The Inheritance (40 page)

“Don’t go too far on that leg, Marshal Caradon.” Doc Foster peered up from his examining table. “You’re next in line.”

Wyatt nodded. “He still holding his own?”

Doc Foster sighed. “From what you described, this boy should be lying out there with those other two. Or should’ve at least had an arm blown off. As it is . . .” He wiped his brow. “Yes, he’s holding his own, and then some. I’d say somebody was praying for this boy, Marshal.”

“I’d have to agree, sir.” Wyatt glanced out the front window again. “And she’s headed up the boardwalk right now.” A group of men had stopped Dunn, no doubt pressing him for information. McKenna continued on without him.

“Do you want to tell her, Marshal . . . Or shall I? I think it’d be better if she’s prepared.”

“I’ll do it.” Wyatt reached for the latch. “When will he wake up?”

“Not for a while yet. Why don’t you keep her outside? Until I’m done and . . . have it bandaged. I’ll come get you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Marshal Caradon?”

Wyatt turned back.

“Did he have any part in the killing?”

Wyatt lowered his gaze to Robert who lay unmoving on the table. “I don’t know the answer to that yet, sir.” He shifted his weight to his left leg. “But I’m praying for his sake, and his sister’s, that he didn’t.”

He opened the door and his eyes found McKenna’s.

She stopped short. Her face went ashen. “Y-you’re a-alive.” It came out a whispered question. “They told me a marshal had been—” She choked on a sob.

Wyatt slowly realized what she’d mistakenly thought, and the feeling in her eyes softened him in a way he couldn’t rightly explain. He took her in his arms, Emma too, and held them close. “I’m fine, McKenna. And very much alive.”

She clung to him, fisting his shirt in her hand. Even Emma put her little arm around him and held on tight. He kissed the crowns of both their heads.

After a moment, McKenna stepped away. Her gaze lowered.

Wyatt looked down. Bloodstains, long dried, soiled the front and sleeves of his shirt, along with his right pants leg. Some of the blood was his. But most of it was Robert’s, and he dreaded having to tell her about it.

“Marshal Caradon!” Chin Li approached, his expression grave.

But Wyatt knew kindness lay beneath his stern countenance. “Mr. Chin.” In lieu of a handshake, Wyatt bowed, feeling his head swim. “My thanks to you, sir, for bringing Miss Ashford and her daughter.”

“You have need again . . .” Chin bowed. “I help!”

“I appreciate that. Thank you, Mr. Chin.”

Chin took his leave, and Wyatt gestured for McKenna to follow him down the boardwalk, away from the crowd.

But she shook her head. “You’re hurt, Wyatt. You need to see Dr. Foster. And Sheriff Dunn said something about Robert. Do you know if he’s all right?”

Wyatt took hold of her hand. “McKenna, I need you to trust me. Just for a minute. Dr. Foster has another patient who needs his attention first, then he’ll see me.”

The struggle was evident on her face. She finally relinquished, and nodded.

He guided her to an empty bench a few paces away, mindful of the pain in his right leg and the churning in his head. Grateful to be seated, he casually leaned forward and braced his arms on his legs, aware of the audience beside him.

McKenna situated Emma on her lap and gently touched his arm. “You’re in pain,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes at the cool touch of her hand on his skin. “A little . . . it’s not that bad.” Unable to look at her, he studied a knot in the wooden plank beneath his boots and prayed for her, as he’d been doing ever since he spotted Robert on the other end of that gun this morning.

“I’m not sure what all you know, McKenna . . .”

“That the stage was robbed. That a marshal died. And that it wasn’t you.”

Head down, his eyes watered. “The six o’clock stage left Copper Creek at daybreak and was ambushed by three men on horseback about a half hour out of town. In Slocum’s Pass, on the way to Denver. The driver tried to outrun them, but the stage flipped. A U.S. Marshal was on board and gunfire was exchanged.” He looked over at her. “They were carrying a full load of passengers . . . and a strongbox.”

She searched his eyes, and he could see her trying to tie the loose ends together. And failing.

Emma raised her head from McKenna’s shoulder. “We waited for you last night, Mr. Wyatt. But you never came.”

“I know, honey, and I’m so sorry. I wanted to be there.” He hoped his smile conveyed sincerity. “More than any other place I could think of . . .” He looked at McKenna. “I wanted to be there.”

The disappointment in her eyes drove home how deeply he cared for her, how much he desired for her to trust him.

She smoothed a hand over Emma’s hair. “We missed you but, of course, we understand. Don’t we, Emma?”

Emma nodded, but due more from McKenna’s prompting, he thought, than from truly understanding.

McKenna pulled a little slate and piece of chalk from her reticule and situated Emma beside her on the bench. “I’d like for you to practice your letters. Write as many as you can remember.” After a moment, she turned back. “Not long ago, I read about a Brinks robbery in the newspaper.” She spoke in hushed tones. “Is that related to this?”

“I’m not sure yet. But my gut tells me no. You asked a while back what I do for the Marshals Office. I wasn’t at liberty to tell you then, and I’m not sure I should tell you now, but I don’t see how I can avoid it . . . under the circumstances.” He glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot. “The Marshals Office has been investigating the Brinks robberies for months. Not long ago they asked me to investigate a possible connection
between those robberies . . . and
murders,”
he said, glancing at Emma and mouthing the word, “with owners of gambling halls in the area.”

“So that’s what you’ve been doing when you leave the ranch every day.”

He nodded. “I was on my way back here from Bixby when I heard gunfire, then the explosion.”

“Explosion?”

