The Marshal's Ready-Made Family. Sherri Shackelford
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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