The Inheritance (28 page)

“What happened?” She slipped an arm around Robert’s waist and grimaced at the overwhelming stench of liquor and vomit. Truth hit her full in the face, and something broke away deep inside her. As she helped Caradon carry her brother inside, she felt herself inwardly reaching, grasping for something solid to hold on to. Yet the familiar tide of betrayal swept her out farther with each wave.

“He got into a fight. He’s pretty beat up, but . . .” Caradon paused inside the doorway. “I think he’s going to be all right.”

She threw a blanket over the couch and motioned for him to lay Robert down. Caradon did so gently, not like she would’ve been tempted to have done. Cinching her robe tighter about her, she retrieved the lamp from the kitchen table and brought it close to Robert’s face.
Oh dear God . . .

Tears welled in her throat.

Robert had come home roughed up before, but he’d never come home this bad off. Bathed in an umber glow, his face was almost unrecognizable—his left eye a narrow slit, the skin surrounding it puffy and mottled with blood pooling beneath the skin. His right eye wasn’t much better. Both sides of his face were swollen and, if she wasn’t mistaken, his nose was broken. An ache clenched her chest.

“I stopped by Doc Foster’s on the way over, ma’am, but he wasn’t in. I can ride back out for him if you think we need him.”

Something about the way Caradon used “we” stirred unexpected emotions. In their final weeks in St. Joseph, she’d handled these situations alone—when Robert would return in the wee hours of the morning, full up on whiskey and spite. Though she’d never had to carry her brother inside before. Not that she could have, even when he was younger.

“Thank you, Marshal Caradon. I appreciate you bringing him home.” She set the lamp on the side table.

Robert moaned and lifted his hand to his face.

Anger warring with concern, she gently urged his hand back down. “I’m here, Robert,” she whispered. “I’ll take care of you.”
Like I always do.
He stilled. “I’ll get you something for your pain.” She rose, wishing there were something she could take for hers.

From the pantry, she gathered clean cloths and what poultices and herbs she had on hand. A pitcher of water, a spoon, a tub of salve, and the bottle of laudanum she’d found following Janie’s death. She slipped a spoonful of the medicine through Robert’s swollen lips and glanced up at Marshal Caradon, who still stood quietly beside her.

She nodded toward the chair. “Please, have a seat.”

“I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you.”

She unbuttoned Robert’s shirt and ran her hands over his abdomen and down along the sides, checking for telltale signs of internal bleeding. His chest bore marks from the altercation, as did his back, but no swelling or deep bruising that she could see. Still, she’d want Dr. Foster to examine him to be sure. “Do you have any idea what happened? Who did this to him?”

“Yes, ma’am. I came across your brother in a gaming hall in Severance earlier tonight.”

She looked up. “Severance?”

He nodded. “It’s a mining town up the mountain about an hour north of here. Rough place. Makes Copper Creek look almost civilized. Robert said he hitched a ride on a freight wagon heading up there.”

She dabbed the blood from Robert’s face, her ministrations becoming less gentle. “Robert told me he’d be working late this evening at the livery, finishing a wagon.”

“All I can tell you, ma’am, is that he was in Severance. And he wasn’t there building any wagon. He was gambling. Drunk and mouthing off to men he had no business looking cross-eyed at, much less speaking to that way.”

Caradon’s statement sparked defensiveness inside her, but she tempered her reaction, knowing it was unwarranted. He was only telling her what happened.

His sigh drew her attention. She noticed his shirt and pants, and understood now why he hadn’t taken a seat. His clothes were covered in Robert’s vomit. She breathed in the stench again, and though her robe was clean, she felt just as soiled as these men.

“Marshal Caradon, I’m sorry. I-I didn’t realize . . . I think Vince Talbot was about your size. I’ll check the chiffarobe
when I’m finished and get you a change of clothes.”

“I’m fine for now, ma’am. I can take it, if you can.”

Touched by the kindness in his voice and in his smile, she pulled her focus back to Robert. Who was this man standing beside her, and why did he keep walking back into her life? Whatever the reason, she was thankful. Especially tonight. If he hadn’t been there to stop the fight and bring Robert home . . . She couldn’t let herself think too long about it.

