The Inheritance (46 page)
“You’re welcome.” She brushed his cheek with her hand. “Come home soon.”
“I wish I never had to leave.”
T
he wind blew hard from the north, swirling the snowcapped peaks above the cabin and ushering fall in with a chill. Wrapping her shawl tighter about her, McKenna stood on the porch and kept a watchful eye on the thunderhead building in the distance. It was mid-afternoon, too soon to expect Wyatt.
In the past month, he hadn’t returned home before eight o’clock at the earliest. But still, she hoped he’d be home soon, both considering the coming storm but especially knowing he’d been in Denver, visiting Robert. She could hardly wait to hear how Robert was doing and if Wyatt noticed any change in him. And whether he had news on the upcoming trial.
The horses were safe in the barn and Emma was inside napping, though, with this wind, surely she wouldn’t be able to sleep much longer.
Wyatt was right. Aspens in fall were more beautiful than McKenna could have imagined. But right now the wind was stripping the bright golden leaves from their branches, sending them scurrying down the road in a swirl of dust and dirt.
The first raindrop landed with a resounding
plop
on the bottom porch step, followed by another and another. McKenna walked
back inside and closed the door. She slipped the bolt firmly into place, accepting with sinking certainty that Wyatt wouldn’t make it back home tonight. Nor would she want him to try, considering the weather, despite what plans she’d had.
Back in the bedroom, she lit a lamp for extra light, and picked up a clean cloth, doused it with saddle oil and continued her slow circular motions, working the oil into the leather. Every few minutes, listening to the wind howl outside, she found her focus drawn back to the bed.
She’d underestimated Wyatt’s patience and overestimated her own confidence. The fact that he knew what to expect from the intimacies between a husband and wife should have lent her comfort. But it didn’t. All she could think about was his disappointment if she didn’t meet his expectations. And that one single fear had been enough to curb her enthusiasm. But tonight she had planned on putting aside that fear once and for all, and would simply follow his lead. That, she knew she could trust.
A loud thud sounded outside the bedroom window. She rose and peered out in time to see an empty whiskey barrel careening down the road. A crack of thunder rolled across the sky and the dark gray thunderhead opened wide. Within minutes, the sun-drenched earth formed pools of mud that congregated to flow downhill toward the road.
Thunder rolled again and a cry came from Emma’s bedroom. McKenna laid her cloth aside, grabbed the oil lamp, and hurried to check on her.
“Hey, sweetie . . .” She sat down on the edge of the bed. “It’s all right, I’m here.”
Hair mussed and tangled, eyes squinty with sleep, Emma crawled from beneath the covers and into her lap. She wrapped her arms around McKenna’s neck and, seconds later, McKenna heard her soft cries.
“Oh honey . . . what’s wrong? Are you sick?” She felt Emma’s forehead and found her burning up.
Eyes red-rimmed and swollen, Emma managed to suck in breaths between sobs.
“Oh sweetie . . .” McKenna cradled her close.
Emma cried harder. “I’m scared. I—I want m–my m–mama.”
McKenna’s heart broke. She took Emma into the kitchen and sat her in a kitchen chair. Emma’s sobs became more broken and the child shivered uncontrollably as McKenna poured water into a bowl and wet a clean dishcloth. She dabbed Emma’s forehead and cheeks, then her neck and chest.
She held a cup of water to Emma’s lips, but Emma refused it.
“Emma, you need to drink something to get your fever down.”
Emma shook her head harder. “It hurts . . . my throat.”
McKenna couldn’t help but remember that illness that had taken Vince and Janie. But she knew better than to panic. She remembered Robert having sore throats when he was younger. The doctor always prescribed willow bark tea and plenty of rest. She made Emma comfortable on the sofa and gathered ingredients for the tea.
Soon the kettle whistled on the stove.
She let Emma see her stirring honey into the cup. She tasted the concoction first, checking the temperature. “Mmm . . . it’ll feel good to your throat.”
She lifted Emma’s head. Emma drank, wincing. But at least she drank. The tea had a sedating effect and, shortly after, Emma slipped back to sleep.
With the storm still raging outside, paling daylight took an early leave. She rinsed the compress on Emma’s forehead every few minutes, while bathing her skin with a cool cloth. Soon, her own eyes wouldn’t stay open either and she dozed in small snatches.
She awakened after midnight to Emma’s cries and found her still hot to the touch. McKenna repeated the tea with honey, the compresses, the cool water baths, and moved Emma back to her own bed, thinking she’d be more comfortable there.
But when she tried to lay her down, Emma clung to her and wouldn’t let go.
“Mama? Mama?” she cried, over and over.
Tempted to cry with her, McKenna shook her head. “
I’m
here, Emma. Aunt Kenny’s here.”
Clinging to her, Emma’s sobs grew more hoarse. “I want M-mama . . .”
Knowing she had to calm Emma down somehow, McKenna cradled her close. “Shh . . .” Closing her eyes, she hoped Janie would forgive her. “Mama’s here, Emma. It’s okay, Mama’s here.”
