- Home
- Stef Ann Holm
Crossings Page 11
Crossings Read online
Page 11
“Then what seems to be the trouble?”
Lewis’s hands were jittery as they lifted to refit his eyeglasses behind his ears. “When Miss Gray’s . . . er, Mrs. Carrigan’s father died, I grew concerned about the risks of doing business with a woman. Without the sensibilities of a man’s head—”
“What do I look like?”
“Look like?” he muttered, clearly confused by Carrigan’s remark. “Well . . .”
“I hope to God you say a man, because anything else is going to insult me.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” Carrigan interrupted. “I’m sure you don’t mean to waylay that shipment of feed to our stockade. I expect you’ll have it there by noon.”
J. H. Lewis glanced at the dozen notes pinned to his wall, and the calendar that was penciled in with various job orders. “That would be impossible today—”
“ ‘Imposible’ doesn’t exist in my vocabulary. I suggest you make the arrangements.” Relaxing his finger around the trigger of his revolver, Carrigan tilted his head. “Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Lewis spouted stiffly. “Very clear. I’ll get Billy right on it.”
Carrigan turned to leave, then stopped and faced off with Lewis again. “You owe my wife an apology for the way you’ve treated her.”
J.H. cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Carrigan, for any inconvenience you may have suffered.”
Helena silently accepted his atonement.
“Let’s go,” Carrigan said flatly.
She followed his lead, her astonished thoughts leaping ahead of her legs as she stepped outside with Obsi at her skirts.
“Which blacksmith do you use?”
“Wyatt’s across the street.”
A wrought-iron sign hanging from the front eave was inscribed with: Wyatt & Sons, Blacksmiths. The clang of a hammer against an anvil pealed through the street, while the heat of a forge being fanned by the bellows lit up the inside like a blooming fireflower.
“Wyatt treat you like Lewis did?”
“Yes.”
“Come on.”
On the way over, Helena tried to subdue the quickening in her ribs. She had encountered many stalwart men during her years in the West. Salty drovers, gritty settlers, and stoic bluecoats who settled their disputes with physical force. But none made such an impression on her as Carrigan’s performance with J. H. Lewis. Contrary to Carrigan’s opinion he wasn’t a man of discussion, it was his tough words that demanded she be given due respect.
To her amazement, Helena acknowledged being in awe of her husband.
Chapter
7
As he headed back to the store, Carrigan’s ears rang with the ceaseless clink of hammers, the buzz of trades, and the hum of drums and flywheels. His muscles were tense, the slightest noise causing him to flinch. The only place he’d been accustomed to had been Gray’s general store and stockade—visits he could count on one hand. He’d exiled himself not a mile from the teeming streets, but he may as well have been in a foreign country. On his journey through the center of town, he’d instantly become aware of his ignorance of things he’d never seen before and never felt enough interest in to read about.
Though there had been stares directed at them, the entire population went on as if he and Helena had not existed. People pushed and shoved. No one stopped to view the majestic panorama of the mountains behind the storefronts, nor the impressive tones of Carson Valley’s desert sage and grasses below.
He wasn’t used to walking over a sidewalk of boards that were more or less loose and inclined to rattle when trod upon. The variety of stores influenced his desire to buy unessential items and whetted his appetite. Bread the shape and size of cheese wheels was available to purchase without the bother of baking it himself. Boarding and lodging went for ten dollars for a week—a ridiculously excessive amount.
But some things never changed. The rowdy Metropolitan Saloon mirrored the types of bars he’d bellied up to in the past. Swearing, drinking, and card playing were the order of the day, with an occasional fight thrown in for variety. He’d searched for Seaton Hanrahan while taking a look around, but had come up short.
Genoa’s populace was composed of different types of characters, but the image that stayed with Carrigan was that of the Washoe Indians, who were tolerated with blind eyes even though they stuck out like sore thumbs. Donned in cloth of loud black and gold stripes, they were squalid in appearance and languid as consumptive forty-niners. Blighted hope dimmed the pride from their eyes, their complexions sallow like yellow jackets.
Helena wasn’t as offending as most who passed by the sorry souls, but she was just as ignorant of their plight. What would she say were she to learn his mother’s Choctaw blood flowed through his veins?
