The Inheritance (35 page)
He took a step toward her, then stopped. “Is there anything I can do?”
She wanted to say “Come sit with me on the porch step and hold my hand again,” but she’d never be so bold. Yet she wasn’t ready for him to go just yet. “Would you like a . . . a cup of cider?” She thought she heard him laugh.
“A cup of cider? In the middle of the night?”
She smiled, knowing he couldn’t see her, but it felt good after a day spent worrying. “It’s silly. I’m sorry. Never mind.”
“No! I’d like a cup of a cider. Or a cup of . . . anything . . . with you, ma’am.”
The warmth she’d felt when he’d held her hand earlier returned in a rush.
“Just let me get Whiskey unsaddled and seen to. Then I’ll meet you on the steps.”
Minutes later, in her robe and with two cups of cider waiting, McKenna watched Wyatt walk toward her in the dark. He sat down next to her, not as close as she would have liked, and took the offered cider.
He raised the cup and drank it dry. Moonlight gave his skin a paler appearance than was true and his shadowed jawline stood out darker against it.
“A little thirsty there, Marshal?”
Smiling, he wiped his mouth and laid the cup aside. “Just a little.”
Then she caught a whiff of something. At first she thought her sense of smell was playing tricks on her, but she knew it wasn’t. She smelled cigar smoke, whiskey . . . and cheap perfume.
“How did your day go here?” he asked, sounding tired. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw Billings and another man as they rode out this morning. But only from a distance. Billings brought good news, I hope?”
The only reason a man came home smelling like a saloon was if he’d been in a saloon. Or a brothel. But she never would have imagined Wyatt Caradon frequenting those places. Having heard his question, McKenna realized then that she’d
wanted
to talk about all that had happened today. About Billings, about Harrison Talbot, about Emma having recognized the man. But now . . . one question crowded all that out. She placed her full cup of cider behind her. “What exactly do you do for the Marshals Office?”
He shrugged. “Different things. Mainly . . .” He laughed softly. “I do whatever they tell me.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees.
“What kind of different things?”
He held off answering. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”
His sincere tone didn’t ease her suspicions. She felt him staring but didn’t look at him. “No. I’m only wondering what you did . . . What you do for a living.”
He cleared his throat and ran a hand over his jaw. “I track down convicts, but you already know that. I transfer prisoners from one place to the next. All in all, I guess you could say I’m a pursuer.”
That drew her attention. “A pursuer?”
“Yes, ma’am. That probably sums it up best.”
He moved closer to her, and McKenna buried her hands in her lap.
“Just what is it that you pursue, Marshal Caradon?”
“You know . . . I wish we could get to the place where you’d stop calling me Marshal Caradon.” He reached over and trailed his fingers along the curve of her wrist and over the back of her hand.
McKenna tried hard to resist the shiver working through her, and couldn’t. So she stood. She’d wanted Wyatt Caradon to be different from the other men she’d known. But maybe she wanted that so badly that she was blind to what he was. “I think a certain formality between a man and woman is healthy . . . Marshal Caradon.”
He stood with her. “I’d agree with you on that. Unless the man and woman have earned the right to move on to . . . something more. For instance . . .”
He braced one arm on the post behind her head and leaned in, and the top step suddenly became even narrower.
“Say they’ve done some things like . . . sew up a man together in a doc’s clinic, or shared what it feels like to lose someone precious and then find her again. Or maybe they’ve gone to a nice dinner togeth—Oh wait!” He snapped his fingers. “We haven’t done that yet.”
She was tempted to smile, and yet couldn’t. He must’ve sensed her initial reaction because he moved closer. She’d instigated this little
meeting
and yet now she wished she hadn’t.
“Miss Ashford . . .” His voice was almost a whisper. “May I please call you McKenna?”
Despite not wanting to, her body reacted to his closeness. And she decided the straightforward approach was best. “Yes, Marshal Caradon, you may.” She put a hand against his chest. “If you’ll tell me why you smell like stale cigars, whiskey, and cheap women.”
W
yatt stared, his mouth hanging slightly open. He took a step back, feeling like she’d slapped him, but he also felt relief. At least now he understood why she was being so snippy with him. Under the circumstances, and understanding some of what she’d been through, he couldn’t say he blamed her. “I appreciate your candor, ma’am.” He spoke in hushed tones, knowing Robert and Emma were inside the cabin asleep. “For a minute there, I thought we really had us a problem.”
Her hands went to her hips. “And you think we don’t?”
“No ma’am, not the kind you’re imagining.”
She opened her mouth and, with his gentlest touch, he closed it for her. Then drew his hand away before he lost it.
“Like I said, I appreciate your candor, and I can see how you came to your conclusion. I don’t blame you for it either,” he added, seeing her brow rise. He pointed to her cider. “You going to drink that?”
