The Marshal's Ready-Made Family

by Sherri Shackelford

  Adjusting his gun belt for emphasis, the marshal sauntered before the cowed group. “What’s all the excitement?”

  “We’re not doing anything bad, sir,” the youngest boy, a towheaded cherub with apple cheeks, replied.

  Jo recognized the stout troublemaker as Phillip Ryan. Twin dimples appeared on those rosy cheeks as Phillip conjured up his most persuasive smile.

  Jo grunted. That figured. His mother had practically gotten away with murder in school just by flashing her dimples and flipping her blond curls. Looked as if the apple cheeks hadn’t fallen far from the tree.

  Keeping hidden, Jo studied the marshal’s reaction, relieved at his unbending stance. It was nice to find at least one person who wasn’t fooled by a winsome smile and curly golden hair.

  When the boy realized his feigned innocence and appealing grin weren’t working on the marshal, his dimples retreated and an ugly scowl took their place. “It’s just a snake.”

  The marshal’s hands dropped to his sides, and he took a step back. “How big is it?”

  “It’s big, but we’re gonna kill it good.”

  Jo clenched her jaw. She loathed unnecessary cruelty of any kind. Sure, she’d killed plenty of snakes, but only when necessary, and always humanely. Torturing a creature didn’t sit well with her.

  “It’s huge,” Phillip declared, his eyes wide. “And dangerous. We’re doing the town a service by killin’ it.”

  Bristling with annoyance, Jo jostled through the crowd until she reached the center.

  Sure enough, a three-foot-long red, black and yellow snake lay coiled in the corner of the building. Jo glared at the boys. Hardly a giant at all. And certainly not dangerous. “There’s no call for cruelty. A snake is one of God’s creatures, too.”

  The Ryan boy scuffed the ground with his booted toe. “Not the good kind.”

  “I see.” Jo crouched until she was eye to eye with the boy. “You can tell if something is good or bad just by looking at it?”

  He shrugged.

  Jo huffed as she turned her attention on the snake’s brilliant red body, the color broken by bands of yellow flanked with narrow circles of black. She knelt before the terrified creature and murmured softly. Reaching out, she gently grasped the creature around the neck. The snake’s tail coiled around her arm.

  Jo stood and faced her stunned audience. “See. It’s just scared.”

  Marshal Cain gaped at her, then his face paled.

  Her heart thumped at his hard stare. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Maybe he didn’t like her interfering with his lawman’s work.

  “Put that down.” Marshal Cain held out his hands in a defensive gesture, his voice ominously low. “That’s a venomous coral snake.”

  Relief flooded through her veins. He wasn’t mad, he was just scared. “Nah. You can’t tell from where you’re standing. This here is just a milk snake. It’s not poisonous. Come closer and you’ll see.” She extended her arm.

  The marshal stumbled back another step.

  Jo thoughtfully angled her hand. “It kinda looks like a coral snake from a distance, but you gotta check the color bands. Like my pa taught us, red to black is a friend to Jack. Red to yellow will kill a fellow. Or you can just remember that yellow next to red will kill you dead. Both kinds of snakes live in the same places, too, which confuses most folks. Except, you know, one’ll kill you and the other won’t.”

  “’Course, it’s a milk snake,” the marshal spoke, his voice husky. “I couldn’t see it that well from over here. I musta had some dust in my face.”

  He poked one finger in his eye, and Jo lifted her face heavenward. “Don’t rub ’em like that. You’ll only make it worse.”

  She searched the gathering and found Cora frozen near the edge, her face as pale as the marshal’s. Jo sidled closer. “Why do you suppose fur makes everything cuter? Have you ever noticed that? Take a rat— disgusting. Add some brown fur to its body and slap on a fluffy tail. You’ve got yourself a cute little squirrel. People would probably keep these critters as house pets if they were furry.”

  Cora giggled.

