The Inheritance (5 page)

“With a hand that needs stitching.”

She glanced at the bandage. “I’ll hold on. If the situation arises.”

He gently urged the mare to a faster pace, as though challenging that statement. Sensing his test, McKenna smiled and held on to the cantle, with no fear of falling, but mindful of the close proximity of her hand to Caradon’s backside.

He slowed the mare’s pace.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” he spoke over his shoulder, grinning.

“Marshaling must be lonelier work than I thought, Marshal Caradon.” She heard his soft laugh and was reminded again of who he was. Best to keep some distance between them, and not only in proximity. She spotted the mercantile ahead, where she’d asked for him to take her. “We need to go two streets from here, and then to the left.”

He did as she bade.

The majority of businesses were closed, but people still milled about on the boardwalk. Mostly men, congregated in small groups, their lit cigarettes standing out against the dark. When they rode past a crowded gaming hall near the edge of town, she couldn’t help but wonder if Robert had slowed the wagon when he came to this place. If only he could learn from his mistakes . . .

A man stumbled through the hall’s open doors, near legless with liquor, and proceeded to relieve himself in the middle of the street. McKenna turned away, grateful again for Caradon’s offer to provide escort.

In general, the vulgarities of men rarely surprised her anymore. Being raised around a livery had seen to that. The stranger called out to her, but Caradon rode on. And even though the circumstance warranted an “I told you so” from him, he kept silent, and her estimation of him rose by the tiniest bit.

Something occurred to her. “What happened to your prisoner’s horse?”

Caradon glanced to one side. “It threw a shoe. Slater had whipped him hard, and not just today. I left the gelding with a livery here in town.” Having taken the left on the road she’d directed, he reined in.

The lights of Copper Creek were a good distance behind them now, and the road ahead rose at an incline. “Where to now?” he said.

“We go about a quarter mile on this road, then there should be a turnoff, to the left, that leads to my cousin’s house.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes. My cousin and her husband live here. My brother and I will be staying with them for a while.”

As they rode on and took the turnoff, the lack of food and rest caught up with her, and McKenna fought to keep her eyes open. Caradon’s chestnut mare was well-tempered and had a smooth, even gait. Especially for being so large. The animal was well trained, too. Obeyed Caradon’s commands with hardly a nudge from him. Almost as if it read his mind.

Up ahead, the lights from a cabin shone through the night, and anticipation of seeing Janie caused McKenna to sit up a little straighter. She’d been close to other girls when she was younger, but in recent years friends had been scarce. Decisions she’d made—and those God had made for her—had seen to that. There’d always been Janie though. They’d been close since they were little, and when Janie left seven years ago to go West with her husband, it felt as if half of who McKenna was had been ripped from her.

And now . . . after all these years and so many letters exchanged, the two parts were about to be made whole again.

Caradon helped her down from the horse, and she glanced at the darkened porch. Proper manners dictated she invite him inside, at the very least to meet her relatives. But she knew what Robert’s reaction would be at meeting a U.S. Marshal, and she didn’t want Vince and Janie to be biased against her brother at the outset. She’d written to Janie about Robert having become “more of a challenge” recently and had shared some mild examples, while withholding the greater details.

“Marshal Caradon, I appreciate you escorting me out here, and—”

The door to the cabin opened, and Robert stepped out. A man followed him. Even in the dim light from the cabin, she could tell it wasn’t Vince. Vince stood a good foot taller than this man and was a good deal younger.

Robert took the porch steps in twos and brushed past her. “I told you moving here was a mistake.”

McKenna reached for him, but he jerked his arm away. “Robert, come back!”

He strode around the side of the cabin and into the darkness.

Embarrassed, and very much aware of Marshal Caradon behind her, she faced the man on the porch again, wondering what Robert had already said or done in her absence. “I’m Miss McKenna Ashford, Janie Talbot’s cousin from Missouri.” She glanced in the direction Robert had gone. “I apologize for my brother’s behavior. The trip here was a long one, and I think he’s a bit overtired right now.”

“There’s no cause for you to apologize for your brother, ma’am.” The gentleman walked as far as the top stair and paused. “He’s young yet, and the situation here isn’t what he expected. I’m Dr. Foster, Copper Creek’s physician. And I’m sorry, Miss Ashford, but . . . I fear it’s not what you were expecting either.”

FIVE

T
he woman in the bed was a shadow of what Janie had once been and looked as though she were approaching the winter of her life, instead of the summer. McKenna stood near the footboard, unable to move. It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be. And yet—the gauntness of her cousin’s features told her it was.

She moved to the bedside and eased onto the mattress. Sweat beaded Janie’s forehead. Her hand was hot to the touch.

Dr. Foster rinsed a cloth in a bowl of water on a table by the bedside and laid it across Janie’s brow. “The fever set in four days ago.” His voice was hushed. “Shortly after she delivered the baby.”

Only then did McKenna notice the absence of the expected swell around Janie’s middle. She glanced around the bedroom looking for the cradle.

“I’m sorry, Miss Ashford, but . . . the baby died shortly following his birth. He had trouble breathing. I cleared his air passage, did everything I could. But his little body just wasn’t strong enough.”

Aching, confused, McKenna looked back at her cousin and willed her to waken. Tears she’d managed to contain until now slipped past her defenses. “Did she have a chance to hold him?”

