The Inheritance (37 page)

The muscles in Robert’s neck corded tight. He licked his lips. “You can’t arrest me for that again,” he repeated.

“No,” Wyatt whispered, feeling as if he was watching a caged animal. “We can’t.”

The boy’s eyes narrowed. “Nothing I did in Severance that night was against the law either. So you can’t do anything to me for that.”

Wyatt blinked, and saw Jimmy Slater standing in front of him again, blood soaking through the kid’s shirt, his eyes going dull. He blinked again to clear the image. “Can I ask you a question, Robert?” Whether it was the calmness in his voice or the question itself, something seemed to throw the kid off balance.

Robert gave a slow nod.

“With all the talent you have, with everything you could do with your life, why are you choosing a path like this?”

Robert stared for a moment, then sneered. “Now you’re sounding like Kenny. It’s
my
life, Marshal. I can decide what I want to do with it, and what I don’t.”

Wyatt nodded. “Fair enough. But you still haven’t answered my question. I’ve seen your work. The wagons you build.” He gestured over his shoulder. “The saddles you make.”

“The saddles I make?” Robert asked, his eyes narrowing.

Wyatt motioned behind him to an out-of-the-way corner where he stowed his gear. “Turns out, I even bought one. I didn’t know you’d made it or I would’ve thanked you personally while I was at the livery. It’s the finest saddle I’ve ever owned, Robert. Talent like yours is rare. It’s a gift. And you ought not squander it.”

Robert started laughing. “Talent like mine, huh?”

A spark of indignation twisted Wyatt’s chest. How could someone with such a gift not be grateful for the ability God had given him? “Casey Trenton told me your father owned a livery.” He treaded with care in what he said next. “I know your father wasn’t all you needed him to be—and what he should have been in your life. But you still inherited a great gift from him.”

Even from where he stood, Wyatt sensed an anger building in Robert.

“That man . . . didn’t give me anything,” Robert whispered, his voice tight. “Much less an inheritance.” He walked to within inches of Wyatt’s face. “And if you speak to me about him again, I’ll knock you flat . . .
Marshal
Caradon.”

Robert shouldered past him, and Wyatt let him go.

“By the way, Marshal . . .”

Wyatt turned to see him standing in the doorway of the barn.

“You think I made that saddle? You might want to check beneath the skirt.” He chuckled. “Then get back with me on a woman doing a man’s work.”

Robert turned on his heel and strode from the barn.

Confused, Wyatt walked to the saddle and lifted the leather skirt as Robert instructed. He found nothing on the right side so moved to the left. There, in an upper corner, he read the initials M.A. carved in the fine-grained leather.

He stared, disbelieving.

It couldn’t be . . .
McKenna
had made this saddle? If so, surely Casey Trenton knew. Yet the man had said nothing. Neither had McKenna, and certainly she’d noticed it by now. Then he remembered—the morning she’d hired him, she’d commented on the saddle then. So she did know, yet had said nothing. But why . . .

He fingered the decorative leather braids, his respect for her deepening. McKenna Ashford had more mystery to her than one woman should be allowed. Along the same lines, discovering this about her shed new light on her brother.

Robert Ashford, the son, should have been the child to have learned and carried on his father’s trade—saddlery. Yet it was his older sister who had claimed that birthright. Through no fault of hers, she obviously had a gift for it. But in the end, Robert Ashford had been robbed. Not by failing to be shown how to make saddles, but by failing to be shown a father’s love and acceptance.

Knowing this didn’t lessen Wyatt’s frustration with the boy, but his heart somehow opened a little wider where Robert was concerned.

Past time for him to leave for Severance, he saddled Whiskey and was on his way from the barn when he spotted McKenna and Emma walking back. He rode in their direction.

“Morning, ladies. How are you?” He tipped his hat, tempted to let McKenna know what Robert had revealed to him, while also wanting to thank her for her workmanship—although that last word didn’t seem to fit too well in this case.

“Good morning, Marshal. We were just taking
a stroll. Are you leaving already?”

Disappointment tinged her voice, and he hoped it was for him. “Yes, ma’am. I got the fence mended on the north pasture. Tomorrow morning, I’ll move the cattle over there to graze. Another month of field grass and they’ll be ready to take to market.” Though he didn’t know how he was going to have the time to get them there. That would take weeks. Weeks he didn’t have, and neither did she. Not wanting to add to her worry, he kept that to himself.

Emma reached up. “Can I ride with you, Mr. Wyatt?”

“Sure, little one. Come on up.”

McKenna lifted the child up, and Wyatt situated Emma in front of him, holding her secure. Whiskey plodded along, and Wyatt relished the way Emma smiled up at him every few seconds.

“Hang on tight, sweetie.” McKenna walked beside them as they rode. “I’ll be sure and tell Mr. Billings at the bank about the cattle. Just to keep him informed.”

Something in her voice—and her short-lived smile—raised questions in Wyatt’s mind. “Have you heard from Billings recently?”

“Yes, I just got a letter from him today, in fact.”

He waited. “And?”

She looked away.

He reined in. “McKenna, if there’s something wrong—and I know there is—I want you to tell me. I know it’s not easy to ask for help, but . . .” He waited until she looked at him before continuing. “I hope it’s clear that my intent is to do just that— help you . . . in any way I can.”

Her smile was fragile. “I appreciate that. And you’re already helping me, Wyatt.” She fingered a braid on her saddle. “More than you know.”

“It’s not fair to look at a man that way when he can’t do anything about it, ma’am.”

