The Marshal's Ready-Made Family Page 2

  Jo mentally slapped her forehead. Of course he wasn’t mocking her, he didn’t even know about her humiliation. Why was anger always her first line of defense?

  “I’m sorry,” she spoke quickly. “Can I get you...a...a pillow or something?”

  “No need. I’ve suffered worse.”

  Every time she tried to say the right thing with a man, the feminine thing, it always fell flat. And how had Reverend Miller gotten lost in a two-room church?

  She whirled and collided with the object of her ire.

  The reverend steadied her with a hand on her elbow. “I see the marshal and his niece have gotten acquainted.”

  “No thanks to—”

  A commotion outside interrupted her words. The reverend clasped his hands, his face pinched. “I believe you’re needed outside, Marshal Cain.” He glanced meaningfully in Cora’s direction. “Tom Walby is in one of his moods.”

  Jo and Marshal Cain groaned in unison. Tom had grown from an adolescent annoyance into an adult bully with a nasty temper and a penchant for drinking. Every few weeks he got into a fight with his wife and took out his frustration on the local saloon. Jo flipped her braid over her shoulder.

  Tom’s wife never resisted the opportunity to smirk at her, still lording over her victory all these years later. Considering the prize had been Tom, Jo figured it was a loss she could endure.

  “Can you look after Cora?” Marshal Cain directed his question toward Jo, and she eagerly smiled her agreement. “I’ll take care of Tom as quick as I can.”

  The marshal knelt before Cora and enveloped her hand in his grasp. “Don’t worry. We have each other now, and everything is going to be all right.”

  Jo’s throat burned with rare emotion. They did have each other. They were a family. Not in the regular way, but a family nonetheless. If God had blessed her with a little girl as precious as Cora, she’d never let her go. Except she’d most likely never have a family of her own. Men didn’t court girls who wore trousers beneath their skirts.

  Jo shook off the gloomy thoughts. She had five brothers, after all. More family than one girl needed. With the boys already courting, she’d have her own nieces and nephews soon. She’d be the favorite aunt.

  Just as long as she didn’t end up like Aunt Vicky. The woman had fifteen goats and was known to dress them up for special occasions.

  Marshal Cain slapped his hat back on his head. “Much obliged for your help.”

  He strode out the door, taking with him the crackling energy that surrounded Jo whenever he was near. While she didn’t envy the marshal’s task, she was grateful for the reprieve.

  Surely by the time they met again, this strange, winded feeling would be gone. Besides, she liked him, liked the way he smiled at her, and she didn’t want to ruin their camaraderie.

  Cora tugged on her skirts. “You have something in your hair.”

  Ducking, Jo checked her disheveled reflection in the reflective glass of Reverend Miller’s bookcase doors. She smoothed her fingers over her braided hair and released a scattering of pear blossoms, then threw up her arms with a groan.

  She’d spent the entire conversation with white petals strewn over her dark hair.

  Jo slapped her faded bowler back on her head. Even if she wanted to attract the attention of someone like Garrett Cain, she didn’t stand a chance.

  * * *

  Garrett Cain closed the jail doors with a metallic clang. His prisoner, Tom Walby, paced the narrow space, a purple-and-green bruise darkening beneath his left eye.

  Tom kicked the bars. “You don’t understand, Marshal, it wasn’t my fault.”

  “Not today, Tom.”

  Something in Garrett’s voice must have penetrated the inebriated fog of Tom’s brain. The lanky man groaned and braced his arms on the spindly table in his cell but kept blessedly silent. Dirty-blond hair covered Tom’s head, and blood crusted on his chin. His blue-plaid shirt was torn, and his brown canvas pants rumpled. He’d given as good as he’d gotten in the saloon fight, but the whiskey in his belly had finally caught up with him.

  Garrett spun the chamber of his revolver. Tom and his wife had two temperatures—hot and cold, love and hate. There was no in-between for those two, and their intensity terrified Garrett. He feared that sort of hard love because he’d seen the destructive force devour its prey with cruel finality.

