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,”