“The three men who robbed the stage—or tried to—used dynamite.” Anticipating what was coming, a weight settled in the center of his chest. “The strongbox was too heavy to move, so they held the driver and the passengers at gunpoint while they set the charge. But they weren’t experienced with explosives. The charge went off before they were ready. Two of the men were injured in the explosion. One of them . . . didn’t make it.” He stared at the bloodstains on his hands, then forced his gaze back to her. His heart wrenched inside him. He phrased his words carefully, needing to be sure she understood. “McKenna . . . the other man who helped set the charge . . .” He swallowed hard. “It was Robert. That’s who Doc Foster is working on right now.”

For a moment, her features went slack. She blinked, frowning. “But it can’t b—” She searched the street in the direction of Dr. Foster’s clinic, shaking her head. “It’s not . . . possible.” She turned back. “You’re certain?”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. I was there. It was Robert.”

Tears rose in her eyes. “Is he all right?” She stood. “I need to go to him.”

Wyatt rose slowly, taking a deep breath. “You can. As soon as Dr. Foster’s done.”

Her lips moved but nothing came out. “He was injured.” It wasn’t a question.

“Robert was beside the strongbox when the charge went off. He . . . lost . . . The doc is trying to save what’s left of his hand—his left hand.”

She closed her eyes and tears fell.

“Dr. Foster says it’s a miracle Robert didn’t lose his arm, McKenna. Or his life.”

“But he’s a wagonsmith, Wyatt. Without his hands—both of them—how is he supp—”

“I know.” He wanted to touch her, hold her. “But he’s fortunate to have his life, McKenna. He can start over. The man who was beside him doesn’t have that option.”

She wiped her cheeks. “I want to see him.”

“I’ll go with you.” He took a step forward and had to reach out to steady himself on the back of the bench. Even from sitting for that brief a time, his leg had stiffened up.

McKenna slipped her arm around his waist. “Emma, follow us, please,” she said behind her, putting a hand on his chest. “You don’t look well, Wyatt.”

“Maybe not.” He dug deep for a smile. “But I’m feeling better by the minute.” He tried not to put too much of his weight on her as they walked.

They were nearly to the clinic when her grip tightened. “Did— Was it Robert who shot you?”

Wyatt leaned against the building for support, feeling his body break out in a sweat. “No. There was a third man. I shot him, but he got away.”

Relief cleared the question from her eyes.

Her hand on the door latch, she paused, as though trying to prepare herself for what waited inside. She looked at the two bodies draped in sheets on the boardwalk, and Wyatt found himself praying again that it hadn’t been Robert who pulled the trigger on the marshal. He could see in McKenna’s face that she was praying the very same thing.

THIRTY-SEVEN

M
cKenna put her hand on the door latch of the jail and felt a shiver sweep through her. The boardwalk was empty. She’d chosen her visiting time with care. Mei had graciously agreed to keep Emma, even offering to feed her dinner, complete with a freshly baked moon cake. Emma had hardly taken time to blow a kiss and wave good-bye before hurrying back to the kitchen.

McKenna smoothed a moist palm over the front of her dress as memories of Robert lying on Dr. Foster’s examining table shoved their way to the forefront.

His left hand—or what was left of it—but also his face, his neck and chest. All bore marks from the explosion.

She took a steadying breath, praying he would be more open to seeing her now than he had been two days ago in Dr. Foster’s clinic.
“Give him time,”
Wyatt had told her.
“Maybe he needs to be
alone right now. He’s got a lot going on inside him.”
Yes, well Robert wasn’t the only one who had a lot going on inside him. She was scheduled to meet with the circuit judge in the morning at nine o’clock and could scarcely hold a thought in her head, much less be prepared to defend her right to keep Vince and Janie’s ranch, and be mother to their daughter. And all this while her brother was in jail for robbery—and possible murder!

Guilt nipped her conscience at her lack of compassion. He’d made such poor choices. And his timing . . . His obvious lack of desire to speak to her—even look at her—didn’t help to soften her attitude toward him. And yet she loved him. No matter what he did, no matter whether he deserved it or not, she loved him. That seemed to be the curse of a parent’s love. A parent was bound to their child no matter what. Forever. The child could abandon the parent. But never the parent, the child.

Wyatt had encouraged her not to come here. Not to see Robert. That perhaps Robert having time apart from her would be good. But people who loved each other stood by each other . . . didn’t they? No matter what . . .

She lifted the latch.

Copper Creek’s sheriff stood when she entered. “Miss Ashford.”

“Good evening, Sheriff Dunn.” No need for her to state why she was here. He knew. “How are you?”

“Doin’ well, ma’am.” He glanced at the hallway behind him. The door was ajar. “Robert’s just had dinner. I’m finishing mine now too. My wife made some of her beef stew with corn bread. She slathers the bread thick with butter and honey.” He briefly looked down, fingering the corner of his desk. “He’s eatin’ real good, ma’am. And . . . I think he’s gettin’ to a better place inside himself. Better than when you last saw him, at least.”

Touched by his statement, McKenna smiled. “Thank you, Sheriff.” She removed the basket on her arm and set it on his desk. “I brought him something to eat, maybe for later.”

With all the care of a father with a newborn, Dunn peeled back the dishcloth and inspected the contents of the basket, then covered them back up. “This all looks fine, ma’am. Did you get them at Ming’s Bakery?”

McKenna nodded, guilt having its second nibble at her for not having baked the items herself. “Robert never has liked my biscuits.” She retrieved the basket, trying for a carefree tone. “Honestly, I can’t say I blame him. I’m not much good at baking.” Or anything else with Robert, it would seem.