’t it?”
“Were they at your house?” he asked. “Did they do this to you?”
Fear burned her throat as she whispered, “They’re after you, Cord. They’re going to kill you.”
His hand cupped her cheek. “The Winter brothers won’t hurt me.” His gaze never wavered. “Answer me. Did they do this to you?”
“They might already be in town, Cord, you have to leave, or…” She bit her lips. The desire to wrap her arms around him and hold on was so strong she trembled from head to toe. She’d put his life in danger, and now she had to save him. Had to. “I came—”
“How’d you get here?” he interrupted.
There was such care and concern in his eyes it hurt to breathe. She’d never imagined someone would look at her like that. “I walked,” she answered.
“That’s over seventy miles.”
The blisters, throbbing without mercy on the bottoms of her feet, reminded her of every mile. There had been no choice. The brothers had been so angry when they’d got home and Rosalie told them what had happened. To her credit, Rosalie had stopped the brothers from being too harsh, and she’d sent Florie to the barn when the boys had started drinking. Knowing she had to get to Cord before the brothers did, Florie never went to the barn. She hadn’t followed the road, either, and had traveled mostly at night, hiding during the day in whatever brush she could find.
“Where’s your mother, Florie?”
She knew he referred to Rosalie, and she had to tell him the truth before guilt swelled her throat closed. “Rosalie Rockford isn’t my mother.” She should never have let him believe otherwise. It had been wrong. At first it hadn’t mattered and later, when it had, she’d been too overwhelmed, too enthralled and drawn to him to think of anything but being cradled in those thick, brawny arms. He’d taken her away that night. They’d never left the bed, but emotionally, mentally and in a deep, powerful, physical way, she’d journeyed to a place that was as close to paradise as one could find on earth. The cherished memory caused heat to swirl deep inside her center. She closed her eyes at the sensation.
“She’s not?” he asked.
Florie drew in a long breath, sending it to the bottom of her lungs, and opened her eyes to focus on the here and now. Even with the dread of what she had to say, knowing he’d soon despise her, she ached for his touch. “Rosalie Rockford,” she whispered, almost choking, “is my mother-in-law.”
Cord’s hand slipped from her face, leaving a chill to ripple her skin. He sat back on his haunches, stiffening his spine slowly. His ruddy, sun-darkened skin paled and he slightly shook his head while asking, “You’re married?”
Florie bit her bottom lip, begging the sting to override the pain exploding in her chest. She wanted to justify herself, explain everything in a way he’d understand, but, ultimately, there was no excuse for her behavior that night.
Hating herself, she nodded.