  “I think snakes are misunderstood,” Jo continued, her words low and soothing. “They keep mice and rats out of the grain bin. They help out with the grasshoppers, too. I’d rather have a snake in the barn than a furry raccoon anyday. And snakes are really quite beautiful if you take the time to look close.”

  “I think they’re icky,” Cora replied.

  “I like the way they move. Like they’re going sideways and forward at the same time.”

  The marshal grunted. Jo never understood why people liked pretty things even if they were useless, and shunned ugly things even if they served a valued purpose. “You want to touch him?”

  Cora grimaced and clasped her palms together, twisting her hands back and forth. “Is it slimy?”

  Despite her protest, Jo felt the little girl softening. “Nah. He’s not slimy. He’s actually pretty smooth.”

  As Jo crossed through the boys, the crowd stumbled out of her way, giving her a wide berth. She knelt before Cora and smiled. “It’s okay. He won’t hurt you.”

  Cora’s seeking hand tentatively reached out. The snake tightened on Jo’s arm and she kept her grip loose and friendly.

  Cora stroked the brightly colored scales and sucked her lower lip between her teeth. As the seconds ticked away, her whisper-light touch gradually grew bolder. When the snake hissed, its tongue flicking the air, Cora yelped and jumped back.

  The little girl skipped toward her uncle and tugged on his pant leg. “It’s not slimy at all.”

  Marshal Cain patted her hair. “You sure are brave.”

  “And I’m dirty, too. Look at my boots! Jo says it’s okay because if dirt makes flowers grow, it must make little children grow, too.”

  Jo grinned. Cora’s hem revealed a fine layer of dust and her boots were scuffed. The prim and proper city girl was relaxing her rigid stance and learning to enjoy the country. She still had a long way to go, but she grew bolder every day.

  “What about you boys?” Jo faced her rapt audience. “Would you like to touch the snake?”

  Two of the boys shook their heads and took off running, their shirttails flapping in the breeze.

  “Look at that, Cora.” Jo chuckled. “You’re tougher than a couple of boys.”

  The little girl puffed up. “I touched a snake and I didn’t even scream or cry.”

  “What about the rest of you?” Jo continued. “Who’s feeling brave today?”

  One of the two remaining boys, Tom Walby’s son, sneered. “My dad says you’re a freak. You’re just a stupid, ugly snake-lover!” He turned tail and dashed through alley.

  Jo glared at the boy. Just like his father. When he felt threatened, he lashed out. The snake squirmed, and Jo realized she’d instinctively tightened her grip. Tom and his son were both just like the snake. Attacking when they were scared. She didn’t think the Walbys would appreciate the comparison, but it was true.

  “Hey!” Marshal Cain shouted after the boy.

  Jo held up a restraining hand. “Don’t mind him. He learned it from his pa. Tom Walby still hasn’t forgiven me for making a fool of him when we were kids.” She turned away and discreetly reached down her bodice, fishing out the snake’s tail. “I tell you, if that man had half the fortitude for working as he does for holding grudges, his life would be a whole lot easier.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  Marshal Cain rubbed his chin, and she noticed his gaze resting on the last remaining boy, a pale, sandy-haired six-year-old too scared to run. Again, Jo couldn’t help but note the child’s resemblance to his parents. Josh’s dad had always gotten caught when they were growing up because he froze like a raccoon caught in a lamplight.

 
The marshal pulled a paper-wrapped peppermint from his pocket and knelt before the frightened boy. “You catch up with your friends and tell ʼem to stay out of trouble for the rest of the day. Got it?”

  The plump-cheeked boy snatched the candy, nodded and took off running.

  Jo tsked. “That’s the Smith boy. He’s too good for hanging around with that bunch. I better have a talk with his ma.” She faced Cora and gestured with her snake-wrapped arm. “You remember that. The people you run with can raise you up or bring you down. Isn’t that right, Marshal?”

  He gave a distracted nod. Come to think of it, seemed as if he hadn’t looked at her direct since she picked up the snake.

  Jo scratched her ear with her free hand. “You still look a little pale, Marshal. You okay?”

