The Inheritance (4 page)

Caradon assisted, tossing the bloodied shirt on the floor. “You have someplace to be, Miss Ashford? Something I’m keeping you from?”

McKenna gently probed beneath the injured man’s right shoulder, aware of Caradon’s close proximity. “Would you please hold the lamp so I can see better?”

He reached for the lamp and held it steady above her head. “There’s no bullet in him. It went clean through.”

Sure enough, she felt the exit wound. “Was that by chance or by design, Marshal?”

“By design.” He gave a faint shrug. “I can shoot fairly well.”

“Fairly well?” She laughed softly. “Your aim was perfect.” Right between the man’s upper chest muscles and his collar bone. Straight through. “Were you riding when you shot him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Even more impressive.
“Fairly well” didn’t come close to describing this man’s ability to shoot. Something handy in his line of work, no doubt. His tone was noticeably absent of pride too, as though anyone could do such a thing. “Let’s roll him onto his side, please.”

Caradon did and held him there as she cleaned the wound in the man’s back. She managed ten sutures, an eleventh to be sure it would hold, then tied the stitch and bandaged it. Caradon eased him back down. The man on the table began to stir, and she held the cloth over his nose and mouth. His breathing quickly evened.

“You live here in Copper Creek, Miss Ashford?”

She dipped a fresh cloth in the water and washed the bullet wound in the patient’s shoulder as best she could. “I do now. We arrived today.” She paused and straightened, the muscles in her back in spasms from bending over the table, and from too much riding on trains and coaches and wagons.

She thought of Janie waiting at home, watching for her, and hoped she wasn’t worrying. Robert’s only concern would be that she’d left him overlong with people he didn’t know. He hated making chitchat. She just hoped he wasn’t acting sullen and stone-faced with Vince, Janie, and Emma, like he so often did with her.

Hearing a clock ticking somewhere behind her, she rethreaded the needle and focused again on her task. Suturing a man was different from suturing a horse, and very definitely different from sewing saddles. Yet something about the repetition of the act felt similar, which made her wonder if she was doing it right.

“We?”

Finishing the third suture in the man’s shoulder, she peered up at Caradon, the needle poised between her right thumb and forefinger. “I beg your pardon?”

“You said ‘we arrived today.’”

Not wanting to talk, she tied off a fourth suture, and a fifth, aware of him watching her. “My brother and I.”

“Where did you move from?”

She raised her head to find him leaning close, their faces inches apart. “If you don’t mind, Marshal Caradon, could we . . . not talk right now?”

The tanned lines at the corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly. “Not much on that, are you, ma’am? Talking, I mean.”

Though his expression denied it, she heard a smile in his voice, yet she held back from responding to it. Outwardly anyway. Someone like Wyatt Caradon was the last person she, or Robert, needed in their lives right now. “I don’t mind talking, Marshal. When I’m not exhausted, famished, and stitching up a gunshot wound.”

Catching his grin before she looked away, she finished suturing and bandaging the wound. The man’s left forearm was badly sprained, though not broken, and she did her best to wrap and secure it against his chest in a makeshift sling. Dr. Foster would have to see to the rest, if Caradon allowed him to.

By the time she washed up, gathered the dirty rags, and put the doctor’s office aright, her patient was waking again. She reached for the ether, but Caradon stopped her.

“I carried him in here, but he’s walking to jail on his own.”

When they left the doctor’s office minutes later, dusk had fallen. Two lamplighters made their way down the street on wooden stilts, torches in hand, lighting the coal lamps that sat atop poles in front of each building.

Aware of the prisoner’s continued stare, McKenna made certain not to look directly at him. He was about Caradon’s height and build, and had a surprisingly boyish quality about him—that ended abruptly whenever he opened his mouth.

“I about ran you over this afternoon, didn’t I, ma’am?”

McKenna ignored the man’s comment and fell back a couple of steps.

“That’s enough, Slater,” Caradon warned, his hand resting on the gun at his hip. “Keep walking and keep quiet.”

“Wished I’d been awake when you was sewin’ me up, miss. Maybe I’d’ve gotten me a better look at them—”

Caradon shoved him hard in the back, right in the wound. Slater moaned and stumbled forward, cursing him through gritted teeth.

Tired and eager to be on her way, McKenna paused at the edge of the boardwalk. She’d planned on arriving at Janie’s well before nightfall, and she’d also hoped to get a horse from the livery. But nothing had gone as planned . . . Debating her options, she patted her right coat pocket and felt the Derringer tucked safely inside. Her decision was made. “I think I’ll find my own way from here, Marshal Caradon.”

Slater started to say something, but one look from Caradon silenced him.

“The jail’s just ahead, ma’am. If you’ll walk with me there, I’d like to see you home. Or to wherever it is you’re going.”

“That’s most kind of you, Marshal, but not necessary. I’m sure I’ll be able to protec—”

“
Thank you
for agreeing to let me do this.” His tone held finality, and he gave her a look she couldn’t quite interpret. “It’s the least I can do, after your kindness.”

She stared, wondering if he’d misunderstood her. But the faint challenge in his eyes said he hadn’t. He’d overruled her— nicely—but he’d still overruled her. And she didn’t like it, nor was she accustomed to it. “Again, sir . . . your offer is generous, but I’m perfectly comfortable with—”

“I won’t be long.” He touched the brim of his hat. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Slater snickered. “I think the lady’s trying to tell you to—”

Caradon gripped the man’s upper arm, and Slater fell silent again. They started down the darkened street. After a few paces, Caradon glanced back.

