62
" 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. "
― Tamera Alexander , The Inheritance
65
" 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. "
― Tamera Alexander , The Inheritance
66
" He’d wanted so badly for her to say yes. He hadn’t realized how much until she’d said no. He didn’t blame her. He blamed himself. For making choices in his life that had led him to this. He ran a hand through his hair, then turned back to the telegram. He snatched it and tore open the envelope. The Marshals Office was forever changing his orders, sending him here and there on a whim of a rumor that someone had seen so-and-so here or there, and he was sick and tired of— He stopped. He read the brief message again. They’d given him a lead on Grady Polk, the man he’d been looking for, which was good enough. But it was the rest of the telegram that turned his mood for the better. Finally, after all these years, the Marshals Office had gotten something right. And he might just get another crack at that dinner with McKenna Ashford, and that sweet little Emma, after all. "
― Tamera Alexander , The Inheritance
67
" Footsteps sounded on the porch, and she felt a twitter of excitement as Wyatt walked in, hat in hand. He stopped and stared. First at the table, then at her. “Well . . . this is sure a nice welcome.” She grew warm beneath his attention, and warmer still as he crossed the room toward her. He lifted a curl from her bodice and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “It smells good in here.” He smelled good too. She caught a whiff of fresh soap and sunshine, and his hair was still damp. “You bathed in the creek,” she said softly. “Yes, ma’am, I did.” “Well . . .” She gave a breathless laugh. “Breakfast is ready. I hope you’re hungry.” “Yes, ma’am.” His gaze captured hers and held. “I am.” If not for his self-declared patience, she might have been unnerved by the transparency of desire in his eyes. But Wyatt Caradon was her husband. She could stand on tiptoe right now and kiss him full on the mouth if she wanted to. That was her right. And the thing was—she slowly realized—she wanted to. Even more, he wanted her to. Yet he didn’t move. However, he did smile, ever so slightly, and it gave her the encouragement she needed. She rose on tiptoe, and could all but reach him. “You might want to meet me halfway, Mr. Caradon.” Wordless, he did, but stopped just short of completing the journey. Their breaths mingling, she sensed his growing lack of patience, which, oddly enough, only increased hers. She ran a finger along his stubbled jawline and saw his eyes narrow ever so slightly. She’d never been one to toy with a man, but then she’d never been married to one with whom she could toy. She kissed him on one corner of his mouth, then the other. On his cheek, and then gently on the lips, like he’d done with her yesterday at the ceremony. His arms didn’t come around her like she half expected, but not for a moment did she question his response. He was letting her take the lead . . . and she liked it. "
― Tamera Alexander , The Inheritance
68
" It’s for you from Miss Tempy.” Aletta stood and stretched from side to side, then accepted the offered treat. She started to take a drink, then paused and looked back at him, doing her best to make her frown look real. “If it’s for me, then why is half of it gone?” He grinned. “I didn’t want to spill any on the way so I drank a little.” She laughed and took a sip. Delicious as usual. She’d finally managed to watch Tempy mixing a batch one day and had learned the woman’s secret—a little salt and vanilla. And, of course, a generous amount of cream. “Are we ready to hang the star yet, Mama?” “Almost. But I’m to the point now where I’m going to need some help putting it all together.” He jumped up. “I’ll help.” She tousled his hair. “I appreciate that. But I think you and I might require a third person for this next part.” Just then Aletta looked over to see Jake walking from the house, past the barn and toward his cabin. “Captain Winston!” she called. He turned, gave a quick wave, and headed in their direction. “Evening, Aletta.” He knelt and gave Andrew a playful poke in the tummy. “Hey, buddy, how you doing?” “I’m good, Ja—” Andrew cut his eyes in her direction. “I mean . . . Captain Winston, sir. You want some cocoa? Tempy made some just now.” Jake smiled. “That sounds good, thank you.” Aletta caught her son’s gaze, appreciating how he’d corrected his mistake. “Do you plan on drinking half of the Captain’s too?” With an impish grin, Andrew darted back to the kitchen. “Fine boy you’ve got there, Aletta.” “Thank you. I think I’ll keep him.” “With good reason.” Jake eyed the booth lying in pieces on the barn floor beside the manger, and knelt to examine her work. “Very impressive. Your father taught you well.” “I only wish I’d learned how to carve like he could. He would’ve taught me, but I didn’t consider it important enough at the time.” He ran a hand over the manger and looked up at her, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “It’s never too late to learn something new.” “I’ve got yours, Captain Winston!” They looked up to see Andrew slowly walking toward them, his attention homed in on the cup in his hands. Captain Winston took the cup from him but eyed it suspiciously. “Tell me now . . . how much of mine did you drink?” Andrew grinned. “Not as much as Mama’s. "
