Crossings Page 10

  * * *

  Helena had concealed the markings of Carrigan’s kisses with corn silk powder. Though the rosy blush on her sensitive skin from his beard was greatly disguised, she still worried it could be seen. As she entered the kitchen, she hoped no one would be perceptive enough to notice at the breakfast table.

  Ignacia was at the stove flipping griddle cakes, while Emilie set out the syrup crock and covered butter dish.

  “Good morning,” Helena said self-consciously.

  Heads turned toward the direction of her voice, Ignacia smiling and Eliazer pausing from refilling the fuel bin with kindling.

  “Good morning,” Emilie dutifully replied, and put a bowl of applesauce with raisins next to the cream jug and sugar basin. Though in disagreement, the sisters conducted themselves with a strained cordiality when in the company of others. Helena knew she couldn’t convince Emilie that her quick marriage had been the right thing to do, so she didn’t try to explain herself further. If Emilie saw how Carrigan’s commanding presence would help the Express station run smoothly, it might help her understand.

  Automatically Helena headed for the cupboard and began to bring down the plates.

  “I didn’t see the dog in the yard this morning,” Eliazer commented while lumbering to his feet. “Maybe he’s taken off for good this time.”

  Arranging the flatware, Helena said, “The dog’s in Carrigan’s room.”

  The three of them stared at her, but it was Ignacia who spoke. “You don’t allow animals in the house, Miss Lena.”

  “I had to make an exception if we wanted to get some sleep.”

  Ignacia and Eliazer lived in a bunkhouse on the property and probably hadn’t heard Obsi’s cries, but Emilie remarked, “The whines woke me up for a minute, but I went back to sleep. I assumed the dog gave up.”

  “Well, he didn’t.” Folding a towel, Helena retrieved the coffeepot from the stove and deposited it on a decorative iron stand on the tabletop.

  They sat down to eat, and no one added anything further to the subject. Helena felt oddly out of place for the first time in her own house while she listened to Ignacia and Eliazer talk about what they had planned for the day. Emilie added her thoughts, the most enthusiastic concerning Thomas McAllister. He was the scheduled rider this afternoon.

  A bite of the doughy flapjacks stuck to the roof of Helena’s mouth, and she took a sip of sugared coffee to wash the lump down. Her appetite was poor, but she forced herself into finishing what she’d been served. While those around her chatted, her mind kept straying to Carrigan.

  Of course, she’d known their kiss had been coming. What had happened in the stables yesterday had presaged the inevitable. She couldn’t let herself fall into his arms again. If she did, she’d lose her upper hand in the marriage. But his kiss had been the kind she’d wondered about. Filled with a passion so furious, it pinpointed every emotion and thought she had into one dazzling spear of focus: his mouth on hers.

  She didn’t know how long it had been since he’d kissed a woman, but she could reassure him he hadn’t lost his talent for it. Carrigan expertly monopolized the situation to his advantage, making her weak and wanting. Making her nearly forget her resolve.

  “I went up to Mr. Carrigan’s property first light this morning and found his satchel,” Eliazer said, breaking into Helena’s thoughts. “The cloth was damp, so I put the bag near the stove to dry. I think everything inside is free from moisture.”

  “Thank you.”

  Emilie lifted her head and addressed Helena with earnest fear in her eyes. “Have you given any thought to the possibility that whoever shot him may come gunning after us since we’re harboring him?”

  Helena hadn’t told anyone about Seaton Hanrahan’s assault, not wanting to add further tension to the household. Though her suspicions about Seaton had merit, she couldn’t be sure. If the gunman had been committing a random act—of which thievery generally was the intention—why hadn’t Carrigan’s cabin been ransacked? “There’s no good reason why anyone would want him dead,” Helena hedged. “I’m sure we’re safe.”

  “I hope so.” Emilie set her fork down. “I’m frightened, Lena. Not only for us, but for you.” The tone of her voice was grave. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “No one’s going to hurt her or anybody in this house as long as I’m in it.”

