The Inheritance (11 page)

Trenton’s question drew Wyatt back. “Yes, sir. And I need that gelding I brought in three nights ago, if he’s fit to ride.”

“He is. I’ll get him for you.”

“Much obliged. And figure up what I owe you for them both.” Wyatt tied his horse out front, grinning when the mare nudged him in the shoulder. “What’re you wanting this morning, Whiskey?” Knowing good and well what the animal wanted, he scrubbed his knuckles gently across the amber patch between her eyes and fed her one of the apple pieces tucked in his shirt pocket. “Ready for the trail again?” She gave an opinionated snort, and he laughed. His feelings exactly.

“Here you go.” Trenton handed him the reins to the gelding. “How does fifty cents sound, for three days of boarding?”

“Sounds to me like you’re not charging enough.” Wyatt reached into his pocket.

“Way I figure it, the Marshals Office probably doesn’t pay you fellas near what you’re worth. And this is my way of tacking on my thanks.”

Holding out a dollar, Wyatt shook his head when Trenton tried to offer him change. “I appreciate your service, Trenton. Let’s leave it at that.” He turned to go—when something on a workbench caught his attention.

As though reading his thoughts, Trenton motioned toward the saddle. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

“May I?” At his nod, Wyatt ran his hand over the supple leather, admiring the craftsmanship and detail. “Is this your work, sir?”

Trenton laughed. “Not hardly. I don’t have the patience for such things, or the know-how. I stick to bridles and reins, the easy stuff. Fella back East sent this to me as a sample of his work.”

“Is it for sale?”

“You’re only the fourth person who’s asked me that. Wish I could say yes, but I’m afraid it’s already spoken for. Sold it the first day I got it.”

Wyatt ran a hand along the saddle’s leather skirts, which were considerably larger than on the one he owned. That meant more comfort on longer rides, for both horse and rider. The leatherwork was intricate too. The stitches precise and evenly spaced. “What does something like this go for?”

Trenton told him, and Wyatt whistled low.

“Course . . .” Trenton grinned. “That accounts for my percentage and for demand bein’ so high. I could probably do a mite better for a man of the law.”

“Well, I’d like to buy one, if you can arrange that for me. I’ll pay for it in advance.” Wyatt reached inside his duster.

“Keep your money for now. Fella who made this was supposed to come see me this week, but hasn’t yet. If he shows and if he’s willin’, I’m hiring him on the spot. No questions asked.”

“As well you should.” Wyatt admired the saddle one last time. “Or he’ll open up shop two doors down and you can kiss that percentage of yours good-bye.”

“Don’t I know it!” Trenton snorted. “If he turns up, I’ll get your order in and you can pick up the saddle when you’re through here next. Good to see you again, Marshal.”

Wyatt tipped his hat and swung into the saddle.

As he guided Whiskey through town toward the jail, the gelding in tow, he studied the mountains towering over the waking community of Copper Creek. Bathed in hues of purple gray, the rocky range appeared somehow softer, almost welcoming, in the morning light. But he knew better. These mountains could be brutal. Especially
to someone who didn’t know them.

An elderly Chinaman passing him on the street met his gaze. A young woman accompanied him, her steps short and stuttered, yet graceful and demure. Wyatt nodded in greeting and tipped his hat.

Her gaze barely brushed his before she bowed her head again.

His attention went to her feet, and he couldn’t help but wince. In his travels out West, he’d had opportunity to make acquaintances with people of Chinese ancestry. Their traditions were hardly familiar to him, but there was one custom he had seen. And though he found the people themselves to be hardworking and gracious, this particular custom—foot binding, the one imposed on the young woman who’d just passed— seemed barbaric.

The jail came into view up ahead, and he heaved an audible sigh. He’d enjoyed his job as U.S. Marshal at first, but after years of being on the trail, enforcing justice by pursuing the unjust, this nomadic way of life had left a mark on him. And it wasn’t one he necessarily liked. He needed to find a way to reconnect with his roots.

The unexpected thought lingered, then swiftly took hold.

He should make a trip home again. Soon. It would do him good. It’d been three years since he’d last visited San Antonio. Too long. Maybe this fall he’d make his way there to see his parents again, his younger sisters, spend some time sorting out his thoughts, deciding what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. Thirty-two wasn’t exactly old, but more and more he realized it wasn’t young either.

He didn’t dread returning home anymore, not like he had in years past. The memories there that once haunted him had finally been laid to rest—first, seven years ago when he’d buried his sweet Caroline and their precious daughter Bethany in the cemetery behind the family ranch. And in more recent months, when he’d finally managed to lay them both to rest, in his heart.

McKenna climbed into the saddle, arranged her skirt over her legs, and then chanced a last look behind her at the cabin. Robert and Emma stood side-by-side on the porch watching her—glaring at her was more like it—with matching scowls on their faces.

Robert’s was prompted by having been asked to watch Emma for the morning—and for everything else in his life that was wrong and that was apparently McKenna’s fault. Emma’s perpetual frown had found its place yesterday morning before the funeral. And hadn’t budged since. No matter what McKenna did or said, the child wanted nothing to do with her. Which hurt more than it probably should have.

With a final wave that neither of them returned, McKenna urged Patch, Janie’s handsome palomino, toward town, doing her best to appear confident. But when she rounded the first bend and thought of the tasks awaiting her, her fragile facade of strength slipped and her hope began to pall.

An image rose again in her mind, one she’d tried to keep at arm’s length but now filled her thoughts and crowded out her last ounce of confidence—the image of Janie with her newborn son nestled close beside her in the coffin. McKenna knew it was an image that would stay with her forever.

