The Inheritance (39 page)
Wyatt left Bixby well before sunup. He wanted to get back to the ranch, and to McKenna and Emma, before having to leave again for Severance later that day, which meant he needed to get an early start.
He’d tried his best to get back to Copper Creek last night, knowing they’d been expecting him. But a lead he’d been chasing for weeks had finally paid off, and he couldn’t just walk away. Not when he remembered the people who’d been murdered in the Brinks robberies, and the many more who might meet the same fate if the case wasn’t solved soon.
His efforts in Bixby had proven fruitful—he’d added two more names to the growing list of conspirators. Yet he knew that not showing up at McKenna’s last night had cost him. He’d worked so hard to earn her trust and didn’t want to have to do any backtracking there. He patted his coat pocket, making sure the package was still inside. It had originally been a thank-you gift for McKenna, in recognition of making him such a fine saddle. Now it would be a peace offering for missing dinner.
He was beginning to think he might actually make it to her cabin in time to have breakfast with—
Gunfire sounded in the distance.
Wyatt reined in. “Whoa there, girl.” Whiskey sidestepped nervously beneath him as he searched both sides of the ridge above. No one. The trail ahead led to Slocum’s Pass, the only way to Copper Creek and then on to Denver.
Another shot sounded, followed by an explosion.
Wyatt spurred Whiskey down the trail, a whisper of smoke curling above the peak to his right. He’d ridden this road a hundred times. If his estimation was accurate, that smoke was rising from a spot not two hundred yards ahead where the road took a sharp turn. As he came closer, he heard voices, shouting over each other. He slowed his horse and drew his rifle.
But he wasn’t prepared for the scene that appeared around the bend.
Splintered wood and debris littered the trail. Up ahead, a stagecoach—or what was left of it—lay on its side, smashed against boulders edging the path. Wyatt dismounted and tethered Whiskey to a stubby pine. The tang of gunpowder was thick in the air. Passengers were strewn
among the wreckage, moaning, bleeding. Some lay still, crying for help, while others attempted to stand and seemed unable.
A man kneeling in the trail some distance ahead drew Wyatt’s attention. He didn’t fit somehow. His movements were sharp and purposeful. He didn’t seem disoriented. On the contrary, he appeared frustrated.
The trail opened up, and Wyatt knew that if the man happened to look his way, he’d have nowhere to—
The man turned. Pistol in hand, he fired at the same time Wyatt pulled the trigger. The man staggered. Wyatt’s leg went out from under him and he fell back, a bullet tearing through his right thigh. Wyatt rolled and took aim again, but the man was gone. He heard the pounding of a horse’s hooves, heading back toward Copper Creek.
Wyatt eased up on one elbow and saw a man lying in the brush off the side of the road. He recognized the badge on the man’s vest, and the absence of spirit from the body. And fury roiled inside him. Using his rifle for support, he gained his footing and made his way down the trail, wary.
Two men lay bloodied, facedown in the dirt, near where the man he’d shot, bullet wound in his head, had stood. As Wyatt came closer, he caught the salty scent of blood, and quickly realized what they’d been after. And what it had cost them.
A strongbox lay opened, one side completely blown away— much like the less fortunate of the two men. The other man lay motionless. Wyatt readied his rifle and nudged him over.
He staggered back when the eyes of Robert Ashford stared up at him, dull and fixed.
A
distant pounding awakened McKenna and she sat upright, blinking, trying to gain her bearings. Morning light spilled in through the side window.
“Miss Ashford!”
Not recognizing the voice, she threw off the blanket and rose, stiff from sleeping on the sofa, and retrieved the rifle from the top of the cupboard. She switched the safety lever as she moved to the door.
More pounding. “Miss Ashford!”
“Who’s there?” she called, checking the bolt on the door again.
“It . . . Chin Li!” he said in a no-nonsense tone. “You come!”
Chin Li . . .
That last part certainly had sounded like him. Still suspicious, she slid the bolt from the latch and inched the door open, rifle in hand. Seeing him, she lowered the gun. “Mr. Chin . . . What’s wrong? Is Mei all right?”
“Miss Ashford.” He motioned sharply. “You come!”
She looked past him. She didn’t see anyone else, only a wagon. If Mei hadn’t shared what she did yesterday about this man, McKenna might not have been inclined to go with him at all. As it was, she nodded. “I’ll come with you, Mr. Chin. But give me a moment to get ready. I need to get Emma up and—”
“Marshal Caradon!” He said the name with authority. “You come!”
McKenna turned back. “Marshal Caradon? He sent you?”
Chin Li didn’t answer, he only looked back at the wagon and motioned, every gesture efficient. “You come! Now!”
