The Marshal's Ready-Made Family (9 page)

Chapter Ten

J
o settled her head against the back of the chair and lazily fanned herself with a paper. The space atop the jailhouse was long, narrow and airless. A bedroom had been cordoned off by a tall screen, but the only windows were in the kitchen area, where the hazy panes faced the darkened alley. After attempting to pry them open, Jo had discovered they were painted shut. Not that it mattered much since the front of the building was boarded over with a false facade, effectively blocking any chance of a crosswind.

An industrious tenant had cut holes into the floor and fitted the openings with iron grates to vent air from the first level. That meager improvement barely stirred a stale breeze. Jo figured the place must heat up something fierce in the summertime.

She unbuttoned her cuffs and rolled back her sleeves. A faint hint of Garrett’s masculine scent lingered in the seat cushions and teased her senses. Cora remained asleep, wrapped in a pink blanket, her rag doll clutched against her chest. The heat lulled Jo, and she let her eyes drift shut.

Glass shattered and Jo bolted upright from her half slumber. The sound had come from the first floor. She wobbled to her feet and glanced around. Two sets of stairs accessed the upper level, an outside set descending into the alley, and the inside set, which spilled into the open space below. She took a few steps and paused. Probably it was nothing, she might have dreamed up the whole thing, but she’d best check anyway.

As Jo descended the stairs, her raspy breathing stirred the eerily quiet building.

Growing uneasy at the unnatural quiet, she sidled nearer the wall. “Marshal Cain? Garrett?”

She cautiously made her way through Garrett’s office, her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light. Glass crunched beneath her feet and she realized one of the panes from the large double-hung windows had been shattered.

Lifting a shard, she angled the glass toward the light. Letters from the marshal’s etched name remained partially visible. All that meticulous work, wasted. Kneeling down, she closed her fingers around a weighty brick. Voices called to each other from the street. She crouched and scooted forward until her fingers gripped the sill. When another moment passed without incident, she raised up on her knees and peered through the jagged hole created from the shattered glass.

Four riders galloped by, whooping and hollering. Jo groaned. Looked as if the marshal hadn’t succeeded in busting up the fight. It also looked as if neither of them would get a wink of sleep tonight. She stifled a yawn. If those drunken cowboys kept this up much longer, she’d pay for her late evening during her double shift at the telegraph office the following day.

Glass burst above her head. Jarred from her sleepy contemplations, Jo dropped back into a crouch. Pointed shards rained overhead. A piercing sting slashed across her cheek. She threw one arm over her eyes and ducked her head. She cowered in a ball as a warm stream of blood slid beneath her chin.

Light arced through the window at her right. A bottle with a flaming rag stuffed in the neck hit the floor and clumsily rolled along the ridges in the rag rug. Her breath strangled in her throat.

They were lighting the jail on fire.
Spurred by a fierce urgency, Jo crawled along the floor toward the flame, wincing as pain seared her palm. Before her horrified gaze, the rag-stuffed bottle ignited the braided rug. She snatched the trailing edge of a pink blanket draped over a chair and beat at the flames. Heat singed her face. The blaze chewed up the fire at an alarming rate. With growing alarm Jo realized her efforts were fruitless against the dry kindling.

Dismayed by the rapidly growing cloud of smoke, she stood and backed her way toward the stairs. Keeping her arms splayed for balance, her eyes on the merciless inferno, she stumbled over broken debris. The pungent scent of whiskey and smoke filled her nostrils. Before she reached the first riser, flickering embers were already lapping against the sheriff’s desk.

From the second floor, Cora screamed. Wrenching her transfixed gaze from the growing fire, Jo dashed up the stairs and shoved the partition aside. The little girl sat up in the center of the bed, her hair in beribboned pigtails, her rag doll clutched against her eyelet night rail. Jo scooped her into her arms. The little girl wrapped her legs around Jo’s waist and clung to her neck.

“What’s happening?” Cora sobbed into her shoulder. “Where is Uncle Garrett?”

“He isn’t here. There’s a fire downstairs.” Jo skirted through the hazy room. “We’ll take the back stairs. He’ll probably be waiting for us in the alley.”