Marshal Caradon had been right. She hadn’t said anything to him before he’d left the previous evening, but when she’d seen Janie with her precious baby boy beside her, she’d realized that he’d done the right thing in granting Janie’s request. Yet she hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell him. Even though he’d been the last to leave.

The way he’d waited around, lingering on the porch, she almost thought he was trying to find a reason to stay. But when the questions turned to where she and her brother had moved from and their previous lives, she knew better. And got rid of him as quickly as she could. She didn’t need anyone—especially a U.S. Marshal—prying into their past.

Guests at the funeral had also plied her with questions. “
Where are you and your brother from?” “What brought you out
West?” “Do you intend to stay out here?” “Will you be seeking a
husband now that you have a daughter?”
While McKenna wanted to believe their curiosity was founded in good intention, she decided it would be best, at least for a while, if she and Robert kept more to themselves. Let the dust settle, as it were.

She wanted to make friends here but was none too eager to have new friends forsake her, and Robert, as former friends had done in St. Joseph. And she certainly didn’t need someone like Wyatt Caradon learning about Robert’s mistakes. Her brother needed a new start as much as she did, and he’d never get it with someone like Caradon watching his every move.

She didn’t need someone like Caradon in her life either. She’d had her fair share of attention from men—especially after her father’s death—an endless line of crude excuses for males set on “helping her” with the family business.

But Marshal Caradon
had
captured one little lady’s heart completely.

McKenna cut down a side street in town, wanting to avoid the group of wagons lined up at the mercantile, all the while remembering Emma’s response to him. With little prompting, the child had taken to the man. And the rag doll he’d gotten her—Clara, as Emma named her—hadn’t hurt his standing with the young girl.

McKenna didn’t begrudge Caradon’s kindness to Janie’s daughter. Not much anyway. She only wished she’d thought of getting Emma a doll herself, instead of the wooden cup and ball toy. Maybe Emma would feel differently about her now if she had. The child hadn’t cared one whit for the wooden toy, and even made a point of hugging Clara tighter while giving the cup and ball a dark stare whenever McKenna was near. Janie was right—McKenna smiled—Emma was every bit as dramatic as she had been at that age.

Spotting the mercantile ahead, she decided to stop and pick up a few staple items. Janie’s cupboards were understandably lean. The food left over from the meal following Janie’s funeral would last them for a couple of days, so they didn’t need much. After gathering some items, she checked her money purse and discreetly returned the jar of maple syrup to the shelf. That would have to wait until next time.

She settled the bill, then back outside, stuffed the items into her saddlebags and rode through the dirt-packed streets of Copper Creek until she spotted the building ahead. She dismounted and gave Patch a good rub. “Good girl,” she whispered. The palomino snorted and shook its head. Janie had raised the horse from a filly, McKenna remembered from her letters, and the animal was every bit as well-tempered as Janie had boasted.

McKenna turned and stared up at the structure. She didn’t have an appointment with the livery owner, but the moment she stepped inside, she felt at home. Smells of freshly laid straw and days-old embers bedded in the forge mingled with the scent of animals, and took her back. Back to a childhood she’d loved and a father she’d adored. Even the way Mr. Trenton arranged his tools on the wall reflected her father’s trademark neatness.

She only hoped the man possessed an open mind when it came to women working in a livery. Her father hadn’t. It had been his love for her—and her own bullheadedness—that had finally persuaded him. She doubted Casey Trenton would share a similar affection for her.

A man entered from a side door shouldering a wooden crate, a soiled apron accentuating the paunch around his middle. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

McKenna guessed him to be in his early fifties, but years of sun and hard work had left their mark in the lines of his clean-shaven face and made it difficult to be sure. He was tall and broad shouldered, and wore a gruffness about his deep-set eyes that she suspected might disappear when he smiled. Which he didn’t.

She stepped forward. “I wish to speak with the proprietor, a Mr. Casey Trenton?”

“You’re gettin’ your wish, ma’am. I’m him.” With a huff, he deposited the crate by a workbench and reached for a crowbar. He commenced to prying open the lid, never pausing.

“It’s nice to meet you, sir. I’m Miss McKenna Ashford.”
She paused, waiting for some sign of recognition at the mention of her name.

He only looked up, a single brow arching.

“I wrote to you, Mr. Trenton, about employment on my brother’s behalf and also for mys—”

“You’re the ones who sent me the saddle awhile back.” Straightening, he gestured to a nearby bench.

She followed his focus. “Oh good, I see you received it. And . . . is the workmanship acceptable to you?” His answer showed in the faint turn of his mouth, though she wouldn’t really label it a smile.

“Yes, ma’am, it is. Your brothers are real talented fellas. And I’ve got plenty of work for them, whenever they can start. The sooner, the better.” His gaze drifted beyond her. “I hope they came with you.”

It took her a moment to make sense of what he’d said. “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” She smiled, hoping to soften the correction. “I only have one brother. And yes, he’s able to start work as soon as you’d like. As am I,” she added gently, hoping her expression mirrored the seriousness of her tone.

His head tilted. A bemused look swept his face. “Beg pardon, ma’am?”

“The letter I wrote to you, Mr. Trenton, the one my cousin delivered. It requested employment for my brother and myself.”

“I remember the letter being signed by a woman, but I’m fairly sure the lady who gave it to me told me the jobs were for two men.”

McKenna gave a soft laugh. “Janie would never have done that, sir. She knew the jobs were for my brother and me.”

“I’m only tellin’ you that she listed off two names, and they both belonged to men.”

McKenna’s smile came more naturally this time. “By chance, did she use the names Robert and
Kenny
?”

“That might’ve been them. All I know is that neither was a woman’s name, I’m certain about that. I would’ve noticed right off.”

“McKenna was my mother’s maiden name, sir,” she explained. “My parents assigned it as my middle name, but I much preferred it to my given name so began using it instead—”