The Inheritance (22 page)

“Clara’s dress is dirty like mine, huh?” She held the doll right in front of his face.

Wyatt paused, unable to see it clearly. Easily supporting Emma’s weight, he took Clara and did his best to wipe the dirt and mud from the doll’s dress and its once-yellow strands of hair. His efforts only made a bigger mess, but Emma’s smile said she was grateful.

“She likes you.” Emma put a hand to his cheek, then frowned. “Your face is itchy.”

Knowing what she meant, he laughed and rubbed his stubbled jaw. He’d bathed and shaved last night in preparation for church this morning, half hoping he might see McKenna and Emma there. But they hadn’t attended. “My face is itchy, huh?”

She squeezed his cheek in response, and he made a chomping noise, pretending he was trying to bite her. She pulled her hand back, giggling. Instinctively, he hugged her close and she laid her head on his shoulder. Something deep inside gave way. This is what it would have been like if his precious little Bethany had lived.

He rubbed Emma’s back, taking on fresh pain as he glimpsed a fragment of what he’d been denied by the deaths of his wife and infant daughter so many years ago.

“Here, you can carry her.” Emma tried to stuff Clara into his outer vest pocket, but the doll wouldn’t fit.

Wyatt tucked her inside his vest instead and positioned its scraggly yarn head to poke out over the edge, hoping it would draw a smile. Which it did.

Carrying her, he walked to the end of the street and looked both ways. No sign of McKenna. He’d taken a handful of steps when he heard Emma’s name being called frantically from somewhere behind him.

He turned back in the opposite direction and no sooner had he and Emma rounded the corner than he spotted McKenna Ashford at the far end of the street. Her back was to him.

He called her name, and she slowly turned. Then she gathered her skirts and ran.

“Emma Grace Talbot! Where did you go?”

Out of breath from running, McKenna pulled Emma from Wyatt Caradon’s arms and crushed the child close, relief coursing through her. Grateful Emma was safe, she also had the overwhelming urge to spank the child’s bottom. “I told you to stay right there! That means you’re not supposed to wander off!”

She inhaled the familiar scent of Emma’s hair—along with something not so fragrant—and felt her pulse begin to slow. She drew back to inspect Emma closer. Other than being slathered in muck and sporting a bruised knee, she appeared to be all right.

Emma’s lower lip trembled. “I’m sorry, Aunt Kenny.” She blinked and pooled tears spilled over. “I didn’t mean to lose you.”

McKenna hugged her again, and saw only Janie’s face.
I’m
sorry. I’m so sorry, Janie . . .

“I found her a couple of streets over, Miss Ashford. She took a spill, but she seems to be fine now.”

“Thank you, Marshal Caradon,” she said, forcing her gaze upward. Not that she didn’t want to look at him. She did. She just didn’t relish seeing herself through his eyes at the moment— the woman who’d lost Janie Talbot’s daughter.

A moment ago, when she’d glanced down the street to see Emma, the invisible hand gripping her heart had suddenly loosened its hold. But when she’d recognized the man holding Emma—and when he’d called her by her first name—her heart had done something altogether different. Something pleasant— and wholly unsettling.

“You’re back in town . . . I see.”

A slow smile tipped one side of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am, I am. But don’t let that upset you. I’ll be leaving come morning.”

She laughed and it came out high-pitched and telling. “Well, thank you, Marshal, again. I’m so grateful you found her.” She cradled the back of Emma’s head and brought their foreheads together. Emma pressed a kiss to her lips and McKenna laughed again, surprised, in a good way.

Aware of Wyatt peering past her, she turned to see Mei making her way down the street. Her steps seemed hobbled, and worry etched her features.

McKenna met her halfway. Wyatt followed.

“Emma?” Mei said, drawing closer, her hand outstretched.

McKenna squeezed it briefly then nodded toward Emma, still in her arms. “She’s all right. Marshal Caradon found her.” She gestured to Wyatt. “Marshal Wyatt Caradon . . . please meet my friend, Chin Mei.”

Wyatt tipped his hat. “Pleasure to meet you, Chin Mei.”

Mei bowed and when she straightened, McKenna noticed the hair on her forehead was damp with perspiration. Mei briefly closed her eyes. It was warm out, but— “Mei, are you all right?”

Mei nodded. “I . . .” She swallowed. “Fine.” She glanced in the direction of the boardwalk.

“Why don’t you sit down over here for a minute, ma’am.” Wyatt held out his arm.

Surprisingly, Mei slipped her hand through.

McKenna caught the look Wyatt tossed her and followed them to the steps. Mei sat, wincing as she did. Her skirt rose slightly and before she tugged it down, McKenna noticed her shoes. The same pair she’d been wearing before. Pretty blue slippers made of embroidered silk. Tiny, and so pointed.

McKenna studied them closer. The shoes couldn’t have been more than four inches in length! How had she not noticed that before? And how could Mei walk in them? She was a petite woman, but surely her feet were longer than that.

“How far did you and Mei walk just now?” Wyatt asked.

“Three streets over . . . that way.” McKenna motioned.

His attention hovered on Mei, whose head was lowered. “If
you’ll wait here, I’ll get my horse from the livery and take you back.”

