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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.
