The Marshal's Ready-Made Family. Sherri Shackelford

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      Jo and Marshal Cain followed Edith into the cozy farmhouse. The aromas of fresh-baked bread and pot roast drifted from the kitchen, sending Jo’s mouth watering. Since the spring temperatures cooled after dark, a fire danced in the hearth.

      “You two have a seat,” Edith ordered. “I’m putting the finishing touches on dinner.”

      Marshal Cain pulled out a chair and paused. Jo glanced behind her. He waved his hand over the seat. “Ladies first.”

      A spoon clattered against the floor.

      Her ma bent and retrieved the utensil. “Clumsy of me. I’ll just rinse this off in the sink. If you don’t mind my being forward, how are you getting along, Marshal?”

      Jo snorted and flopped onto the proffered chair.

      The marshal sat down across from her. “No need to apologize, Mrs. McCoy. I’m sure Jo has told you all about Cora.”

      “Not Jo, no. But gossip travels with the speed of boredom around here.”

      The marshal glanced around the tidy room, and Jo knew exactly what he was noticing. All of the spices above the stove were arranged alphabetically, the pots were hung by size, and even the glasses were arranged by height. When she was younger, her ma’s habits had annoyed her, but as she grew older she realized that order made even the most cramped spaces cozy and welcoming.

      Marshal Cain shook his head. “How do you manage to keep everything in place with children running underfoot?”

      Mrs. McCoy wiped the spoon on a towel draped over the sink. “More help, I guess. I’ve got more people to make the mess, but I’ve also got more people to help with the chores.”

      “I don’t think more children will solve my problems.” The marshal rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. “I can’t keep up. I feel like my whole jailhouse was hit with a pink bomb. That little girl must have come with a magic trunk, because when I opened it, the contents tripled in size.”

      Jo hid a grin. The marshal did look a bit disheveled. And she’d never heard him so talkative. As she pondered his uncharacteristic admissions, another thought darkened her mood. They’d seen each other in passing each day this week, and yet he’d never once confided his concerns with her.

      The marshal pressed his thumb into the soft wax of the candle burning in the center of the table. “I hope nobody gets arrested, because Cora set up a tea party in the jail cell. I can’t put a fugitive in there with a couple of rag dolls having tea. There’s even a pink blanket on the cot.”

      Jo clapped her hands over her mouth.

      Her ma lifted a lid from the roaster, sending a plume of steam drifting toward the ceiling. “I can see where that would be a problem,” Edith replied, her voice ripe with amusement. “Sometimes I wish we had more pink in this house. We’re full up on boys since Jo left, and she was never one for tea parties anyway.”

      Jo scowled, her amusement waning. Just because she didn’t throw tea parties didn’t mean she wasn’t a girl. She was different, that’s all. Why did everyone insist on bringing it up all the time?

      “And it’s not just her stuff.” The marshal picked off a chunk of wax and rolled it into a ball between his thumb and forefinger. “Cora doesn’t eat much in the morning. Should I be worried about that? And she never stops asking questions. Sometimes I don’t know the answers. But if I tell her that I don’t know the answer, she just asks the same question in another way. Is that normal?”

      “That’s a five-year-old child for you, all right. As curious as a kitten and just as precious.” Edith placed a Mason jar filled with lemonade before the marshal. “You better drink something or you’ll get parched.”

      A flush of color crept up the marshal’s neck. “I guess I’ve been around Cora too much. I can’t stop talking all of a sudden.”

      “Children don’t come with instructions, that’s for certain.” Her ma set out a loaf of bread and a pat of butter on wooden slab.

      “I know.” The marshal slathered his bread with the softened butter. “Like, how often should you wash them? What kind of soap should you use? I only have lye soap. Is that bad for girls?” A note of desperation crept into his voice. “I don’t know what to do. What if I do the wrong thing?”

      “The fact that you’re worried makes you a better parent than most others.” Edith dried her hands on the towel and crossed the room. “The bad folks aren’t worried about what’s right and wrong, you know?” She perched on a chair beside him and patted his hand. “You’re doing fine.”

      The marshal raked his free hand through his hair. He paused for a moment, his Adam’s apple working. “She cries at night.”

      “Of course she does,” Jo exclaimed, her heart twisting at his words. “She’s lost both of her parents. She’s lost her home. That’s enough to make anybody cry.”

      Something flickered in his eyes, but it passed quickly. Jo ached to reach out and comfort him, but she knew better. She never had words for times like these—soothing, comforting words. He’d said it himself over lunch last week. She was direct.

      With grudging admiration, Jo studied her mother. While the rest of the McCoys were dark-haired with green eyes, Mrs. McCoy stood out with her pale blue eyes and dark blond hair. Even the streak of gray at her temple lent her an air of elegance.

      Jo had never really valued cosseting before. Blunt truths were faster and more efficient. Now she realized there was a time and a place for coddling.

      Marshal Cain pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what to do,” he repeated.

      “Love her,” Jo replied. “Just like you’re doing.”

      “Jo is right.” Edith smiled and patted his shoulder. “Love goes a long way.”

      The door swung open, and her brother Caleb stepped into the room surrounded by a noxious aroma. Jo waved a hand before her nose. “Gracious, did you take a swim in Pa’s cologne?”

      The tips of her brother’s ears reddened. “Mind your own business, runt.” He strutted across the room in his crisp blue shirt and navy trousers.

      Caleb was the oldest of the boys at twenty-two, tall and slender with the distinctive McCoy coloring of dark brown hair and bright green eyes. They all took after their pa’s looks in that regard, though Ely McCoy was short and stout. Jo was the only child who’d inherited his lack of height. Much to her chagrin, she was embarrassingly petite.

      Being small with five younger—and much taller—brothers had taught her a thing or two about strategy. “I think someone is going into town. This must be your third trip to the mercantile this week.”

      “What’s it to you?”

      “Nothing.” Jo studied the jagged tips of her blunt fingernails. “It’s just that you’re not the only one visiting the mercantile on a regular basis.”

      The owner’s daughter was a pretty blonde with blue eyes and a ready smile, and since Mary Louise had turned eighteen and started working behind the counter, the store’s revenue had leaped СКАЧАТЬ