The Inheritance (3 page)

Was this her husband, perhaps? He appeared too close in age to be her father, but McKenna would be hard-pressed to guess the woman’s exact age. Or his, for that matter. In appearance, she looked younger—but her manner contradicted that. Regardless, something about her inspired kinship. And trust.

Head still bowed, the woman folded her hands demurely at her waistline, clutching the stained handkerchief. McKenna opened her mouth to say something, but a sharp look from the man kept her from it. She’d carried that handkerchief with her every day of the past fourteen years, since the day of Robert’s birth—and their mother’s death.

The man spoke again, his voice softer this time, and only then did the woman lift her gaze. She nodded and hurried inside without a backward glance. His focus shifted to McKenna. Though she’d seen Chinese men and women before, she had never made their acquaintance. He said nothing, but McKenna sensed an unspoken question. She nodded once and brushed the dirt from her skirt, indicating she would be fine. He walked inside and closed the door behind him.

Her focus rested there, on the door, and she wondered what it would be like to be subservient to a man in that fashion. She couldn’t imagine.

With her hand throbbing and shoulder aching, McKenna climbed the stairs to the boardwalk, no longer interested in seeking out the livery this afternoon. She only wanted to get to Vince and Janie’s home before dark. Surely Janie would have salve for the wound. She would seek a doctor’s care first thing in the morning.

One by one, the shopkeepers and patrons who’d been staring—some white, most Chinese—began retreating inside, and she walked in the direction of Vince and Janie’s. Before rounding the corner, she looked back to read the shingle above the door where the man and woman had entered, and smiled.

Laundry
.

“I take. I wash.”
The woman’s comment made more sense now and renewed McKenna’s hope of seeing the kerchief again, though not of the stains coming clean. Nodding to lingering onlookers, she retraced the path to the mercantile. Janie’s instructions on how to get to their home had used that store as a reference point, so best to begin there and follow the directions she had memorized from Janie’s letter.

Two streets over, McKenna spotted a carved wooden shingle bearing the name
Dr. Clive Foster
. Instinctively, she glanced at her bandaged left hand. The gash was small, but already the blood had soaked through the bandage, and she changed her mind about waiting to see the doctor until tomorrow. Having it sewn up tonight would mean getting a jump on healing and less chance for infection. She could also get a poultice from the doctor that would help with the pain and swelling. She couldn’t risk not having full use of both hands, not with the current state of their finances.

Decision made, she knocked on the physician’s door, peering through the front window. Waning sunlight illumined the interior of the office. But she saw no one within. She knocked again, louder this time, wondering if the doctor was in the back of the building, beyond the closed door on the far side of the room.

When tested, the knob gave without argument. She stepped inside. “Dr. Foster? Hello?”

Bottles of various curatives lined two shelves, clearly marked in neat legible script, all with labels facing out at the same angle. Lidded glass jars bearing names of herbs she recognized sat on nearby shelves, arranged with similar care. Dr. Foster’s organization boded well for his attention to details. She only hoped that same quality would describe his suturing abilities.

“Is anyone here?”

No answer.

Turning to leave, she spotted labels she recognized—
willow
bark
and
burdock root
. During her father’s lengthy illness, she’d learned a fair amount about mixing poultices and had gleaned a basic knowledge from their physician about which herbs cured certain diseases or helped relieve symptoms. She’d even experimented with using poultices on leg injuries for horses in the livery back home and had witnessed significant improvement.

Without her handkerchief, she had nothing in which to wrap the herbs. She scanned the office and spotted a stack of apothecary papers tucked on a side table. With painstaking effort, her left hand throbbing, she managed to fold a paper to form a makeshift envelope and sprinkled enough bark and burdock root for two poultices, then withdrew two coins from her reticule. Surely Dr. Clive Foster wouldn’t mind parting with some herbs in exchange for remuneration.

Finding paper and quill on his desk, she penned a note to the doctor explaining what she’d done and declaring her intention to return on the morrow for him to suture her hand; then she signed her name, thankful that the injury wasn’t on her dominant hand. If she needed to pay him more, she would, or perhaps he would be open to bartering. After all, doctors rode horses and horses needed saddles.

She situated the note and coins on his patient table, then thought better of it and placed them on his desk. He’d be sure to see them there. By the time she finished, her hand was aching. She retrieved her reticule and turned to go when the door to the clinic burst open.

It slammed off the back wall and would have
closed again had a powerfully built man not stepped across the threshold, more than filling the doorway. Sunlight at his back obscured his face, and she couldn’t make out his features.

But the long black duster told her who he was, as did the lifeless body slung over his shoulder.

THREE

T
he man in the doorway shifted. His breath came heavy as he dumped the body unceremoniously onto the examining table.

The patient, if he was still alive, was unconscious, and McKenna winced at the dull thud of his head hitting the wooden surface. Blood stained the front of his shirt—stemming from a gunshot wound, she presumed—and his left arm dangled from the table at an unnatural angle.

“You’re not the doctor.” Irritating certainty undergirded the man’s voice as sunlight played off his hardened features. He removed his hat and ran a hand through his dark hair. “If you are, then this’ll be a first for me.”

His boots and trousers were covered in dirt, and the long duster hid the precise definition of his frame, but one thing was certain—he was impressive in stature and rivaled the height McKenna imagined Robert would eventually reach.

