“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.”