The Inheritance (19 page)

The livery owner paused from his work, staring him down,
hard
. “And here I was hopin’ you wouldn’t come back this time, Marshal!”

Wyatt stopped short, scouring his memory for how he could’ve wronged the man. Then he caught a flicker of mischief in Trenton’s expression.

“I’m just kidding with you, Caradon. Well, halfway anyhow.” Trenton motioned behind him. “I think I know what you’re here for.”

Wyatt turned to see something draped beneath a blanket on the bench. “It’s ready?”

“Yes, sir. Been ready for about two weeks now. And it’s a beauty. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll gladly take it off your hands. And throw in five bucks for your trouble.”

With a tug, Wyatt removed the blanket.

Slowly, he ran a hand from pommel to cantle, and along each perfectly braided tassel. He’d never seen a saddle so fine, with such detail. Much less owned one. And he’d seen and owned plenty of them, being raised on a Texas ranch, herding cattle.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Trenton said, wiping his hands on a rag.

“
Nice
doesn’t begin to describe it. I should pay the man five dollars more for the detail on the saddle horn alone.” This saddle would last him for years. Wyatt thought of his father and of how much he would appreciate owning a saddle like this. At fifty-two, twenty years Wyatt’s senior, Rayford Caradon still rode and roped with the best of them. “Tell your man he should charge more for his work, Trenton.” Wyatt peered over at him, returning the leveled stare from moments earlier. “And not so you can line your pockets with commissions either.”

Trenton raised his hands, palm out. “I’m being fair in my dealings, Marshal, don’t you worry. I decided on my own to raise the price. Didn’t feel like enough was being charged.”

“I can see why. I’d like another one just like this come fall, for my father, if your fellow can manage it.”

Trenton nodded. “I’ll pass the order along, and tell you what comes.”

Wyatt heard footsteps behind him.

“I fixed the wagon, Mr. Trenton. Do I have your
permission
to leave?”

The voice was vaguely familiar, thick with belligerence, and Wyatt guessed who it belonged to before he turned.

Robert Ashford’s gaze was as hard as Trenton’s had been moments earlier. Except Robert didn’t look like he was kidding. The chip on the boy’s shoulder still begged to be knocked off, and from the looks of Robert’s right eye, someone had apparently already tried.

Trenton gestured to the wagon in the back. “You fixed the tongue? And the cracked felly on the left rear wheel?”

“I just said I fixed the wagon . . .
sir
.”

Trenton’s eyes narrowed for an instant. “You can go on then. Thanks for your work today, Robert. You did a good job, son.”

Not answering, Robert gave Wyatt a cursory glance and tossed his work apron on the bench. He strode from the livery, not looking back.

“That boy . . .” Trenton said, rubbing his jaw. “He’s just as talented as his sis—” He stopped for a beat. “As his sister said their father was, but he’s as muleheaded as they come. And the way he acts toward my customers isn’t doing me any favors either. But his work . . .”

“He’s good?”

Trenton humphed. “Better than good.” He showed him repairs Robert had made as well as a wagon he’d built from the spindles up. “He’s got a gift, Marshal. But he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t seem to care about it either.”

Wyatt looked in the direction Robert had gone. “I take it he’s had problems getting to work on time?”

Trenton nodded. “And leaving without his work being done. I spoke to his sister awhile back and things got better . . . until this week. Two days ago he came in late with that shiner.” He sighed. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, Marshal Caradon. It just bothers me when I see fellas so young with so much ahead of them, if they would only try. Yet they seem intent on throwing it all away.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” How closely those thoughts matched his from earlier. “And you’re not telling me anything I didn’t already know or suspect. I met his sister, Miss Ashford, the last time I was through here.” He softened his voice. “I attended her cousin’s funeral, so know a little of their situation.”

“She’s got her hands full. Miss Ashford, I mean. What with the little girl, and the ranch, and now her brother.” He shook his head. “My gut tells me he’s gettin’ mixed up with the wrong group of fellas. Only reason I didn’t fire him yesterday was because of Miss Ashford. I know they need the money, but I tell you, if things keep going like this . . .”

Wyatt could predict what was coming and wished there was something he could do to intervene. For Miss Ashford’s sake, certainly. But even more, for the boy’s.

Robert was on a short fuse, begging to be lit. And if he got mixed up with the wrong crowd, they’d ignite the keg building inside that boy and no telling what would happen. Because the only thing more volatile than anger was hurt. And Robert Ashford was chock-full of both.

Wyatt led Whiskey from a back stall and slipped a bridle over her head, eager to try out the new saddle. He spent the afternoon trekking high-country trails to the surrounding mining towns in the mountains above Copper Creek, on the lookout for his target, Grady Polk.

As the sun set, he returned to town, his scouting efforts proving fruitless. He reined in outside a saloon—Harley’s—a different place from where he’d gone last night, but one he’d frequented before. Bone-weary and thirsty, he dismounted and stretched. Considering all the riding he’d done, he wasn’t nearly as sore in the backside as usual. This new saddle was worth double what he’d paid.

Wyatt stepped inside the saloon and nearly collided with a barmaid. She somehow managed to keep hold of the two trays crammed with brimming glasses she balanced above her head. He moved from her path, offering a whispered apology.

The mingled smells of sweat and stale cigar smoke hit him in the face, making it a challenge to draw a deep enough breath. Across the room, a stalk-thin, wiry sort of man pounded out an off-key tune on a piano—though it was doubtful anyone heard it above the raucous laughter and incoherent drone of
liquored-up men.