He liked the blush that rose to her cheeks. He also liked that she didn’t go shy on him and look away, but locked her eyes with his.

“I’ll be sure and remember that . . . sir.”

He kissed the top of Emma’s head and handed the little girl back down. Emma wrapped her arms around McKenna’s waist. She pulled her close, brushing the hair from her face. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Emma Talbot had been natural born to McKenna Ashford.

“Wyatt . . .” Seriousness replaced McKenna’s former flirtation. “I’d like to invite you to dinner this Sunday. I could use your advice . . . on what to do.”

Finally, she was confiding in him.
“I’ll be there.” He needed to be on his way, but he hated to leave her with that pained look in her eyes. “But only if you promise to bake some of that bread you’ve told me so much about.”

Winking, and knowing he’d carry her smile with him all the way to Severance and back, he tipped his hat and rode on at a gallop.

He didn’t slow until he spotted Robert on the outskirts of Copper Creek, walking into a saloon with two other men. He recognized one of them. The fellow was worse than no good. Torn, Wyatt kept riding. He had a job to do for the Marshals Office, and lives depended on him doing it.

But other lives depended on him now too.

It was a sobering thought. And one that, oddly, warmed him, while also sending a shiver straight through him. He’d told himself he had no right to invite a woman—much less a woman with a child, and with a rebel of a brother, to boot—into his life. Yet that was exactly what he’d done.

And God help him, he’d do it all over again. He was tired of being lonely, and tired of living life for only himself. He’d asked God to guide his steps. Now he had to trust that the Almighty knew what He was doing.

THIRTY-THREE

M
cKenna peered over Mei’s shoulder, half afraid to look. “Did it rise?”

“I wanna see too, Aunt Kenny!”

McKenna lifted Emma up as Mei bent to open the oven. She enjoyed time spent with Mei, but today all she could feel was the jarring tick of a clock inside her. In only five days, she would meet with the circuit judge—a stranger who would determine her future.

She’d awakened in a panic during the night, unable to breathe, feeling the tiny bedroom closing in around her. On her way to the porch, she’d passed an empty sofa. Again. Robert hadn’t come home Friday night,
or
Saturday. And he hadn’t been there when she’d awakened this morning either.

“I took her . . . because I knew you wouldn’t want me to.”

What he’d said to her about losing Patch in a card game had hurt more than she could have imagined. She still loved her brother. That would never change. But she realized that whatever she was to him—or had been, or wanted to be—wasn’t enough. And that realization brought a hopeless, adrift feeling, like she’d emptied her pockets, pulled them inside out, and still hadn’t even begun to pay the debt.
Oh God, would you reach him?
Because I can’t. Not anymore. I’m so sorry . . .

The happy sound of Emma’s squeals drew her back.

Mei pulled the most scrumptious looking, perfectly rounded loaf of golden brown bread from the oven. The yeasty just-baked aroma wafted through Mei’s kitchen, and McKenna felt a flush of pride. Her eyes watered, aided, no doubt, by the heat of the oven. “Finally!” She exhaled, smiling. “I’ve gotten it right!”

This bread would be the crowning glory to tonight’s dinner with Wyatt, especially after she’d told him she couldn’t bake. She hadn’t seen him since Friday afternoon, though she’d seen evidence of him being there yesterday morning—the cattle and horses were fed, fresh water filled the troughs. But this morning, she’d had to do his chores. He hadn’t said anything about being gone, but certainly his job with the Marshals Office held surprises.

She’d been nervous when asking him to dinner. Though, in the end, it hadn’t taken her as much courage as it had humility. Asking for help had never been easy for her. Especially from someone like Wyatt Caradon, who seemed so self-sufficient. Asking for help felt like a sign of weakness. Not when others did it. Just when she did. And she so wanted him to see her as strong and capable—the way she viewed him.

When he held her hand the other night and said he thought he could do better if she’d let him, she thought he’d meant something more along the lines of a kiss. And she’d been thinking about it ever since, wondering what it would be like to kiss Wyatt Caradon thoroughly.

Warmer now than before, McKenna focused on the bread again, inhaling the aroma. She couldn’t wait to sink her teeth into the crusty feast! Her first loaf of bread that had actually—

Mei withdrew a second pan. She gave McKenna a forlorn look, and McKenna’s pride, and hopes, fell flat—just like her bread had done.

Mei slid the second pan onto the table, her expression brightening. “You will do better . . . next time!”

McKenna offered a deflated smile, proud of her friend’s improvement in speaking English, but wishing the same could be said of her own baking skills. She frowned at the traitorous loaf cowering beneath its puffed-up cousin. “For some reason, Mei, I don’t think so.” So much for serving bread with dinner tonight.

Emma gently patted her on the back. “You make good saddles, Aunt Kenny.”

A prick of tears rose at the comforting way Emma said it. “Thanks, sweetie. Maybe I’ll just serve Mr. Wyatt one of those for dinner instead.” She tickled Emma’s tummy, which drew a giggle.

Smiling,
Emma framed McKenna’s face in her little hands and planted a big, wet kiss right smack on her lips. “I love you, Aunt Kenny.”

Taken aback by the show of affection, McKenna searched Emma’s eyes so blue and innocent. “I love you too, Emma.” She had been nine years old when she first held Robert in her arms. She’d been a child herself. Maybe it was because she was twenty-three now—certainly that had something to do with it—but the love she felt for this child was different from the love she felt for Robert. It felt as if part of her own heart were nestled within the tiny chest of this child. This precious part of Janie that was left to her.