McKenna did as he ordered and, minutes later, held on tight to a barely awakened Emma as the wagon bounced over rutted roads on the way into town.
They reached Copper Creek, and Chin Li reined in sharply in front of Dr. Foster’s clinic, sending dust billowing beneath the wheels. She’d tried asking him questions before they left the cabin. Whether he didn’t understand or didn’t want to divulge any answers, she couldn’t be sure. But he remained silent, his dark eyes somber.
A group of people McKenna didn’t recognize were gathered out front of the doctor’s clinic. The bystanders turned to watch them. Dust covered their clothes and weariness dulled their expressions. Some had cuts on their faces, and they all shared a common disheveled appearance.
McKenna handed Emma down to Chin Li. Then he assisted her and returned the child to her arms. As they neared the boardwalk, McKenna saw two bundles draped in sheets on the planked walkway.
Only as she drew closer did she realize they weren’t bundles at all. They were bodies.
More people arrived by the minute.
McKenna turned to ask Chin Li a question and found him speaking with a group of Chinese men. Their voices rose in a singsong blur. One of the gentlemen kept pointing down the street. McKenna searched the crowd for a familiar face and spotted Casey Trenton.
“Mr. Trenton!” She pushed her way toward him, Emma heavy in her arms. “Mr. Trenton!”
He turned in the direction of her voice. “Miss Ashford!”
She put Emma down and gave her a reassuring look, holding tight to her hand. “Do you have any idea what’s happened, Mr. Trenton?”
“They’re saying the morning stage was robbed. A ways from town. Three fellas ambushed it. Started shootin’. A U.S. Marshal was riding shotgun. I hear he returned fire as the driver tried to outrun them, but . . .” He shook his head and gave her a cautious glance. “The stage overturned. They’re saying the marshal was killed and so was one of the—”
“A U.S. Marshal was killed?”
“Yes, ma’am. I don’t know what this world’s—”
“Do you—” McKenna could hardly breathe. “Do you know the marshal’s name?”
“No, ma’am. Nobody’s said yet.” Trenton nodded toward the boardwalk where she saw Sheriff Dunn speaking to two other men. “How’s that brother of yours doing? I feel bad about how things—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Trenton. Please excuse me!” She lifted Emma into her arms. Wide-eyed, the child tucked her head into the curve of her neck. McKenna shoved her way through the crowd toward Sheriff Dunn. Then climbed the stairs to the boardwalk only to find her way blocked by a deputy.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you can’t come up here.”
“Can you tell me the name of the U.S. Marshal who died?”
He nodded. “Sheriff Dunn will be answering questions in a while, ma’am. We appreciate your patience.”
She felt as if she could plow right through the man. “Sheriff Dunn!”
The deputy put a hand out to stop her, but McKenna pushed past him.
“Ma’am, you can’t be up here!”
“Sheriff Dunn!” McKenna glanced at the bodies beneath the sheets as she passed, trying to shield Emma from seeing. Nothing showed other than the men’s boots, and it struck her then that she’d never paid much attention to Wyatt’s boots. “Sheriff!”
Dunn turned, and his expression went from in charge and commanding, to hesitant with regret. McKenna felt her legs go weak and was grateful when someone momentarily grabbed her from behind.
“I’m sorry, Sheriff, I told her she couldn’t come up here!”
“It’s all right, Wilson.”
“But sir, you told us—”
“I’ll handle this.” Dunn waved the deputy off. Once the younger man left, Dunn sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Ashford. I just sent a deputy out to your cabin.”
McKenna hugged Emma closer, refusing the reality forming in her mind. She found it impossible to speak.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Ashford. I wished things had worked out differently. Marshal Caradon tried
to tell me something like this might happen, but . . . even after all these years, I still tend to give people the benefit of the doubt. Especially young men like your brother.”
Feeling like she was blindly groping her way through a fog, McKenna frowned. “Like my brother?”
Dunn stared as though he’d just made a misstep, and an awful fist tightened at the base of her throat. Reason tempted her to look back at the bodies, but she refused. “Sheriff, has something happened to Robert too?”
This time it was Dunn who seemed lost in the conversation. “Why don’t we step inside the clinic, Miss Ashford? Dr. Foster can help explain things.”
W
incing as he rose, Wyatt was careful not to put more weight on his right leg than necessary. The wound pulsed hot, and he tightened the tourniquet around his upper thigh.
Through Doc Foster’s front window, he saw McKenna walking toward the clinic with Sheriff Dunn following behind. She held Emma in her arms, extra close, which told him something of her frame of mind. She looked like he felt—bone weary and near emptied of hope.
He wondered where Chin Li was, grateful the man had gone to get her. He also wondered what Dunn had told her. Whatever the case, he needed to speak with her before she got inside.