Could she do this? Could she spend the rest of her life as his friend without wanting more?
He rubbed the pad of his thumb over the back of her hand and her whole body pulsed with his touch.
Jo tightened her grip. What choice did she have? She could marry him and risk her heart, or risk never seeing him again. As much as she adored Cora, they were a package deal. She couldn’t have one without the other.
He dragged his hands away, stood and turned his back. A sudden sense of emptiness overwhelmed Jo. In that moment, the room appeared lifeless, abandoned. Unfinished place settings covered the table, unfilled waterglasses sat near the sink, empty chairs remained strewn haphazardly around the room.
When he faced her again, his face had smoothed into an unreadable mask. “We can’t rush into this.”
A heavy weight settled on Jo’s chest. She felt him moving away, physically and mentally, regretting his hasty words already. Her last, best chance for a family of her own was slipping away. Was she selfish for wanting him to agree?
Her stomach churned. “Please don’t make any decisions without telling me first.”
“I couldn’t keep something from you even if I tried.” He tossed her a knowing look. “Not with Cora around.”
“You can’t keep secrets with a child underfoot.”
He chuckled, the sound more grim than amused. A flash of lightning sparked in the distance, brightening the room for an instant and illuminating his somber expression.
Garrett squinted out the window. “Looks like we might get some rain. That’s bad timing with the creek rising fast from the melting up north.”
“Not much use in worrying about something you can’t control. My pa likes to say, ‘Keep your faith in God, and one eye on the river.’”
“I like the sound of that.”
The image of the raging creek resonated in Jo’s head. It felt as though her beliefs about herself were slipping away, eroding beneath a deluge of new possibilities. Somehow, she’d always imagined things going on just the way they had. The boys growing and marrying. Her little room at the boardinghouse. Coming home for dinner on Sundays.
Then she’d found herself picturing her own family, having her own Sunday dinners.
Marshal Cain approached her and grasped her shoulders, his touch light. “You have to know something about me. I’m not good husband material. If you’re looking for love, if you think this might grow into love someday, you’ll be disappointed.” He interrupted her murmured protest. “It’s not that I don’t like you, admire you, but I just can’t.”
Can’t or won’t? Once again the words balanced on the tip of her tongue, but her courage deserted her when she needed it most. Besides, what did it matter?
She must remain focused on the true problem. “We’ll be friends. We’ll both love Cora, and that will be enough love for all of us.”
“I still need to think.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m not saying no, but I need to think this through. We can’t make a rash decision. There are things about me you don’t know.”
He said the last words so quietly, she barely registered them.
“You said it yourself,” Jo urged. “People have married for worse reasons. At least you and I have good intentions. How can things go wrong if we’re making a decision based on what’s best for Cora?”
“Things can go wrong.” He tipped back on his heels, his voice somber. “Believe me, things can always go wrong.”
Jo glanced at her scuffed boots. Once again she wondered if he’d make a rash decision if she looked like Mary Louise at the mercantile. Probably so. Men made rash decisions about pretty women every day. With tomboys, they made rational, thoughtful decisions based on logic.
Jo plucked at a loose thread on her trousers. Was she willing to change? For Marshal Cain? For a man?
Never.
But what about Cora?
Jo yanked the thread loose, exposing a tear in the fabric. Even if she could change, she didn’t want to. She liked the person she was—inside and out. Marshal Cain either accepted her the way she was or not at all. As simple as that.
“Maybe,” Marshal Cain spoke, his voice hesitant. “The answer is maybe. Let’s leave it there for now.”
Tears threatened, and Jo hastily blinked them away. This was no time for going soft. In life, maybe meant no. “Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I promise.”
“Can I still take Cora to the telegraph office with me tomorrow?” she added hopefully.
“Of course. This doesn’t change anything.”
“Of course.”
With fisted hands, Jo rubbed her eyes in tight circles. Her hasty words had changed everything. Yet she didn’t regret them, not for an instant. “Either way, we should think about finding you and Cora a new place to live. Outlaws and tea parties make strange bedfellows.”
