The Inheritance (17 page)

“Moon cake,” the woman said again, rising and motioning McKenna toward a piece of paper on the counter.

On the page was a description of the pastries written in English. McKenna found “Moon Cake” . . . made of egg yolks and lotus seed paste filling. She glanced back at the Chinese pastry, not at all sure if Emma would like it. She started to inquire as to the cost, then saw it written out to the side. Very reasonable. Especially in light of all that this dear woman had done for her. “Yes, I think she would like a moon cake very much.”

The woman wrapped the pastry and presented it to Emma. “
Feichang piaoliang
,” she whispered, looking back at McKenna and pointing at Emma. “
Feichang piaoliang
.”

McKenna gently shrugged. “I’m sorry, I—I don’t understand.”

The woman closed her eyes as though she were searching for the right words. She lightly patted the sides of her face and motioned to Emma, who was stuffing bites into her mouth, and smiled. “
Feichang piaoliang
.”

McKenna studied her for a moment. “Oh! Pretty? Is that what you mean? She’s
pretty
?”

“Pret-ty.” The woman nodded. “
Feichang piaoliang
.”

“She
is
very pretty. She looks exactly like her mother.”

The woman’s expression changed, and McKenna sensed she’d understood that last word. And that she might understand more English than she spoke. With Emma’s attention on the pastry, she spoke slowly and in a hushed tone. “She’s not my daughter. Not . . .” She raised her brows. “In
that
sense. Her mother was my cousin . . . my dearest friend. She passed away not long ago.”

Tenderness marked her expression. “Her . . . mother . . . die?”

“Yes,” McKenna whispered. “Her mother die.”

The woman dipped her head, and when she looked up, tears rimmed her eyes. She did nothing to wipe them away. Nor did she seem discomforted by them. She bowed slightly, pressing a hand to her chest. “My . . . name . . . Chin Mei.”

McKenna couldn’t explain why, but she mimicked the woman’s motions, bowing slightly. “My name is McKenna Ashford.”

Chin Mei watched McKenna’s mouth as she said her name and then repeated it back slowly.

“Yes, very good! But please, call me Mc-Ken-na.”

“Mc-Ken-na,” Chin Mei said softly.

“And may I call you Chin?”

Chin Mei laughed, then pressed her lips together as though she shouldn’t have done such a thing. “Chin,” she said, and motioned behind her.

McKenna looked past her. “There’s something behind you?”

Chin Mei kept repeating the gesture.

McKenna shook her head, not understan— “Oh!
Behind?
Chin is your last name. Mei is your first name?”

Chin Mei nodded. “Mei . . . f-irst name.”

The woman learned quickly. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mei.” McKenna pointed to the healed palm of her own hand. “And thank you, again, for what you did for me.”

Mei’s brows disappeared behind the fringe of evenly cut hair on her brow. “Please . . .” She gestured for McKenna to wait, and she disappeared into the kitchen. Returning minutes later, she held something in her hand, and McKenna could hardly believe her eyes.

Her mother’s handkerchief. With every last bloodstain washed clean.

FIFTEEN

A
s soon as the “amen” to the closing prayer was said, McKenna reached for Emma’s hand. She’d felt like the center of attention since they’d arrived at church that morning and still sensed stares even now.

People were eager to see Emma, of course, and were interested in knowing how she was getting along—and they still had questions for McKenna. Well-meant, McKenna had no doubt, but with every question she felt herself becoming more distant to the idea of returning anytime soon, which sat ill because she’d benefited from having been here. More than she’d expected to.

The pastor’s chosen text that morning had spoken to her in a way those specific scriptures hadn’t before. She’d turned in her Bible to follow along—and to make sure he was reading them correctly. He was. And what the verses said described her recent life, her feelings, exactly. It felt as if someone had taken the contents of her heart—the fears and doubts—and poured them onto the page.

Holding Emma’s hand, she made a beeline for the back door, but was stopped before she’d gone two pew lengths.

“Miss Ashford, so nice to see you again. And Emma too, but is your brother not with you?”

“How are you getting along? Will you be seeking employment in town?”

“There’s an opening at the dry goods store.”

“You must miss your cousin. We loved Janie and Vince so much.”

McKenna fielded the questions and comments as best she could, all while keeping an eye on Emma, who played with a group of children nearby. Finally, she and Emma made it back to the cabin an hour later than planned and found a note waiting from Robert. He’d gone shooting for the afternoon. So on a whim—ignoring the voice inside her that kept repeating everything else she needed to be doing—McKenna packed a simple picnic. And she and Emma climbed the hill behind the cabin and ate lunch in the valley where Emma had taken her first steps.

It was a peaceful place, and as Emma picked wildflowers and chased butterflies, McKenna retrieved her Bible from the basket and revisited the verses from earlier that morning. The first time, she read the passage to herself, then read certain verses again.
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ,
which according to his abundant mercy hath begotten us again unto
a lively hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead. To an
inheritance incorruptible, and undefiled, and that fadeth not away,
reserved in heaven for you . . .”