  They all started at the resonant sound of Carrigan’s voice coming from the doorway. His unexpected appearance put Helena at odds, while his state of undress embarrassed her. She should have had the foresight to at least give him one of the shirts from the store so he wouldn’t have to continuously go without.

  True to his word, Carrigan had removed his bandages. The fresh scars on his chest didn’t diminish his appeal. He looked like he lived and worked hard. The flaws and that .44-caliber Colt of his had him resembling a fearsome figure out of a sensational blood-and-thunder story.

  Obsi heeled at Carrigan’s boots, but as soon as Carrigan strode toward the table, he trotted after him. “I’m not an invalid. I’ll eat my meals here instead of in bed.” His gaze searched for a vacant seat. The extra one was the butter churn they put a braided rug over, but Carrigan wouldn’t know that.

  Eliazer stood and relinquished his spot. “I was finished. You can sit here.”

  Carrigan fell into the seat adjacent to Helena. She rose almost immediately and went to the stove to get his belongings. She held out the bag as Obsi lay down. “If you’re going to eat at the table, I think you should put on a shirt.”

  He eyed the satchel and took the handles. Opening it, he rummaged through the contents and selected a wheat-colored muslin. As his arms slipped through the sleeves, he caught the attention of Emilie, who hadn’t uttered a word since his entrance.

  “Morning,” he said, looking directly at her. “We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m your sister’s husband, Jake.”

  “I know who you are,” she returned, her voice small. Pushing her chair back, she stood without clearing her dirty plate from the table. “Excuse me.”

  Helena looked at her lap, then at Ignacia. “Could you fix him a plate?” To Carrigan, “Do you want coffee?”

  “Black.”

  She poured while Ignacia set the pancakes in front of him. After staring at the three of them in turn, he picked up his fork and began to eat as if his presence hadn’t all but silenced the room.

  “You didn’t tell me you’d be down for breakfast,” Helena said while Eliazer kissed Ignacia’s thin cheek, then set out for the stables after removing his slouch hat from the peg by the door. Ignacia gathered the dishes and stacked them in the dry sink.

  Carrigan gazed at her from underneath the dark lines of his brows. “We didn’t get around to discussing that last night.”

  She couldn’t prevent her cheeks from becoming warm, but she wouldn’t give him a response. “What do you propose to do after breakfast?”

  He took a bite of pancake, chewed, then swallowed with a gulp of coffee. “What you got me here to do. Raise some hell with the hay yard owner. I saw the sorry state of your feed pile yesterday.” After consuming the last portion, he shoved his plate away and hooked his finger through the handle of his coffee cup. “You can forget the blacksmith’s services. Just buy the shoes, and I’ll nail them on the horses myself.”

  Helena left the table and brought Ignacia Carrigan’s plate. “You’ve shoed your own horses before?”

  “Mine and several hundred.”

  “Where?” she asked, more anxious to know about his background than his credentials.

  “Red Springs. Split Rock. Libertyville.”

  “Who taught you?”

  “A man named Hart.” He weighed her with a critical squint. “You wouldn’t know him.”

  “I don’t suppose I would.”

  Leaning back in his chair, he kicked up his bootheel on the seat opposite him. “You want to know how I learned to handle horses? Flat out ask.”

  Helena glance
d at Ignacia. Her face was expressionless as she took up a bucket and let herself outside to pump wash water for the dishes.

  Resting her hands flat on the table, Helena decided she’d play showdown with Carrigan. He was in a mood this morning, the root of which probably stemmed back to her staving off their kiss. “You’re very good at cat and mouse.”

  “So are you. You never answered my question about having a husband before me. The way I recall it, you distracted me with your kiss.”

  She wouldn’t comment on that because he was right. But she could say, “On the day we got married, you said that what we did in the past was our own business.”

  “True. But when a woman kisses the way you do, it’s only natural for a man to be curious.” He eyed her over the brim of his mug. “Now, you could either be a widow, or a former lift-skirt. Which one do you want me thinking you are?”

  Fury almost choked her. “I’m neither.”

  “Then that does make the plot interesting.” His foot came down hard on the floorboards, causing Obsi to relocate onto a rag rug by the pantry. “You were someone’s mistress.”

