Читать книгу The Marshal's Ready-Made Family - Sherri Shackelford - Страница 9

Chapter One

Cimarron Springs, Kansas

1881

JoBeth McCoy knew Marshal Garrett Cain’s life was about to change forever—and all she could do was sit with his young niece until he heard the tragic news about his sister.

The towering double doors behind Jo and five-year-old Cora creaked open, and Reverend Miller cleared his throat. “You can send in the child now.” He held out his hand for Cora. “Marshal Cain has been informed of his sister’s passing.”

Her heart heavy, Jo stood, then hesitated in the dappled sunlight. A soft breeze sent pear blossoms from the trees on either side of the shallow church steps fluttering over them like fragrant snow petals.

Cora rose and snatched Jo’s hand. “Will you go with me?”

A riot of flaxen curls tumbled merrily around the little girl’s face, but her Cupid’s-bow mouth was solemn beneath her enormous, cornflower-blue eyes. Cora clutched a paper funnel filled with lemon drops in her left hand. Her battered rag doll remained anchored to her right side.

Jo met the reverend’s sympathetic gaze, grateful for his almost imperceptible nod of agreement. He was a squat, sturdy man in his middle fifties with thinning gray hair and a kind smile.

The three of them stepped into the church vestibule, and Reverend Miller directed them toward his tiny, cluttered office. Jo paused as her eyes adjusted in the dim light.

Marshal Cain sat on a sturdy wooden chair before the desk, his expression grim. Her heart skittered, but she swallowed back her nerves and forced her steps closer.

His eyes were red, and the tail end of a hastily stowed handkerchief peeked out from his breast pocket. As though embarrassed by his tears, he didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he focused his attention on the petite fingers clutching Jo’s waist. He didn’t stand or approach them, and for that Jo was grateful, especially since Cora cowered behind her.

He caught sight of his niece’s frightened gaze and blinked rapidly. “Hello, Cora. I know we’ve never met, but your mother and I were brother and sister.”

Jo had only seen the marshal a handful of times, but he was an imposing sight sitting down, let alone standing. Well over six feet tall, he wore his dark hair neatly trimmed. Though he didn’t sport a beard, a five-o’clock shadow perpetually darkened his jaw.

His face was all hard lines and tough angles, with a deep cleft dividing his chin. An inch-long scar slashed at an angle from his forehead through one thick, dark eyebrow. Other women might prefer a gentler face, but Jo found his distinctive features fascinating. Not that she looked. A woman simply couldn’t help but notice things once in a while.

Cora took a hesitant step from behind Jo. “Mama is dead.”

“Yes.”

“Papa, too.”

The marshal’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair. “I know,” he replied, his voice gruff.

Jo glanced between the two, her chest aching for their shared grief. From what little information she’d gathered, the girl’s parents had died in a fire three weeks ago. As Cora’s closest living relative, Marshal Cain had been assigned guardianship. Reverend Miller had just broken the news, and the poor man was obviously devastated by the loss.

Realizing the reverend had deserted them, Jo craned her neck and searched the empty vestibule. Everyone in town knew she had all the sensitivity of a goat at a tea party, and this situation definitely required a delicate touch.

She caught sight of Cora’s dismayed expression and decided she’d best keep the two talking until the reverend returned. “Why don’t you show Mr. Cain what you bought at the store this morning.”

The marshal’s gaze flicked up at Jo, then quickly returned to Cora as she dutifully extended her arm, revealing her precious stash of candy.

“Want one?”

“Uh, well, sure.” He stretched out one hand and plucked a lemon drop from atop the mound. “Your mother liked peppermints,” he added.

Cora nodded eagerly. “Me, too!”

Relieved by the girl’s easy acceptance of Marshal Cain, Jo spurred the conversation. “Cora rode a train all the way from St. Louis, didn’t you?”

“Mrs. Smith wouldn’t let me sit by the window.” Cora fingered a dangling edge of pink ribbon circling the frilly waistband of her dress. “She was grumpy.”

