Florie gnawed on her bottom lip until she felt little bits of skin breaking loose. “I—”
“Rosalie said you saved Cord’s life,” Marie interrupted.
The simple thought of Cord chased away the foreboding filling her system, letting light in where darkness had loomed.
Marie’s expression changed. Grew thoughtful. “Florence,” she said, slowly. “Cord Donavon’s a good man. A real good man.”
In full agreement, Florie nodded.
“And he’ll want that babe growing inside you.”
Florie’s hands were on her stomach, caressing the precious life cradled in her womb, once again imagining how the baby might look like Cord.
“Does he know?”
Florie shook her head, but then, recalling Rosalie and the brothers, she shrugged. “Maybe.”
Marie glanced around the room. “He’ll treat you right, and there’s a big part of me that says he already loves you, or you wouldn’t be in his house.”
Florie pressed a hand to the warmth swelling inside her heart.
“It might be awkward at first, people will talk when the baby arrives, but they respect Cord too much to ever say anything publicly.” Marie let out a little laugh as she whispered, “Actually, second or third babies take nine months, but first ones, they usually arrive within six months of the wedding.” Her features grew serious again as she reached over and rested a hand on top of Florie’s. “Tell me something, honey. When you lay with Cord, do you close your eyes and think of other things? Do you wish he’d just finish and leave you alone, or does your mind leave you and you float to a place where it’s just you and Cord and you wish you could stay right there, with him, forever?”
Her cheeks were on fire, and Florie couldn’t have answered if she wanted to. Marie had defined the exact difference she had experienced. When Junior had bedded her, she’d prayed he’d hurry, counted off all the things she needed to do before he and the brothers left again. But with Cord, well, Marie had described how entirely different it was.
“You don’t have to answer, honey. It’s on your face.” Marie patted Florie’s fingers one last time before drawing her hand away. “As I see it, you have a decision to make. You can stay here, take the chance Cord loves you and accept the ribbing you might get from some, or you can take me up on my offer. It still stands. No one will ever know you’re carrying Cord’s baby. I’ll see to that, and send you anywhere you want to go, provide for you for the rest of your life.”
Chapter Eight
Cord approached the house cautiously, almost as if it was a hideout and Florie a wanted criminal. He had no way of knowing what her reaction to his deeds would be, and that scared him. A lamp was lit in the front parlor, but no shadows flickered in the glow. It hadn’t been twenty-four hours since he’d found her behind Sister Marie’s—her mother’s place!—yet he felt as if he’d aged ten years. Leastwise he’d learned more than he had in ten years. He now fully understood how deeply a person could love, and was willing to do whatever it took to prove that to Florie.
The door didn’t creak when he pushed it open, but he wished it had, giving a signal of some sort that he was home. He shut the door and moved into the parlor, which proved to be empty. Turning, he walked toward the kitchen. “Florie?”
The wall lamps were lit, burning brightly, and on the table sat one plate, one glass and one fork, all unused. His throat thickened. “Florie,” he said again, though it was more of a croak.
Something, a creak or thump, had him rushing toward the back door. As he pulled it open, someone pushed it from the other side. Relief, thankfulness and excitement all mingled together and had him drawing her into a solid hug. “Where were you?” he whispered.
“Just sitting on the porch. The stars are so beautiful tonight,” Florie answered, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I didn’t know when you’d be back.”
“I’m sorry. Things took longer than I expected.”
“I’ll warm your supper.”
“I’m not really hungry.” He could have added, for food, but didn’t. Instead he bowed his head, and took her lips, full and warm, and slightly moist. His mind shattered, forgetting everything of the day, the week, the year, as their lips played with one another. Coming home to her was a reprieve, like leaving the heat of the sun for the coolness of shade, or entering a room filled with the warmth of a fire after spending hours in the freezing wind. Something he never wanted to live without again.
He caught himself moments before his last bit of common sense disappeared—at which point he’d carry her upstairs to once again explore the secrets of her delicious body—and broke the kiss, unraveling his lips from hers like a man dragging his feet on the way to the gallows. He lowered his hands to settle on her hips, and met her gaze, seriously.