He surprised her with a harsh laugh. “Young and what, handsome? Rich? Smart?” He thought for a moment. “Yeah, I wish I was young enough to live some parts of my life over again.”
“What parts?”
He didn’t answer. She regretted her question the instant she uttered it; it was none of her business. Then after a tense minute or two of silence he surprised her by answering.
“Maybe getting married. Getting shot during the War.” He let out a long breath. “Killing a man.”
She gasped. “You killed a man?”
“I killed more than one in the War, Eleanor.”
The tone of his voice made her wish she had never asked.
Cord glanced quickly into the back of the wagon, where both Eleanor’s children were asleep. “Tell me about Fanny Moreland,” he said. He held his breath. It was obvious Eleanor didn’t like her. But he didn’t want to talk about his wife.
“Oh, Fanny.” Eleanor shifted on the bench next to him. “I guess it’s sad, really. Fanny is from the South. New Orleans, I think. She lives with her aunt, Ike Bruhn’s wife, Ernestine. And Ike, of course.”
“Why is that sad?”
“Well, Fanny has pots of money she inherited from her father. About three years ago she was jilted, left at the altar by a man Ernestine said was just after her fortune. Her father sent her out West to get her away from the city.”
Cord laughed. “Smoke River’s about as far from ‘a city’ as one can get.”
“Fanny has no use for small towns, and she is desperately looking for some man to spirit her away from here to a big city. Any big city.”
Cord made a noncommittal noise in his throat.
“Why?” Eleanor asked. “Are you interested in Fanny?”
“Not much. She doesn’t look like the type who’d be too interested in panning for gold in a California mining camp.”
“How do you know?”
He chuckled. “Too many expensive ruffles.”
Eleanor laughed out loud, and Cord shot her a look.
“You feeling better now that this school shindig is over?”
She nodded, but he noticed she was still twisting her hands together in her lap. He flapped the reins over the gray’s back and picked up the pace. After a moment he slowed the horse down again. Something had been crawling at the back of his mind for the last few days.
“You said that Mrs. Halliday’s first husband was killed in the War. Are you sure that’s what happened to Mr. Malloy?”
She didn’t answer for a long time, and before she did she checked to make sure Molly and Danny were asleep. “I—I don’t honestly know what happened to Tom. If he had been killed, you would think they would notify the next of kin.”
“Maybe. Maybe they didn’t know where to find you.”
“How could they not know? I’ve lived on this farm since before the War.”
“Or maybe,” he said with studied calm, “he’s not dead.” He shot a look at her. Her face changed, but not in the way he expected. Her mouth thinned into a straight line, and she stared down at her clenched hands.
He couldn’t blame her. “I guess you don’t want to talk about your husband.”
“And you don’t want to talk about your wife,” she replied.
“Ex-wife. She divorced me after I—did something I lived to regret.”
He sucked in a breath and let it out in an uneven sigh.
“Oh, Cord,” she breathed. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Eleanor. I’m not.”
In silence he drove up to the gate, climbed down to unlatch it, then guided the rattling wooden wagon up to the front porch. Molly popped up behind them. “Are we home?”
“Yes, we’re home,” Eleanor said. “Wake up Danny.”
Cord lifted both sleepy children out of the wagon bed and carried them up the front steps. Then he returned and reached up for Eleanor. He half expected her to stiffen up and brush past him and climb down by herself, but she let him circle her waist with his hands and swing her down to the ground.
“I’ll drive the wagon around in back of the barn, so I’ll say good-night now. It’s been an...interesting evening.”
Again he glimpsed that half-amused expression on her pale face. “Good night, Cord. I’m making French toast for breakfast tomorrow, so don’t be late.”
French toast? What in blazes is that?
She herded the kids through the front door screen and he heard them clatter up the staircase. He waited, but he didn’t hear the click of the lock on the front door. Was she crazy? Way out here with two kids and a revolver she didn’t know how to fire and she didn’t lock her front door at night?
He shook his head and climbed back onto the wagon bench. He’d argue it over with her tomorrow morning while eating her “French toast.”
* * *
Somehow Eleanor guessed Cord wouldn’t know what to make of French toast. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing a man like Cordell Winterman would eat, and she was certain sure it would never have been served on trail drives in Kansas. If, she thought with a dart of unease, that’s how he’d spent his time after the War. He’d never really said.
Molly and Danny waited patiently while she dipped the slices of day-old bread in the milk-and-egg mixture and plopped them onto the hot iron griddle. Before the first slice was ready to turn, she heard Cord tramp up the front steps.
But when he stepped into the kitchen she could tell something was wrong.
“Good morning,” Eleanor said.
“Morning,” Cord grumbled.
Well! That wasn’t like Cord at all! Usually he grinned at Molly and ruffled Danny’s shaggy hair.
“Morning, Cord,” her children sang in unison. “Hurry up,” Danny added. “We’re about to starve.”
He sat down heavily and tilted the chair back. “Eleanor?”
Her stomach turned over. He sounded angry about something, but what? She flipped the French toast slices onto a platter and set it down before him. “Yes, Cord? What is it?”
“Your front door,” he said tersely.
Danny pounced on the platter, speared a slice with his fork and flopped it onto his plate.
“What about the front door?” she inquired as she laid three more slices onto the griddle.
“Ma, we got any syrup or honey?”
“What? Oh, yes. In the pantry, Danny. Why don’t you fetch it? It’s on the middle shelf.” Maybe Cord would forget about the front door. She watched him stab his fork into a slice of nicely browned French toast.
Or maybe not.
“Your front door...” He paused to dribble the honey Danny had found over his plate.
“Yes? What about my front door?” Her appetite was fast fading. The expression on his face was... Thunderous was the only way she could use to describe it. Like clouds before a storm. A bad storm.
She