  He absently rubbed his chest. A hard knot had formed where his heart used to be after his parents’ deaths. They’d been a fiery lot, too, and he and his sister had huddled together during the outbursts. The senseless deaths of his mother and father had wounded him—not mortally, but gravely.

  No one in town knew the truth. That his father had killed his mother and then turned the gun on himself. The shame of his father’s actions had shaped the course of Garrett’s life.

  Everything had muddled together in his brain...guilt, anger, fear. He’d wished more than once in childish prayers that he’d been born into a different family. Then God had taken his away. Garrett had corralled his emotions until the pain had passed, and when he’d finally emerged, he’d discovered his temporary fortress had become permanent. Nothing touched him too deeply anymore—not pain, not joy.

  He was content. Good at keeping his emotions contained.

  Until now.

  The loss of Cora’s mother, his only sister and last living relative, buffeted the walls around his heart like ocean waves. Horrors he’d spent a lifetime forgetting rushed back.

  Tom paced his cell. “I saw that McCoy girl was taking care of your niece. You better be careful of that one. She’ll have your little girl wearing pants and shooting guns.”

  Grateful for the distraction, Garrett considered his prisoner. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Well, because...because it ain’t feminine, that’s why. I’d never settle with a girl who could outshoot me.”

  “Probably a good move on your part,” Garrett retorted.

  He didn’t know why everyone in this town was blind to JoBeth McCoy’s beauty. Her skin was flawless, her eyes large and exotic, and tipped up the corners. Her lips were full and pink, just made for kissing.

  Now, where had that thought come from?

  “The man should be the strong one,” Tom slurred. “It ain’t right when a girl can outscrap and outgun you.”

  “I don’t think you give women enough merit. I’ve known women to endure things you and I couldn’t even imagine.”

  Tom scoffed and spit into the corner.

  Garrett shook his head. There was no use having a sensible conversation with someone who’d drunk away all his good sense. “You’re making bad choices, Tom, and it’s gonna catch up with you. One of these days you’ll make a bad choice you can’t sleep off or take back. What’s gonna happen to your wife and your son when you’re locked up for good?”

  “What do you know about it?” Tom said sulkily.

  “I know plenty.”

  Garrett stuffed his hands into his pockets and retrieved Cora’s lemon drop. Pinching the candy between his thumb and forefinger, he let sunlight from the jail’s narrow window bounce off the opaque coating.

  His whole body ached from grief, as if he’d been thrown from a wild mustang. Why had God given him such a precious gift, a beautiful little girl to love and care for? He’d let his sister, Deirdre, down and now it was too late. He hadn’t seen her once after she’d married, not even when Cora was born. Her husband was a good man, but visiting Deirdre brought back too many memories. Too many unsettling feelings from his youth.

  Not that he’d purposefully stayed away. He kept meaning to visit St. Louis, but something would always come up. One year had passed, then two, then six—all in the blink of an eye. And now his sister was gone.

  “Hey,” Tom Walby said, gripping the bars with both hands and st
icking his whiskered chin between the narrow opening. “Give me that candy.”

  “Nope.” Garrett slipped Cora’s gift back into his pocket. “Tom, do you ever pay attention in church?”

  “Nah. I only go on Sunday when the missus forces me.”

  “Too bad. The reverend was preaching to you last week. He said, Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.”

  “Ah, c’mon, Marshal,” Tom garbled, squeaking his sweaty hands down the bars. “You don’t believe in that Bible stuff, do you?”

  Garrett considered the question. Did he? Sometimes yes and sometimes no. At times like this, he wished he found comfort from God; instead, he felt only a deep and abiding sense of betrayal. “Why don’t you sleep it off.”

  “If only it were that easy,” Tom declared, stumbling toward the narrow cot lining the jailhouse wall.

  He collapsed onto his back and threw one arm over his eyes. Surprised by the man’s articulate response, Garrett paused for a moment. He leaned closer, but Tom was already sound asleep and snoring.

  “Yep,” Garrett muttered. “If only it were that easy.”

