The Marshal's Ready-Made Family. Sherri Shackelford

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      “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.

      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.

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