  “Fine.” He shook his head as though clearing his thoughts. “I better get back. To, uh. To work.”

  The marshal pivoted on one heel and strode away.

  Jo tapped her boot, pondering his uncharacteristic behavior. The snake’s tail wriggled up her sleeve and she considered another explanation for his abrupt departure. Could the marshal be afraid of snakes? When her pa found a snake in the feed bin, he’d fetch the barn cat and let nature take its course. For some reason, she found a lot of men were afraid of snakes.

  Jo released the snake and watched it slither off, then stuck out her hand for Cora. “Are you ready to get back to work?”

  “Yep.”

  “Jo,” Cora began, her voice hesitant. “Are you afraid of anything?”

  “Well, let’s see. I used to think I was afraid of always staying the same, but now I’m not so certain.”

  A woman’s life was fixed as train tracks. First stop marriage, second stop babies. Jo had jumped the tracks when she’d taken the position at the telegraph office. For a while the job had kept her distracted, and her restless spirit had bloomed with the challenge.

  But lately things had gone stagnant.

  Cora wrapped a blond curl around her finger. “I’m not afraid of snakes anymore. But I think Uncle Garrett is still afraid.”

  Jo glanced down the street and groaned. So much for all her good intentions. In a few short days Garrett had discovered how she’d socked Tom Walby in the eye and now he’d seen her with a snake wrapped around her arm.

  No wonder he didn’t see her as marriage material.

  Jo sighed. “The trouble with change is figuring out which path is the correct path.”

  She glanced at the dusty, rickrack tracks the snake had left in the dust.

  Even if there’d been a slim chance of the marshal seeing her as good material for a wife and mother, she’d gone and blown it.

  Chapter Nine

  That evening Garrett dreamed he and his sister, Deirdre, were children again. They were living in Illinois, and he and Deirdre were sitting on the back of their pa’s wagon, their legs swinging as they bumped along the deep rivets in the muddy road. Deirdre held her stuffed bunny over the street, then yanked it back against her chest. They played the game and giggled while their parents argued. Garrett sensed the tension even though neither of them raised their voices.

  As the trip lengthened, and their mother’s voice grew shrill, the game became more manic. Garrett snatched the bunny and held it over the road, pretending to drop it. Deirdre squealed in delight. Emboldened by her response, Garrett repeated the teasing bluff, only this time the wagon hit a deep rut and the heavy jolt knocked him sideways. He grasped the sideboard and steadied himself.

  “My bunny!” Deirdre shouted.

  Garrett glanced down in horror. One floppy ear and a single paw showed stark white against the boggy street.

  “Stop!” he’d called. “We have to go back.”

  There was still time. If they stopped, Ma could clean up the bunny and make it new again.

  His father whipped around, a black look twisting his face. “Serves you right. Maybe now you’ll give me some peace and quiet.”

  Garrett caught Deirdre’s stricken gaze. Her eyes welled with tears and she stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  “Don’t be a bab—” He stopped the words.

  She was ten years old and too big for such a childish activity, but he sensed it made her feel better. He couldn’t scold her.

  He reached out a hand, and she pulled away. His heartbeat turned uneven and his blood grew thick like slow-moving molasses. He hadn’t meant to lose her toy, it had been an accident—a bit of tomfoolery gone wrong. They’d both lost something that day, something they could never regain. He’d lost her trust.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” she’d replied solemnly.

  But she blamed him, he knew she did. He saw the betrayal in her sorrowful eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he called again, but the moment was lost in time. “I’m sorry.”

  Garrett shot upright in bed, his body soaked in sweat. Disoriented, he glanced around the room. A fierce pounding from the second-floor door had awakened him. Fearful of disturbing Cora, he shot out of bed, quickly tossing on a shirt as he padded barefoot across the room.

  Without breaking stride, he snagged his holster from its hiding place atop the wardrobe and strapped his gun around one thigh, then angled himself near the exit. Keeping his body protected from the flimsy door, he yanked out his pistol and cocked the next round into the chamber. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. JoBeth McCoy.”