McKenna hadn’t moved.

“Please, ma’am.” His tone held an entreating quality it hadn’t before. “I’d appreciate the opportunity to see you home. Safely,” he added, gesturing discreetly toward Slater, whose back was turned.

Not understanding how someone who was going to jail could possibly be of harm to her, she opened her mouth to protest again when Caradon raised a forefinger to his lips.

Reluctantly, she followed him, feeling foolish for doing so and angry at herself for relenting. She didn’t know Wyatt Caradon any better than she knew the other man. Though, granted, the U.S. Marshal’s badge must offer some reference for his character. Still, she preferred not to be told what to do.

Caradon stepped inside the sheriff’s office with the prisoner, and she moved down the boardwalk a ways, intentionally not wanting to be in the same spot where he’d left her when he returned.

FOUR

F
lames flickered yellow-orange behind the sooty glass of the streetlamp,
making the darkness beyond the halo of light seem darker still. McKenna glanced back at the door of the jail. What was she doing standing here, waiting for this man? She didn’t even know him. But she also didn’t know this town. A wave of fatigue hit her again, and she wished for home. Wherever home was now. For the time being, it would be with Vince and Janie, until she and Robert could afford a place of their own.

Before leaving St. Joseph, she’d sold her great-grandparents’ house. The house where her father had been born, and where her mother had given birth to her and Robert. The sale of the house, the land, and the livery had brought a goodly sum, but little remained after paying outstanding debts and the fines the sheriff had levied against Robert. Barely enough for the cost of the trip and the horses and wagon once they arrived.

The homestead and livery had been in the Ashford family for three generations, and despite her father’s last wishes, she’d lost it all. Robert’s poor judgment had exacted a costly blow. But at the root, she was to blame, and she knew it.

The door to the Copper Creek sheriff’s office opened, and Caradon emerged. Another man followed. She took a step from the haloed light of the streetlamp deeper into the shadows.

“Thanks for keeping him locked up, Sheriff Dunn.” Caradon shook the man’s hand while searching the street. McKenna knew the precise moment he spotted her by his almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll wire Denver in the morning. He may be with you for a night or two. Then we’ll transport him back to Denver to stand trial.”

“You can leave him here as long as you need. I’ll assign two deputies to guard him. Got any leads on the others?”

“Not yet. But I will . . . soon.”

“I’ll be sure and have Thompson put a notice in the paper telling folks to be on their guard. It’s good to see you again, Caradon. Been a long time since you’ve been through here.” Dunn reached for the door. “You be sure and tell them over at Ming’s that I said to treat you right while you’re in town. And to feed you some of those dumplings. They don’t get any better.”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you kindly.”

Caradon made his way toward her, confidence in his gait.

A little
too
much confidence, in her opinion. And the closer he got, the more it grated on her. Perhaps it was the weariness from the long trip, or the culmination of everything that had gone wrong before they’d left St. Joseph, but her final smidgen of patience evaporated. As did her fear of getting off on the wrong foot with “local authorities.” Caradon wasn’t local. He didn’t even live here. He was just passing through.

“For a second there, I wasn’t sure you’d waited for me, Miss Ashford. I appreci—”

“I don’t altogether know why I did, Marshal Caradon.” She stepped into the light so he was sure to see her expression. “I’m certain you meant well, but I don’t appreciate being spoken to—or coerced—in such a manner. Nor am I accustomed to it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find my own way. Good evening, sir.” She turned and began to walk down the dimly lit boardwalk.

“Ma’am,” the marshal said, loud enough for her to hear, “you should know something.”

McKenna stopped midstep but kept her back to the man.

“Ben Slater, the prisoner”—she could hear Caradon walking closer as he lowered his voice—“has accomplices. They’re still out there, fairly close by is my thinking. And they’ve . . . violated women before—”

McKenna closed her eyes.

“—on more than one occasion. That was the reason for my request. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Slater. He thinks I was only sent for him, and I’d rather him keep on thinking that, just in case.”

Slowly, McKenna turned, head bowed, glad her face was shadowed. “I didn’t . . .” She swallowed, making herself look at him. “Obviously, I . . .”

The subtlest emotion moved across his face, not a smile, not anything she could name exactly, but it was there. And it told her he didn’t hold anything against her. Still, he said nothing. Her face felt like it was on fire, but it was her pride—what little was left—that bore the brunt of her misunderstanding.

“I spoke out of turn, Marshal Caradon. I–I apologize.”

“No need for that. All I wanted was the chance to explain my actions, so you wouldn’t jump to any conclusions.”

The way he said it made her smile. But only briefly.

He took a step closer. “That said, I’d still appreciate the chance to see you home, if you’re willing.”

Feeling considerably less comfortable in her surroundings than moments before, she nodded. “That would be most kind, thank you.”

When they reached his horse tethered two streets over, he assisted her into the saddle. Caradon’s horse was a beauty of a mare—chestnut with a black mane. As Marshal Caradon untied the reins, McKenna scooted back so she’d be riding behind him instead of afore. Her preference. But not his apparently, telling by his short-lived frown.

He climbed into the saddle and guided the horse down the street. “Not much room back there.”

She balanced easily enough, having ridden this way with her father when she was a girl. Though that seemed like another lifetime ago. She was accustomed to having her own mount these days. “I’m fine. I’m an experienced rider.”