“Thank you for speaking with Mr. Lewis and Mr. Wyatt,” Helena said from her place at his side.
“Don’t thank me.” He surveyed the walkways on both sides of the street, keeping an eye out for a glimpse of Hanrahan. As he’d only been face-to-face with him once, Carrigan’s picture of him wasn’t entirely clear. But he’d recognize that decorated black hat amongst the mostly rough-used ones on the men in town. “Don’t make out what I did to be a gallant act. I want my land. As long as I’m living with you, I’ll earn my keep to get it.”
“Here he comes!” came a rousing shout to Carrigan’s right. Instinctively he shoved Helena behind him, drew his Colt, and crouched to the balls of his feet. Obsi set off into frantic barks and snaps of his jaw.
Shaken, Helena gazed at Carrigan as if he were crazy. “What are you doing?”
“Who’s coming?” His only thoughts were of some imbecile bent on taking potshots at him.
“Thomas McAllister,” she explained. “The eastern-bound Pony Express rider.”
Carrigan narrowed his eyes, glanced every which way in the cleared road, then slowly rose to his feet. “Obsi, shut up.”
On a last snort, Obsi whined.
Reholstering his gun, Carrigan scowled. He felt like an idiot. “Why the hell are they yelling about it?”
Taking him by the bulk of his sleeve, Helena hurried across Nixon Street in a flurry of skirts. “I forgot you’ve never seen the exchange of horses.” They went up the curb, and she let go of him. “Look down there.”
Coming across the continual plain of the southern valley, a black spot materialized against the horizon. The naked eye could see it obviously moved. In a second or two the speck grew more readily defined as a horse and rider, rising and falling with the tempo of the animals swift gait. The duo swept toward town. Nearer and nearer, the tremble of hooves came to Carrigan’s ear. In another instant, a whoop and hurrah erupted from the crowd as man and horse bore down Nixon Street, heading directly for him. The facility and pace at which they traveled was a marvel to Carrigan. A horn blew as the rider brought the instrument to his mouth, then he gave a coyote yell.
With his broad slouch hat brim blown flat up in front, and leaning gently forward, Thomas McAllister seemed to be a part of the horse. He burst past Carrigan like a gale. Silver-mounted trappings decorated both man and beast. McAllister wore a uniform with plated horn, pistol, scabbard, and belt. Flower-worked leggings, a gaudy red shirt, and jingling spurs added to his distinctive costume.
He couldn’t have weighed more than three fifty-pound sacks of flour, but no finer-looking man ever rode a horse. The pony was a splendid specimen of speed and endurance, dashing toward Gray’s relay station speckled with foam and with nostrils dilated. Excitement brightened Emilie’s eyes as she waited, her hands clasping the strap of a canteen. Eliazer held the reins of a fresh mount, which Carrigan recognized as being one of the mustangs he’d caught for August.
Helena ran to the corner. Caught up in the spectacle, Carrigan went after her and stopped just short of Eliazer and Emilie.
Reining to an abrupt halt, McAllister dismounted. Carrigan could smell the horse’s coat reeking with perspiration while his flanks thumped with
every breath. Standing straight as an arrow, Thomas McAllister had a determined expression. He took the water from Emilie with a wink. Her cheeks blushed a fair rose as he drank deeply to sate his thirst.
There was only a second or two delay as Helena ran from the corner and threw a saddlebag with four locked compartments over the modified saddle of a fresh mount. McAllister tossed Emilie a round package no bigger than a fist and tied at the top with string. Then he stuck his foot in the stirrup and leaped into place. With a dig of Thomas’s spurs, the horse darted away like a telegram. McAllister’s gauntlet-covered hand lifted in a wave good-bye, and soon his figure was reduced to a mole on the undulating body of terrain to the east.
Carrigan had never witnessed such an event in his entire life.
“It’s an orange!” Emilie exclaimed, holding up the thick-skinned fruit for Helena to see. The packaging was stuffed under her arm as she clutched an envelope in her other hand. “And a note. He wrote me a note.” Her voice softened with a tender passion so plain, even Carrigan took notice of it. The letter, she didn’t share with Helena. Instead, she dreamily walked up the steps of the store, her nose buried in the sheet of thin paper.
