The Marshal's Ready-Made Family. Sherri Shackelford
acted up, but Edith McCoy never complained. Complaining wasn’t ladylike. When Jo was younger, her ma had dressed her in frills and lace, but that hadn’t lasted. Despite being a paragon of feminine qualities in an untamed land, Edith had never swayed her daughter into fripperies.
Her ma waved them toward the house. “Welcome to our home, Marshal Cain. I hope you like pot roast.”
The marshal flashed a wry grin. “Just as long it’s not fried chicken.”
“I see you’ve taken the fried-chicken tour of all the single ladies in Cimarron Springs.” Edith chuckled. “I figured I’d wait until the spring and let you enjoy a pot roast for a change.”
Maxwell danced around them, his scuffed boots kicking up a whirl of dust. “Cora! Cora! The barn cat just had kittens. You wanna see them? Their eyes are open and everything.”
The little girl tugged on Jo’s hand. “Can I?”
Jo waited for Marshal Cain’s nod of approval. “Of course you can.”
Maxwell spun around, and Jo caught him by the cuff of his shirt. “Cora isn’t from the country, so you be nice. No spiders, no frogs, no beetles...”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Maxwell rolled his eyes. “I know guest rules.”
“Not just any guest. Cora is a special guest. I want you on your Sunday best.”
“I’ll be good.”
Jo released Maxwell and planted her hands on her hips. “I bet Reverend Miller would have a thing or two to say about your Sunday best.”
Her youngest brother scowled. “He boxed my ears last week.”
“That’s because he got to you before I did.” Jo pointed a finger. “Now don’t get Cora’s pretty pink dress all dirty.”
“I won’t,” Maxwell grumbled.
Edith McCoy sighed and shook her head. “I hope that’s not her best dress, because dirt multiplies on this farm. And it doesn’t wash out easy.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. McCoy,” the marshal replied, dusting his hands together. “She’s got plenty more dresses where that one came from.”
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.