The Inheritance (10 page)

“I saw you coming down the hill just now, Marshal. Please . . .” Her gaze darted to the bundle in his arms and quickly away, as though not wanting to acknowledge it. “I prefer that Emma not see this. She’s already upset enough with having to say good-bye all over again to—”

“Mr. Wyatt?”

The small, hollow voice drew his attention, and he spotted Emma standing in the doorway. She’d been crying, as Miss Ashford had alluded, and when she ran full out toward him, Wyatt didn’t know what else to do. Abiding by Miss Ashford’s wishes—or at least trying to—he deftly placed the infant in her arms and bent to
capture Emma in a hug. The girl’s tiny arms came around his neck and felt better than anything he could remember in a long time.

He drew back and gently chucked her beneath the chin. “How are you today, Miss Emma?” He regretted the question as soon as it was out.

Her pretty face crumpled, and she snuggled close again.

He smoothed a hand over her back and chanced a look at Miss Ashford—whose arms were stiff with the bundle and whose expression alternated between disbelief and brokenness.

The front door opened. When he saw the coffin the men were carrying in, he moved to a side window and tried to interest Emma in what was peering out from one of his saddlebags— something he’d seen while settling up with the mercantile owner for the blanket. “Can you see it right there? Sticking out at the corner?”

Her posture went straighter. She sniffed and wiped her nose. “Can we go see it, Mr. Wyatt?”

“Emma, please address him as Marshal Caradon,” Miss Ashford said from somewhere behind them.

Emma looked back and threw Miss Ashford a frown that communicated plenty.

Thinking that was a mouthful of a name for a child Emma’s age, Wyatt kept the opinion to himself. They’d cross that later, if need be. “Let’s ask Miss Ashford if she minds if we go outside for a minute.”

He turned to find Dr. Foster holding the infant and quietly giving the pallbearers instruction on how things would proceed. Wyatt approached Miss Ashford. “Would you mind if I take Emma outside, ma’am? We won’t go wandering.”

Relief eased some of the tension in her face and hinted at forgiveness for what he’d done moments earlier. “I’d be most appreciative, Marshal. Thank you.”

Outside, a crowd of people had already gathered, and he saw three more wagons heading down the rutted path. The Talbots must have been well loved. Several of the women turned his way as he carried Emma down the stairs, but none approached.

His horse was tethered by the barn, and he carried Emma to it and held her close enough so she could pluck the surprise from his saddlebag.

“Is it mine?” she asked.

“It is.”

She beamed and clutched the rag doll tight against her chest. “Her name’s gonna be Clara.”

“Sounds like a good name to me.” He shook the rag doll’s limp arm. “Nice to meet you, Clara.” That drew a giggle from Emma.

The crowd across the way quieted, and Wyatt turned to see them filing in small groups up the porch stairs and into the home. Miss Ashford stood inside the doorway, greeting people. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she held herself with grace and poise, despite the difficult task.

A short while later, everyone gathered out front by the porch again. The pastor led the way down the steps with the pallbearers following behind him with the closed coffin. Miss Ashford fell into step, but when she came close to take Emma’s hand, the child wouldn’t relinquish her hold on him. Not wanting to draw more attention to the child’s reluctance, Wyatt guided Emma to walk beside Miss Ashford, though the little girl still wouldn’t take hold of her hand.

Nor did she throughout the funeral, or as they walked back to the cabin after the graveside service.

Most folks had brought a dish of some sort to share, and the kitchen table was laden with meats and vegetables and pies. Emma gravitated mainly toward the desserts while, from what he could see, Miss Ashford managed a meager plateful that one of the women had prepared for her.

An hour later, nearly everyone was gone except for Dr. Foster, a handful of women who were cleaning up the kitchen, and a conspicuously dressed gentleman who’d arrived within the last half hour, well after the funeral. He wore a well-tailored suit and stood off to the side. Judging from the way he kept watching Miss Ashford, Wyatt presumed he was waiting for an opportunity to speak with her.

Curious, and feeling unwarranted protectiveness, Wyatt made his way across the front room to join them when he spotted Robert through a window, and paused. Still a good distance away, the boy was walking down the road toward the homestead, as though returning from town. Only then did Wyatt realize he hadn’t seen Robert yet that day. He’d assumed he’d been around. But now that he thought of it, he couldn’t remember seeing Robert at the gravesite either. He sighed and turned away, well able to imagine what Miss Ashford’s response to this would be.

Dr. Foster was speaking with the ladies in the kitchen, and Emma was devouring yet another cookie, but Miss Ashford was nowhere to be seen.

“Please, Miss Ashford, let me apologize again for the abysmal timing of my visit.”

The sound of a man’s voice drew Wyatt back to the open window. Peering out, he spotted Miss Ashford and the well-suited gentleman standing off to the side. Conscience wrestling with honor, Wyatt glanced around to make sure no one was watching him. He knew he should move away, but concern— and curiosity—grounded him there.

“I accept your apology, Mr. Billings. However, the continuance of this conversation today is inappropriate. And untoward, I might add.”

“I assure you, ma’am, I wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t imperative that I speak with you immediately. I’ve been advised, ma’am, that Mrs. Talbot bequeathed to you her—”

“I give you my word, Mr. Billings”—McKenna’s tone brooked no argument—“that I’ll stop by your office at my first opportunity to speak with you about this, sir. But for now, I’m going to have to bid you good day.”

