The Inheritance (13 page)

With a sigh, she gave Patch a gentle nudge, then sharply reined in. “Marshal Caradon!”

There he was,
directly in her path, astride his mare. She’d nearly run into him. The prisoner from the other night Slater, if she remembered correctly—was on horseback behind him, bound at the wrists, oddly stoic. A fresh bruise marked his right cheek, and she could well imagine who had administered it.

Gripping the reins to both mounts, Caradon lightly touched the rim of his hat, his expression inscrutable. “Morning, Miss Ashford.”

If ever someone’s gaze felt intimate, his did. She felt as if she could read his thoughts, and a warm blush crept from her chest up into her face. It had been a long time since she’d welcomed a man’s attention, much less encouraged it. She couldn’t deny her attraction to him. And though she’d done her best to hide it in recent days, she had the feeling he knew. Perhaps if circumstances were different, if she didn’t have the responsibilities she had, if he didn’t work for the U.S. Marshals Office, she might have been more open to the idea. But as it was, she was relieved he wasn’t staying in Copper Creek.

“You’re leaving town, Marshal Caradon?”

His eyes took on a gleam. “No need to sound so broken up over it, ma’am.”

Slightly embarrassed at her transparency, she attempted to cover it with a laugh. “Not at all. I was simply making an observation.”

Wordless, his look said,
Sure you were.

Tugging at the rope encircling his wrists, Slater kept quiet. Still, McKenna sensed a danger about him and hoped Caradon would be careful. Then again, looking at Marshal Caradon and at the bruise purpling Slater’s right cheek, Slater would do well to be on his best behavior.

Her mare sidestepped and whinnied. McKenna tightened her grip on the reins. “Well, I—”

“Well, I—”

She and Caradon had spoken at the same time, and she smiled.

His eyes narrowed the slightest bit and his slow-coming smile made it impossible for her to swallow without deliberate concentration. Marshal Wyatt Caradon was a man women noticed, as evidenced by the number of females staring at him as they passed by on the boardwalk. He had a commanding presence about him that went beyond his build or his badge. And having spent time with him, McKenna suspected he was as good-natured a man as he was handsome. But even that wasn’t enough to tempt her.

Even good-natured men made mistakes that others ended up paying for. Sometimes for a lifetime.

“Well, I’d better be going,” she said. “I have an appointment this morning. Do take care of yourself, Marshal Caradon.”

“You do the same . . . Miss Ashford.” He ran a hand along his unshaven jaw, his gaze appraising. “And tell that sweet little Emma I said to be good.”

Responding to his tender mention of the child, McKenna nodded and took her leave, eager to complete her business with Mr. Billings and to relieve Robert of Emma. Or Emma of Robert, depending on how they were getting along.

As she rode on down the street, she sensed Caradon’s gaze following her.

When she reached the bank building and dismounted, she chanced a backward look in time to see him rounding the corner. His back to her, she watched him go and felt a tug deep inside her, in a place long ago locked away and unaccustomed to intrusion. A place where she used to imagine what it would be like to be loved by a man who would always be there. Who would keep his promises, no matter what. And who would do as he said he would.

After a long moment, she turned toward the bank, torn between her promise to meet with Mr. Billings and her desire to ride like the wind back to the cabin. All she knew was that the banker had some question about Janie bequeathing her the ranch. At least that’s what she’d gleaned from their brief encounter following the funeral.

She stared up at the building. She hadn’t always been so uncomfortable around bankers, but her experiences in St. Joseph—with Robert—had taught her to be.

The door to the bank opened.

“Miss Ashford, how kind of you to stop by this morning.” Mr. Billings stepped outside, a ready smile in place. “Please, come right in.”

She tethered her horse, climbed the steps, and accepted his outstretched hand as she crossed the threshold, but quickly let go once inside. His greeting her at the door couldn’t be a good sign. It meant he’d been watching for her.

He gestured. “Let’s talk in my office. We’ll have more privacy there.”

Following him, McKenna wondered if she was only imagining the stares from the other bank employees. Three in all, two sat behind a teller counter and one at a desk outside of Mr. Billings’ office, and all of their gazes followed her.

“Good morning,” she said to each, smiling as she passed.

Their subdued reactions only deepened her angst, and as Mr. Billings closed the office door, his expression dour, she had the distinct impression they knew something she didn’t. But soon would.

TWELVE

M
r. Billings motioned for McKenna to sit in a chair opposite his desk. “May I offer you some refreshment, Miss Ashford? Perhaps a cup of tea? Or coffee? My secretary, Miss Thomas, would be happy to get it for you.”

McKenna’s throat was parched, but the knot in her stomach prevented her from accepting. “No . . . thank you. I’m fine.” Being back in a bank, and in the bank manager’s office specifically, prodded memories best left undisturbed.

Billings’s office smelled of fine aged leather, expensive cigars, and money. Reminders to her that she was not from that same world. Just as Vince and Janie hadn’t been. She smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, conscious of the dress she’d chosen that morning—a rich blue frock with lace along the bodice and sleeve cuffs. It was her best, though it fit more loosely around the waist than when she’d worn it last.

Mr. Billings seated himself behind his desk and pulled open a large side drawer. He withdrew a file and placed it between them on the desk. With a discreet glance, McKenna tried to read what was scribbled on the edge, and failed.

“May I offer my condolences again, Miss Ashford, on the passing of your cousin and her husband. And my deepest apologies for coming at such an inopportune time yesterday afternoon.”