― Tamera Alexander , Christmas at Carnton (Carnton, #0.5)
70
" You must admit, Jake, that at the start you didn’t think I’d be able to do this.” “That is absolutely—” Jake started to protest but hesitated, looking from her to the fully assembled nativity situated in the side yard by the winter garden. “The uncontested truth.” She beamed and turned again to admire her handiwork, and with good reason. “You should be very proud of yourself, Aletta.” She nodded. “I am.” “And I”—he winced—“should be somewhat ashamed.” “Yes, you should be.” She playfully narrowed her eyes. “But truly, I couldn’t have built this without your help. So thank you.” He offered a salute. “My pleasure, General Prescott. "
― Tamera Alexander , Christmas at Carnton (Carnton, #0.5)
73
" He felt of Emma’s forehead. “She’s still a mite warm.” He turned. “I’ll ride for Doc Foster.” At that moment, a peal of thunder cracked overhead. Emma jerked but didn’t waken. McKenna hastily soothed her back to sleep and caught Wyatt at the front door. Already in his duster again, she grabbed his arm. “She doesn’t need Dr. Foster, Wyatt. Her fever’s breaking.” He reached for the door, not seeming to hear her. She reached up and took his face in her hands. He stilled. “Emma’s going to be okay. Her fever’s breaking.” His face was a mixture of pain and fear, and suddenly his actions made more sense to her. “Did your Bethany die of fever?” she whispered, already seeing the answer in his eyes. “I can’t—” His voice caught. “I can’t lose another child that way.” She hugged him to her as tight as she could, wanting him to feel every part of her loving him. “You won’t. You won’t lose Emma.” He lifted her face to his, and McKenna met his kiss and returned it. “You’re sure she’s all right?” he said. McKenna nodded. “Yes, but . . .” She looked down and away. “I did something I shouldn’t have done.” “What? What did you do?” Shame poured through her. “Emma kept crying for Janie, asking for her mama.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t console her, her fever was high.” She closed her eyes. “I told her that . . . I was her mama. I know it was wrong. I don’t want her to forget Janie, it’s just that—” “You remember that night, McKenna,” he said, his voice soft, “when Janie asked you to take care of her?” She nodded. “I’ll never forget it.” “Janie asked you to take her . . . and make her your own. Those were her exact words. "
― Tamera Alexander , The Inheritance
74
" 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.” “With a hand that needs stitching.” She glanced at the bandage. “I’ll hold on. If the situation arises.” He gently urged the mare to a faster pace, as though challenging that statement. Sensing his test, McKenna smiled and held on to the cantle, with no fear of falling, but mindful of the close proximity of her hand to Caradon’s backside. He slowed the mare’s pace. “Can’t blame me for trying,” he spoke over his shoulder, grinning. “Marshaling must be lonelier work than I thought, Marshal Caradon.” She heard his soft laugh and was reminded again of who he was. Best to keep some distance between them, and not only in proximity. "
― Tamera Alexander , The Inheritance
76
" Is . . . everything proceeding as it should? With . . . the baby?” The smile in her eyes deepened. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s normal to have these pains. I had the same with Andrew.” “And how many weeks are left before the baby is expected?” “Five, at least. Andrew came three weeks early but I’d been sick with him. The doctor said that had a lot to do with it. And as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle now.” She shrugged. “A very big fiddle.” He smiled at the look on her face. “I can’t imagine you being any more beautiful than you are right now, Aletta. You . . . shine from the inside out.” She shook her head. “That’s probably just perspiration from building the nativity.” They laughed, then she looked down at her hand still tucked in his. She gently started to pull away, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Once, twice, her skin like silk. Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his mouth, and the simple gesture sent something akin to a thunderbolt through him. There’d been plenty of times when he’d looked at her and wished he’d earned the liberty to kiss her, to hold her close. But never more so than right at that moment. As though she’d read his thoughts, her cheeks flushed crimson. Jake traced a feather path with his thumb across her lower lip, and her mouth opened slightly. He told himself to move slowly where this woman was concerned. But when she closed her eyes, that was all the answer he needed. He kissed her gently at first, her mouth softer, sweeter than he’d imagined. But when a soft sigh rose in her throat, he drew her closer and she slipped her arms around his neck. "
― Tamera Alexander , Christmas at Carnton (Carnton, #0.5)
77
