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. Distractingâthatâs what it was. For ten years, since heâd 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, orâ¦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 wasnât cut out for it. His mother hadnât thought so. She said women didnât want to marry a Marshal. It was too hazardous. Her reasoning hadnât 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 heâd finally captured the notorious Winter brothers, heâd go see Florie. Get answers to a few questions. He wouldnât be welcomed, not after being told to never step foot on the property again, but heâd encountered hostiles before. Besides, he had to find a resolution. This torn-in-two sensation eating him caused doubtâand a doubtful lawman was trouble.
Down the dark and narrow passage, light filtered through the back window of Sister Marieâs, casting an orange glow on a man and woman tussling. Annoyance grew in Cordâs 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 didnât move. The whiskey on his breath said he probably wouldnât until morning. On most occasions Cord wouldâve 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 heâd landed.
âMiss, are you all right?â Cord asked. She must be new to the saloonâthe others knew better than to slip outside where Homer, the bartender, couldnât 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 scentâa 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 Abelâs head had hit the ground.
It couldnât be.
Could it?
âFlorie?â 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. âCord?â
The sound of her voice was like a gust of spring in the air. âFlorie,â he whispered. âIt is you.â
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 stingâsharp and attention-grabbing. Lawmen didnât believe in miracles. âWhat are you doing here?â 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, âWho did this? Abel?â
Trembling fingertips touched his face, keeping his gaze from going to the man on the ground. âNo.â She dropped her hand to her stomach and glanced toward the saloon. âHe just surprised me. I was hiding in the shadows, hoping toâ¦â She pinched her lips together.
A giant fist wrapped around his spine. The last time heâd seen her, sheâd been peeking out the window of her motherâs clapboard house, while the self-righteous older woman had held a shotgun to his chest. Heâd asked Florie to come with him, practically begged her to, but sheâd refused. He didnât blame her. Hadnât then and couldnât now. And he didnât blame her mother, either. His profession aside, heâd done wrong. Had his actions driven her to this? To Sister Marieâs?