  Confident he had time before Tom awoke and recalled his earlier rage, Garrett walked the short distance to the boardinghouse where JoBeth McCoy stayed. He knew where she lived. Watching her take the shortcut to the telegraph office each morning while he fixed his coffee was the highlight of his day. Even from a distance her forest-green eyes flashed with mischief as she scaled the corral fence, a pair of trousers concealed beneath her modest skirts.

  He caught sight of Jo and Cora and his heart thumped uncomfortably against his ribs. They sat crouched over a red-and-black set of checkers, their heads together. Jo’s hair was dark and long and stick straight, while Cora’s hair was a short blond mass of wild curls. Jo’s eyes were vivid green, with dark lashes, and Cora’s eyes were crystal blue with pale lashes.

  They reminded him of an Oriental symbol he’d once seen in San Francisco—a black teardrop and a white teardrop nestled in a circle. They were opposite, yet somehow they complemented each other perfectly.

  JoBeth McCoy was different from other women, and her uniqueness fascinated him. Not that he was interested in courting—a man with his past definitely wasn’t husband material—but something in Jo sparked his interest. She didn’t simper or flutter her eyelashes, and he was drawn to her unabashed practicality. Too many people created unnecessary complications for themselves, like his drunken prisoner.

  Garrett paused on the boardwalk, grateful they hadn’t seen him yet. His eyes still burned, and emotion clogged his throat. He pinched the bridge of his nose, not wanting Jo to see him like this—vulnerable and aching to cry like a baby.

  After inhaling a fortifying breath, he clapped his hands, startling the two. “Who’s winning?”

  “I am,” Cora declared proudly.

  Jo winked at him in shared confidence, and his heart swelled.

  “Reverend Miller has invited you two for supper,” she said.

  Her obvious compassion soothed him, and for a moment the pain subsided. The townspeople were all desperately trying to ease Cora through the transition, and he appreciated the effort. “What time?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Five it is, then. Speaking of food, have you two had any lunch?”

  “Nope.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Why don’t we mosey over to the hotel and eat.”

  Jo rubbed her hands against her brown skirts. “You two don’t need me anymore—”

  “No!” Cora exclaimed.

  Her face pinched in fear, and Jo placed her hand comfortingly over the little girl’s. The simple purity of the gesture humbled Garrett.

  Pale blue eyes pleaded with him. “Can I stay with Jo until dinner?”

  His stomach dipped. Of course Cora was terrified. Her whole world had turned upside down. She’d lost her parents, her home—everything that was familiar. Then she’d been placed on a train with a stranger and shuttled across the country into the care of yet another stranger.

  Jo wrapped a blond curl around her index finger and smiled, her face radiant. “I suppose I could stay a tiny little while longer.”

  Garrett fought back the sting behind his eyes. Who wouldn’t be terrified by all that upheaval? The little girl had been adrift and alone until Jo had sheltered her. Now they were connected. He’d seen that sort of devotion before over the years. He’d even been the recipient once or twice of a victim’s misplaced allegiance. Those false attachments had quickly faded when people were reunited with their families.

  Except Cora didn’t have anyone familiar.

  “I need you, Jo,” Cora stated simply.

  Garrett’s gaze locked with Jo’s. He couldn’t mask his churning emotions, and he knew right then she saw him for what he was—exposed, terrified. Yet no censure entered her expression, only compassion and understanding. For a moment it seemed as if everything would be okay—as though she’d be strong enough for all of them.

  I need you, Jo.

  The truth hit Garrett like a mule kick. He needed guidance and Cora had taken a shine to Jo. He’d do everything in his power to foster the budding relationship—even if it risked his brittle emotions.

  If only his life had been different.

  He and Cora both needed Jo desperately. Yet only one of them was worthy of her.

  Chapter Two

  The weathered boardwalk planks beneath Jo’s feet rumbled. With Cora between them, Jo and the marshal paused beneath the hand-painted sign for the Palace Café. A group of young boys, blessedly minus any of her brothers, dashed around them, laughing and calling to each other. Visibly alarmed by the group’s roughhousing, Cora latched on to Jo’s leg.