She blinked to clear her vision. “Did you see what transpired?”

He didn’t answer right off, and she looked back, getting the feeling she wasn’t going to like whatever he was about to say.

“When I walked in, your brother was playing cards. Or losing at them was more like it. He spouted off to a guy twice his size, and the fellow punched him in the face. Robert went down. He was out for at least a couple of minutes.”

She folded the cloth back to reveal a clean edge, dipped it in water and held it against Robert’s swollen lower lip. He winced, and she wondered if he was more awake than he was letting on.

“I’m grateful you were there to intervene on his behalf, Marshal. It seems I owe you yet another debt of gratitude.”

The rhythmic tick-tock of the mantle clock—a wedding present to Vince and Janie crafted by McKenna’s father— marked off the seconds. Caradon shifted beside her. She’d expected him to have some smart response to her comment. Had hoped for it, actually. Maybe make mention of that offer for dinner she’d turned down last time. Whether wise or not, she hoped he would ask her again. Her answer would be very different this time.

“I don’t want to mislead you, ma’am, about what happened tonight. When Robert went down, I . . . I didn’t exactly come to his rescue.”

She glanced at him and read shyness—or was it apprehension— in his expression. “No need for false modesty, Marshal. Robert’s here now, isn’t he? And all because of your kindness.”

Caradon got an uncomfortable look on his face, and she knew why. He was still wearing those filthy clothes. She finished rubbing salve into Robert’s cuts and set the jar aside.

“I’ll get you a clean shirt and pair of pants.” She went to the chiffarobe in the bedroom and sorted through Vince’s clothes, quickly coming up with a change of clothes she thought would do. “Here you are,” she said, keeping her voice quiet.

The last thing she needed now was for Emma to waken and see Robert this way, or for her to see Wyatt Caradon again. Emma would be thrilled to see Caradon, but knowing what type of man he was, McKenna knew he wouldn’t be
staying in one place for long. And that would only translate to more disappointment for the little girl.

Caradon took the clothes. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be back shortly.” He excused himself and closed the front door softly behind him.

McKenna removed Robert’s pants and covered him with a blanket. His soft snores—effects of the laudanum—only served to irritate her. Dwelling on the selfishness of her brother’s actions, she bundled his soiled clothes and set them outside on the porch to be washed. She spotted Caradon’s horse but saw no sign of him. Back inside, she exchanged her dirtied robe for Janie’s clean one and was back in the kitchen when she heard a soft rap.

She opened the front door and, for a moment, could only stare. Seeing Wyatt Caradon dressed in worn dungarees and a soft chambray shirt took her aback.

“Thank you for the clean clothes.” His voice was soft. “This is much better.”

She completely agreed about the “much better.” The black duster he customarily wore was impressive, but there was something about seeing him dressed this way that showed another side of him. A side she liked. Very much. She ushered him back in—catching the scent of fresh river water and soap— and matched his soft tone. “I’m glad they fit. And the smell’s a definite improvement.”

He smiled, his hair still damp and curling at his neckline. He glanced in Robert’s direction. “Would you like for me to ride for Doc Foster?”

“Yes, I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

He didn’t move. “There’s something I—I want you to be clear on. About what happened tonight, when your brother was fighting.” He hesitated. “After he was knocked out, Robert got up a few minutes later . . . of his own accord. He started back in on that same man, egging him on. The fellow was huge. He punched Robert a second time, hard. Your brother went down again. But he got right back up fighting.”

She shook her head. “That sounds like Robert.” Then something occurred to her. Something Caradon had said. “Wait . . . you’re telling me that
one
man did all this to him?”

“At first . . .” His expression went solemn. “And then two more joined in.”

Something about his manner, his recounting of events, sat ill with her maternal instincts. “And then two more joined in,” she repeated, trying to make the images in her mind fit with what he was describing.

“Yes, ma’am. But your brother picked the fight, Miss Ashford. You need to realize that.”

In light of all he’d done for Robert tonight, and for her, she tried to find a smile, not wanting to appear ungrateful. “Surely you’re not suggesting that Robert deserved this?” She gestured toward Robert. “That whatever he did or said gave grown men the right to do this to a boy?”