A shadow crossed the marshal’s eyes. “Sorry ’bout that. I didn’t know you were coming. I’d have fetched you myself.”

“Would you let me sit by the window?”

“I guess. If you wanted.”

The tension in Jo’s shoulders eased a bit. They’d been frantically searching for the marshal since the day nearly two weeks past when Jo had transcribed the telegram announcing his niece’s imminent arrival. He’d been escorting a prisoner to Wichita and had run into trouble along the way.

By the time they’d discovered his location and informed him that he was needed back in town posthaste, the poor little girl had already arrived with her grim-faced escort. Mrs. Smith had been terrified of Indians, and certain she’d never make it back to St. Louis with her scalp intact.

Since the skittish escort was obviously frightening Cora with her hysterics, Jo had cheerfully assumed responsibility for the little girl and hustled Mrs. Smith onto an eastbound train. Three days had gone by since then.

“When are we going back home?” Cora asked.

Jo’s heart wrenched at the innocent question.

“Well, that’s the thing.” Marshal Cain cleared his throat. “I thought you could stay out here and live with me.” The raw vulnerability in his expression touched Jo’s soul. “We’re the only family either of us has left.”

Cora’s solemn blue eyes blinked with understanding. “Don’t you have a mama and papa, either?”

“Nope. Your mom and I lost our parents when I was fifteen and your mother was eighteen.”

Though his expression remained neutral, Jo sensed a wagonload of sorrow behind the simple words.

Cora clasped her hands at her waist. “Did they die in a fire like my mama and papa?”

Stark anguish exploded in the marshal’s gaze, and Jo took an involuntary step backward. His reaction felt too bleak, too powerful for an event that must be almost twenty years past.

Covering his revealing lapse, he absently rubbed his cheek. “Smallpox.”

“What’s that?” Cora asked.

“It’s a sickness.” The marshal angled his face toward the light. “It leaves scars.”

Jo and Cora leaned closer, both squinting. Sure enough, the rough stubble on his chin covered a scattering of shallow pockmarks. Jo had never been this close to the marshal before and she caught the barest hint of his scent—masculine and clean. Her stomach fluttered. Once again she couldn’t help but wonder how all his imperfection added up to down-right handsome.

Cora shrugged. “Your face doesn’t look bad.”

Jo glanced down at her own rough, homespun skirts and serviceable shirtwaist. Men’s flaws made them look tough. But a woman who dressed and acted like a tomboy, well, that was another story. A woman without corkscrew curls and lace collars wasn’t worth the time of day. She’d learned that lesson well enough when Tom Walby, the only boy she’d ever had a crush on, had mocked her for being a hoyden before the entire eighth-grade class.

Turned out men fell in love with their eyes first and their hearts second. Which was too bad, really. Nettles were far more useful in life than roses.

“Did you ride a train after your parents died?” Cora asked.

“I don’t remember,” the marshal replied. “That was a long time ago for me.”

Cora nodded her agreement, her flaxen curls bobbing. “You’re old, so that musta been a really, really long time ago.”

Ducking her head, Jo muffled a laugh. Marshal Cain blinked as though her presence had only now fully registered through the haze of his grief. He hastily stood, knocking his hat to the floor. They both reached for it at the same time, nearly butting heads. Jo touched the brim first. As he accepted his hat, the marshal’s rough, callused fingers brushed over hers, sending a scattering of gooseflesh dancing up her arm.

Jo met his dark eyes, astonished by the intensity of his gaze.

“My apologies for not greeting you,” he said, sounding more formal than she’d ever heard him. “We met in church once, didn’t we?”

“Don’t be sorry, Mr. Cain.” For some reason, she seemed to have a difficult time catching her breath when he was near. “You’ve been busier than a termite in a sawmill. I’m JoBeth McCoy.”

The admission earned her a dry chuckle. “Seems like you can’t turn a corner in this town without running into a McCoy.”

Jo grinned. She had five younger brothers, and they never expected her to be anyone but herself. In fact, they’d probably clobber her if she started acting like a regular girl. “They’re a handful, yes, sir.”

