Read Online The Marshal's Ready-Made Family by Sherri Shackelford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sherri Shackelford
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for her own good. She’d sacrifice herself to make Cora happy. He couldn’t let her.
What did Garrett know about making a woman happy? The only thing he’d ever seen in his life had been pain. Jo needed more. She deserved what she’d had growing up—love and warmth. The only love Garrett had known was hard love, and he was a hard man for it.
He paired up Cora’s discarded boots and glanced at the farm-filthy dress hanging in the corner of the room. Mrs. McCoy hadn’t lied—dirt sure had a way of finding you on the McCoy farm. When he’d arrived, even Jo had had a charming smudge on her check.
Jo.
He wasn’t a fool. He recognized the signs of fear—heart pounding, palm sweating. But what was he afraid of?
He was terrified Jo was someone he could love.
The more time he spent around her the more time with her he craved. He wanted to protect her from bullies like Tom and Bert Walby. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wondered if she ever thought of him, too.
Only this morning the shaving lather had dried on his face while he pondered whether or not he looked better with a beard. He’d bought two new shirts and he didn’t even really need new shirts. His old ones were fine except for a little wear around the seams. He couldn’t recall when another person’s opinion of him had carried such weight.
Garrett didn’t know if he believed in a higher power, but he knew right then he was lost. Always before there had been a clear path in his head, a clear way out of trouble. Not anymore.
“Dear Lord,” he pleaded. “Guide me. I’ve never asked for anything for myself, but Cora deserves better.”
He’d done the right thing by Deirdre. He’d given his sister a fresh start by taking with him the reminders of their father. The reminders he carried with him every day—in his looks, in his mannerisms, in his very voice. Things he couldn’t change or alter.
Since he hadn’t refused Jo’s proposal outright, he’d left her a sliver of hope. His weakness didn’t serve either of them.
Garrett had thought leaving Deirdre behind was the greatest sacrifice he’d ever made. Little did he know, one day he’d meet an even greater challenge. Turned out facing a difficult choice was a whole lot more agonizing than running away.
Chapter Seven
T he following morning, Jo crossed the distance to the jailhouse fifteen minutes before her shift at the telegraph office began. This was her favorite time of day, watching and listening as the town sputtered awake. In the distance, the steady clang of the blacksmith’s hammer beat out a comforting rhythm. The mercantile owner flipped his window sign reading Open and propped up a slate board declaring the daily specials meticulously spelled out in chalk.
A harnessed set of horses stomped and snorted between the buildings. Jo scooted into the street, giving them a wide birth. The cranky old swayback mare on the left nipped if you strayed too close. As Jo passed the butcher, the mouthwatering aroma of smoking bacon filled the air. She inhaled a deep breath.
Sometimes she loathed Cimarron Springs, feeling frustrated and trapped by the hackneyed town. But at times like this, the familiar sights and sounds soothed her like an old pair of boots—battered and worn, but comfortable for having been broken in.
Jo paused and took another deep breath before facing the marshal again. When she encountered him this morning, she’d act nonchalant. They’d go on as they had before, as though nothing had changed.
Jostled along with the bustling morning activity, she nodded greetings to familiar faces. A hesitant figure standing in the alcove between the saloon and mercantile caught her attention.
“Beatrice?” Jo stepped closer, and the figure emerged from the shadows.
The auburn-haired woman lived above the saloon and danced with the cowboys for a nickel a song. She was older than Jo in years and decades older in experience. Beatrice had traveled around the country and seen things Jo
What did Garrett know about making a woman happy? The only thing he’d ever seen in his life had been pain. Jo needed more. She deserved what she’d had growing up—love and warmth. The only love Garrett had known was hard love, and he was a hard man for it.
He paired up Cora’s discarded boots and glanced at the farm-filthy dress hanging in the corner of the room. Mrs. McCoy hadn’t lied—dirt sure had a way of finding you on the McCoy farm. When he’d arrived, even Jo had had a charming smudge on her check.
Jo.
He wasn’t a fool. He recognized the signs of fear—heart pounding, palm sweating. But what was he afraid of?
He was terrified Jo was someone he could love.
The more time he spent around her the more time with her he craved. He wanted to protect her from bullies like Tom and Bert Walby. He wanted to hear her laugh. He wondered if she ever thought of him, too.
Only this morning the shaving lather had dried on his face while he pondered whether or not he looked better with a beard. He’d bought two new shirts and he didn’t even really need new shirts. His old ones were fine except for a little wear around the seams. He couldn’t recall when another person’s opinion of him had carried such weight.
Garrett didn’t know if he believed in a higher power, but he knew right then he was lost. Always before there had been a clear path in his head, a clear way out of trouble. Not anymore.
“Dear Lord,” he pleaded. “Guide me. I’ve never asked for anything for myself, but Cora deserves better.”
He’d done the right thing by Deirdre. He’d given his sister a fresh start by taking with him the reminders of their father. The reminders he carried with him every day—in his looks, in his mannerisms, in his very voice. Things he couldn’t change or alter.
Since he hadn’t refused Jo’s proposal outright, he’d left her a sliver of hope. His weakness didn’t serve either of them.
Garrett had thought leaving Deirdre behind was the greatest sacrifice he’d ever made. Little did he know, one day he’d meet an even greater challenge. Turned out facing a difficult choice was a whole lot more agonizing than running away.
Chapter Seven
T he following morning, Jo crossed the distance to the jailhouse fifteen minutes before her shift at the telegraph office began. This was her favorite time of day, watching and listening as the town sputtered awake. In the distance, the steady clang of the blacksmith’s hammer beat out a comforting rhythm. The mercantile owner flipped his window sign reading Open and propped up a slate board declaring the daily specials meticulously spelled out in chalk.
A harnessed set of horses stomped and snorted between the buildings. Jo scooted into the street, giving them a wide birth. The cranky old swayback mare on the left nipped if you strayed too close. As Jo passed the butcher, the mouthwatering aroma of smoking bacon filled the air. She inhaled a deep breath.
Sometimes she loathed Cimarron Springs, feeling frustrated and trapped by the hackneyed town. But at times like this, the familiar sights and sounds soothed her like an old pair of boots—battered and worn, but comfortable for having been broken in.
Jo paused and took another deep breath before facing the marshal again. When she encountered him this morning, she’d act nonchalant. They’d go on as they had before, as though nothing had changed.
Jostled along with the bustling morning activity, she nodded greetings to familiar faces. A hesitant figure standing in the alcove between the saloon and mercantile caught her attention.
“Beatrice?” Jo stepped closer, and the figure emerged from the shadows.
The auburn-haired woman lived above the saloon and danced with the cowboys for a nickel a song. She was older than Jo in years and decades older in experience. Beatrice had traveled around the country and seen things Jo
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