  Sensing the urgency in her voice, Garrett quickly holstered his weapon. The stubborn dead bolt caught. After a sharp twist to the left, he forced open the lock. “What’s wrong?”

  Backlit by the moonlight, she huddled on the top stair, the alley a dark shadow below. A gust of wind sent tendrils of her hair sweeping across her forehead. She impatiently shoved it aside. “Trouble at the saloon.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s keeping us awake at the boardinghouse.”

  Garrett waved her inside, hastily fastened his shirt and took a surreptitious look at Jo. She’d obviously dressed in haste, the buttons on her shirtwaist were mismatched with the third button skipped altogether. Her hair hung in one thick braid down her back as usual, but it was tousled and loose. Her eyes drooped, still heavy with sleep, and she flashed him a wan half smile.

  His protective instincts roared to life. He wanted to wrap her in a blanket and keep her safe. Garrett steeled his focus.

  He had other priorities right then. “Can you stay with Cora? I’ll take a gander. Probably just the boys tying one on.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “The railroad workers got their paychecks today and they’re spending it at the saloon. This shouldn’t take long.”

  She hovered near the door while he donned his socks and boots, then snatched his hat. Drawn by something he didn’t understand, he cast a last reassuring look over his shoulder before stepping outside. Once the cool evening air hit his face, he paused. He was still off kilter from his dream, his thoughts scattered back through the years. Cora’s arrival had shaken his peaceful existence. He’d locked away Deirdre’s memory, but Cora was too much like her mother. She wouldn’t let him forget.

  Garrett loped down the stairs. He’d been marking time in his life, keeping the past at bay, but he no longer had that luxury.

  A shot rang out, halting his wayward thoughts.

  Even a drunk could get off a lucky round, and he needed his mind clear.

  Seconds later he crept along the boardwalk, his hearing focused on the raucous sounds. As he reached the double bat-wing doors, a drunken cowboy with a bedraggled beard stumbled outside and collapsed into a heap on the street.

  Garrett knelt down and felt the man’s neck, relieved at the strong pulse. Judging from the noxious whiskey fumes, Garrett assumed he’d passed out. The drun
ken man would keep until order was restored.

  Drawing his gun, Garrett edged along the side of the building, when another shot rang out. He straightened his back and burst into the room. A deafening melee greeted his arrival.

  At least two dozen men had paired up in fisticuffs throughout the room. Fists flew and splattered drinks covered the floor in a slick mess. Two of the enormous round tables had been tipped on their sides, scattering playing cards and betting chips over the sawdust-strewn floor.

  An industrious cowboy scooted on his hands and knees between the overturned tables and scooped up discarded coins, shoving them into his bulging pockets. Garrett blew out a shrill whistle. Several startled heads turned in his direction.

  “That’s enough. Everybody outside.”

  A groan erupted from several of the fighting pairs as they realized the brawl was over. From the corner of his eye, Garrett caught a man cocking back his arm over another gambler.

  Garrett spun around and pointed his gun. “I said, that’s enough.”

  The aggressor dropped his arm with a grumble. Garrett plucked a cowboy from the floor and tossed him out the bat-wing doors. His arrival had dampened the crowd’s enthusiasm, and he felt the mood of the room calm. The weary railroad workers reluctantly dispersed. He stalked between the tables, yanking people upright and setting them on chairs. A group of painted ladies huddled near the piano, their wilted feathers a sad sight against their elaborately coiffed hair.

  Garrett didn’t feel any censure toward the women, only sorrow. The West was hard, especially on women and children. “Why don’t you ladies wait next door.”

  The neighboring space was taken with the rooms. This half, the part Tom liked to shoot at, featured a cavernous room with a crude two-story stage at the east end.

  One of the women, a buxom brunette with rouged lips, stuck out a hip and giggled. “You’re in the wrong place for ladies, Marshal.”