The Inheritance (24 page)
N
o, Emma! Don’t touch th—” McKenna dropped the saddle and lunged for the pitchfork, barely catching it before its heavy handle smacked Emma in the forehead. She exhaled. Was the child intentionally trying to hurt herself? “I told you not to play over here! It’s not safe! Now get back over there to your blanket and—”
Turning to put the pitchfork back on the hook, McKenna caught the bottle of leather oil with her elbow and sent it clattering across the workbench. Half the contents spilled before she could reach it. Midday temperatures soared to sweltering in the barn, along with her temper, and she bit back a word she’d heard men use repeatedly in the livery as she was growing up.
She’d been so irritable for the past two days—and she knew why. But knowing didn’t help, and neither did this heat. It had taken her every last ounce of creativity to come up with a reason to turn down Wyatt Caradon’s offer for dinner.
Oh, but she’d wanted to go . . .
Yet no matter how she looked at it, spending time with him wasn’t a good idea. Emma was far too fond of the man as it was and, though it felt selfish, she needed Emma to start cultivating those feelings for her. Not someone who wasn’t going to be here.
Then there was Robert. Having Marshal Caradon around her brother wouldn’t help that situation either. Robert was surly enough these days. Best not spit directly into the wind, as she’d heard Casey Trenton say recently.
But the reason she was most hesitant to say yes to having dinner with him was that . . . she liked him. Very much. Too much, considering the man was a U.S. Marshal who came and went as freely as Wyatt Caradon did. And she couldn’t help but see a similar thread between Marshal Caradon and Michael Seaton. Michael had just been sworn in by the St. Joseph’s sheriff’s office. He’d told her he’d be right back. And he’d been killed that same hour. Standing by his graveside, knowing he’d saved one person’s life had offered some consolation, but it hadn’t restored the gaping hole in her own life. Made by a man of honor . . .
No matter how much she might grow to care for Wyatt Caradon—or perhaps already did—she wasn’t going down that particular road again. Trusting a man, especially a man in Caradon’s line of work, and letting yourself rely on him only led to disappointment and hurt. She’d been making it fine by herself, and would continue to.
She shoved damp strands of hair from her face, aware of Emma’s glare. She pointed to the blanket. “Go on back over there like I told you to do.”
“But you said we’d go for a walk when you finished.” Emma peered up, sweat plastering her hair to her head, not looking the least penitent.
“We will. But I’m not finished yet.”
“But you said it wouldn’t
take long.”
“It wouldn’t—if you’d stop getting into things. I just need for you to sit still for a few minutes.” She motioned toward the blanket she’d spread out by the front barn door. “Read the books I brought out here for you.”
“I don’t know the words.”
McKenna leveled her gaze, knowing that was something else she needed to tackle. Emma knew her alphabet and a few numbers, but that was it. Robert had been reading words by Emma’s age. “I meant you could look at the pictures.”
“I already looked at ’em.”
“Well, look at them again!” Hot, tired, and hungry, McKenna pointed to the blanket until Emma trudged back over—frowning the entire way—and plopped down.
McKenna slid a couple more buttons free on her bodice and dabbed at the sweat dampening her chest. Even with the front and rear barn doors propped open, there was little cross breeze. Colorado nights supplied a needed reprieve, but the days weren’t nearly as forgiving—as she feared Mr. Trenton wouldn’t be either if she didn’t deliver this saddle to him by this afternoon. She was already two days late.
So much for her promise to always be on time.
She leaned the pitchfork against the workbench and began cleaning up the oily mess. Reminding herself that Emma was only five, she decided to try a more optimistic approach. “Maybe Clara would like for you to draw her a picture of a bird.”
“Maybe Clara wants to go for a walk like you promised!”
Something triggered inside her at the challenge in Emma’s tone. “Well, you can just tell Miss Clara that she’s not going
anywhere
if I don’t get this saddle finished! And neither are you!”
Emma picked up her favorite book and threw it down on the blanket.
McKenna pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes, summoning patience she didn’t have. She hadn’t intended to raise her voice, but she’d never dealt with such an obstinate child before. Robert had been a quiet boy at this age, so easily appeased.
Deciding to ignore Emma, she retrieved the saddle and brushed off clinging pieces of hay, wondering if parenting might have been different for her if she’d sought it out, instead of it seeking her. She poured more oil onto the cloth and worked it into the rich leather of the saddle skirts. At least a dime’s worth of oil had spilled. Just add it to her ever-increasing tab.
Standing back, she inspected the saddle, the muscles in her arms and shoulders fatigued from work. This was her second saddle to sell through Trenton’s livery—not counting the one she’d sent to him by train before they arrived in Copper Creek. She needed to work faster, to make more money. But the thought was ludicrous. She was doing as much as she could and still needed more hours in each day.
Something she looked forward to doing was setting a time with Mei for their first lesson. Or lessons. She enjoyed being with Chin Mei—as long as her husband wasn’t around.
But the
woman’s feet . . .
How could parents do something like that to their little girl? She looked at Emma again and couldn’t fathom purposefully hurting the child in such a way. Maiming her like that . . .
Seeing Emma hold Clara close and whisper something to her softened McKenna’s earlier frustration. “Ten more minutes, Emma. That’s all I need.”
“You said that before,” she replied, head bowed, apathy flattening her tone.
McKenna opened her mouth to respond, then caught herself. Emma was right. She had said that—at least thirty minutes ago. She crossed the barn and knelt beside her on the blanket, aware of Emma edging from her reach.
