The Inheritance (45 page)

His hands grew bolder, his intent clearer, and she was on the verge of rethinking that last thought, when he drew back.

She couldn’t see his face, but she felt him staring. His breath was audible. He kissed her again, but this time on the crown of her head, like he might have Emma, and then he held her. Just held her. And she clung to him, burying her head in his chest.

They stood that way for the longest time—in the dark, in the quiet, the clock on the mantle ticking off the lengthening seconds.

Until he lifted her chin. “We’re husband and wife now, McKenna. But . . . I realize that doesn’t mean things are going to change between us all at once. It’ll take time.” He ran his hands down her arms and rested them again on her waist. “We’ll be patient with each other. We’ll take things slow.”

She loved the way his hands rested on her waist—strong, possessive. “Thank you,” she whispered, then felt as though she needed to state the obvious. “It’s just that I’ve . . . never—”

He kissed her forehead. “I know.”

She smiled, waiting. For what, she wasn’t really sure, until the thought struck her—she’d expected him to say, “Me neither,” or to somehow echo what she’d professed. But he hadn’t. She reached into her memory for his response when she’d accused him of keeping company with cheap women.
“I have never . . .
never been with a woman in one of those places.”

She stepped back, wishing she could see his face, wondering now if she’d assumed too much from his statement. Maybe he
had
been with a woman before, just not a woman from one of those places. “So . . . have you ever . . . ?” She gave a tentative shrug, unable to voice the question outright.

He didn’t move. It was such a simple question, yet seemed to take him forever to answer. The longer he took, the more unsure she became. And when he finally looked away, she knew.

After what felt like an eternity, he turned back and met her gaze. “Yes . . . I have, McKenna. But it’s not what you’re thinking. It was with . . . my wife.”

FORTY-THREE

Y
our
wife
?” McKenna whispered, disbelief weighing her tone.

Wyatt moved to light the lamp on the kitchen table. He needed to see her face, and for her to see his. He’d planned on telling her about Caroline and Bethany, he simply hadn’t anticipated telling her tonight. The oil lamp cast a dingy orange glow on the space around them. McKenna’s expression held surprise, and a trace of disappointment.

He encouraged her to sit beside him on the sofa. She did, but kept her distance.

“Caroline died seven years ago. After giving birth to our daughter, Bethany.” Images flashed through his mind—of Caroline and Bethany, of his years on the trail, of pursuits and shootouts. Of nights spent lying on a bedroll staring up into a night sky so dark and fathomless he’d often wondered how God ever remembered his name. Why all of that converged in this moment, he didn’t know. He only knew that McKenna Ashford—no, McKenna
Caradon
—held his heart, which was fine with him. As long as God held their future, which he knew He did.

Wyatt told her about his wife and daughter, about how he hadn’t been able to bring himself to stay and live within the walls that held memories of Caroline’s laughter and Bethany’s sweet coos. “Bethany went first, two days after she was born. Caroline followed a week later. Before Caroline died, she asked me to bury her with Bethany, but . . .” He shook his head, recalling the scene. “Afterward, her family insisted that Bethany stay buried where she was. I gave in, and—”

“You’ve regretted it,” McKenna said softly. “Ever since.”

Wyatt saw tears in her eyes. He nodded. “Yes, I have.”

Her gaze went briefly to Vince and Janie Talbot’s bedroom. “So when Janie asked you to bury her with her son . . .”

Wyatt didn’t need for her to complete the sentence. “I was keeping not only my promise to Janie, but my promise to Caroline too, in a way, after all these years.”

An errant tear wove a path down McKenna’s cheek. “I sensed there was something more to what you did for Janie that day.”

To his surprise, she scooted closer.

“Do you think we could just . . . sit here for a while? Together? I’m tired, but . . .” She stifled a yawn. “I’m not ready to go to bed yet.”

He wasn’t either. Especially knowing he wouldn’t be going with her, at least for now. He leaned back on the sofa and drew her close. She laid her head on his chest and sighed, then suddenly raised up.

“I’m not hurting your leg, am I?” She looked down.

He smiled and urged her back against him. “Believe me, I’m feeling no pain right now.”

A pleased look on her face, she tucked her head beneath his chin and was asleep within minutes.

After a while, he eased her down beside him and lay behind her on the couch, holding her close, and thanking God for this second chance at a family he thought he’d never have.

McKenna awakened early the next morning, fully clothed and in bed. Alone. She brushed a hand across the empty space beside her, and realized she’d never thought of it as being empty before. But she did now.

Wyatt had been married. Discovering that last night had come as a surprise. All this time, he understood far more about pain and loss than she’d given him credit for, and as she viewed the past few weeks through that filter, her affections for him only deepened.

She turned over, the straw ticking crunching in the mattress beneath her, and she stared out the window onto a world bathed in the pale half light of dawn. Surely Robert was settled in the Denver jail by now. Was he alone in his cell? Was someone else with him? Did he miss her, or home, yet? Doubtful . . . But even more—was he guilty of shooting that U.S. Marshal?