  Her breasts rose and fell with mortification. “How dare you!”

  “I can dare anything I damn well please.”

  Helena wanted to hit him. She’d never had the impulse to strike a human being in her entire life, but Carrigan had gone too far in his assumptions. White with indignation, she pushed away from the table and turned her back on him. “You will not manipulate me into losing my temper. You’re mad because I didn’t let you kiss me.”

  “You did let me kiss you.”

  “I don’t believe I had a choice.”

  “Don’t you go making me out to be a profligate who forces himself on women. I’ve never had to. I never will.”

  She whirled around, not wanting him to dredge up his sexual indiscretions. “What happened last night won’t be repeated, so there’s no sense in our discussing it.”

  Carrigan downed the last of his coffee and stood. His fingers caught her chin. He turned her head from side to side, examining her mouth. “Next time I’ll shave.”

  Horrified that he noticed, she felt her breathing hitch. “I told you there won’t be a next time.”

  “Don’t think I’ll shave right now,” he mused, scratching his jaw with blunt fingertips, totally disregarding her. “We could use the beard to our advantage. I look rougher-edged with it. And the whole point is to make Lewis jump like he’s stepped on raw eggs.”

  “You remembered his name.” Helena had mentioned Mr. Lewis to Carrigan only once—the day she asked him to marry her.

  “I remember everything anyone tells me.” Carrigan’s voice grew distant. “Or does to me and my family.”

  There was a double meaning to his words that ran far deeper than the generalization on the surface.

  Carrigan started for the hall. Helena and Obsi followed. It seemed a plan was in the workings and Helena had no part. She stated her case to Carrigan’s broad back. “I thought before we went, we should discuss the terms of my account with the hay yard. I should fill you in on the details of my business dealings in Genoa so you can tell Mr. Lewis I’ve always paid my bills and—”

  “I don’t discuss,” Carrigan broke in. “Action gets results. Whatever you’ve got to say, tell me on the way.” He snagged his coat from the hook and shoved through the curtains to the store.

  Emilie, who was readying the merchandise for opening, glanced up at their intrusion.

  “We’re going to see Mr. Lewis,” Helena said, keeping pace with Carrigan’s long stride while putting on her cloak. “We’ll be back shortly.”

  When Carrigan was out the front door, Emilie raced to Helena and whispered, “Lena, he looks positively bloodthirsty.”

  Helena replied with quiet but desperate firmness. “I hope he is.”

  * * *

  Heavy hauling between California and Virginia City packed Main Street with wagons and teams. Sometimes horses, mules, and oxen were tied to the wheels of their wagons to feed overnight because stable room was not available.

  Helena wondered what Carrigan must think of it all, having not been exposed to such a density of man and animal for so long. At certain times, it was almost impossible for a pedestrian to walk the street without risk of getting his head kicked at.

  The running of the two buhrstones from the flour mill on Mill Street lent the scene a rumbling background hum. A different sound, but no less potent, came from the sawmill irons operated by flutter wheels and an upright sash saw. The building was located at the mouth of Mill Creek Canyon—the town’s source of drinking water by way of being diverted in little ditches that spread beyond the city’s limit to irrigate the fields, farms, and ranches. This source was also what kept the many deciduous trees flourishing, in addition to rotting the boardwalks in places. Especially in April when the rains came and flooded the channels.

  A roar of vulgar laughter erupted from the open two-paneled door to the Metropolitan Saloon. The split-log benches sheltered from the sun by awnings were vacant, indicating the shiftless group was inside having a grand old time. Shad-bellied nags with their cinches loosened were butted shoulder to shoulder at the hitching rails. An odious smell rose from the ground, which had become a gumbo of droppings. Offended, Helena put a hand to her nose and mouth without veering her gaze to investigate the raucous jug-house. She’d never once tried to steal a peek inside.

  But Carrigan was interested. He stopped and glanced through the smoke-filled doorway. “This the favorite watering trough?”

  “It’s one of two, but seems to be the most popular.”

  “Hanrahan ever come here?”

