She stiffened.
“In the beginning I mean. Back at your place, last winter.”
Florie pumped water into the sink.
Like clues from an investigation, things began to come together in his mind. “What was your husband’s name, Florie?”
She held her stomach as if it hurt. “Junior.”
“His last name.”
A knock on the back door echoed in the room. Cord, eyes on Florie and feeling frustration in every step, moved to the door and pulled it open.
Elsie stood on the stoop. “Hi, Marshal Donavon. Deputy Monroe told me to fetch you directly. You’re needed at the Marshal’s office posthaste. I was on my way home from school and he said to get you right away.” She slipped beneath his arm, looking at him over her shoulder as she slid into the kitchen. “Momma says I can stay and visit with Miss Florie while you’re gone.”
Florie, fighting to keep the quivers in her stomach—which had nothing to do with the babe or food—at bay, watched the emotions flow over Cord’s face, feeling her own cheeks take on heat as Elsie looked him up and down. He wore nothing but his britches. His chest and feet were bare. He seemed to realize the fact, and without a word, walked through the kitchen.
“Would you like an apple?” Florie asked the child, finding herself as out of sorts as a frog in a snowbank. Cord knew. Knew Junior was the youngest Winter brother.
“Sure.” Elsie pulled out a chair and sat, taking an apple from the bowl on the table. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Florie replied, listening to the noise coming from the other room. What had she expected? That laying with him would change everything? Make all the wrongs right? The fact his father owned the railroad her brothers-in-law robbed had been the icing on a cake. She’d contemplated leaving while he slept, but every time the thought appeared the baby moved, as if telling her, not yet. Not yet.
Cord stuck his head through the doorway. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Trying to sound cordial in front of the child, Florie said, “All right.” Had the brothers escaped? Another fear entered. Rosalie would blame Florie for their capture, and compared to their mother, the boys were kittens.
“I expect you to be here,” Cord said, eyeing her seriously. “Our conversation is not over.”
He stared at her, long and hard, making her insides flip.
“’Bye, Marshal,” Elise said, breaking the thick silence.
After he nodded at the child, he turned. The front door thudded loudly as it closed.
Florie mustered up a smile for Elsie, and grabbed an apple, biting deeply into the shinny red skin. A chunk lodged in her throat. She coughed and swallowed, trying to dislodge it.
“You all right, Miss Florie?” Elsie asked, worry crossing her face.
Try as she might, she couldn’t cough up the apple. Patting her breastbone, Florie stumbled to the sink.
The air had grown hard in her chest and stars swam before her eyes when someone hit her square between the shoulder blades. “Cough it up, Florence! Cough it up!”
Another hard slap on her back sent the chunk of apple flying into the sink, followed by a gush of air.
Holding herself up with both hands braced on the sink, Florie turned, still gasping for air. “Hello, Marie,” she choked to her mother.
Chapter Seven
Cord’s fists were balled so tight, his knuckles throbbed. He flexed one, then the other hand, never once taking his eyes off the old woman sitting on the chair in the back room of his office.
“That’s the deal, Marshal. You either let my boys out, or I’ll tell the whole town how you got Florie in the family way and then left her out there on the plains.”
“Do you really think anyone is going to care what you say?”
“You do. So does Florie.”
His temper flared, and his jaw tightened as he fought to control it. Rosalie Rockford—or Winter as he now knew—was a shrew. His heart bled for the life Florie must have had with the woman, and he had to thank the heavenly stars Otis had caught Rosalie trying to sneak back into his barn again this afternoon.
“She’ll never be able to hold her head up in this town. Not with everyone knowing she bedded down with you without any nuptials being read.” Rosalie cast her beady eyes around the room, like a weasel sneaking into a henhouse. “Even her own mother will disown her.”
“Her mother?” Cord could have bit his tongue off. The woman already had one up on him. He didn’t need to give her any more satisfaction, but his thoughts were rolling like marbles in a box.
“Hmm, yes. Marie Hooper, down at Sister Marie’s, that’s Florie’s real momma.”