“Oh yes, she was very much aware of her surroundings during that time. She and little Emma hugged and loved on the boy real well . . . before he passed.” He motioned toward the next room. “Emma’s already asleep in her room.”

It struck McKenna then that he hadn’t mentioned Janie’s husband. “Where is Vince?”

Regret shadowed the doctor’s expression. “This will be difficult, I realize, but cholera swept through the town about a month ago. We’ve lifted the quarantine, so it’s safe for you and your brother, and the marshal . . .”

He nodded toward the door, and she turned to see Marshal Caradon leaned forward in a chair at the kitchen table, elbows on his knees, his head bowed. She’d thought he’d already left.

The doctor’s movements drew her back. “I regret to tell you, Miss Ashford, that . . . Vince was one of the first to succumb to the disease.”

Still seated on the bed, McKenna couldn’t shake the sensation that she was falling. As if the wooden floor beneath her had opened wide to swallow her whole. It was strange, this downward spiraling inside herself, and something she remembered from a long time ago. Fourteen years to be exact. Except the last time she’d felt this way, the baby boy hadn’t died. But his mother—
their
mother—had.

She rested her head in her hands, aware of each of Janie’s ragged breaths, and of the uneven rise and fall of the blanket covering her chest. The weight of this news and the burden of past weeks pressed hard. She held her breath and gave herself until the count of ten. Then exhaled. Long ago she’d learned that facing reality was inevitable. She could skulk about, trying to avoid it or pretending it wasn’t there. But in the end, reality always found her. And its
finding
her seemed a harsher blow than if she’d faced the situation straight on from the very start.

A noise came from the kitchen, and she glanced up to see if Robert had returned. It was only Wyatt Caradon. He looked in her direction, but the vagueness in his eyes made her think it wasn’t her he was seeing.

She wiped her tears and reached for Janie’s hand again. The flame from the lantern on the bedside table danced and swayed, casting shadowy pirouettes on the plastered walls. “When was the last time she was lucid, doctor?”

“Late yesterday afternoon. When she came to, she recognized me. And asked for Aaron. The baby,” he added softly.

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her he was sleeping.”

“Good.” She sniffed. “That was good. No need to add to her pain.”

“That was my thinking too. But she knew, Miss Ashford. It took her a moment, but she remembered.”

Her eyes burned as she imagined the scene. “Do you think . . .”

Her voice broke and she cleared her throat before trying to speak again. “Do you think she’ll get better?”

The doctor’s silence answered before he did, and in that space without words, each mile of her journey to Copper Creek seemed to stretch out like a ribbon before her. As she’d been coming steadily closer, Janie had been slipping farther away. And she hadn’t known. Surely she should have
felt
something. Some kind of tug on her heart. But . . . nothing.

“There’s always a chance that Janie will improve, ma’am. Some mothers do, in these instances. But it’s going to take more than my skills to make that happen. Janie’s going to have to fight. She’s going to have to want to live. Right now her body is exhausted. The labor was long and difficult. And she and Vince have been putting everything they had into this ranch, trying to make a go of it.”

“She wrote me when they bought cattle last fall.”

Dr. Foster nodded. “Vince was so proud of this place, of all they’d accomplished together.”

McKenna rinsed the cloth again and smoothed it over Janie’s cheeks and brow. Janie had always been the more delicate of the two of them, and the one with a sweeter disposition. From childhood, her tender nature had contrasted McKenna’s more stubborn one. She leaned closer. “Wake up, Janie,” she whispered, squeezing her hand again. “It’s Kenny. Please, wake up!”

But the fever held its grip.

McKenna pushed up and walked to the open window. A cool breeze met the dampness on her face, and she breathed its heady scent. Lavender. Planted outside the bedroom window, just as Janie had written. A knot of emotions tightened her stomach, and she wondered if she was going to be sick. Doubtful, with nothing in her stomach.

“I buried the baby beside his father.”

She glanced back to see Dr. Foster placing a stethoscope to Janie’s chest, his movements measured and tender. He was older—she guessed him to be well into his fifties—and he had a calm, assuring manner she found herself wanting to trust.

“I buried him,” he continued, “on the hill, just behind the cabin. It overlooks the valley.”

The valley where Emma took her first steps on a picnic. McKenna could picture it through the descriptions in Janie’s faithful exchanges.
Oh God . . .
It hurt so much inside. She looked for the hill behind the cabin but couldn’t make it out. It was so dark, being this far out from town. Living in a city the size of St. Joseph, she’d forgotten how dark the night could be, and what it felt like at times like this. When the darkness slipped inside and threatened to suffocate the slightest flicker of hope.

Yet even in such moments she didn’t doubt that God existed. She just sometimes wondered whether He remembered that
she
did.

“Janie!”

She turned to see Dr. Foster bent over the bed—and Janie’s body shaking. Violently. She raced to the bedside.

Still in the throes of fever, Janie arched her back, then her head, and made a gurgling sound.

“Is she choking?”

“No, she’s having a seizure,” Dr. Foster said with surprising calm, filling a syringe. “This happened twice yesterday. Try to hold her still.”

McKenna worked to subdue her, amazed that Janie’s body still commanded such strength.

She became aware of Wyatt Caradon’s presence beside her. He took hold of Janie’s wrists and gently, but firmly, held her down.