She shook her head.
He picked up the mug and downed the contents, wishing it were something a little stronger.
He’d sensed she wanted to talk about something, but they’d gotten derailed, as they often did. If this woman wanted to talk, he’d stay up the rest of the night to oblige her, despite being dog-tired. She didn’t let her walls down often, and he wanted to be there when she did.
“You remember Slater, the man you sewed up at the doc’s clinic?”
She slowly nodded, her skepticism obvious.
“Men like him don’t hang around mercantiles or dry goods stores. You find men like him in saloons and gaming halls. So for the most part, that’s where I spend my time these days. And yes, there are women there. But . . .” He wanted so badly to touch her face, but the way she’d jumped when he’d taken hold of her hand told him he needed to move slowly with her. More slowly than he wanted to. “I have never . . .
never
been with a woman in one of those places.”
McKenna looked at him, really looked at him, and he didn’t flinch. He hoped she would stare, study, search, do whatever she needed to do, for as long as she needed to do it—until she recognized the honesty in him.
Gradually relief smoothed the lines from her forehead.
She was the first to look away. “I’m
sorry for accusing you falsely.”
“Apology accepted, ma’am.” If there was one thing he knew she didn’t need, it was more guilt. “But you didn’t really accuse me. You asked me one straight-out, fully loaded question that half scared me to death. But you didn’t really accuse me. Not directly anyway.” Laughter played at the corners of her mouth, and he let his smile show through. “I appreciate your honesty, and I wouldn’t want things any other way between us . . . ma’am.” He’d wanted to use her name just then, but decided to let her take the lead in that.
He could see in the tilt of her head that her mind was working overtime.
“So, if I understand what you’ve said, Marshal, every afternoon when you leave here, you’ll be going to saloons in Copper Creek? Looking for men like Slater. Is that what you do for a living?”
She made it sound so simple and absent of honor. “A lot of the time. But not just in Copper Creek. I also travel to some of the surrounding towns too.” How much did he dare tell her about his job? About this assignment? Not much, for her sake, as well as his. “If it makes any difference to you, I don’t take any pleasure in it.” He rubbed his lower back and sat down on the top step again. “But I agreed to take this case, and I intend to see it through.”
He leaned back on the floor of the porch, glad when she finally took a place beside him. He was careful to keep his distance this time.
“So why don’t you do something else?”
He smiled. “I’ve been asking myself that same question recently.”
“You might consider working on a ranch. I hear there are some openings around here.”
Hearing the playfulness return to her voice, he relaxed. “Yes, ma’am, I’ve heard about them too. My only hesitation is that I’ve heard the ranch owners leave something to be desired.” He snuck a glance, wanting to see her reaction.
She looked like she tried to quell a smile, and couldn’t. “Yes, distrusting bunch that they are.”
Much preferring this sense of ease between them to the tense moments before, Wyatt decided not to touch that last comment. Trust didn’t come easily for her, he knew that. But with what she’d told him about her father—and having seen her struggles with Robert firsthand—he could understand why.
Her gaze slid to his and their eyes held for a moment.
He saw the invisible burden she carried in the stoop of her shoulders, and in the way her lips moved as though she wanted to say something but somehow couldn’t. He prayed she would trust him enough to tell him, whatever it was. And that he’d be able to help, however possible.
“Wyatt?” she whispered.
He swallowed hard at the softness in her eyes, and at what it made him want to do. “Yes, McKenna?”
She chewed the corner of her mouth. “Would you . . .”
He dipped his head to capture her gaze again. “Yes?”
“Would you mind just . . . sitting here for a while and . . . holding my hand?”
Her simple request, and the ache in her voice, stirred emotions in him he hadn’t experienced in a long time. He scooted closer and closer, until their bodies touched. Then he took her hand in his and wove their fingers together.
After several moments, he felt her shoulders begin to shake. He kissed the crown of her head, breathing in the flowery scent of her hair, and—though he knew it was impossible—he wanted to block out everything in her life that had ever hurt her, or ever would.
She leaned into him, her head touching his shoulder, and he closed his eyes.
“McKenna?”
She sniffed. “Yes?”
“I think I can do better than this, if you’ll let me.”
Nothing for a moment, and he wondered if he’d overstepped his bounds. Then she nodded.
Holding her hand tighter, he slipped his other arm around her and drew her against him. She came without reservation and fit perfectly against him.
She hadn’t told him what was bothering her like he’d hoped she would. He wanted to know who the enemy was, so he could go to battle for her. That’s what he did. He pursued and he fought. But somehow, in the quiet of this moment, in the hush of her tears, he realized that this had cost her more than if she’d shared her burden with him tonight.
Satisfied with that knowledge, at least for now, he settled against the porch railing, closed his eyes, and asked God to fight mightily for the woman in his arms. Until he could too.