The Marshal's Ready-Made Family

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 sticking 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?”