Everything within her said he wasn’t. But there was just enough of the unknown—that part of Robert she didn’t understand anymore—to keep that niggling possibility alive, and to keep her repeating, with increasing earnestness, Wyatt’s prayer for her brother.
Break him, Lord, until he’s wholly yours.

She rose to find Emma still tucked deep in slumber. The blanket on the back of the couch was neatly folded. She assumed Wyatt had slept there last night, but he could have bunked in the barn. The possibility of that sat ill with her. It didn’t seem right for a groom to have spent his wedding night alone in a barn.

Looking out the front window, she spotted him riding across the field on Whiskey, headed for the lower pasture. He’d risen early, as she’d learned was his custom, and she doubted that he’d eaten anything yet.

Having breakfast waiting when he returned would be a nice gesture.

An hour later found the table set with fresh wildflowers, the coffee brewing, and eggs and bacon sizzling on the stove. Biscuits were in the oven, but she had full confidence they would turn out as hard and tasteless as usual. Scoops for honey, at the very best.

Footsteps sounded on the porch, and she felt a twitter of excitement as Wyatt walked in, hat in hand.

He stopped and stared. First at the table, then at her. “Well . . . this is sure a nice welcome.”

She grew warm beneath his attention, and warmer still as he crossed the room toward her.

He lifted a curl from her bodice and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “It smells good in here.”

He smelled good too. She caught a whiff of fresh soap and sunshine, and his hair was still damp. “You bathed in the creek,” she said softly.

“Yes, ma’am, I did.”

“Well . . .” She gave a breathless laugh. “Breakfast is ready. I hope you’re hungry.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His gaze captured hers and held. “I am.”

If not for his self-declared patience, she might have been unnerved by the transparency of desire in his eyes. But Wyatt Caradon was her husband. She could stand on tiptoe right now and kiss him full on the mouth if she wanted to. That was her right. And the thing was—she slowly realized—she wanted to.

Even more,
he
wanted her to.

Yet he didn’t move. However, he did smile, ever so slightly, and it gave her the encouragement she needed.

She rose on tiptoe, and could all but reach him. “You might want to meet me halfway, Mr. Caradon.”

Wordless, he did, but stopped just short of completing the journey.

Their breaths mingling, she sensed his growing lack of patience, which, oddly enough, only increased hers. She ran a finger along his stubbled jawline and saw his eyes narrow ever so slightly. She’d never been one to toy with a man, but then she’d never been married to one with whom she could toy.

She kissed him on one corner of his mouth, then the other. On his cheek, and then gently on the lips, like he’d done with her yesterday at the ceremony. His arms didn’t come around her like she half expected, but not for a moment did she question his response. He was letting her take the lead . . . and she liked it.

For as nervous as she’d been with him last night, she felt quite the opposite this morning.

Hearing the creak of Emma’s bedroom door, McKenna ended the kiss and turned, but not before she caught Wyatt’s subtle wink. Resisting the urge to fan herself, she met Emma halfway, still smiling. “Good morning, sweetie.”

Emma reached for her, yawning.

“Are you ready for some breakfast?” McKenna scooped her up and nuzzled her neck.

Emma nodded, and looked in Wyatt’s direction. “I like it when you’re here.”

Wyatt moved to kiss her forehead. “I like it too, and I plan on being here every day. Is that all right with you?”

Her grin was affirmation enough.

Wyatt motioned for them to sit, then retrieved the skillet from the stove and doled out eggs and bacon to each place setting. He followed with her over-browned biscuits and two cups of coffee. After he offered thanks, conversation came easily.

He bit into a biscuit, and McKenna grinned at his hesitation. He looked up, realizing he’d been caught.

“They’re not bad,” he said quickly.

She laughed. “They’re not good either.”

His expression remained noncommittal. “Let’s just say I don’t mind handling the biscuits next time. It’s the least I can do.”

The first to finish, Wyatt carried his dirty plate to the wash bucket. “Did Vince or Janie ever mention anything to you about running irrigation on their land?”

McKenna swallowed the sip of coffee in her mouth. “Not that I recall. Why?”

“It’s probably nothing. I saw pipes down by the creek this morning and wondered. Makes sense that’s what they’d be for, but I’m not sure.” He came around and knelt beside Emma. “Would you consider giving me a hug good-bye, little one?”

Emma complied without reservation.

McKenna sought his eyes. “You’re leaving so early?”

He stood, taking Emma with him. She laid her head on his shoulder and he rubbed her back. “I’ve got a meeting in Bixby this morning. And if I want to get home earlier in the evenings . . .” He paused. “And I do . . . I need to leave earlier in the day.” He set Emma back in her chair and came around to McKenna’s side. He leaned down and kissed her cheek, and lingered.

Sensing what he wanted, McKenna turned her head and met his lips. How quickly she was becoming accustomed to this.

“Thank you for breakfast,” he whispered.