Like at the mercantile, when Mr. Stuart ran low on supplies and spread out the remaining stock to make it look as if there were more goods available. That’s how Jo felt lately, like she was spreading herself thin to make it appear there was more to her life. Covering up the empty places in her heart with bits of nonsense. Except she wasn’t hiding them from other people, she was hiding from herself.
Always before, she’d known what she’d wanted, and she’d sought her goal with single-minded determination. Except she didn’t know what she wanted anymore.
Jo stood and crossed the room, then pressed her forehead against the cool windowpane. She did know one thing—being with Cora and Garrett felt right.
Blowing out a warm breath, Jo fogged a circle on the glass. Garrett had accepted her offer of friendship. Together they’d look after Cora, ease her through the transition of losing her parents.
Simple as that.
The fog on the glass quickly dissipated. He hadn’t shown signs of interest toward any of the single ladies in town earlier, now that he had Cora to look after... Her stomach pitched. A single man around these parts who needed a wife didn’t stay single for long. There’d be no setting her cap for Marshal Cain. She’d never set herself up for that kind of demoralizing rejection again.
Jo glanced at the tips of her battered work boots. She knew what she wanted, all right: she wanted something that could never be.
Chapter Three
A week after the marshal’s return, Jo shaded her eyes with one hand and searched the horizon. A kick of dust indicated his timely arrival. Her ma had finally invited the marshal and Cora for dinner. By coincidence, this was Jo’s weekend home.
A soft object thumped against the back of her head. She bent and retrieved a faded leather glove from the ground.
“Hey!” Frowning at her brother, Abraham, she waved the glove. “Did you throw this at me?”
“You weren’t paying any attention.” He tugged off his second glove. “Why all the daydreaming?”
“I wasn’t daydreaming.”
No matter what happened during the week, when Jo rounded the bend and caught sight of her childhood home on the horizon, her mood lightened. Lately, she needed the comforting sight more than ever. That strange yearning hadn’t abated, and a restless need for something more in her life itched beneath her collar.
Abraham lifted an eyebrow. “It’s like working with Caleb. Are you in love with Mary Louise Stuart, too?”
Jo winged the glove in Abraham’s direction. He ducked and easily avoided her revenge. At seventeen, he wasn’t interested in courting just yet.
“I don’t see what all the fuss is about Mary Louise,” Jo grumbled. “What does anybody know about her other than she’s pretty?”
“What else do you have to know?” Abraham shrugged.
“Be serious.” Jo knelt before a hay bale and clipped the wire. “God gave her those looks. It’s not like she had to work for anything.”
“How do you think Mary Louise feels? She can’t hardly step from behind the counter without causing a stampede.”
“It’s strange, you know, when you really think about it. Some people are rewarded for how they look, not who they are.” Jo sat back on her heels. “While other people are paying the price for how they look, when none of it is their fault. And nobody’s happy about it.”
“You know what your problem is, Jo? You think too much.” Abraham kicked the loose hay over the uneven ground of the muddy corral. “Looks like the marshal and his niece are here.”
Her brother had a point. She had been thinking too much lately. Only the day before she’d offered to hold Mrs. Patterson’s baby while the new mother shopped in the mercantile. When Jo had caught herself wondering how the marshal’s coffee-colored eyes would look on a chubby little toddler, she’d promptly returned the baby and fled the store. That sort of behavior had to stop.
In desperation, she’d arrived at the farm earlier than normal and donned her comfortable trousers. She’d tackled her chores with vigor, hoping the physical exertion would ease her mental turmoil.
Her face damp with perspiration, Jo spread another bale of hay while the wagon lumbered up the driveway, stopping only when her visitors halted before the barn.
She pinched off her gloves and met them on the drive.
“JoBeth!” Cora called.
The little girl leaned out of the wagon and wrapped her arms around Jo’s neck. Marshal Cain met Jo’s gaze over the girl’s shoulder, and her breath strangled for a split second. There was something heady about having those dark eyes focused on her. She’d seen him every day this week, and his effect on her had grown rather than blunted. Each time she saw his face, her heart pounded, and her head spun as though she’d been twirling in a circle.
Attempting to break the mysterious spell, she squeezed Cora tight and pulled her from her perch, then set her gently on the ground.
Six-year-old Maxwell, Jo’s youngest brother, bounded down the driveway, his knees pumping. “JoBeth, JoBeth!” he called. “Are they here yet?”
“Peas and carrots, Maxwell. Look with your own eyes. Can’t you see? Slow down before you run us over.”
Her brother skidded to a halt before them. He wore his usual uniform of a tan shirt and brown trousers with a pair of red suspenders. A crumpled hat covered his dark hair. “Who are you?” he demanded of Cora.
The little girl clutched her rag doll close. “I’m Cora.”
“How old are you?” Maxwell asked.
“Five.”
The front door swung open and Mrs. McCoy stepped onto the porch. “Who do we have here?” She descended the stairs, her fingers busy unknotting the apron wrapped around her waist. “Gracious, you must be the prettiest little girl this side of the Mississippi!”
“Our guests have arrived, Ma.” Jo tucked Cora against her side. The McCoy clan could be overwhelming, and Jo didn’t want the girl spooked.
Maxwell dashed up the stairs and tugged on his mother’s skirts as she approached them. “That’s Cora. She said she’s five years old.”
Edith McCoy smiled, her expression full of unspoken sympathy. “We’re pleased to have you. Why don’t you come on inside.”
Edith labored up the walk, her gait stiff, and Jo sighed. Her ma’s left hip sometimes 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