  “When he has money in his pockets, he goes on wild sprees. But his paydays are always numbered.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “There are a dozen or more ranches in the valley that he can work on, but from what I’ve heard, he never stays long on one before he’s let go. Usually for fighting.” She pondered Carrigan’s motives. “If you’ve got a mind to look for him, I wouldn’t know which way to direct you. You’d pretty much have to ride out to each ranch individually, and that would take you days.”

  Carrigan moved on, Obsi trailing. Helena noted Carrigan took in the fine elements of his surroundings. His right arm bent slightly at his elbow, the fingers on his hand spread wide. Ever wary of strangers, he’d pushed his coat back so no one could mistake him for being unarmed. She didn’t blame him, as she often looked into the faces of unfamiliar pedestrians, wondering if one of them had killed her father.

  Blatant stares and shocked expressions landed on Helena from those who knew her. Word of her marriage must have blazed like a prairie fire, scorching and consuming those who got an earful. She didn’t care. None of them had ever professed any loyalties to her. Not all, but some, lived for gossip and fuel to feed their cracker-barrel conversations. Well, now they had fresh news to jaw about. Carrigan was an imposing figure, a man who’d never ventured this far into their town. His walk down Main Street took merchants and customers by surprise. Doorways filled with gawkers, while movement on the boardwalk stopped as they walked past. By this evening, she and Carrigan would be the topic at many a supper table.

  Helena chewed on the inside of her lip, putting up a front of nonchalance she didn’t necessarily feel. “I wanted to tell you about my accounts with Mr. Lewis.”

  Carrigan jumped down to the muddy thoroughfare after her as she dodged vehicles and veered up Carson Street.

  “For as long as my father was alive, we’ve had credit. Not once have we disregarded a bill and not paid it. But after my father’s death, suddenly I was denied service. Though Mr. Lewis never came out and said so, I believe it’s because I’m a woman.”

  “Can’t fool him there.”

  She gave Carrigan a glance. “What’s your point?”

  “I have no point.”

  “And?”

  “Neither does Lewis. Within the hour, you’ll have feed.” Carri
gan gazed at the sights, his brows drawn into a frown. “Where’s the hay yard?”

  “There.” She motioned to the stout-framed establishment four doors down.

  Carrigan took her by the elbow and guided her to the weathered building with double-wide doors. They entered the barnlike cavern where dim light filtered through windows hazed by grain dust and the dormant webs of spiders. The wall was twenty feet on the sides, soaring to a near twenty-five in the center where the roof peaked. Hay and straw bundles were stockpiled one on top of the other. The scents of alfalfa, clover, and grasses clustered in the air. Scythes, cutters, and various plow tools lay in the front of the building, while to the immediate right was a framed-in office with a single entry door.

  Helena proceeded, but at the open threshold, Carrigan put his hand on her shoulder.

  “No disrespect,” he said, “but I’ll go in first.”

  Staying back, Helena let Carrigan pass. Then she stepped in behind him. Carrigan’s unannounced intrusion had the desired impact on Mr. J. H. Lewis. His mouth fell agape; he was shocked by the sudden appearance of the man all of Genoa knew nothing about—but feared worse than the plague. Lewis rose from his chair on quaking legs and smoothed the wrinkles of his checkered trouser legs. As he removed his spectacles, his eyes went wide and traveled the inordinate length of Carrigan’s tall stature. Then of Obsi, who was displaying his canine incisors.

  “Lewis,” Carrigan kicked off before the man had a chance to make an inquiry.

  “Y-Yes?” J.H. stuttered in a voice strewn with hesitation.

  “Jake Carrigan.”

  Helena nervously wet her lips. Feigning innocence, she directed her gaze to the windowsill. A battalion of dead bottle flies and one solitary wasp were aged casualties of entrapment.

  “I understand you’re refusing service to my wife.”

  Lewis swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “I’ve had some resent reservations about rendering her service . . . yes.”

  “Has she ever not paid you?”

  “I . . .” Sweat popped out on his face, and he drew out his handkerchief to blot his ruddy skin. “No.”