The Marshal's Ready-Made Family

Feeling brazen, Jo grinned. “Can you imagine if word reached Wichita there was a pink afghan in the jailhouse?”

“Maybe crime would go down. It’s hard to be a tough guy when there’s a doll in your cell.”

“This could be the best thing that happened to Cimarron Springs in a long while.”

Garrett stared down at her, and Jo tipped back her head. Their gazes collided and they stood frozen for a long moment.

He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his finger coasting along the sensitive skin of her neck. “I had a job in Colorado Springs before this. My deputy told me I was a fool for coming to Kansas. He was wrong. Coming here was the best decision I ever made.”

“Even with all that’s happening?”

“Especially now. You’ve been heaven-sent for Cora.”

His admission awakened a sliver of hope. “I have next Monday off from work. Cora and I are picking mulberries down by the creek.”

Garrett grasped her hand, caressing her blunt nails. “Come Monday afternoon, you’ll have purple fingers.”

“And purple lips.”

His eyes widened and he made a strangled sound in his throat. “Uh, well,” he muttered as he dropped her hand and stumbled back a step. “I’d best get Cora home. I don’t want her out in the rain.” He jerked one thumb over his shoulder. “The wagon and the rain and all.”

Frowning, Jo touched her cheek as he made a hasty retreat. Why did he run off every time she thought they were making progress?

She crossed her arms over her chest. The fool man was running hot and cold and his indecision was driving her mad. Either way, he had to make up his mind on his own. She wasn’t chasing down someone who didn’t want her, no matter how stupid he was for rejecting her.

Even if she wasn’t pretty on the outside like Mary Louise, she was worthy on the inside.

How did she convince Garrett of that truth?

Chapter Six

Garrett plucked a stuffed bunny from his favorite chair and collapsed onto the seat. In five short days, Cora had stamped herself indelibly on the few rooms he occupied above the jailhouse. Before the little girl’s arrival, he’d thought the space more than adequate. Now there simply wasn’t enough room for all the fripperies that accompanied a little girl.

As he dug a pink ribbon from beneath the cushions, a soft whimper caught his attention. Garrett cocked his head and realized the gentle noise was coming from Cora’s room. Worried, he heeled off his boots in a jack and crossed the distance in his stocking feet, then peered behind the partition. Cora rested on her side facing him, her rag doll clutched against her chest.

Tears streamed down her face.

A nauseating wave of sadness buckled Garrett’s knees. He knelt beside Cora’s bed and brushed the damp curls from her forehead. Her eyes remained closed, and Garrett realized she was crying in her sleep. Hesitant and uncertain, he murmured soothing nonsense words and gently rubbed her back until her sobs eased.

Surrounded again by silence, long-buried memories leaped into his head. He’d been strong for Deirdre after their parents had died, and he’d be strong for Cora, too. He gently tucked the blankets over Cora’s thin shoulders.

Doubt chipped away at his resolve. Cora was younger, more innocent and vulnerable than Deirdre had ever been. He and his only sister had been old before their time. Their lives had been torn asunder by their father’s frequent rages. A devastating back injury during the war had driven him into constant pain, and the alcohol he’d used to dull the agony turned him mean.

Garrett’s father had been a physician, and his inability to heal himself had driven him mad. Garrett used to believe the whiskey bottle held madness, because with each drink, the bottle drained and the rage in his father grew.

When the alcohol had ceased working, he’d turned to laudanum. That’s when the hallucinations had started. He’d see things. Hear things. He’d relive the war, shouting commands and calling for his dead comrades. His paranoia ruled the family. Then one day he’d mistaken his wife for an enemy soldier.

He’d shot her.

When he’d sobered and realized what he’d done, he couldn’t live with the pain.

Garrett and Deidre had set out on their own for a short time before staying with his uncle. There had been no love lost on the siblings when they’d been thrust upon his aunt and uncle all those years ago. In desperation Garrett had fled, joining the army scouts at seventeen. He’d hoped they’d treat Deirdre more kindly without him around as a constant reminder of their father.

His sacrifice had been unnecessary—Deirdre had soon married a fine man, an architect with good standing in the community.

No matter what happened, Garrett wouldn’t let Edward raise Cora. His cousin had a pinch-faced wife with a perpetual expression of sour disappointment. They also had four more children on whom they doted. Garrett might as well send Cora to an orphanage.

Fifteen years had passed and the wound still ached. And now Garrett had another soul to protect. Cora was innocent of all the tragedy in the past. She deserved better than a set of rooms above the jailhouse.

Jo’s solution tugged at his conscience.

His legs stiff from the awkward position, Garrett pushed himself upright. The town had been mercifully quiet, but what would happen if he was called out late at night? What happened if a prisoner had to stay downstairs in the jail overnight or longer? A jailhouse was no place for a little girl and he couldn’t count on Jo every time he needed someone to watch Cora. He was already too beholden to her already.

Not to mention his other problem. Truth be told, he liked spending time with Jo and he didn’t know what to make of his new affliction. Garrett absently rubbed his chest. She deserved someone without a past. She was too honorable for her own good. She’d sacrifice herself to make Cora happy. He couldn’t let her.

What did Garrett know about making a woman happy? The only thing he’d ever seen in his life had been pain. Jo needed more. She deserved what she’d had growing up—love and warmth. The only love Garrett had known was hard love, and he was a hard man for it.

He paired up Cora’s discarded boots and glanced at the farm-filthy dress hanging in the corner of the room. Mrs. McCoy hadn’t lied—dirt sure had a way of finding you on the McCoy farm. When he’d arrived, even Jo had had a charming smudge on her check.

Jo.

He wasn’t a fool. He recognized the signs of fear—heart pounding, palm sweating. But what was he afraid of?

He was terrified Jo was someone he could love.

The more time he spent around her the more time with her he craved. He wanted to protect her from bullies like Tom and Bert Walby. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wondered if she ever thought of him, too.

Only this morning the shaving lather had dried on his face while he pondered whether or not he looked better with a beard. He’d bought two new shirts and he didn’t even really need new shirts. His old ones were fine except for a little wear around the seams. He couldn’t recall when another person’s opinion of him had carried such weight.

Garrett didn’t know if he believed in a higher power, but he knew right then he was lost. Always before there had been a clear path in his head, a clear way out of trouble. Not anymore.

“Dear Lord,” he pleaded. “Guide me. I’ve never asked for anything for myself, but Cora deserves better.”

He’d done the right thing by Deirdre. He’d given his sister a fresh start by taking with him the reminders of their father. The reminders he carried with him every day—in his looks, in his mannerisms, in his very voice. Things he couldn’t change or alter.

Since he hadn’t refused Jo’s proposal outright, he’d left her a sliver of hope. His weakness didn’t serve either of them.

Garrett had thought leaving Deirdre behind was the greatest sacrifice he’d ever made. Little did he know, one day he’d meet an even greater challenge. Turned out facing a difficult choice was a whole lot more agonizing than running away.

Chapter Seven

The following morning, Jo crossed the distance to the jailhouse fifteen minutes before her shift at the telegraph office began. This was her favorite time of day, watching and listening as the town sputtered awake. In the distance, the steady clang of the blacksmith’s hammer beat out a comforting rhythm. The mercantile owner flipped his window sign reading Open and propped up a slate board declaring the daily specials meticulously spelled out in chalk.