The Inheritance (14 page)

He withdrew a sheet of paper from the file atop his desk and laid it before her. McKenna shifted in her chair so she could read it. Her gaze ran down the right column of the ledger sheet and the unpleasant feeling inside her expanded.
December
was the last month recording a payment, and if she read the history correctly, that had only been a partial payment.

Suddenly the miles separating her from all they’d left behind in St. Joseph seemed to vanish. She was right back where she’d started—a bankrupt homestead and business, and more bills than she had money to pay.

“I realize, Miss Ashford, that this has caught you without warning,” Mr. Billings said, his voice softening. “And for that, I apologize. Customarily, when we reach this particular impasse, there’s culpability on the part of the person sitting in your chair. But in this instance, there isn’t any. I realize that. You’re an innocent party, and I wish I could allow you the time to try to turn things around. But . . .” He appeared unwilling to meet her eyes. “I regret to inform you that I’m going to have to proceed with the foreclosure of the—”

She heard him—and didn’t—at the same time. His voice faded in and out. Clear, then fuzzy as scenes flashed through her mind. She was standing beside her mother’s grave. Then her father’s. She was in the sheriff’s office, posting bail, anything to keep Robert from going to jail.

She broke out in a sweat. She’d already lost one home. One life. She wasn’t going to lose another.

“I will not give in.” The words were out of her mouth before she’d had time to filter them. And despite their whispered tone, a will of iron rushed in to shore them up.

From the look on Billings’s face, he was as surprised as she was.

His mouth hung open for a beat. “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

She swallowed, willing her voice not to tremble like her hands.
I will not be broken. I will not be broken.
It became like a mantra inside her. “I arrived in Copper Creek four days ago, Mr. Billings.” She drew a deep breath. “And
nothing
has been as I expected. I realize that’s not your fault, and I’m not blaming you or your bank, for this situation.” She studied him, her mind going multiple directions at once, seeking a way through this. “How much needs to be paid on the account in order to keep the bank from foreclosing on the property?”

“I fear we’re past that now, Miss Ashford. It’s been over six months since the bank has received a full payment. I’ll know more this next week after I meet with my fath—” His face reddened. “With the stockholders in Denver,” he covered quickly.

But not before McKenna glimpsed the chink in his armor.
My father
. That gave this a whole new perspective. Mr. Billings was only trying to do his job, while also earning his father’s approval. Which made her feel even worse about what she was about to attempt. But she had no other choice.

She
kept her tone cordial. “Mr. Billings, did Vince Talbot keep you informed of his inability to pay in a timely manner?”

“Oh yes, ma’am. Mr. Talbot was always forthcoming with me about his situation. As I said, he and his wife were fine people, and very well liked. We all feel very badly about how things have worked out, Miss Ashford. For them, and now for you.”

She nodded, searching her memory. This could either work for her, or against her. Heaven knows, she’d already had enough of the
against
in her life
—
maybe heaven would see to it to send some of the other her way. “When did you inform Mr. Talbot about the possibility of having to foreclose on his ranch, sir?”

“Mr. Talbot visited my office”—he flipped to a page in the back of the file—“the last week in April to, again, request more time for repayment of his loan. I explained the situation to him, about the likelihood of a foreclosure, and he said he understood completely.”

Her next question poised and ready, McKenna held back, acting as if she needed time to ponder what he’d said. “I see . . . And when was it exactly that you served Mr. Talbot with
written
notice of your intention to foreclose?”

The change in his demeanor was barely perceptible. But it was there. She was certain.

His brow rose, and she knew the rules of the game had changed.

“Written notice?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir. It’s my understanding that, by law, a property owner must be given notice in writing of a bank’s intention to foreclose . . . before that action can be pursued.”

A glimmer of admiration filtered through his surprise, but it was briefly lived. “You’re right, Miss Ashford. That is the proper procedure.”

Her mind racing, McKenna took heart—until he withdrew another sheet of paper from the file.

“Which is why I drafted written notice of the intent to foreclose on the twenty-seventh of April.”

Her hopes fell as swiftly as they’d risen. “I see.”

He laid the page before her with a flourish that pressed every emotional bruise she still nurtured. And when she read Vince’s name at the top, her heart sank. Why hadn’t Janie told her about this? Warned her? Then again, would it have made any difference? She and Robert had nowhere else to—

The bottom of the document drew her eye. McKenna flipped the page over and checked the back. Her pulse quickened. Experience was often a harsh teacher. But once learned, the lessons were not easily forgotten. “Might I see a copy of this declaration that Mr. Talbot signed, please? The one serving as his receipt of notification of your bank’s intention to foreclose on his property?”

The look on Mr. Billings’s face told her she’d just bought herself more time, and had also sacrificed any hope of forging an unlikely friendship with Copper Creek’s most prominent banker.

THIRTEEN

A
unt Kenny!”

The blade slipped in McKenna’s hand, narrowly missing her finger. Teeth gritted, she threw the knife on the workbench and stepped back, her body flushing hot and cold at the near miss. The cut on her left hand had finally healed. Dr. Foster had only recently removed the sutures, and here she’d almost—

“Aunt Kenny!”

As Emma’s voice came closer, McKenna ran her hands through her hair, willing a calm that wouldn’t come. It was nearly dark outside. Robert had promised to watch Emma and should have put her to bed by now. “I’m in here, sweetie. In the barn.” Her cheerful tone rang false, not that Emma would notice.