“No, I’m not the doctor,” she answered, attempting to match his confidence—and sarcasm. “Sorry to disappoint.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Who said anything about being disappointed?” Hinting at a smile, he laid his hat aside. “Is he here?”

Understanding who he meant, she shook her head. “I called out. No one answered.” His gaze slid to the door behind her, and she guessed at his thoughts. “Those are likely his private quarters. I don’t think we should—”

He opened the door without knocking. “Dr. Foster? You back there, sir?” Seconds passed. He turned around. “Doesn’t look like he’s in.” His eyes narrowed. “You ever sewn up a man?”

Glancing back at the bloodstained shirt, McKenna didn’t answer. Her thoughts raced, trying to form a response that would skirt the truth without being a lie so she could be on her way. The subtle change in his expression told her the delay had been a mistake.

“I’ll assume that to be a yes.” A wry smile tipped his mouth. “And I’d wager you’re good with a needle too.”

She stood a little taller. “Actually, you’re mistaken in your assumption.” He was right on the second count, but no need to volunteer that. “I’ve sewn up animals before, but never a pers—”

“That’ll do.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Especially in this case.” He gestured to her bandaged hand. “You get hurt back there? When he tried to run you down?”

“So he
did
see me?” Her instincts had been right.

“Sure he did.”

“But why would he—”

“Because he knew that if I caught him, he’d be tried—and hanged—for murder, which he will be. If he ran you down, then I would’ve had to stop and see to you. So I’m much obliged for you being so quick on your feet, ma’am.” He motioned to her hand again. “Is that his doing?”

She fingered the edge of the bandage. “Yes, but it’s not serious. It just needs a few stitches”—she arched a brow— “which is why I’m here.”

He watched her, saying nothing. She got the feeling he was the type who could read people well, whether they wanted to be read or not. Being of the “not” persuasion, she looked away.

Infusing her tone with a sweetness that didn’t come naturally, she moved toward the door. “I appreciate your concern, sir, but if you’ll excuse me . . . I need to be on my—”

The gleam in his eyes brought her up short and said he hadn’t found her feigned gentility convincing. The smile edging up one side of his mouth hinted that he wasn’t the least bit insulted either. Quite the opposite, in fact. He seemed amused.

Her hand tightened on the door latch and, unbidden, an image came to mind—that of him rounding the corner earlier and reining to one side to avoid her. She looked at him, then to the injured man stirring on the table. He would be conscious soon if they didn’t do something. At the earlier mention of murder, her compassion for the prisoner had all but vanished.
He’d be
tried and hanged,
or so his captor said. Cautious of both men, she weighed the cost of helping.

Remembering the kindness of the Chinese woman didn’t help her decision. Finally McKenna sighed, her sense of duty winning out. She deposited her reticule on the desk. “We’ll need the ether.” She gestured. “It’s on the shelf behind you, in a bottle.”

“Which one?”

“The one labeled
Ether
.” Silence punctuated the curtness of her reply, lending an edge to the response that she hadn’t intended but didn’t entirely regret. Not with the way he’d coerced her into helping.

He turned, bottle in hand. “You can check me, ma’am, but I think this is the right one.” His expression proclaimed victory and an invitation for sparring, if she was willing.

She wasn’t.

Ignoring him, McKenna found a clean cloth in the third drawer she checked, as well as supplies for suturing.

“I appreciate your assistance, Mrs. . . .”

She huffed softly, thinking him coy, then noticed that the bandage on her left hand did indeed cover part of her ring finger. Not that a person could always tell by that. Wedding rings were expensive. “It’s Miss, actually. Miss McKenna Ashford.”

He smiled again, but this time it was different somehow, as though he found her answer pleasing. “Marshal Wyatt Caradon,” he offered quietly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Ashford. I appreciate your willingness to help.”

His sincerity was unexpected and his politeness, disarming. Nodding, McKenna turned back to her preparations but snuck glances when he wasn’t looking.

A razor hadn’t touched his face in at least a week, maybe longer. But it was the badge on his vest that drew the bulk of her attention. Even in the dim light, she read the lettering clear enough—
U.S. Marshal—
and her stomach knotted. She was especially glad now that she’d followed her instincts and sent Robert on ahead.

Marshal Caradon shrugged out of his black duster, draped it across a chair, and began rolling up his sleeves. She unbuttoned her suit jacket and laid it aside, then edged up the sleeves of her shirtwaist, mindful of her bandage. He hadn’t asked her if she was left- or right-handed. Apparently he assumed right. Uncertain whether or not she was glad she’d stayed to help, she was here now, and no good would come from getting on the wrong side of local authorities. Not again.

She poured the anesthetic on the rag and held it to the patient’s nose and mouth, familiar with this procedure and praying Dr. Foster would return any minute. She’d seen her share of wounds, both on animals and humans, so it wasn’t the blood that bothered her. She’d just never had to worry about leaving a scar before. “I’ll do what I can, but I can’t promise the stitches will be comely.”

“Comely doesn’t count for much with him. This only has to hold him until he hangs.”

She stilled, disquieted by the marshal’s response and by his steady, unrepentant stare. She located matches and lit the oil lamp, then poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and set it on a nearby table. “I’ll need your help taking off his shirt.”