The marshal threw back his head and laughed, a rich hearty sound that vibrated in her chest and sent her blood thrumming through her veins.
“I can’t argue with you in that regard.” He swiped at his eyes. “Thank you. I needed a good laugh.”
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 h
er 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.
A harnessed set of horses stomped and snorted between the buildings. Jo scooted into the street, giving them a wide birth. The cranky old swayback mare on the left nipped if you strayed too close. As Jo passed the butcher, the mouthwatering aroma of smoking bacon filled the air. She inhaled a deep breath.
Sometimes she loathed Cimarron Springs, feeling frustrated and trapped by the hackneyed town. But at times like this, the familiar sights and sounds soothed her like an old pair of boots—battered and worn, but comfortable for having been broken in.
Jo paused and took another deep breath before facing the marshal again. When she encountered him this morning, she’d act nonchalant. They’d go on as they had before, as though nothing had changed.
Jostled along with the bustling morning activity, she nodded greetings to familiar faces. A hesitant figure standing in the alcove between the saloon and mercantile caught her attention.
“Beatrice?” Jo stepped closer, and the figure emerged from the shadows.
The auburn-haired woman lived above the saloon and danced with the cowboys for a nickel a song. She was older than Jo in years and decades older in experience. Beatrice had traveled around the country and seen things Jo couldn’t even imagine. Most of the townspeople spurned the saloon workers, but Jo understood a thing or two about being different, and she always made a point of exchanging conversation when they met. She and Beatrice had even become friends over the past year.
“Jo.” Beatrice’s cautious gaze darted over the crowd, searching for any sign of censure. “Are we still meeting tonight?”
“Same as always. I’ll work up some examples this afternoon.”
Beatrice wanted a job as a telegraph operator, but feared her boss would fire her if he discovered her plan. Since she still needed her place next to the saloon, Jo met with her after dinner three days a week. Beatrice’s work didn’t begin until after dark, which gave them plenty of time for their informal lessons.
“I just wondered.” The auburn-haired woman’s gaze turned mischievous. “Since things have changed and all.”
“
Nothing has changed,” Jo assured her. “You’ll be a full-fledged operator in no time. Why would you think something was different?”
Beatrice winked. “I heard the marshal was having dinner at the McCoy place last night.”
Jo hustled Beatrice deeper into the darkened passageway. “What else did you hear?”
“I didn’t hear anything. It’s just that’s he’s all any of the girls talk about these days.” The older woman patted her auburn hair. “I might just want that handsome marshal to rescue me from outlaws.”
She giggled like a schoolgirl, and Jo’s eyes widened.
“Beatrice. You sly thing. You’ve got a crush on Marshal Cain.”
“I may be older than you, but my eyes work just fine.” Beatrice wiggled her index finger. “If I were five years younger, that man wouldn’t know what hit him.”
“There are other men more handsome,” Jo teased. “He’s a bit rough around the edges.”
“He’s got honest eyes.”
Jo pictured the marshal’s rugged face and warmth flooded through her. He did have honest eyes— compassionate and earnest. She’d only known two other men with eyes like that—Jack Elder and her pa. Mr. Elder had married Elizabeth, the woman whose late husband had robbed banks. Jack was a good man and a good father. As far as she could tell, he was a good husband, too. His wife, Elizabeth, certainly adored him.
Unbidden and unwelcome, elusive longings tugged at Jo’s heart again. Everything had seemed so simple a few years ago, but Marshal Cain’s presence had muddied the waters. It was easy staying single when there was no one who caught her fancy.
Glancing behind her, Jo searched the street. Satisfied no one was paying attention, she faced Beatrice once more. “I asked the marshal to marry me.”
“You did not!” Beatrice’s eyes widened into twin saucers. “What did he say?”
The Marshal's Ready-Made Family Page 6