Emma’s breath caught, and in the dim light from the lamp in the other room, McKenna saw the child looking up at her. Any minute, Emma would see she wasn’t Janie and would— Emma nestled closer and snuggled her head into the crook of McKenna’s neck. This time it was McKenna who sobbed. She rocked Emma back and forth, back and forth, and thought of the many times Janie had surely sat right here in this very same spot and done the very same thing.
Finally, worn out from crying, Emma went limp in her arms. McKenna laid her down on the bed and covered her with a light sheet. She checked her forehead again. Then felt of her cheeks.
She was cooler! Her fever wasn’t gone, but it was definitely subsiding.
Grateful and exhausted, McKenna was about to lie down beside her when she heard a knock on the front door. She pushed up from the bed, found her way into the front room, and was reaching for the rifle atop the cupboard when she recognized Wyatt calling out to her.
She unbolted the door and he hurried inside, bringing torrents of rain and wind with him. He pushed the door closed and turned, and McKenna threw her arms around him. The wetness of his coat seeped through her dress.
He hugged her tight. “Are you okay? Where’s Emma?”
McKenna nodded, so happy to see him, and so relieved all at the same time. She drew back. “She’s running a fever, but it’s breaking. I think she’s going to be okay.”
Wyatt shrugged off his duster, hung it on a peg, and headed for the bedroom. A puddle of water marked the spot where he’d stood.
McKenna met him by the bedside.
“What have you given her?” His voice sounded tight.
She told him everything she’d done, and how much tea she’d managed to get Emma to drink.
He felt of Emma’s forehead. “She’s still a mite warm.” He turned. “I’ll ride for Doc Foster.”
At that moment, a peal of thunder cracked overhead. Emma jerked but didn’t waken. McKenna hastily soothed her back to sleep and caught Wyatt at the front door. Already in his duster again, she grabbed his arm. “She doesn’t need Dr. Foster, Wyatt. Her fever’s breaking.”
He reached for the door, not seeming to hear her.
She reached up and took his face in her hands. He stilled.
“Emma’s going to be okay. Her fever’s breaking.” His face was a mixture of pain and fear, and suddenly his actions made more sense to her. “Did your Bethany die of fever?” she whispered, already seeing the answer in his eyes.
“I can’t—” His voice caught. “I can’t lose another child that way.”
She hugged him to her as tight as she could, wanting him to feel every part of her loving him. “You won’t. You won’t lose Emma.”
He lifted her face to his, and McKenna met his kiss and returned it.
“You’re sure she’s all right?” he said.
McKenna nodded. “Yes, but . . .” She looked down and away. “I did something I shouldn’t have done.”
“What? What did you do?”
Shame poured through her. “Emma kept crying for Janie, asking for her mama.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t console her, her fever was high.” She closed her eyes. “I told her that . . .
I
was her mama. I know it was wrong. I don’t want her
to forget Janie, it’s just that—”
“You remember that night, McKenna,” he said, his voice soft, “when Janie asked you to take care of her?”
She nodded. “I’ll never forget it.”
“Janie asked you to take her . . . and
make her your own
. Those were her exact words.”
Not following him, McKenna waited from him to say something else.
He took her in his arms, his eyes at once both steel and velvet. “Am I your husband, McKenna?”
She stared. “I don’t understand what you’re—”
He kissed her long and hard. Pressed against him, McKenna began to feel something deep inside her slowly unfurl.
Breathless when he finally drew back, she blinked to refocus.
She searched his eyes and, for a moment, thought he was going to kiss her again.
He trailed a finger across her lips. “Let me ask this another way. Even though we haven’t known each other as husband and wife,
yet
. . .” Intimacy deepened his expression. “Is there any doubt in your mind that I’m your husband? Now, in this moment?”
It took her a few seconds to form the right syllable. “No,” she finally whispered, swallowing. “There’s no doubt.”
“As sure as you are of that, even without the closeness we’ll share one day as husband and wife, that’s the kind of certainty Emma needs in her life right now. She needs a mother, McKenna. I’m not saying for you to step in and replace Janie. No one can ever do that, and I know you’d never try. You loved Janie too much. But you can be to Janie’s daughter what Janie can’t be anymore. God put you into Emma’s life to be”—he wiped the tears from her cheeks—“her mama.”
As though standing by Janie’s bedside again, McKenna heard the distant echo of her cousin’s fragile voice.
“Take her as your
own.”
And for a second time, she silently pledged to do just that.
They checked on Emma together and found her sleeping soundly, her fever all but gone.
When Wyatt started for the sofa, McKenna took hold of his hand and led him into their bedroom, and closed the door. Remembering something from their wedding one month ago, she reached for his hand and found the scar on his thumb. She kissed it—once, twice—and noticed the subtle shake of his head.
“You’re testing your husband’s patience, Mrs. Caradon,” he whispered, his voice husky.
She drew him down beside her on the bed and kissed him, long and slow, as she’d thought about doing for days now. Loving his response, she also loved the way she felt when he took over. His clothes were soaked, but she soon found his skin beneath to be warm. And by the time the sun rose, McKenna knew with certainty that Mei was right—the most fertile soil for love truly did lie in the heart of a friend. And in the heart of her husband.
A heart that had been broken by God and made whole again, just like hers.