She ran a hand over the words on the page, dwelling on the one word that stood out above the others.
Inheritance.
She read on . . .

“Wherein ye greatly rejoice, though now for a season, if need be, ye
are in heaviness through manifold temptations: That the trial of your
faith, being much more precious than of gold that perisheth, though it
be tried with fire, might be found unto praise and honour and glory
at the appearing of Jesus Christ.”

“Aunt Kenny, do you like butterflies?”

McKenna looked up to see Emma beaming, her cheeks flush from running. “Yes, I do.” She tugged the hem of Emma’s dress. “What’s your favorite thing about them?”

“I like how they’re pretty. And how they can fly.”

McKenna smiled. This was the happiest she could remember seeing Emma since Janie’s passing, and it felt
good to see her enjoying herself.

“Do you think we can catch one, Aunt Kenny?”

Hearing the invitation, McKenna laid her Bible aside, then stood and hitched up her skirt. “I don’t know.” She gave Emma a conspiratorial wink. “But we can sure try!” She set off across the field, keeping a pace Emma could manage.

They spent the afternoon chasing after butterflies and walking the lower pasture. For some reason, McKenna felt closer to Janie here. And even though nothing had really changed about her situation, she felt more at peace about the future than she had in a long time.

Wyatt stared at the advertisement on the mercantile bulletin board, then at the date written on it. Didn’t take much to figure why this particular notice was still tacked there after two weeks.

What was the woman thinking, offering so little in pay? Didn’t she know they were in gold country? A man could make twice in
one day
what she proposed for a full month’s work—even if ranching held less risk than handling dynamite or drilling in a cave. He guessed money might be an issue for her, but if she planned on running a ranch, she’d have to pay more than that for good help.

He gathered the few items he needed from the mercantile and paid his bill. He didn’t need much, since he was only in Copper Creek for the weekend. He glanced at the advertisement one last time as he left the store. If not for the past few weeks spent clearing his mind and refocusing on his job, he might’ve been tempted to head on out to Miss Ashford’s house tonight. Just to see how she and Emma were getting along.

But thankfully the time away had given him the chance to straighten out his priorities, to see his life more clearly. And nowhere did a woman fit in. Much less a woman like McKenna Ashford. Not with the way he lived, always moving from town to town, and not with the places he had to frequent while in those towns.

Lengthening his strides, he passed from the respectable part of Copper Creek into the more suspect. A warm July sun nestled itself deep between the uppermost peaks in the west and cast an orange glow on the weathered clapboard buildings, giving them a deceptively welcoming appearance.

He slipped his badge from his outer vest into an inside pocket and stepped inside the saloon. He scanned the room, finally choosing an open seat at a table of men whose luck appeared to be running dry, based on the shortness of chips before them. He pulled out his money, ordered a drink, and picked up the cards dealt him.

Minutes later, a woman set a glass before him. She leaned low, bodice unlaced, and whispered something in his ear about what was being served upstairs.

“Not now, ma’am,” he said, needing to play the part but hoping she’d take the hint. “I need to win some first.”

She pressed closer against him from behind and moved her hands down his chest. “Looks to me like you’re already pretty well loaded.”

Wyatt caught her wrists halfway down, and when she emboldened her intent, he tightened his hold. “I said . . . not now.”

She walked away, her soft chuckle full of lingering promise.

Wyatt pulled his focus back, aware of the effect she’d had on him. But her hands on his chest just now hadn’t stirred him so much as they’d stirred the memory of what sharing Caroline’s bed had been like. And those sweet memories, long buried, rose vivid inside him like a long-denied thirst. As much as he hated to admit it, fleeting moments with a woman in places like this were a temptation on occasion. He’d be a fool to think he was immune.

But when he remembered the intimacy he’d shared with his wife—what their union had meant, what they had made together—women in places like this and the so-called comfort they hocked took on a truer tarnish.

He tipped his glass and swallowed slow this time, eying his cards, waiting for the bet to circle the table to him.

He hadn’t been with another woman since Caroline. After she died, he’d asked God to take away his physical desire. And God had answered his prayer, but not in the way Wyatt had expected. The job of marshaling had presented itself soon after and, for years, there was rarely a night he hadn’t fallen onto his bedroll exhausted and spent. The Almighty had His own way of reckoning with a man’s petitions, and Wyatt rarely understood them.

He studied the hand he’d been dealt—a four, five, six, and seven of hearts. And a two of spades. “I’m in,” he said, and anted up, keeping tabs on the man two tables over in the reflection of the bar’s mirror.

When the dealer called, Wyatt sacrificed his seven of hearts. It wouldn’t do to start winning. Not yet. Men of this ilk preferred a loser.