Eliazer walked the exhausted horse to the stables, but Helena remained on the street, misgivings clouding her gaze. It wasn’t hard for Carrigan to deduce her thoughts.
“You don’t approve of your sister being in love with that rider.”
Helena’s chin came up. “Leave Emilie to me.”
He’d apparently hit a sensitive mark. “Is that why she dresses like a child? You won’t let her put on a corset? If so, you’re not fooling anyone. I can see she’s nearly a woman.”
“She’s only sixteen.”
“Woman enough.”
“To make a mistake,” Helena finished.
“Sounds like you’re living her life for her.” Carrigan shook his head. “I can tell you now, it won’t work. She’ll end up hating you for it.”
Helena bit her lower lip. “Emilie would never hate me.”
“Don’t give her a reason to. Let her grow up.”
“I’m her only parent,” Helena reasoned.
Carrigan recalled August telling him in passing he was a widower, but Carrigan didn’t know the circumstances and for how long. “You’re her sister. Not her mother.”
Helena gazed at him as if she were taking his comment into consideration. Then she frowned. “In the future, I would appreciate it if you kept your opinions about my sister to yourself.”
He no longer felt the need to argue with Helena. She believed she had her sister’s best interests at hand. What did he have to gain by contradicting her?
Helena went into the store, while Carrigan opted to stay outside a moment longer. He leaned against one of the shady awning posts and lit a cigarette. Blowing smoke through his lips, he gazed at the street, which had returned to normal. He was an outsider and always would be. He no longer fit in with society, for his view of life far differed from that of those around him. He put a high priority on nature and its gifts, but the beauty went unobserved by this bustling throng. It was no wonder he rarely came down from his mountain.
His eyes searched once more for Hanrahan, but there was no conspicuous black hat in the sea of dingy crowns. Exhaling, he crushed his smoke beneath his bootheel and readied to return to the store. Turning, he detected a silvery light from the upstairs window across the street.
The prominent name on the building front read COURTHOUSE, but it had been a livery at one time. Paint from the old sign was just visible enough for him to read. The gleam came again as an object behind the glass caught the sunlight. Carrigan squinted to make out an image, and was able to define the silhouette of a man. Whether he was watching him intentionally, Carrigan wasn’t sure. But the mere fact that he’d been observed while enjoying his smoke had him suddenly longing for the privacy of his cabin.
* * *
Carrigan had to be made of rawhide, because he was just as tough as leather.
The next morning Helena heard him ask Eliazer for a loan of the buckboard. An hour later, he reappeared with his saddle, chaps, and a toolbox. Helena was helping Eliazer align snares in the stockyard garden when the wagon pulled in. Carrigan hadn’t told her where he was going, and she hadn’t asked. Their discussion yesterday about Emilie and Thomas had upset her. Her anger had abated somewhat, but its warm glow was still on her mind.
She didn’t pause from her task, hearing Carrigan before she actually saw him. The jangle of spurs came to her ears, and she lifted her gaze. He strode toward her in glove-fitting boots to which long-shanked spurs where attached and kept on with broad, crescent-shaped shields of leather laid over the insteps. The big sunset rowels dragged on the ground when he walked. Pliable calfskin vamps fit tightly over the top of his feet, giving the appearance he’d poured his calves into his boots. He’d changed into a pullover yoked shirt in a striped hickory with a row of four buttons spilling down from the collar. A buckskin vest, rather than his coat, didn’t restrict his freedom and was an effective buffer against the temperature, which was brisk, but not penetrating.
He stopped in front of her, and she tilted her chin upward. The brim of her straw hat shaded her eyes from the deep blue sky above. Carrigan’s voice melted down to her. “You said you’ve got two horses that need shoeing. Get ’em.”
“You want to shoe them now?”
“Yes.”
“I appreciate your offer, and Lord knows I desperately need them shoed, but you haven’t had enough time to mend. I can manage awhile longer now that I have feed.”
“I know my limitations, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit in the house like a cripple.”