Not yet convinced of his sincerity—or his motives—McKenna kept her responses courteous but brief. “I appreciate that, Mr. Billings. Thank you.”

The silence lengthened, and she sensed he was waiting for her to comment further. Unwilling, she attempted a pleasant countenance and hoped it masked her unease.

“I realize you’re busy, Miss Ashford, and I appreciate your time. So I won’t claim more of it than is needed.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I’ve spoken with Dr. Foster, and he’s agreed to act as a witness on your behalf. He confirmed that Mrs. Talbot did indeed bequeath to you the homestead, the ranch, the cattle, everything that belonged to her and her husband. As well as entrusting to you the guardianship of their only child, Emma.”

It took a few seconds for what he’d said to sink in.

He wasn’t calling her here to contest anything. He was calling her here to validate Janie’s last wishes! “That’s correct, Mr. Billings.” Relief urged her guard lower. “I—I’m so glad you spoke with Dr. Foster. Thank you for doing that.”

“My pleasure, Miss Ashford.” His smile was short-lived and a paternal look moved in behind it. “In cases such as these, however, where there’s no written last will and testament, matters can sometimes get . . . complicated. But since Dr. Foster was present and there are no living relatives of whom we’re aware . . .” He paused. “The Talbots had no other relatives that you know
of, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. That’s correct. Mrs. Talbot was an only child, as was her husband, as she told me. And both of their sets of parents are deceased.”

“Very good,” he whispered more to himself, making notes. “I’ll file the appropriate paperwork. That makes this part of the transition much easier for everyone involved.”

Thinking his manner somewhat callused, it crossed her mind to tell him that the
transition
didn’t feel very easy at the moment, but she refrained.

“If you’ll permit me, Miss Ashford, I’ll come directly to the point.”

She felt a check in her spirit.

“I leave tomorrow on the stage to Denver where, on Monday morning, I must give an account to our board of directors about this bank’s current holdings—Mr. and Mrs. Vince Talbot’s account being among those holdings, of course.”

Listening to him, watching him up close, McKenna tried to pinpoint what it was about him that bothered her. And it finally became clear.

Billings was a much younger man than she’d initially judged him to be. Five years her senior, at most. But his formal manner—a trait she was certain he’d worked to cultivate—lent him an older, more mature first impression. And she might have been convinced too, if not for the single bead of sweat trailing down his left temple.

She found the discovery both revealing—and disturbing.

“Our bank has held the Talbots’ account since they first moved here, and we’ve long appreciated their business. They were both fine people, Miss Ashford, and well respected in this community. I think it’s important for you to understand that, especially at this juncture.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s most kind.”

“And even though there’s another lending institution in town, a smaller one”—his tone held the slightest condescension— “Mr. Talbot entrusted us with his venture, and we were very optimistic about its success.”

So
that’s
what this meeting was about. Billings was concerned about her keeping Vince and Janie’s account—now
her
account— with his bank. Relaxing, she was eager to allay his misperception. “Let me assure you, Mr. Billings, I have no intention of withdrawing any of the Talbots’ funds from your bank. My cousin didn’t have occasion to brief me on their holdings, but rest easy . . . I’ll only be withdrawing funds as they’re needed to care for their daughter, Emma, and for operating the ranch. To which I’m committed to continue building, as the Talbots would have wanted.”

She read surprise in his features. Surely he didn’t think her some kind of gold digger come West only to claim the family fortune and leave. “In fact, after our meeting today, I plan to post an advertisement for a ranch hand to assist with the cattle. And my brother and I have each secured employment as well.” Surely that bolstered her level of commitment in his eyes. “Come fall, we’ll take the cattle to market, at which time I have every hope of returning with a sizable deposit. Of course,” she said, inclining her head, “I’ll entrust those funds to your fine institution.”

Not sure what she expected his reaction to be, she
did
expect at least some enthusiasm. Yet Mr. Billings appeared unimpressed. He was staring at her, but she got the peculiar feeling he wasn’t hearing anything she’d said. “Forgive me, Mr. Billings. But . . . have I spoken out of turn?”

His smile looked forced and ill-fitted. “You’re new to Copper Creek, Miss Ashford. I realize that, and . . .” He sighed, his gaze suddenly captive to his desk. “I wish fate had allowed us more time to work out this situation. But, as it is . . .”

He sat straighter in his fine leather chair and clasped his hands before him on the desk. Suddenly he more resembled a boy trying to fill out his father’s suit than a grown man in charge of a bank. Regardless, he held her future in his hands, pasty white and thin-fingered as they were.

“Last summer, ma’am, Vince Talbot took out a second mortgage on his ranch to pay for the cattle he purchased. He experienced some setbacks in the fall. Several, in fact, and eventually fell into arrears on his loan payments.”

A sinking sense of déjà vu settled inside her. “Fell into arrears?”

“Yes, ma’am. More simply put, that means that he—”

“Fell behind in his payments. Yes, I’m familiar with the terminology.” More familiar than he knew. Then it struck her—could Mr. Billings have wired the bank in St. Joseph and attained her financial history? That information was supposed to remain private, but she hadn’t left St. Joseph in the best of standing. And Robert’s behavior the day their home and family furniture was auctioned off hadn’t helped any.

She needed to word her responses carefully. No need to call attention to something that wasn’t an issue—yet. “Exactly how far behind were the Talbots in their payments, Mr. Billings?”