“Tell you what. I’ll finish rubbing down the saddle, then we’ll take it into town to Mr. Trenton.”
Emma looked up, her expression skeptical. “Can we get a treat?”
McKenna blew out a breath. They barely had enough money for necessities, much less treats. Yet if she delivered this saddle to Mr. Trenton, she’d get paid. And maybe they could afford a tiny little something, especially if it helped her regain ground with Emma.
“All right, we’ll get a treat. But it won’t be something large. We’ll need to make it something small that—”
“Don’t cost much.” Emma nodded. “Right?”
Said sweetly enough, Emma’s reply pricked her pride like a barb. “Yes,” she whispered. “Something that doesn’t cost much.” Hearing the crunch of hay, she turned and sucked in a breath. A man stood only a few feet away.
“Good day, miss.” He tipped his hat to her.
McKenna glanced past him to the door on the opposite wall. He’d come in the back way? She could smell him from where she stood. His clothes were filthy, and he wore a jacket. In this heat . . .
His gaze slid past her to Emma on the blanket. He smiled and McKenna felt a chill. She moved into his line of vision, not taking her eyes off him, and prayed that Emma would stay quiet.
He blinked and nodded once, then pursed his lips as if acknowledging her dislike of how he’d looked at Emma. “She yours? She don’t look like you.”
“Please state your business, sir.”
He looked around and took his time in answering. “I read a note in the mercantile, says you’re needin’ work done. Cattle to herd, fences to mend. That cabin could stand some repairs, same as this barn.”
His gaze snagged on the blanket Robert had left on the pile of hay where he usually slept—whatever hour the boy decided to come home.
“So, tell me, ma’am, you got anything around here that could use my attention?”
When he looked past her again, McKenna’s thoughts went to the rifle in the kitchen, kept loaded atop the cupboard. “There’s nothing I can think of. And we’re not hiring right now, so you best be on your way.”
He squinted. “That so?” He nodded slowly. “I don’t know . . . I ain’t seein’ much evidence of a man’s mark on this place. Leastwise not one who’s doin’ right by you.” His eyes took on a gleam. “You got a man who’s doin’ right by you, ma’am?”
Heat poured into McKenna’s face. He wasn’t carrying a gun—that she could see anyway. But she guessed the sheath peeking from beneath his jacket held a knife. No way could she reach her knife on the opposite end of the workbench. Nor beat him in a fight. He was of thin build and had a sallow look about him, like he hadn’t eaten well in a long time. But desperation clung to him, telling her there was little he wouldn’t do.
Her eye went to the empty hook on the post beside him. The pitchfork . . .
She’d leaned it up against the workbench. It was just behind her, to her right. She didn’t allow herself to think of what might happen if she didn’t get to it first.
He was quick on his feet, but surprise gave her the advantage.
She caught him in the chest with the sharp prongs. Emma screamed behind her. The man’s eyes went wide. He cursed and took a step back. The pitchfork left holes in his jacket but if she’d drawn blood, she saw no sign of it.
Fatigue weighted the muscles in her arms, but McKenna wielded the pitchfork with confidence, knowing her and Emma’s well-being depending on it. “You leave here right now, and don’t you ever come back.”
The man moved toward her and she jabbed at him again. But lower this time, where he wasn’t expecting it.
Covering himself with one hand, he raised the other in truce. “All right! All right now! Just calm down there . . .” He drew back. “I’m leavin’ the same way I came in.”
“No! You’re leaving out the front. Where I can see you walk down that road to town.”
The road went for a good quarter mile before curving behind some boulders. McKenna angled herself where she could see both him and Emma. “Child,” she said, not wanting to use her name. “Get behind me.”
Eyes like saucers, Emma did as she asked.
McKenna sickened inside at the way he watched Emma, and she motioned again with the pitchfork, her arms starting to shake. “Next time I’ll have a rifle, and I’ll just as soon use it as look at you.”
He turned and grinned as he walked from the barn, and again as he started down the road.
McKenna kept her focus on him while ushering Emma inside the cabin. Following the man’s progress through the front window, she grabbed the rifle and positioned herself on the front porch. She watched him through the rifle sights until he rounded the corner, and she stood, keeping vigil, as long as she could.
Until her legs betrayed her. Then she sank to the floor, bile rising in the back of her throat.
W
yatt was determined not to shoot the man. He was going to take Grady Polk alive and, if he could help it, without injury. Wyatt peered around the edge of an old mining shack in time to see Polk raise his gun, then he ducked in case Polk’s aim had gotten any better.
A bullet zinged past him, a good two feet over his head.
Nope, Polk’s aim hadn’t changed. The man’s grandmother could probably shoot better than he did.
Wyatt’s thoughts went to the telegram in his vest pocket. He’d been carrying it with him for the past week, and though it was only a piece of paper, what it represented gave him fresh hope like he’d not known in a long time.
GAMBLING RING LINKED to robb eries
stop
bixby
SEVERANCE COPPER CREEK
STOP
DETAILS COMING BY MAIL
STOP
STAY IN COPPER CREEK
STOP
It was reading that last part that had given him hope. He’d be working from Copper Creek for a while. That’d probably mean he’d be there for a couple of months, maybe more, if past experience held. So delivering Grady Polk to the Denver jail was all that stood between him starting his new assignment with the Brinks robberies—and being near to her . . .