Helena thoughtfully gazed at the young cabbage shoots, which already had been nibbled on by rabbits. She didn’t like humdrum jobs like setting traps, hoeing, planting, and weeding. But she did them just the same because Eliazer couldn’t do it all. Horses, however, were another matter. For anything involving them, she’d lay down her spade with pleasure.
“All right.” Standing, she clapped the damp soil from her hands and stretched the kinks out of her legs. “But you’ll need help.”
“You got a resister?”
“I wouldn’t call Columbiana a resister. She just knows what she likes and what she doesn’t.” A revealing smile caught Helena’s mouth. “And she doesn’t like getting new shoes.”
The twine and stakes in Eliazer’s hands dropped to the seed box when Helena said, “Come on, Eliazer, looks like we won’t be having rabbit stew for supper tomorrow.”
Fifteen minutes later, Carrigan had built up a makeshift forge in the yard and set out his equipment: picker, tongs, heavy hammer, and light pincers. Wyatt’s had delivered two sets of fullered shoes.
While Carrigan began work on the shoes, Helena put a halter on Monarch and led him out of the stables. He was a six-year-old gelding who had a fine disposition. Though moodiness sprang up in him every once in a while, he was pretty reliable.
Carrigan’s back was to her as he set the hammer down on a tree stump. In lieu of a hat, he’d tied his hair with a piece of thin rawhide to keep it from his eyes. The gathered length of glossy black fell between his shoulder blades. The sight made her want to touch his hair . . . and pull the string free so she could sift every strand through her fingers. It was only when Carrigan pivoted toward her that she returned to her senses with a dry-eyed blink under his order of, “Hobble his fore feet.”
“No need to,” Helena replied. “He’s so gentle, you could stake him to a hairpin. He’s fast, but he’s a sweetie.” Her hand smoothed the bay’s coat.
Monarch tolerated Carrigan’s management with hardly a grumble. Utilizing a punch, Carrigan dragged the old shoes off with the short rod of steel, then he used the pliers, and employed a drawing knife. Helena had to swallow her trepidation, having seen the handiwork of too many smithies who thought cutting the horn low was the key to preventing rocks from embedding into the sole. But Carrigan knew t
o remove just the brittle areas and create a smooth, even surface.
He situated the plate of iron, and hammered the nails in the hard horn’s wall by slanting them outward, so as not to puncture Monarch’s toe or foot. Rather than trim the sharp protrusion of the nail points, he slipped a tiny washer over each one, then lightly tapped them down against the hoof.
Eliazer put his finger on the brim of his hat and tipped his head at Carrigan. “I’ve never seen that before.”
“Washers cut out weakening the horn from the groove formed by the clinched nail.”
Even Helena was impressed. None of the Wyatts knew this trick.
“Where did you learn about the washers?” Eliazer asked, adjusting the tension on his suspenders. “No one in these parts practices such a method.”
Crouched and fixing the last shoe in place, Carrigan spoke around the nails between his lips. “Ranch near Cheyenne.”
Eliazer fingered his beard. “I heard it told, cattle up there are bigger than bears.”
“I wasn’t herding cattle back then.” The tap of the hammer intruded on his words. “Sheep.”
Puzzlement furrowed Eliazer’s brows. “Sheep?”
“Working for cow outfits was what I did first and last. The sheep came in the middle.”
Helena listened with interest.
“I can fence, brand, buck hay, bronc, and punch, but where I was headed, there were no cattle. Just stinkin’ sheep.” Fitting the washers, Carrigan kept talking as if he were unaware of enlightening them with a slice of his former life. “I wanted out of Red Springs fast. Range-lambing five hundred ewes was the quickest exit. I’ll admit, it was a job no true cattleman in his right mind would ever take. But I wasn’t in my right mind.”
Not once had Carrigan revealed so much of his past, and Helena was hanging on to his every word. She was dying to ask him questions, but he’d risen to his heels and was handing her the reins.
Using the back of his hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, Carrigan said, “Get me the other one.”
Complying, she returned Monarch to the stables. The gelding was tenderfooted from the forge. Helena still wouldn’t be able to run him or Columbiana, but by the week’s end, the station would be in full operation again with rotation horses.