The Inheritance (29 page)
She didn’t know why, but the calm in his manner, the confidence with which he spoke, and—unlike before—his
use of her Christian name, infuriated her. She spoke slowly, each syllable deliberate. “What were you doing while those men were beating my brother . . . Marshal Caradon?”
He held her gaze for the longest time. “No matter what I say right now, you’re not going to take it well. So why don’t we agree to speak on it more tomorrow . . . if you’re still wanting to? I’m going to fetch the doc.”
She took a breath. Opened her mouth to speak. Then emptied her lungs and let him go. Because she knew—in that secret, hidden place inside her, that slender space between the reality of what men were and the dream of what a man could be—that come tomorrow, or the next day, or the next . . . Wyatt Caradon would be gone.
A
fter escorting Doc Foster back to the cabin, Wyatt bedded down in the barn, exhausted and frustrated. He rose with the sun the next morning. The same thought rankling him when he closed his eyes was still rankling him when he opened them. He’d known the timing last night hadn’t been right to talk to her about Robert, so why on earth had he even tried?
He wanted to be completely honest with McKenna about why he hadn’t acted on Robert’s behalf sooner, and it bothered him that he couldn’t. Trusting her wasn’t the issue. Trusting Robert was. And if for some reason, she let it slip to the boy about his assignment from the Marshals Office . . . His gut told him Robert would turn on him in a heartbeat.
As it always did up here in the mountains, early dawn held a chill. He opened the double barn doors and sunlight poured in, warming him where he stood. He looked toward the cabin and spotted movement through a front window. A curl of smoke rose from the chimney. Someone was up.
He brushed bits of straw from his clothes. Turned out McKenna—or rather,
Miss Ashford,
remembering her tone last night—was right. Vince Talbot had been about his size. The work-worn dungarees fit comfortably, as did the shirt, and took him back to younger days spent working the family ranch.
Wyatt surveyed his surroundings. It’d been dark last night and he hadn’t been able to see much of the barn’s interior. He’d agreed to meet Samuel Ramsey, his boss, this morning in Bixby to discuss the robberies. But he had a good hour before he needed to leave, and his natural curiosity got the best of him.
He inspected the two stalls, both in bad need of mucking out, then noticed the tools left in disarray on the workbench. A dark stain marred the surface. Something had been spilled—his guess would be saddle oil—and cleaned up none too well. He knew better than to attribute that to Vince Talbot. Robert was the first one who came to mind.
He walked out back where a pile of fresh-cut pine lay scattered, needing to be chopped and stacked. Three cords, at least. It being summer, the horses were loose in the corral adjacent to the barn. Doc Foster’s gray mare was among them, which meant the doctor had stayed the night. Wyatt hoped Robert was faring better this morning and that the boy had learned something from last night’s brawl.
His focus went to a portion of fencing along the corral that needed mending, as well as the sagging gate. Last night he’d noticed the handle on the front door was loose too, and a couple of boards on the porch stairs had given in spots. Work was never at a shortage on a homestead like this, and he didn’t know how Miss Ashford and her brother were going to make a go of the place. Not by themselves, anyway.
He grabbed a bale of hay in each hand and loaded the feed bins, then emptied the brackish water from the troughs and filled them with fresh water from the stream. Vince Talbot had chosen his land well, and the location of his barn and cabin too. Right where Wyatt would have built them.
The lonesome coo of a mourning dove drifted to him on the cool breeze, and he stood still, bucket in hand, and let the moment wash over him. This was his favorite time of day, when the world was just beginning to stir, when the air was cool and crisp, and the hours lay ahead pristine and yet to be written upon.
What he found surprising was the enjoyment he felt in doing this kind of work again. The satisfaction in living by your own hand and in seeing the product of your labors lent him a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in a long time. He walked back inside the barn and lifted the pitchfork from its hook, then dragged a work cart to the edge of the first stall and soon found his rhythm. He’d been mucking stalls since he was about Emma’s age, his father had seen to that.
A short while later, when the wound on the back of his head started pounding, Wyatt slowed a mite. But he knew the ache in his head wasn’t half as bad as the one Robert would be nursing this morning, that was for sure. Finished cleaning the first stall, Wyatt scattered fresh straw over the floor and moved to the second.
Something McKenna said to him last night still weighed heavy on his mind. About the men he took into custody . . .
just
so they can be hanged.
He sank the pitchfork into a pile of soiled straw, tossed it into the cart, and repeated the motion. He’d always considered his role as a U.S. Marshal to be one that helped society—what little of society there was out West. And he figured being a marshal did contribute to that, certainly made things more civil for the law-abiding folks. But when it came right down to it, her implication was right. He wasn’t making much of a difference in the lives of those men he took into custody. Unless you counted helping them to their deaths as doing something worthwhile, which he—
The steel tines of the pitchfork hit something solid beneath the straw in the corner.
He poked at the object and leaned down to see what it was. He pulled out a bottle of whiskey. Half empty.
He knelt and turned the bottle over in his hand, thinking again of what McKenna had told him about their mother and father. She’d asked if her telling him all that had made things clearer for him. And it had. Only not in the way she’d probably meant for it to.