  “Don’t worry.” Jo ruffled her curls. “They’re just full of energy. They have the week off while their schoolteacher is visiting her sister during her confinement.”

  Another baby, and the birth had been particularly difficult. Jo stifled a shudder. Her ma served as midwife around town, and Jo often assisted. Each birth she attended crystallized her fears and renewed her vow to stay single.

  While there was joy, too often there was pain. She’d swaddled the tiny bodies of stillborn infants. She’d led distraught husbands from the room and sat with them while they wept. She’d felt the hand of a laboring mother go limp as the woman’s exhausted body gave up the battle for life.

  After all she’d seen, she’d never experience the innocent hope and wonder most expectant mothers felt.

  Not that she had any prospects in the matter, but she didn’t like this strange push and pull tugging on her emotions lately. More and more often she found herself lingering over the newborns, inhaling their sweet scent and wondering what it would be like to have one of her own.

  Jo mentally shook off the disquieting thoughts. It was no use pining for things that could never be. She’d been rejected before and, while she knew she could survive heartbreak, she dreaded a repeat of the humiliating experience.

  Cora peeked out from beneath her pale eyelashes. “When will I go to school?”

  The marshal blanched. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. Should she be in school now? What should I do?”

  “There’s no need for panic.” Jo chucked him on the shoulder. “We’ll talk with the teacher when she comes back next week.”

  “You’re right.” He mopped his forehead with a blue-patterned bandanna. “Of course you’re right. There’s no need for alarm. I’m just new to all this.”

  The marshal’s dedication melted Jo’s insides. Seeing a tough, hardened lawman reduced to a bundle of nerves over a tiny little girl was the most precious sight she’d ever seen. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, hug him or chuck him on the shoulder once more. But she felt better about Cora’s new living arrangem
ents than she had all week.

  She’d known the marshal was fair and levelheaded, but seeing him this vulnerable lit a warm glow in her chest. Anybody could be a tough lawman, but it took a real man to show his vulnerability.

  Cora tipped her rag doll side to side, sending its yellow-yarn braids flopping. “I know some of my letters. But I can’t read yet.”

  The marshal squinted thoughtfully. “I’ll talk with the schoolteacher when she returns. Are you ready for lunch?”

  “Nope.” Cora glanced around. “I dropped Miss Lily’s coat.”

  She dashed back a few paces, leaving Jo and Marshal Cain alone on the boardwalk beneath a cloudless, brilliant blue spring sky. Jo had been thinking about his rattled composure when she’d teased him earlier, and she wondered if he was embarrassed by female attention. She’d noticed the odd affliction with her brothers. They were as tough as buffalo jerky with their friends, but as fluffy as milkweed when it came to a pretty girl.

  Testing her theory, Jo smiled coyly, her lips stretching with muscles she rarely used. The marshal returned the smile, his face turning pink.

  To her shock, she felt her own cheeks warm.

  She’d done it—she’d almost flirted with a man and he’d sort of responded. It was no wonder Mary Louise held court to all those besotted suitors in the mercantile like the queen of England.

  “Hey, runt,” a familiar voice sneered.

  Jo’s smile faded. Bert Walby sauntered up the boardwalk, his fingers hitched into his striped vest pocket. Tom Walby’s brother never missed an opportunity to bait her. She stood up straighter, bracing for his verbal attack. Tom and Bert looked alike with their gangly frames and straw-colored hair.

  Gritting her teeth, Jo faced her tormentor. “You’re looking awfully fancy, Bert. You going before the judge?”

  He scowled. “That’s funny, runt, cuz you look the same as always. You get dressed in a barn this morning?”

  Chuckling, he snatched the hat from her head, then reared back and cocked his arm in order to toss it onto the dirt-packed street. The next instant, Bert staggered into the marshal. Unsure what had knocked him sideways, Jo leaped back. The two men slammed into the jailhouse wall. Bert yelped and collapsed onto his knees. Marshal Cain bent, hooking his right hand beneath the man’s shoulder, and hauled him upright. The marshal whispered something in Bert’s ear before shoving him forward.