Caradon stared, unblinking. “What I’m saying is that Robert holds some of the responsibility for what happened to him this evening. A lot of responsibility.”

She searched his eyes. He thought
she
shared some of that responsibility too—she felt it from him. “I see.” She brushed past him and gathered the bowl of bloodied water and cloths from the table beside the sofa, trying to sort out why she was trembling. She set the bowl down on the kitchen table harder than intended, and some of the water sloshed over the edge and onto the front of Janie’s robe. If she understood this right, he’d stood by and watched her brother get beaten by three burly men.

Furious, disappointed, confused, she exhaled. “I realize, Marshal Caradon,” she kept her voice low, knowing Robert could hear if he were awake, “that my brother can be hot-tempered and obstinate at times. I’m not excusing that, believe me, but you don’t realize all we’ve been—” The words caught, and she stopped to swallow. “All that’s
he’s
been through in his life. Our mother died when he was born, and our father . . .” She looked to see if Robert’s eyes were still closed. They were. Still, she spoke even softer. “Our father died seven years ago, leaving us in a . . . very difficult situation. But in many ways, we’d already lost him years earlier, the same day we lost our mother.”

She hadn’t planned on telling him all this, and wondered now if she should continue. But perhaps he would be more understanding if he knew a little about Robert’s past. She certainly didn’t need her brother getting on his wrong side. “After our mother died, our father buried himself in work, until finally . . . work buried him. Every day, he grieved her passing, and no matter what I did or what I said, he pushed Robert away. He never gave his son what he needed.”

“I’ve given you and Robert all I have, McKenna. You and your
brother will have a roof over your heads,”
her father had said days before he passed. If only William Ashford had known that the inheritance he’d worked so hard to leave his son wasn’t the one Robert needed most.

McKenna prayed she could make Caradon understand. “He blamed Robert—a
child
—for what had happened, and never was a father to him. I can count on one hand the times my father—
our
father—held him, as a baby or as a little boy. I’d ask him to, but . . . he’d just stare at Robert and . . .” Her voice broke. “And then walk away.”

Caradon moved closer. At this angle, she couldn’t see his face, but she could feel the warmth from his body. He wasn’t even touching her, but something inside her changed— responded—with him so near. It was silly, but her heart raced and her breathing became more of a conscious act.

“Miss Ashford . . . McKenna,” he said, his voice tender. “I understand, and I’m so sorry. For you both.”

If she thought she’d had trouble breathing before, now it felt as though her lungs had completely lost their memory. “I’ve tried to do right by him, Marshal, to give him what he’s needed. Maybe knowing this about my brother will . . . help make things clearer for you.”

“They’re
much
clearer now, thank you. And please don’t think I hold you responsible for what happened tonight.”

She smiled up at him and nodded, relieved.

“You’re only doing what you think is best for your brother,” he said softly. “And I appreciate that. But in my line of work, I see men all the time who’ve never been made to learn to take responsibility for their actions, and they end up—”

“Been made?” She blinked. It felt like the conversation had changed midsentence.
His line of work?
He was comparing Robert to hardened criminals? So he
did
hold her responsible for what had happened tonight, at least partly. She heard it in the smooth velvet of his voice, wedged between his carefully chosen words. “Surely you’re not comparing my brother with the men you track down and take into custody . . . just so they can be hanged?” She’d said the last part off-the-cuff, but hoped to get a reaction. And she did.

He stiffened. Then slowly shook his head. “Now’s not the time for us to be discussing this. I’ll ride for the doc.”

He turned and walked to the door, but she strode after him, a question burning the tip of her tongue. Knowing she should let it go, she couldn’t. “What responsibility do
you
hold for what happened tonight, Marshal Caradon?”

Hand on the door, his eyes narrowed. “Beg pardon, ma’am?”

“You said my brother got into a fight with one man. And then two more joined in. What were
you
doing during this time?” She wanted to add, “
When my brother was being beaten senseless
,” but refrained.

“Don’t be lured down a false road, McKenna. You weren’t there. You don’t know how things played out. Robert kept coming at them. He wouldn’t back down, even when he knew he couldn’t win.”