Jo wrapped her fingers around the knob and turned. The latch held firm. She twisted the lock. The brass knob refused to budge. Her arms full, she reared back and kicked. The frame opened an inch then smacked against the stubborn dead bolt. She stumbled back, braced herself and kicked at the base again. Searing pain shot up her leg and into her hip, but the door didn’t budged.

After setting down Cora, Jo twisted the knob. As pungent fumes stung her nostrils and sent her eyes watering, her stomach clenched.

Cora hovered beside her, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. “Why won’t the door open?”

“It’s stuck.” Jo gave the little girl a comforting squeeze. “We’re going to have an adventure. How does that sound?”

Voices shouted in the distance. The townspeople had discovered the fire. With no windows facing the street and their exit blocked by flames, there was little chance of attracting attention. Jo chewed a thumbnail and glanced around. Would anyone think to circle around back and check on them? Only Marshal Cain knew they were up here and he had his hands full in the saloon.

Certainly he’d hear the commotion and check on them. Then again, what if they waited and no one came? Jo glanced at the terrified little girl and realized she couldn’t risk Cora’s safety.

She gently set Cora away from her and met her fearful gaze. “Don’t worry, everything will be fine. I think we can get out the back door if we go downstairs. That’s where the fire started, but it’s mostly in the front. We’ll get some fresh air first and hold our breaths for as long as we can.”

She gave the frightened girl an encouraging smile. “It might get dark, but we’ll stay low, below the smoke and everything will be fine.”

“Okay,” Cora replied, a tremble in her small voice.

“You’re braver than all those boys, remember?”

“I remember.”

Relieved she’d donned her trousers before fetching Marshal Cain, Jo slipped out of her skirts.

More muffled shouts and calls sounded outside and she hoped the local townsfolk were setting up a bucket brigade. If the building next door caught fire, the whole town would follow.

How long would it take before the marshal realized they were still trapped inside?

What if he was injured?

Sickening dread pounded in her head. She and Cora would have to assume they were on their own for now.

Centering her thoughts, Jo sucked in a deep breath. “Remember, I won’t let go of you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

With no time to waste, Jo crawled along the floor and felt for the legs of the washbasin. She grasped a dangling rag and wetted it in the bowl, then held it over her face. Encouraged by the improvement in the quality of the air, she snagged a second rag. There’d been a fire on the Elder farm years ago, and she’d seen Jack Elder block the smoke the same way.

She held out her rag for Cora. “Hold that over your nose and mouth and it will help keep the smoke out.”

Tears pooled in the little girl’s cornflower-blue eyes. “Are we going to die like my mommy and daddy?”

“We’ll be fine,” Jo lied, a cold knot of dread in her stomach.

She considered shouting for help again, but her throat was sore from smoke and her previous calls. With the crackle of the fire and the commotion out front, no one would hear her anyway.

“I’ll keep you safe. I gave you my word and I never break a promise.”

Jo clutched the back of Cora’s head and pressed her face against her shoulder. They made it down half the flight before billowing smoke blackened the way. The suffocating cloud quickly enveloped them, and Jo worried they’d be hopelessly lost in moments if they moved forward. Her eyes and nose watered profusely, blurring the risers into a hazy obstacle.

Cora gasped and coughed, keeping a death grip on Jo’s hand. “I can’t breathe.”

The racket of splitting wood sounded from outside as the bucket brigade worked to douse the flames. How could help be so close, yet so far away? If Jo couldn’t even make it down the stairs, there was little chance of navigating the jail to reach the alley. While she knew the layout of the marshal’s office, she’d never been in the lockup.

If only she
had
been a cattle thief, Jo thought wryly.

By the time she reached the last step, her lungs burned and her eyes watered. Smoke frothed near the ceiling, forcing her to kneel and feel her way along the wall. The flames had definitely abated, but the embers burned like black tar. Time slowed as she coughed and sputtered. Heat stung her cheeks and lapped at her heels.

With renewed purpose, Jo kept low. Freeing one arm, she inched along and felt...a sturdy chair leg. She pried open her eyes and saw nothing but gray smoke. Somehow, she’d gotten them turned around.

Panic welled in her throat and she reached out a hand, searching for anything familiar. Only a few feet separated her from help—a few feet and a wall of smoke and flames.

“Help!” she called fruitlessly.