" Is . . . everything proceeding as it should? With . . . the baby?” The smile in her eyes deepened. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s normal to have these pains. I had the same with Andrew.” “And how many weeks are left before the baby is expected?” “Five, at least. Andrew came three weeks early but I’d been sick with him. The doctor said that had a lot to do with it. And as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle now.” She shrugged. “A very big fiddle.” He smiled at the look on her face. “I can’t imagine you being any more beautiful than you are right now, Aletta. You . . . shine from the inside out.” She shook her head. “That’s probably just perspiration from building the nativity.” They laughed, then she looked down at her hand still tucked in his. She gently started to pull away, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Once, twice, her skin like silk. Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his mouth, and the simple gesture sent something akin to a thunderbolt through him. There’d been plenty of times when he’d looked at her and wished he’d earned the liberty to kiss her, to hold her close. But never more so than right at that moment. As though she’d read his thoughts, her cheeks flushed crimson. Jake traced a feather path with his thumb across her lower lip, and her mouth opened slightly. He told himself to move slowly where this woman was concerned. But when she closed her eyes, that was all the answer he needed. He kissed her gently at first, her mouth softer, sweeter than he’d imagined. But when a soft sigh rose in her throat, he drew her closer and she slipped her arms around his neck. He deepened the kiss, weaving his hands into her hair and— “Mama! We’re here to help with the star!” Jake drew back slightly and broke the kiss, hearing the boys barreling in their direction. Aletta looked up at him and smiled, and whatever determination he’d had to move slowly where she was concerned vanished completely. “Mama?” Andrew called. “I’m coming,” she answered and stood, smoothing the sides of her hair then the front of her dress. Jake rose along with her and reached over and tucked a wayward curl back into place, then kissed her on the forehead. "
― Tamera Alexander , Christmas at Carnton (Carnton, #0.5)
80
" She eyed him. “What does that mean?” “You know exactly what it means, McKenna. Women who take on the world and never back down. Women whose hearts have so much love, they give even when that love isn’t returned.” He was reminded of what he had in his vest pocket for her—the thank-you gift for his saddle. The gift had since turned into the peace offering for missing dinner that night, and now represented so much more . . . Now that he knew how much she cared for him. Even though she might not be able to voice it, or even want to admit it to herself. But he would forever remember the moment she looked up outside the doc’s office, thinking he was dead, and found him alive. The timing hadn’t felt right to give it to her then, but it did now. He reached into his pocket. “I’m talking about a woman who faces life with a courage and a persistence that astounds me. Who has endured so much difficulty in her life and yet keeps pushing on with stubborn grace, step-after-step, day-after-day.” He softened his voice. “A woman who, at first, didn’t trust me.” He touched the side of her face. “But a woman who might just be beginning to trust.” Tears glistened in her eyes. “And who makes this man want to spend the rest of his life proving to her that she can.” He held out the box. “Not to mention a woman who makes the best saddles in all the western territory.” Her eyes widened. “You know?” Oh how he wanted to kiss her. And if he was reading her right, she was more than open to the idea. “What did I tell you about looking at a man that way when he couldn’t do anything about it?” She grinned, and he pulled her to him and kissed her. He’d meant for their first kiss to be more tender, slow and gentle, but the way her arms came around him, pulling him closer, the way she responded, deepening the kiss, drove the desire inside him. Their bodies touching, he memorized the curves of her waist, the small of her back, how she felt pressed up against him. The warmth of her hand as she cradled the back of his neck encouraged him further— Remembering where they were, Wyatt drew back. “McKenna!” he whispered. Her eyes were still closed, her lips parted. She was wearing a purple dress today, one he hadn’t seen before. But he liked it, very much. Especially on her. It buttoned up the front, and the lacey curve of the bodice revealed her neckline. The dress wasn’t at all improper, but the thoughts he was having about her right now bordered on being just that. She blinked. “Y-yes?” He smiled and ran a finger over her mouth, and put more distance between them. “You need to open your gift.” She gave him an intimate look. “I thought I already had.” Oh this woman . . . It was a good thing they were in church. She opened the box in her hand, and giggled. He didn’t mind in the least. He’d had about the same reaction when he’d first seen it. The woman in the store in Denver had called it a charm bracelet. But it was the tiny saddle hanging off it—among other miniature trinkets—that had gained his attention. She held up the bracelet and fingered each tiny charm. “I love it! Thank you, Wyatt. "
― Tamera Alexander , The Inheritance