Not understanding his offer, McKenna started to protest. But his pointed nod toward Mei kept her from it. “Oh . . . yes.” She looked at Mei. “Get your horse, Marshal. That would be very—”

“I . . . fine.” Mei slowly stood, her smile tremulous. Apparently she’d understood enough of their exchange to object, in her own gentle way. “I . . . fine,” she insisted, and started down the street, hobbling.

McKenna didn’t know what else to do other than to follow. Wyatt fell in step beside Mei. Their progress was slow. They reached the end of the street and when McKenna glanced at Mei, she found her face ashen, her delicate jaw clenched tight.

Mei paused and blinked, then her eyes stayed closed.

“Wyatt—” McKenna said, but he was already there.

He caught Mei as she went limp. He lifted her in his arms and her head dipped forward against his chest. McKenna moved to pull Mei’s skirt down for modesty’s sake and noticed one of her blue slippers on the ground.

She bent to pick it up and saw Mei’s foot. She stilled. And felt sick inside.
Oh . . . what had happen
— “Can you put her shoe back on?” Wyatt asked.

“Have you seen her foot?”

Wyatt nodded. “They’re both like that.”

“But . . . wh–what happened?”

“Let’s just get her shoe back on. Quick. I’ll explain later.”

McKenna did as he asked, a dozen questions begging to be asked. But those questions all disappeared when she looked up and saw the young Chinaman storming toward them.

TWENTY

F
ury darkened the Chinese man’s face, and Wyatt quickly gathered that Chin Mei somehow belonged to this man. Clearly the man was none too pleased with either Mei wandering off, or with seeing another man holding her. Either way, Wyatt’s dealings with Chinese men in the past told him this situation would call for delicate negotiation.

“Don’t worry, I’ll speak with him,” McKenna said and took the lead.

Wyatt tried to stop her. “No, McKenna, don’t—”

“My name is McKenna Ashford, sir.” She moved into the man’s path, hands lifted in a halting gesture. “Mei fainted a moment ago, and we’re—”

Dark eyes fierce, the man plowed right past her—which was preferable to his plowing
through
her, as Wyatt half expected. The man’s attention was fixed on Mei.

Wyatt stopped and secured his hold on Mei, in case the fellow tried to deck him for some reason. He’d seen the damage a man of such a stocky build could inflict, especially when the fellow was properly riled. People who didn’t know better gauged a Chinese man’s strength on his stature alone—a crucial miscalculation.

The man stopped, jaw tightly clenched, cheeks puffing out with each labored breath as he stared up. He spoke rapidly in Cantonese, his voice low, as Wyatt expected. In all his dealings with the Chinese, never once had a voice been raised to him.

But Wyatt couldn’t get a handle on anything he’d said. He’d learned a few words and phrases of Cantonese years ago when the railroad was being built. Just enough to help him investigate some complaints made against the Union Pacific. But there was one word he always made a point to learn when interacting with people who spoke in a different tongue. He dredged that word from memory, hoping his pronunciation and voice inflection weren’t too rusty. Those things made such a crucial difference in this dialect.

“
Pengyou
,” he said, and waited.

The man’s eyes narrowed but his scowl remained.

“
Pengyou
,” Wyatt tried again, more gently this time, accompanied by a brief bow of his head. He hoped he was saying what he thought he was saying—“
friend
”—and not something offensive to the man or his family.

“What are you say—”

“Not now, McKenna.” Wyatt kept his focus on the man, sensing McKenna’s frustration beside him. He guessed she didn’t like being told what to do, or what not to do. But Chinese men didn’t take kindly to assertive women. Nor did he, usually. But he was willing to make an exception in this case.

After sizing him up, the man spoke again, his tone still hard but a shade less antagonistic.

Wyatt caught a couple of the Cantonese words this time, and he stepped forward. The man took Mei from him, holding her in his arms, but not in an overly gentle way. Mei murmured something unintelligible and tried to lift her head, with little success. The man spoke to her, his voice hushed but halting. If Wyatt didn’t know better, he’d think the man was angry with her.

But the subtle manner in which he held her told a different story. In his experience, people of this culture rarely showed affection in public, other than women and children. And even those occasions had been infrequent.

“I’m fairly sure this is her husband,” he whispered to McKenna. “And please, whatever you do . . .” He said it so only she could hear, practically mouthing the words. “Don’t say anything about her feet.”

She nodded, but her frown expressed her true feelings about his request. Wyatt sensed something familiar about her reaction, and then it hit him—it was the same obstinate frown he’d seen from Emma on occasion.

Mei stirred and raised her head, blinking. “Li . . .” She slipped her arms around the man’s neck and hugged him tight. “
Duyum jeh
,” she said, repeating the phrase softly. Then she whispered something Wyatt couldn’t understand.

The man tightened his hold on Mei, then focused on Wyatt and spoke again.

Wyatt thought he caught the Chinese word
jia
—home— somewhere in all he’d said, but couldn’t be certain. He raised his hand in a parting gesture, and to show he harbored no ill feelings.

But the man didn’t leave. He said something else and craned his neck toward the street behind him.