She reached out her fingers and collided with a wall of hard muscle. A strong hand looped under her arm. Desperate for an escape, Jo clutched the lifeline, then recalled the drunken cowboys who’d started this whole mess. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Marshal Cain,” a husky voice reassured her.

He plucked Cora from her weak arms and Jo sagged against his side. For a moment she gave up on being strong and let someone else guide her.

He wrapped his arm around her waist and half dragged, half carried her toward safety. “Stay low and I’ll lead you out.”

She stilled, instinctively responding to the gentle command in his voice. Her head swam, and she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She felt as if she was suffocating, drowning in a black sea of smoke. Her legs gave way and she was floating. Heat crushed against her.

Wood splintered and suddenly cool air swept over her cheeks. She coughed and sputtered, her lungs burning. Tears streamed down her face, and her stomach lurched.

In stark contrast to the empty alley behind the building, Main Street bustled with activity. Three separate bucket brigades had formed—two lines protecting the buildings on either side of the jailhouse, and one, the largest, concentrating on the main fire.

Voices shouted and horses scuffled along the street as more people responded to the urgent clang of the church bell. Unsteady and desperate for oxygen, Jo paused in wonder.

Her thoughts cleared a notch and she frantically searched the growing crowd. “Cora?” she shouted over the din.

Garrett had been holding her and now his arms were empty.

“She’s fine. You blacked out for a minute. The doc’s checking her over. You’re both fine.”

“Here’s water for her,” a voice spoke.

A cup was pressed against her lips, and Jo greedily sucked down the soothing liquid.

“Not too fast,” Marshal Cain cautioned. “Cora is fine, but you seem to have taken the worst of the smoke.”

Her stomach churned, and she weakly shoved the water aside. “Enough,” she croaked, her throat raw. Despite all the commotion surrounding her, she needed the marshal’s attention. “I couldn’t open the door.”

Garrett muttered something beneath his breath. “It’s the lock. It sticks sometimes. You twist it to the left. I never thought to tell you...”

“I’m sorry. I panicked.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. We’ll talk about this later,” Garrett replied, his voice soothing. “Did you see what started the fire?”

“Someone tossed a full whiskey bottle with a lit rag stuffed in the neck through the window.”

“Who?” he asked sharply.

“I don’t know. Some cowboys. They lobbed a brick first. I went downstairs to check on the noise.”

“You should have stayed safe,” he chastised, though his kind eyes blunted the rebuke.

The dirt-packed street waved like a mirage on a sultry summer day. Jo didn’t know if it was the heat from the fire or her swimming head. “There were men and horses. Three of them. They ran down the street shouting and calling, then one of them threw the bottle.”

“Three you say?”

The world kicked and bucked and Jo swallowed hard. “I think so. Maybe four. I don’t remember.”

Regret flickered in his gaze. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.”

“What else could you have done?” Jo questioned quietly.

He wearily rubbed his face. “I should have been there for you two.”

“Don’t blame yourself. It could have been anybody...” Her voice trailed off. Her thoughts scattered and her tongue grew thick and uncooperative.

She stared at the night sky, her gaze focused on the jagged edge of the half moon.

A gentle hand brushed the hair from her forehead. “Close your eyes. We can talk later. After you’ve rested.”

“No.” Jo struggled, unable to sit upright. “We should help.”

The bucket brigade kept a steady stream of water traveling from the well, and the smoke had abated. The two lines keeping watch over the building on either side had broken apart and people milled around.

The mood of the crowd shifted, and Jo’s ears buzzed. The townsfolk stared at her and the marshal. Hands cupped ears and Jo felt as if she was watching a game of secrets on the playground. One person whispering a phrase to another until the words ended up jumbled and unrecognizable from misquotes. A loud whisper caught her attention.
He pulled her and Cora from the jailhouse. Saw him rush in with my own eyes, then not a minute later, out they came.

Jo moaned and clutched her head
.
What must people be thinking? What speculation was running rampant in the crowd? Tight knots of townspeople formed as the work of putting out the fire lessened. How in the name of little green apples was she going to talk her way out of this one? When her pa found out she’d been caught in the jailhouse after midnight, there’d be a reckoning. She might not live at home, but she was still a McCoy.