Wyatt watched the man open his mouth as though considering whether to say something further, then clamp it shut again. Telling from the spark igniting Miss Ashford’s glare as she strode back to the cabin, the fellow had made a wise choice.

Wyatt purposefully waited around another hour until the other guests had left, including Dr. Foster. He told himself it was silly, loitering like this, but the next morning would see him gone again, and he couldn’t set aside the urge to talk with Miss Ashford one last time. And to help her, if she needed it.

“You did well today, ma’am,” he said, standing beside her on the porch. “I think your cousin would’ve been proud.”

Her eyes darted to his then away again. “Thank you, Marshal.” Fatigue softened her voice. “I appreciate that, and how you helped with Emma.”

“It was my pleasure.” He briefly glanced behind them to see Emma playing with the rag doll, Clara, on the rug inside the doorway. The child had yet to warm up to Miss Ashford, and he got the feeling they might have a rough road ahead of them. “I’m glad our paths crossed, ma’am.”

Miss Ashford looked at him but said nothing.

A moment passed, and he confined his gaze to the plank board beneath his left boot. It didn’t make sense. How could he face down a criminal without a lick of apprehension, and yet standing here next to this woman conjured up all sorts of unease inside him?

He cleared his throat. “I think you and your brother will take to Copper Creek real well. It’s a nice town.”

She nodded, bowing her head. “I hope so.”

“Where did you say you came from?”

The chirrup of crickets filled the silence.

“A town in Missouri.”

He snuck a look at her.
A town
. . . Interesting way to phrase it. “What brought you and Robert all the way out here? I mean, that’s quite a ways to travel, even with the railroad in.”

That brought her head up, and he sensed her guard rise with it.

“Please forgive me, Marshal, but it’s late and I need to get Emma to bed. I thank you, again, for all you’ve done for us.”

Wyatt recognized a dismissal when he heard one.
He also recognized a deliberate change in topic. She turned to go.

“If there’s anything else I can help with before I head out tomorrow, ma’am, I’d be obliged to. All you’d have to do is say the word.”

She stilled and looked back. “So you’re leaving town?”

The relief in her voice, in her face, quickly set things in the proper light for him, and told him his waiting around to speak with her had indeed been foolhardy, as had his schoolboy notions, which his gut had confirmed earlier. If only he would’ve listened.

TEN

W
yatt led his horse from the stall, dreading not only the days ahead, but this one specifically. Another full day in the saddle, with a prisoner in tow. But he wanted to make Denver by late afternoon. The livery was quiet this early. The newly risen sun sneaked through crevices in the plank wood walls and stretched shy, thread-width beams of light across the dimly lit interior.

He took in a breath and let it out slowly. Sometimes the life he’d chosen grew burdensome, like a woolen mantle in the dead of summer. Yet there were moments—like last evening, standing on the front porch of the Talbots’ cabin with Miss McKenna Ashford—when he almost believed he could leave everything behind him and start all over again. Almost.

“Mornin’, Marshal.”

Surprised at the voice behind him, Wyatt turned. “Morning, Trenton. You’re up awfully early.”

“No choice. Got more work to do than I can keep up with.” Yawning, the livery owner slipped on a soiled apron and reached for an iron poker beside the forge. “Let me bring this fire back to life and I’ll be right with you.” He stretched his thick shoulders and rolled his head from side to side, sighing as he did.

Wyatt silently commiserated. He, too, had more work than he knew what to do with, and thinking about escorting the prisoner today wearied him. But he was already a day late in delivering Ben Slater to stand trial for murder, what with staying to attend the funeral.

He arranged a blanket across the back of his horse and reached for his saddle. He’d tried to get Miss Ashford to open up to him, and he still wanted to know who that Billings fella was, and what he’d said to her that had upset her so. A casual question to the livery owner could answer the first of those questions. Casey Trenton knew everyone in this town. Then again, it wasn’t any of Wyatt’s business. Miss Ashford had made that perfectly clear last night.

He saddled the mare and cinched the leather straps, careful not to overtighten. Miss Ashford’s tight-lipped manner raised his natural curiosity. She wasn’t much for talking, unlike the majority of women he’d known in his life.

Which could describe McKenna Ashford on several counts.

It had been ages since he’d noticed—
really
noticed—a woman. Seven years, in fact. But standing by the grave yesterday afternoon, doing his best to listen to what the pastor was saying, his attention had repeatedly been drawn to Miss Ashford. And in the space of a breath, his thoughts had skimmed the years and had landed upon a well-worn page of his life, one dog-eared from handling, tattered around the edges. Sort of like him. It was a page from a chapter he’d been certain would end up defining him forever.

That was, until the past few days—when he’d been given reason to rethink otherwise. The funny thing was . . . the object of his interest didn’t seem to have the least interest in him. Or if she did, she was doing an awful good job of hiding it. But that was for the best, he knew. He wasn’t in a place to commit himself to a woman. His decision to work for the U.S. Marshals Service had seen to that. Sometimes the loneliness he felt occasionally got the better of him, like it had last night. But he wouldn’t let that happen again.

He adjusted the blanket on the horse to compensate for a worn place on his saddle, not wanting to cause the mare any discomfort. This saddle had served him well but would need to be replaced soon. He smoothed a hand over the mare’s withers, admiring Casey Trenton’s hand with a brush. The mare’s coat glistened.

“You’re headin’ out again, I take it?”