Head pounding, McKenna gripped the hair at her temples and squeezed tight. The pressure actually helped her headache, but didn’t ease the throb in her lower back that spiraled up the length of her spine.

Over two weeks had passed since her meeting with Mr. Billings, but the outcome was never far from her mind. She’d stopped guessing why Janie had never mentioned the seriousness of their situation in a letter. Whatever her reason, it didn’t change the circumstances. After meeting with Mr. Billings, she had shared the outcome with Robert over dinner that evening, phrasing it carefully so as not to alarm him. No need for both of them to worry.

McKenna heard a noise behind her and turned.

Emma toddled barefoot into the barn, her nightgown dragging behind her in the dirt. Her blonde hair was mussed, and she looked like a little ragamuffin dragged in off the street. The same could be said for Clara, the rag doll clutched tight in her arms. The doll had been everywhere with her over the past two weeks. It needed a good washing, but every time McKenna tried to take it away, Emma threw a fit. The child had already cried enough tears for a lifetime.

“I’m thirsty, Aunt Kenny.”

“Then you should go back inside and ask Uncle Robert for a drink.”

“Uncle Robert isn’t there.”

McKenna looked beyond her to the homestead. “What do you mean he isn’t there?”

Emma scrunched her shoulders and let them fall.

Robert, so help me if you . . .
A flush of anger swept through her. He’d left a child of five in the house
alone
? “Come on, sweetheart.” McKenna took a measured breath and slowly let it out. “I’ll get you a drink of water and then it’s back to bed.”

“But I want milk.”

“We don’t have any more milk, remember? You drank the last of it at dinner.”

“But we got a cow.” Emma looked pointedly at the cow in the stall.

“I don’t have time to milk her again right now, Emma.”

“My mama used to milk Summer before I went to bed.”

McKenna searched for a smile. “Yes, I know. But I haven’t had time to do that this evening.” Milking was one of Robert’s responsibilities. One of the growing list of responsibilities he’d been shirking recently.

She glanced at the pieces of leather on the workbench. She’d been cutting them in thin strips for braids, the finishing touch to this saddle. The knife had veered to the left, cutting several of the pieces too short. More leather wasted. She reminded herself that she still had her finger, but that wouldn’t pay for the extra leather. She only hoped the next order from Mr. Trenton’s leather supplier had arrived.

This saddle was due to the livery in two days, and it would take every spare minute between now and then to get it finished.

“Are you mad, Aunt Kenny?”

Yes, at Robert.
“No, honey, I’m just tired.” Letting Emma know how angry she was wouldn’t help matters any. Better to maintain a calm exterior for the child’s sake. McKenna blew out the oil lamp on the workbench and extended her hand.

Emma looked at it, turned on her diminutive heel, and walked back to the cabin. McKenna trailed behind, mindful of all the little girl had endured in past weeks. Even longer, with Vince’s passing.

Dr. Foster’s counsel from the last time she’d seen him in town came back to her now:
Give her time. She’ll warm up to
you. She’s no doubt resentful of you right now because—in her eyes—
you’re trying to take her mother’s place.

Emma still asked for her mother several times a day, sometimes in tears, sometimes in passing, as though she’d forgotten what had happened. “Your mother’s in heaven now,” McKenna had gently explained a dozen times. “But she still loves you very much.”

But that didn’t
erase the child’s tears or her stated wish that her mother was still here instead of McKenna.

McKenna followed Emma through the open front door and, sure enough, saw no sign of Robert. “Robert?” She peered inside the two bedrooms and then turned to Emma. “Did he say where he was going? Or when he’d be back?”

Emma shook her head matter-of-factly. “He’s just not here.” She climbed into a kitchen chair and situated Clara close beside her. “Clara wants a drink too.”

Sighing, McKenna poured the last of the water from the pitcher, her back and shoulder muscles aching from bending over the workbench for the past two hours. She set the tin cup on the table. “You’ll need to share this with Clara until I can pump more water later. Be sure to use both hands.”

Emma gripped the cup with her right hand and took a sip. She drew her mouth into a bow and smiled.

McKenna chose a firmer tone. “I said to use
both
hands, please.”

“I don’t need to. See?” Emma brought the cup to her lips again, sipped, and moved to set it down. The cup caught the edge of the table and dropped, drenching the front of her gown. “You filled it too full, Kenny!” Tears erupted. “My
mama
never did it that way!”

Reaching for a rag, McKenna felt her patience thinning, more so with each of Emma’s high-pitched screams. The most mundane things set the child off these days.
And where on earth
was Robert!

Emma’s tears became more pitiful, and McKenna found herself tempted to join in. The pounding in her head grew to a steady thrum. She’d never felt so tired, so defeated, in all her life. “We’ll get it cleaned up, sweetheart. Don’t worry. It’s only water.”

“I—I’m”—Emma hiccupped and took stuttered breaths— “still . . . thirsty, Kenny.”

The child had taken to calling her Aunt Kenny, and on occasion shortened to it Kenny. No doubt from Robert’s use of the name. It didn’t sit well, but seemed a small thing in light of everything else. Especially with the closeness McKenna hoped to cultivate.

She finger-brushed the hair hanging in Emma’s eyes, surprised— and heartened—when she didn’t pull away like usual. Emma offered the tiniest pout of a smile, but it wasn’t enough to change McKenna’s mind about giving her more to drink. Not when she’d changed the sheets on Emma’s bed three times this week. The soiled laundry sat waiting in a basket on the front porch, probably soured by now.