Page 114 of The Formation of Us
Rage flared in Duke’s eyes and he started across the room.
Cuvier caught his arm. “Wait,” he whispered.
Duke stopped and gave him curt nod.
Another knock. Another rattle of the knob. “Cuvier?” A second later, they heard the judge’s heavy footfalls echoing through the lobby then up the stairs.
“The judge’s chambers are at the front of the building, but he could be anywhere upstairs,” Cuvier said. “Let’s go out the back exit. I’ll take Faith to my house, then come back here and detain the judge as long as I can while you go for Cora.”
“We have lodgings near the station,” Duke said.
“You’re registered under Grayson?” At Duke’s nod, the lawyer shook his head. “Now that I know what the judge is up to, neither of you are safe. Keep the room, but don’t stay there. I’ll take Faith by to get your bags, then drop her at my home. She’ll be safest there.” He scratched his address on a piece of paper and handed it to Duke. “Meet us there as soon as you can.”
The lawyer peeked out his door, then rushed them out a back exit and across a brown lawn raked clean of dried leaves. They crossed a brick street, and cut between Horton’s Mercantile store and a bank. A block away from the courthouse, they parted company. Faith and her father headed toward the hotel near the train depot.
Duke jogged several blocks in the opposite direction, following the lawyer’s hastily scribbled map, until he came to a row of brick houses near the canal. At house number forty-seven, he stopped to catch his breath. When all remained quiet outside, he casually peered in the windows, acting as if he were heading to the back entrance.
He spied Cora sitting on the floor beside a huge dining room table, playing with a book, and his heart jumped with relief, then pounded with uncontrollable anger. He would kill the judge if he’d hurt her.
At the back door, Duke wrestled his anger under control, then gave a sharp rap with the brass knocker. “Delivery!” he yelled in a disguised voice he hoped Cora wouldn’t recognize. He didn’t want her alerting the mistress, because it would be much easier to walk through an open door than to break through a solid slab of oak. And it would draw less attention from the neighbors.
“Who’s delivering?” a male voice asked from the other side of the door.
Damn! He’d hoped the mistress was alone. Now it was a guessing game of how many people were inside guarding Cora. He scrambled for a name, then remembered the store behind the courthouse. “Horton’s Mercantile!” he hollered to whoever was on the other side of the door.
“What do you have?”
“Don’t know, sir. The package is sealed.”
A grumble came through the door, then the rattle of a key, and twisting of the door knob.
The second the door started to open, Duke slammed his shoulder into the solid oak and shoved the man back several steps. The man was short, stocky, and half asleep by the look of his eyes, but Duke’s abrupt entrance into the kitchen snapped him to attention. He lunged for a cast iron frying pan on the stove, but left his jaw exposed to Duke’s fist. The first blow spun him away from the stove and into the sink. The second blow rolled his eyes back in his head. He crashed to the floor, and Duke bolted into the next room.
A tall, striking woman spun to face him, her eyes filled with fear.
“Daddy!” Cora scrambled to her feet, but the woman caught Cora’s arm and held her back. “Daddy!” Cora cried again, her fear slicing through him.
“Whoever you are, get out of my house,” the woman said, pulling Cora toward a doorway that led to another room.
“I’m that little girl’s father,” Duke said, striding across the room. “And I’m taking her home.”
He reached for Cora, but the woman screeched and raked his face with her fingernails. “Get out!” She pummeled him with her fists, as if she were fighting for her life. And maybe she was. Maybe Stone would punish the woman if she let Duke take Cora, but he didn’t give a damn. Until now, he had never once considered hitting a female, but it was all he could do to hold himself back when this woman jerked Cora’s arm and hauled her toward the open doorway.
He wrenched her crazed grip off Cora’s elbow, then swept Cora into his arms. The woman came at him again, but he used a straight arm to her chest to knock her back three steps. He headed for the door, feeling every blow she rained across his back, thanking God she hadn’t picked up the candelabra from her table. Her friend was awake and waiting in the kitchen doorway with that damned frying pan, bleeding from the mouth and huffing from his nostrils. With Cora in his arms, Duke was unable to push past without risking injury to her.
Pivoting on his heel, he grabbed the clawing, fist-swinging witch by her arm, and shoved her into her pan-wielding friend. The pair fell against the kitchen door, giving Duke the opportunity to dash for the front exit. He yanked open the door just as the frying pan bonged off the wall beside him. The crack of a gunshot, and sound of splintering wood, drove him out the door at a dead run.
With Cora clutched in his arms, he bolted between houses and across yards, over shrubs and through clusters of trees, until he was certain they weren’t being followed. Gasping for breath, he leaned against a dilapidated building and hugged Cora to his pounding chest. Hard sobs shook her body and she gripped his neck.
“It’s okay, princess. You’re safe now. Daddy’s got you.”
He stroked her back and let her cry, knowing she needed the comfort, and that he needed the time to catch his breath. His shoulder was killing him, and he had no idea where the hell he was.
“I don’t want to go b-back there,” she cried.
“You won’t, princess. Not ever. Daddy’s taking you home.”
“Is Mama there?”