“Reverend Miller says you and Cora have been inseparable.”

Jo had taken a proprietary interest in Cora’s plight from the beginning. The messages concerning her care had been clipped and chillingly professional. A child thrust into such turmoil needed more than a hired guardian like Mrs. Smith. She needed love and understanding.

Jo squeezed Cora’s hand. “I work in the telegraph office. Part of my job is keeping track of unclaimed packages after the trains depart.” She winked at Cora. “’Course this was a special case. Everyone needs a friend sometimes, right, Cora?”

The little girl returned the comforting pressure. “JoBeth sent twenty-six different messages trying to find you. I counted. JoBeth has five brothers. I counted them, too. I don’t have any brothers. Do you have any brothers?”

“Nope.”

The marshal and the little girl sized each other up like a couple of nervous spring foals. They were wary, yet curious, too. Suddenly, Jo realized how terribly unnecessary her presence had become. Cora didn’t need her anymore—she had Marshal Cain.

Though he’d only been in town a few months, Jo sensed his unwavering resolve. He’d spent his time quietly and methodically cleaning up Cimarron Springs, a Herculean task. Their previous sheriff had been lazy and corrupt, and every outlaw west of the Mississippi had exploited his lax law enforcement. The marshal still had loads of work ahead of him, but he didn’t show any signs of slowing.

And now that he and little Cora had each other, they didn’t need her.

A band of emotion tightened around Jo’s chest. Though she and Cora had known each other a short time, she felt a kinship.

A small hand tugged on her skirts. “How come you don’t know Marshal Cain? You said you know everyone in town.”

Jo glanced at the marshal and found him studying Reverend Miller’s book collection as though it was the most fascinating thing on earth. She wondered if he was thinking about the deluge of invitations he’d received during his first few months in Cimarron Springs. Introducing a new man in town was like tossing raw meat into a pack of wolves. A pack of female wolves.

Warmth crept up Jo’s neck. Of course, no one had considered her as a possible love interest. Not even her own parents had invited the marshal for dinner. Not that she cared, since she never planned on marrying. She’d pinched her cheeks and fluttered her eyelashes for Tom Walby and look what that had gotten her. He’d told her he’d rather court his grandfather’s mule.

She wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

Covering her unease, she fanned the tip of her thick, dark braid. “Marshal Cain has only been in town a few months. I guess he’s never had call to arrest me. If I was a cattle rustler, we’d be on a first-name basis by now, I’m sure.”

Cora giggled. The marshal sputtered, then coughed, and Jo immediately regretted her joke. A little ribbing always worked on her brothers when they were tense, but the marshal seemed embarrassed by her teasing. As the silence stretched out, the walls of Reverend Miller’s office closed in around her, and the air grew thick.

Oblivious to the tension gripping the adults, Cora plucked a lemon drop from her paper funnel and popped it into her mouth. “Can I have a puppy?” she spoke, her voice muffled around her candy. “Mama said we couldn’t have a puppy in the city. But you live in the country, don’t you, Mr. Cain?”

Jo caught the marshal’s helpless expression before he quickly masked his thoughts. He’d lost his sister and brother-in-law and discovered he was guardian of his five-year-old niece in the course of a few tragic moments.

He didn’t live in the country. He lived in a set of rooms above the jail.

Cora spit the candy into her cupped palm. “The bears won’t eat my puppy, will they? Mrs. Smith said Kansas was full of giant man-eating bears.”

“Mrs. Smith was mistaken,” Marshal Cain replied, his voice no more than a whisper.

Jo instinctively reached out a hand, but the marshal flinched. Flustered, she clenched her teeth and let a flash of anger douse the pain. “I was just being nice. It’s not like I was gonna hit you, fool man.”

For years after she’d socked Tom in the eye for humiliating her in public, the boys in town had made a point of shrinking away from her in mock terror.

The marshal gingerly touched his side. “It’s not that, I bruised a couple ribs in a scuffle up north.”

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 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?”

“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.