Wyatt determined to stay for one hour. No more. If Grady Polk didn’t show himself in that amount of time, he was going back to his room at the boardinghouse for a hot bath, a warm meal, and a clean bed. In that exact ord—

“You’re a cheater! You been cheatin’ me ever since I got here!”

The scrape of chairs and angered curses brought Wyatt around.

Two tables over, one man lunged at another, knife drawn. Cards and money scattered, as did the players. Conversation in the room dropped to a simmer. The fellow brandishing the knife brought it to the man’s throat, acting like he intended to use it.

Wyatt started toward them, hand on his holster. He hadn’t taken three steps when he heard the unmistakable cock of a rifle.

“Put the knife down, son!”

The place fell quiet at the deep-throated command. The man holding the knife turned, and Wyatt went stock-still. Harley, the bartender and owner, stepped out from behind the counter, his rifle trained and steady on Robert Ashford.

SEVENTEEN

W
yatt caught the bartender’s subtle glance, and he could see Robert Ashford’s hand shaking as the boy pressed the tip of the blade against the man’s neck.

“But he’s dealin’ crooked!” Robert yelled. “I can prove it!”

Rifle aimed, Harley took a step. “Son, you can’t prove anything if you’re dead. Now . . . you’re stickin’ that blade into one of my finest dealers—”

Wyatt moved slow and silent.

“—and I’m not takin’ too kindly to that right now. So you best pull that knife away, real easy. Then we’ll take ourselves a walk outside and have a—”

Wyatt grabbed Robert’s wrist from behind and wrenched the knife free, then twisted the boy’s arms back in a tight hold. Robert didn’t so much groan as he growled. And he fought with surprising strength, his breath heavy with the tang of whiskey.

“Outside, Ashford,” Wyatt said low. “Now!”

Robert bucked and cursed, kicking at chairs, kicking at anything he could connect with as Wyatt forced him out the front door. Harley followed, rifle lowered, and soon the piano music resumed to fill the unaccustomed silence.

It took all of Wyatt’s strength to subdue Robert until they reached the street. “I’m going to let you go now. But if you so much as move wrong, you’ll regret it. Do you understand me?”

Breath coming hard, the boy stilled.

Wyatt released him, hoping he wasn’t reading Robert right, yet certain he was. Maybe if he could teach him a lesson tonight, someone down the line who would just as soon shoot him as look at him wouldn’t have to.

Robert spun and took a swing at him.

Prepared, Wyatt blocked him with one arm and caught him low in the ribcage with his fist—intentionally holding back. Robert buckled at the knees and went down, sucking air.

Wyatt stood over him, coal-burning street lamps illuminating the night. “You ready to cooperate now?”

After a moment, he nodded, and Wyatt offered his hand.

Robert took hold with his left and, in a flash, was on his feet and caught Wyatt across the chin with a hard right hook. Wyatt stepped back, pain exploding across the side of his face. It felt like he’d been hit with a brick.

He managed to block Robert’s next punch and delivered a solid blow to the boy’s chin. The kid staggered back a step, eyes glazed, and landed flat on his backside in the dirt.

“Stay where you are this time, son,” Harley said, the rifle poised low on his hip.

Robert angled his head from side to side, then swiped at his chin. His hand came away bloody and he cursed Wyatt. “You busted my chin!” He proceeded to curse Harley too, with everyone gawking from the boardwalk.

A crowd had formed. Not only men and women from inside the saloon, but passersby as well.

“That’s enough, Robert,” Wyatt worked his jaw back and forth, tired of listening to the filth from the boy’s mouth.

Robert glared at him. Then surprisingly, he grinned. “You hit all right . . . for an old man.”

Wyatt quickly calculated the differences in their ages. Eighteen years separated them, if he remembered right what McKenna had told him. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but if Robert were sober, the kid could probably take him if it came down to it. But he’d give Robert Ashford everything he had if it ever did.

Harley gestured with the rifle. “You takin’ him in? Or am I?”

Wyatt retrieved his hat from the dirt where it had landed and brushed it off, only mildly surprised at the question. “Are you saying you want to file a complaint, Harley?”

“I do. Sheriff Dunn can decide what to do with him. Unless you want me to.” The man smiled.

Wyatt shook his head.

“It’s not the first time this kid’s accused one of my dealers of cheatin’.” Harley’s gaze slid to Robert. “It takes a man to know when someone’s cheatin’ him, and when he’s cheatin’ himself.”

Wyatt pulled Robert up, watchful. “Come on.”

“You’re not really takin’ me in, Caradon?”

“I am.” He shoved Robert forward, not liking the boy’s casual tone. “Now move!”

Robert stayed quiet as they walked the darkened streets, but when Wyatt reached to open the door to the sheriff’s office, Robert looked back and said something vulgar to his face.

Wyatt stared, not shocked by his language, but finding it hard to reconcile that this boy was McKenna Ashford’s brother.

When they walked inside, Sheriff Dunn glanced up from behind his desk. He looked between them. “Trouble, Marshal?”

Wyatt urged Robert forward, seeing the muscles cord tight in the boy’s neck. “Had some trouble over at Harley’s place. Ashford, here, accused one of his dealers of cheating. Pulled a knife on him.”

Dunn laid aside the quill in his hand and stood. He came around the desk to stand before Robert. “Harley’s place draws a mean crowd, but he runs clean tables, Robert. He always has.”

Wyatt wasn’t surprised at Sheriff Dunn knowing Robert’s first name. It wasn’t that big a town, and Dunn always made it his business to know who came and went. He was a good lawman. And people like Robert Ashford tended to make themselves known early on.