McKenna Ashford was a good-hearted woman, trying to make up for the love and guidance her younger brother had never received. Trying to make sure he had the opportunities any young man deserved. But in doing that, she was making excuses for him, shielding him from bearing the consequences of his actions. And in the end, her actions were going to have the exact opposite outcome of what she desired. They already were . . .
Knowing about their parents shed some light for him on Robert’s poor choices, but it didn’t excuse them. When a man was born, he got dealt a certain hand right off, and he had to play that hand, whether good or bad. He’d sampled enough of people’s lives—and hands of poker—to see those born into a royal flush throw it all away. While those given a meager two pair ended up with a life most people would’ve traded their eyeteeth for. It wasn’t the hand a person was dealt that determined the outcome—it was the person holding the cards who made the difference. And he’d laid his cards down long ago. At the foot of the cross.
Wyatt stared at the bottle in his hands, at the amber-colored liquid . . .
God, would You do something to turn that boy
around before it’s too late? Love him, Lord—
hard
—like You did
me at that age.
The crunch of boots on straw brought his head up, and he peered through slats in the stall to see McKenna. He hid the bottle back in the straw—she didn’t need to deal with that this morning—and slowly stood, as much for the sake of the gash on his head as to not scare her.
“Morning, Miss Ashford.”
She stopped short. “Marshal Caradon!” She let out a breath. “You startled me. I thought you’d be gone by now.”
Why was this woman always trying to get rid of him? “No ma’am.” Smiling, he raised an apologetic brow. “I’m still here.”
He walked from the stall, aware of the way she was looking at him—good and long, full up and down—and he couldn’t help but hope she liked what she was seeing, at least a little. He certainly liked
what he was looking at.
Her long brown hair fell about her shoulders, curly and loose, like it had last night. Her skirt and shirtwaist were simple homespun, yet somehow took on a fancier appearance with her giving them shape. She had a strength about her that was compelling and impossible to miss. Yet if you looked closely enough—if she let you that close—the woman had a vulnerable side too. One she worked to keep hidden behind that wall she kept up. She’d never believe it if he told her, but it was that vulnerability that he found most attractive.
He ran a hand over his shirt. “Thank you again for the clothes. I’ll be sure to launder them and get them back.”
“No need.” She made a waving gesture, her tone nonchalant. “If you can use them, keep them. After all, you were very . . .” Her lips firmed. She looked away.
Whatever she was thinking of saying next apparently wasn’t coming easily for her. Either that or she didn’t want to say it, which made him hope even more that she would.
“You were very kind to my cousin, Marshal. And I think Janie would want you to have the clothes as”—her voice softened a degree—“a token of her thanks for the kindness you showed her. And her son,” she whispered, peering at the dirt floor.
It was her first mention of the promise he’d kept to Janie since the day of Janie’s funeral. That she now considered it a
kind
act was surprising to him. “I appreciate that, ma’am, very much.” Movement caught his eye through the open barn doors behind her, and he saw Doc Foster step from the cabin and onto the porch. The man yawned and stretched, not looking their way. “What does the doc say about Robert?”
“That he’s got a slight concussion and some bruised ribs, in addition to a handful of cuts that needed stitching. Dr. Foster prescribed several days of bed rest.” Her gaze grew somber. “But Robert will heal, given time. I’m paying Casey Trenton a visit this morning to speak with him about Robert keeping his job. With the beating my brother took”—her tone turned accusing—“he’ll be laid up for a while. Mr. Trenton has work waiting to be done, which—I’m fairly sure—means Robert will lose his job.”
And if that happened, she would clearly lay the blame at his feet. Wyatt heard that loud and clear. “I’m sorry to hear that, ma’am.” For two reasons. First, that she was going to make the petition on behalf of her brother. And second, that Robert would most likely lose his job. He imagined Robert’s income—what little he didn’t gamble away—helped keep the ranch afloat. He doubted she realized how close Trenton had already come to firing the boy. “I wish I could do something more to help your brother, ma’am.” The hard glint in her eyes told him he’d misspoken.
“Why thank you, Marshal Caradon.” False gentility edged her voice. “That’s such a comfort. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.” She crossed to the far wall and hefted a bale of hay with more ease than a woman should. Or should have to.
“I’ve already fed and watered the horses, ma’am. I’m about done mucking out the stalls too, and thought I’d see to the milk cow before I go, if that’s all right with you.”
Her back to him, she dropped the bale. Dust and dirt plumed. “Actually, I think you’ve already done enough.” She bowed her head, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. “I would prefer that you just go.”
If she’d yelled the words, it would’ve lessened their sting. As it was, Wyatt felt the knife enter his gut and twist.
Maybe he should confide in her about his assignment from the Marshals Office. Surely she would understand then. If she gave her word not to say anything to anyone, he could tell her why he’d been in Severance last night and why, on top of wanting Robert to learn a lesson, he hadn’t intervened sooner.
Then thoughts of Charlie Boyd and Frank Williams crowded close—the two marshals killed in the recent Brinks robberies— and he knew better. The Marshals Office had assigned him to this case largely due to the fact that he kept a low profile, because of his anonymity. If he lost that advantage, even more innocent lives could be lost.
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll go,” he whispered, knowing what he needed to do, but still wrestling with what he wished he could do.
McKenna turned, anger awash in unshed tears. “He’s only a boy . . .” She took a stuttered breath. “How could you just stand there and let them do that to him?”
